Rakes Vow

Chapter 12

Vane arrived early in the breakfast parlor the next morning. He served himself, then took his seat and waited for Patience to appear. The rest of the males wandered in, exchanging their usual greetings. Vane pushed back his plate and waved for Masters to pour him more coffee.

Coiled tension had him in its grip; how much longer would it be before he could release it? That, to his mind, was a point to which Patience should give her most urgent attention, yet he could hardly begrudge Minnie her aid.

When Patience failed to appear by the time they'd finished their meals, Vane inwardly sighed and fixed Gerrard with a severe glance. "I need a ride." He did, in more ways than one, but at least he could release some of his pent-up energy in a good gallop. "Interested?"

Gerrard squinted out of the window. "I was going to sketch, but the light looks flat. I'll come riding instead."

Vane raised a brow at Henry. "You game, Chadwick?"

"Actually"-Henry sat back in his chair-"I'd thought to practice my angle shots. Wouldn't do to get rusty."

Gerrard chuckled. "It was pure luck you beat Vane last time. Anyone could tell he was a trifle out of sorts."

A trifle out of sorts? Vane wondered if he should educate Patience's brother on precisely how "out of sorts" he was. A blue powder wouldn't cure his particular ache.

"Ah-but I did win." Henry clung to his moment of victory. "I've no intention of letting my advantage slip."

Vane merely smiled sardonically, inwardly grateful Henry would not be accompanying them. Gerrard rarely spoke when riding, which suited his mood far better than Henry's locquaciousness. "Edmond?"

They all looked down the table to where Edmond sat gazing at his empty plate, mumbling beneath his breath. His hair stuck out at odd angles where he'd clutched it.

Vane raised a brow at Gerrard, who shook his head. Edmond was clearly in the grip of his muse and deaf to all else. Vane and Gerrard pushed back their chairs and rose.

Patience hurried in. She paused just inside the room, and blinked at Vane, half-risen.

He immediately subsided into his chair. Gerrard turned, and saw him reseated; he also resumed his seat.

Reassured, Patience headed for the sideboard, picked up a plate, and went straight to the table. She was late; in the circumstances, she'd settle for tea and toast. "Minnie's better," she announced as she took her seat. Looking up the table, she met Vane's gaze. "She spent a sound night and has assured me she doesn't need me today."

She swept a brief smile over Henry and Edmond, thus rendering the information general.

Gerrard grinned at her. "I suppose you'll be off to the music room as usual. Vane and I are going for a ride."

Patience looked at Gerrard, then stared up the table at Vane. Who stared back. Patience blinked, then reached for the teapot. "Actually, if you'll wait a few minutes, I'll come with you. After being cooped up these last days, I could do with some air."

Gerrard looked at Vane, who was gazing at Patience, an unfathomable expression on his face. "We'll wait" was all he said.

By agreement, they met in the stable yard.

After scurrying into her habit, then rushing out of the house like a hoyden, Patience was mildly irritated to find Gerrard not yet there. Vane was already atop the grey hunter. Both rider and horse were restless.

Climbing into her sidesaddle, Patience took up her reins and glanced back toward the house. "Where is he?"

Lips compressed, Vane shrugged.

Three minutes later, just as she was about to dismount to go and search, Gerrard appeared. With his easel.

"I say, I'm sorry, but I've changed my mind." He grinned up at them. "There's clouds coming up and the light's turned grey-it's just the look I've been waiting to capture. I need to get it down before it changes again." He shifted his burden and continued to grin. "So go on without me-at least you've got each other for company."

Gerrard's disingenuity was transparently genuine; Vane swallowed a curse. He glanced swiftly at Patience; she met his gaze, questions in her eyes.

Vane understood the questions-but Gerrard was standing there, large as life, waiting to wave them away. Jaw firming, he gestured to the stable arch. "Shall we?"

After a fractional hesitation, Patience nodded and flicked her reins. With a perfunctory wave to Gerrard, she led the way out. Vane followed. As they thundered along the track past the ruins, he glanced back. So did Patience. Gerrard, slogging in their wake, waved gaily.

Vane cursed. Patience looked forward.

By unspoken accord, they put distance between themselves and the Hall, eventually drawing rein on the banks of the Nene. The river flowed steadily, a reflective grey ribbon smoothly rippling between thickly grassed banks. A well-beaten track followed the river; slowing the grey to a walk, Vane turned along it.

Patience brought her mare up beside him; Vane let his gaze roam her face, her figure.

Fingers tightening on the reins, he looked away. Over the lush riverbanks, insufficiently formal for the discussion he needed to have with her. The grassy banks would do nicely as a couch. Far too tempting. He wasn't sure he could trust himself in such a setting, and, after the stillroom, he knew he couldn't trust her. She, however, was an innocent; he had no excuse. Besides which, the area was too open, and Penwick often rode this way. Stopping by the river was untenable. And Patience deserved better than a few casual words and a question on horseback.

Thanks to Gerrard, it seemed he'd have to endure yet another morning without progress. Meanwhile, he, and his demons, were champing at the bit.

Beside him, Patience, too, found the idea of wasting another morning less than appealing. Unlike Vane, she saw no reason not to use the time. Having surreptitiously filled her mind anew with the image of him on his hunter, she voiced the thought uppermost in her mind. "You mentioned having a brother-does he look like you?"

Vane glanced her way, brows rising. "Harry?" He considered. "Harry has curly blond-brown hair and blue eyes-but otherwise"-a slow smile transformed Vane's face-"yes, I suppose he does look a lot like me." He slanted Patience a rakish glance. "But then, all six of us are said to look similar-the stamp of our common ancestors, no doubt."

Patience ignored the subtle tenor of that comment. "All six? Which six?"

"The six eldest Cynster cousins-Devil, myself, Richard-he's Devil's brother-Harry, who's my only sibling, and Gabriel and Lucifer. We were all born within five or so years of each other."

Patience stared. The idea of six Vanes was… And two were called Gabriel and Lucifer? "Aren't there any females in the family?"

"In our generation, the females came later. The eldest are the twins-Amanda and Amelia. They're seventeen and have just weathered their first Season."

"And you all live in London?"

"For some part of the year. My parents' house is in Berkeley Square. My father, of course, grew up at Somersham Place, the ducal seat. To him, that's home. While he and my mother, indeed, the whole family, are always welcome there, my parents decided to make their primary home in London."

"So that's home to you."

Looking over the green meadows, Vane shook his head. "Not any more. I moved into lodgings years ago, and recently bought a town house. When Harry and I came of age, my father settled sizable sums on both of us and advised us to invest in property." His smile deepened. "Cynsters always accumulate land. Land, after all, is power. Devil has the Place and all the ducal estates, which underpin the wealth of the family. While he looks after those, we're each expanding our own assests."

"You mentioned that your brother owns a stud."

"Close by Newmarket. That's Harry's enterprise of choice-he's a master when it comes to horses."

"And you?" Patience tilted her head, her eyes on his face. "What's your enterprise of choice?"

Vane grinned. "Hops."

Patience blinked. "Hops?"

"A vital ingredient used to flavor and clarify beers. I own Pembury Manor, an estate near Tunbridge in Kent."

"And you grow hops?"

Vane's smile teased. "As well as apples, pears, cherries, and cob nuts."

Drawing back in her saddle, Patience stared at him. "You're a farmer!"

One brown brow rose. "Among other things."

Recognizing the glint in his eyes, she swallowed a humph. "Describe this place-Pembury Manor."

Vane did, quite content to follow that tack. After a brief outline, bringing to life the orchards and fields spread over the Kentish Weald, he turned to the house itself-the house he would take her to. "Two stories in grey stone, with six bedrooms, five reception rooms, and the usual amenities. I haven't spent much time there-it needs redecorating."

He made the comment offhandedly, and was pleased to see a distant, considering expression on her face.

"Hmm" was all Patience said. "How far-"

She broke off and looked up; a second raindrop splattered her nose. As one, she and Vane looked up and behind them. With one voice, they cursed. Thunderheads had blown up, dark grey and menacing, swelling in the sky behind them. A leaden curtain of drenching rain steadily advanced, mere minutes away.

Looking about, they searched for shelter. It was Vane who spotted the slate roof of the old barn.

"There." He pointed. "Along the riverbank." He glanced behind again. "We might just make it."

Patience had already sprung her mare. Vane followed, holding the grey back, clear of the mare's heels. They thundered along the track. In the skies above, more thunder rumbled. The leading edge of the rain curtain reached them, flinging heavy drops on their backs. Doors closed, the barn nestled in a shallow depression set back from the track. Patience wrestled the now skittish mare to a halt before the doors. Vane hauled the grey to a slithering stop and flung himself from the saddle. Reins in one hand, he dragged open the barn door. Patience trotted the mare in and Vane followed, leading the grey.

Once in, he dropped the reins and strode back to the door. As he pulled it shut, thunder cracked, and the heavens opened. Rain came down in sheets. Standing catching his breath, Vane looked up at the rafters. Still perched on her mare, Patience did the same. The sound of the rain on the old roof was a steady, relentless roar.

Shaking his shoulders, Vane peered into the dimness. "This looks to be in use. The roof seems sound." His eyes growing accustomed to the gloom, he strolled forward. "There are stalls along that wall." He lifted Patience down. "We'd better settle the horses."

Eyes wide in the gloom, Patience nodded. They led the horses to the stalls; while Vane unsaddled them, Patience investigated further. She discovered a ladder leading up to the loft. She glanced back at Vane; he was still busy with the horses. Gathering her skirts, she climbed up, carefully checking each rung. But the ladder was sound. All in all, the barn was in good repair.

From the top of the ladder, Patience surveyed the loft. A wide chamber built over most of the barn, it housed a quantity of hay, some baled, some loose. The floor was sound timber. Stepping up, she dropped her skirts, brushed them down, then crossed to where the hay doors were fastened against the weather.

Lifting the latch, she peeked out. The hay doors faced south, away from the squall. Satisfied no rain would drive in, she opened the doors, admitting soft grey light into the loft. Despite the rain, perhaps because of the heavy clouds, the air was warm. The view revealed, of the river, whipped by wind, pocked with rain, and the gently sloping meadows, all seen through a grey screen, was soothing.

Glancing around, Patience lifted a brow. Her next lesson from Vane was long overdue; while the music room would have been preferable, the loft would do. With hay aplenty, there was no reason they couldn't be comfortable.

In the barn below, Vane took as long as he could tending the horses, but the rain showed no sign of abating. Not that he'd expected it to; having seen the extent of the clouds, he knew they'd be trapped for hours. When there was nothing left to do, he wiped his hands in clean straw and dusted them. Then, closing a mental fist firmly about his own reins, he set off after Patience. He'd caught a glimpse of her disappearing into the loft. His head cleared the loft floor; he looked about-and inwardly cursed.

He knew trouble when he saw it.

She turned her head and smiled, eliminating any possiblity of craven retreat. Washed by the soft light falling through the open hay doors, she sat in the midst of a huge pile of hay, her expression welcoming, her body radiating a sensual tug to which he was already too susceptible.

Drawing in a deep breath, Vane climbed the last rungs and stepped onto the loft floor. With every evidence of his customary cool command, he strolled toward Patience.

She shattered his calm-by smiling more deeply and holding out her hand. Instinctively, he took it, fingers closing firmly. Then he caught himself.

His expression rigidly impassive, he looked down at her face, into her eyes, all hazel-gold, warm and alluring, and struggled to find some way to tell her this was madness. That, after all that had passed between them, to sit together in the hay and look out at the rain was too dangerous. That he could no longer guarantee his behavior, his usual coolness under fire, his customary command. No words sprang to mind-he was not capable of making such an admission of weakness. Even though it was true.

Patience gave him no time to wrestle with his conscience-she tugged. With no excuse forthcoming, Vane inwardly sighed-sealed an iron fist about his demons' reins-and sank down to the straw beside her.

He had a trick or two up his sleeve. Before she could turn to him, he wrapped his arms about her and drew her back, settling the curve of her back against his side, so they could study the scenery together.

Theoretically a wise move. Patience relaxed against him, warm and trusting-only to impinge on his senses in a thousand different ways. Her very softness tensed his muscles; her curves, fitting against him, within his arms, invoked his demons. He drew a steadying breath-and her perfume washed through him, subtly evoking, enticing.

Her hands slid over his arms, wrapped about her waist, and came to rest on his hands, her warm palms curved over the backs of his. Outside, the rain continued; inside, heat rose. Jaw clenched, Vane fought to endure.

He might have succeeded if she hadn't, without warning, turned to him. Her head turned first-and her lips were mere inches from his. Her body followed, sliding sensuously around in his arms; he tightened his grip, sank his fingers into soft flesh, but it was already too late.

Her gaze had fixed on his lips.

Desperation could reduce even the strongest to pleading. Even him. "Patience-"

She cut him off, sealing his lips with hers.

Vane fought to hold her back, but there was no strength in his arms-not for that maneuver. Instead, his muscles strained to crush her to him. He managed to stop himself from doing that, only to feel the pair of them sinking back into the hay, the pile originally behind him increasingly beneath him as it compressed under their combined weights. Within seconds, they were close to horizontal, with her stretched against him, half-atop him. Vane inwardly groaned.

His lips had parted, and she was kissing him-and he was kissing her. Jettisoning his crusade against what had proved the inevitable, Vane focused on the kiss. Gradually, he wrested back control, distantly aware that she relinquished the reins too readily. But the small victory encouraged him; he reminded himself that he was stronger than she, infinitely more experienced than she-and that he'd successfully managed women far more knowledgeable than she in this arena for years.

He was in control.

The litany sang in his head as he rolled and pressed her into the hay. She accepted the change readily, clinging to their kiss. Vane deepened it, plundering her mouth, hoping thus to assuage the clamoring need swelling within him. He framed her face and drank deep; she met him, sliding her hands under his loose jacket, spreading them, sending them questing over his chest, around his sides and back.

His shirt was fine lawn. Through it, her hands burned.

The final battle was so short, Vane had lost it before he'd realized-and after that, he wasn't capable of realizing anything beyond the woman beneath him and the raging tide of his need.

Her hands, her lips, her body, arching lightly beneath him, urged him on. When he opened her velvet riding jacket and closed one hand about her blouse-covered breast, she only sighed and kissed him more urgently.

Under his hand, her breast swelled; between his fingers, her nipple was a tight bud. She gasped when he squeezed, arched when he stroked. And moaned when he kneaded.

The tiny buttons of her blouse slipped their moorings readily; the ribbons of her chemise needed no more than a tug to free them. And then her softness filled his hand, filled his senses. Skin like soft silk teased him; the heated weight of her inflamed him. And her.

When he broke their kiss to raise his head and survey the bounty he'd captured, she watched, eyes glinting goldly from under heavy lids. Watched as his head descended and he took her into his mouth. He suckled, and her eyes closed.

The next fractured gasp that filled the loft was the first note of a symphony, a symphony he orchestrated. She wanted more, and he gave it, pushing aside the soft blouse, drawing down her silk chemise, to bare her breasts fully to the soft grey light, the gentle coolness of the air, and his heated attentions.

Beneath them, she burned, as in his dreams he'd imagined her doing, until she was hot and aching-and frantic for more. Her small hands were everywhere, desperately searching, opening his shirt and greedily reaching, caressing, imploring.

That was when he finally realized that control was far beyond him. He didn't have a shred left-she'd stolen it from him and thrown it away. She certainly had none. That was abundantly clear as, panting, her lips gloriously swollen, she drew his face to hers and kissed him voraciously.

Half-beneath him, she lifted, her body caressing his in flagrant entreaty-the oldest method of beckoning known to woman. She wanted him-and heaven help him, he wanted her. Now.

His body was rigid with need, tense and heavy with it; he needed to claim her, to slide into her body and find release. The buttons fastening her velvet skirts were at her back; his fingers were already on them. He'd waited too long to speak, to formally offer for her hand. He couldn't focus enough to form a garbled sentence-but he had to try.

With a groan, Vane pulled back from their kiss. On his elbows above her, he waited for her to open her eyes. When her lashes flickered, he drew a huge breath-and lost it as her nipples brushed his expanding chest. He shuddered-she shivered, quivers rippling through her stomach to her thighs. His mind immediately focused-on the soft haven between her long limbs, experience supplying in gratifying detail just what her responses were achieving.

Vane shut his eyes-he tried to shut his mind and simply speak.

Instead, her voice reached him, clear, soft, sirenlike, a whisper of pure magic in the heavily laden air.

"Show me."

Entreaty silvered the words. In the same instant, Vane felt her fingers slide, glide, then gently close about him. Her tentative touch had him locking his jaw, locking every muscle against a raging impulse to ravish her. She seemed unaware of it; her gliding caress continued, cindering the last of his will.

"Teach me," she whispered, her breath feathering his cheek. And then she breathed against his lips, "All."

That last small word vanquished the last of his resistance, the last remnant of caution, of cool command. Gone was any gentleman, any vestige of his facade-only the conqueror remained.

He wanted her-with every ounce of his body, every ounce of his blood. And she wanted him. Words were superfluous.

The only thing that still mattered was the manner of their joining. With ultimate victory assured, his demons-those spirits that moved him, drove him-were more than ready to lend their talents to achieving glory in the most satisfying way. Not control, but focused frenzy.

Patience felt it. And gloried in it-in the hardness of the hands that possessed her breasts, in the hardness of his lips as they returned to hers. She clung tight, hands clutching, then kneading the broad muscles of his back, a moment later sliding around to hungrily explore his chest.

She wanted to know-know it all-now. She couldn't bear to wait, to drag out the frustration. A yearning-for that knowledge-the fundamental experience all women craved-had bloomed, spread, and now consumed her. Drove her as she arched lightly, responding to the demand in his hands, in his lips, in the steady plundering of his tongue.

He was all heat and shockingly hot hardness. She wanted to draw him into her, to take his heat in and quench it, to release the fevered tension driving him-the same tension slowly suffusing her. She wanted to give herself to him-she wanted to take him into her body.

She knew it, and was long past denial. She knew who she was-she knew what was possible. She'd satisfied herself that she understood how things would be.

So there was nothing to cloud her enjoyment-of the moment, of him. She gave herself up to it gladly-to the shiver of excitement as he drew her velvet skirts down, then rolled her to spread them, a soft blanket, beneath her. Her full petticoats went the same route, becoming a wide sheet beneath her shoulders. She knew no shame as, his lips on hers, he drew her chemise from her, tossing it aside before gathering her to him.

Sharp delight was what she knew as his hands, hard and knowing, possessed her, tracing every curve, every soft mound. One hand slid beneath her waist, then slid lower to cup her bottom. Strong fingers kneaded, caressed, and sweet fever spread, pooling in her belly, dewing her skin. The hand slid lower, tracing the long curve of the back of her thigh all the way to her knee, then slid to the front, reversing direction. To her hip, to that sensitive join where thigh met torso. One finger gently, insistently, stroked downward along the crease-she shuddered, suddenly desperate for breath.

And then he was parting her thighs, gently but firmly spreading them to lavish soothing caresses along the sensitive inner faces. His lips had gentled on hers, allowing her to focus on each touch, each searing response. On the excitement, the frantic, barely reined passion that had both of them in its grip.

Then his hand reached the end of his last caress and drifted higher, to stroke flesh that had never before been stroked, never before felt a man's touch.

The shudder that racked her was pure excitement-distilled sensual anticipation. Sinking into the soft hay, Patience gasped and spread her thighs wider-and felt the caresses grow firmer, more deliberate. More intimate, more evocative.

The soft folds seemed slick; he parted them. Knowing fingers found a point, a nub of flesh, and bolts of delight lanced through her. Fiery delight, hot and urgent, it struck deep inside her, caught hold and grew. Pressing her head back, she broke from their kiss. He let her go. He continued to play in the softness between her thighs; Patience hauled in a too-shallow breath and fought to lift her lids.

And saw him, his face a mask of concentration etched with passion, watching his fingers as they stroked and twirled. Then one probed.

The sound that escaped her was more gasp than moan, more scream than groan. He glanced at her face; his eyes locked on hers. She felt his hand press between her thighs-and felt the intrusion of his finger, gently but insistently penetrating.

She gasped again, and closed her eyes. He pressed farther, deeper.

Then he stroked her-inside-deep within, where she was all slick and hot and so full of desire. So full of molten passion. A passion he stirred, deliberately inciting, stoking that inner furnace.

On a shuddering moan, Patience felt herself melt, felt her senses soar.

Vane heard her, felt her surrender-and inwardly smiled, a touch grimly. She was trying his demons to the utmost; by now, most women new to the game would have gone over the edge, or, more likely, been so overcome by need that they would be begging him to take them. Not Patience. She'd let him bare her completely, without any maidenly confusion-she seemed to enjoy writhing naked beneath him as much as he enjoyed having her do so. And now, when even accomplished ladies might be expected to break, she was floating-taking all he lavished on her and waiting for more.

He gave her more, learning her intimately, filling his male senses with her feminine secrets. Slowly, he drove her upward, turning the wheel of the rack of sensual excitement with practiced ease.

Still, she didn't break. She gasped, moaned, and arched-and her eager body begged for yet more. Her needs were not those of the ladies he was accustomed to; as he took her further still, that was brought home beyond doubt. Patience was older, more mature, more sure of her own self. She was not, he realized, the innocent he had labeled her-strictly speaking, she didn't, in fact, have very much of that commodity. She knew enough to know what they were doing, and to have made her decision.

And it was that that was different. Her character and its consequences. She was straightforward, assured, used to taking what experiences life had to offer. To picking and choosing among the fruits of life's tree. And she'd chosen. Deliberately. This-and him.

That was what was different.

Vane looked at her-at her face lightly flushed with desire, at her eyes, glinting gold from beneath heavy lids. And couldn't breathe.

From sheer lust-from sheer need. The need to be inside her.

The need to claim her as his.

With a soft oath, he drew his hands from her and shrugged free of his jacket and shirt. His boots took an impatient minute, then he stood to strip off his breeches. He could feel her gaze on him, trailing down his back. He flung his breeches aside and glanced over his shoulder. She lay naked, asprawl in the hay, calmly waiting. Simmering.

Her breasts rose and fell rapidly; her skin was gently flushed.

Naked, fully aroused, he turned to her.

Not a single hint of shock showed in her face-the face of a Fragonard wanton. Her gaze slid down, over him, then slowly rose to his face.

She lifted her arms. To him.

Vane went to her-covered her-took her lips in a searing kiss and eased himself into her. She was hot and tight; she tensed as he tested her maidenhead. And cried out as, with one well-judged thrust, he breached it. He held still, for one long, achingly tense moment, then she eased about him. Instinct claimed him-he thrust powerfully, deep into her body-and claimed her.

His reins broke-his demons took charge. Driving him, driving her, in a frenzied mating.

Far beyond thought, beyond reason, beyond anything except feeling, Patience held tight and let their passion take her. Every sensation was new, battering in on her mind, her overloaded senses, yet she clung to each thrill, each new intimacy, determined to miss nothing, determined to feel all.

To know the sheer delight of his hard body heavy on hers, his chest hard, hair-roughened, rasping against her sensitive nipples and the soft swells of her breasts. To glory in the hardness that filled her, the steely velvet that pressed deep into her, stretching her, claiming her. To experience, with every gasp, with every desperate pant, the power with which he repeatedly drove into her, the flexing of his spine, the rhythmic fusing of their bodies. To sense her vulnerability, in her nakedness, in the weight that anchored her hips, in the blind wanting that drove her. To revel in the excitement, shamelessly hot, unquenchably erotic, that swelled, grew, built, then flooded them, a raging tide avidly seizing them.

And to feel, deep within her, the unfurling of an anchoring force, more powerful than desire, more deep, more enduring, than anything on earth. That force, all emotion, golden and silver, swelled and caught her. She gave herself up to it and bravely, eagerly, knowingly claimed it for her own.

Ecstasy filled her-eagerly, she shared it, through her lips and their hungry kisses, through the worship of her hands, her limbs, her body.

He did the same; she tasted it on his tongue, felt its heat in his body.

Whatever he needed she gave, whatever she craved, he delivered. Mouth to mouth, breasts to chest, urgent softness gripping his hardness.

On a groan, Vane straightened his arms, and managed to find support enough in the hay to lift from her. He drove himself into her, savoring every hot inch that closed about him, pausing for an instant to feel her throb about him, before withdrawing, only to thrust deeply again. And again.

Sating himself-and her.

She writhed, heated and urgent beneath him. He'd never seen anything so beautiful as her, locked in passion's snare. She lifted and twisted, her head turning blindly from side to side as, inside, she sought release. He sank deep and pushed her higher, but still held her back from the edge-she could go higher yet. So could he.

And he wanted to watch her-so splendidly wanton, so gloriously abandoned-as she took him in and held him, as she gave herself to him for the first time. The sight stole his breath-and more. He would have her again, many times, but none would be the same as this, as vested with emotion as this moment was.

He knew when the end was upon her, felt the keen edge of tension ready to explode-and felt the hot flowering within her. He drove into it, and let go-let his body do what came naturally and sent them both over the edge. And, at the last, he watched as the explosion took her, as desire coalesced and turned her womb molten, a hot, fertile pocket for his seed.

Gritting his teeth, he hung on for the last second, and saw her ease. Saw the lines of her face, drawn tight with passion, soften; felt, deep inside her, the strong ripples of her release. On a silent sigh, her body softened beneath him. The expression that washed over her face was that of an angel in the presence of the divine.

Vane felt the shudders rack him. Closing his eyes, he let them-let her-take him.

It had been more-much more-than he'd expected.

Lying on his back in the hay, Patience curled into his side, her skirts and petticoats flipped over her to keep her warm as she slept, Vane tried to come to grips with that reality. He couldn't begin to explain it, all he knew was that no other had ever been like this.

It therefore came as no surprise to discover, as his sated senses cleared, that he was once more possessed of an urgent desire.

Not the same urgent desire that had driven him for the past days, and which she'd so recently and so remarkably thoroughly sated, but a related desire-the compulsive need to secure her as his own.

As his wife.

The four-letter word had always made him flinch. In a reflexive manner, it still did. But he was not about to run counter to his fate-to what he knew, in his bones, was right.

She was the only one for him. If he was ever to marry, it had to be to her. And he wanted children-heirs. The thought of her, his son in her arms, had an instant effect on him. Uunder his breath, he swore.

He glanced sideways, at Patience's topmost curls, and willed her to wake. Gaining her formal agreement to their marriage had just become his top priority. His most urgent priority. In accepting him as her lover, she'd already agreed informally. Once he'd made his offer and she'd said yes, they could indulge their senses as they willed. As often as they willed.

The thought intensified his growing discomfort. Gritting his teeth, he tried to think of something else.

Sometime later, Patience drifted back to consciousness. She came awake as she never had before, her body floating on a sea of golden pleasure, her mind hazed with a deep sense of golden peace. Her limbs were heavy, weighted with warm langor; her body felt buoyed, sated, replete. At peace. For long moments, no thought could pierce the glow, then, gradually, her surroundings impinged.

She was lying on her side, cocooned in warmth. Beside her, Vane lay stretched on his back, his body a hard rock to which she clung. Outside, the rain had ceased, but drips still fell from the eaves. Inside, the glow they'd created lingered, enclosing them within a heavenly world.

He had given her this-shown her the way to this state of grace. The delicious pleasure still lapped about her. Patience smiled. One hand rested on his chest; under her palm, beneath the curly brown hair, she could feel his heart beating, steady and sure. Her own heart swelled.

The emotion that poured through her was stronger than before, glowing golden and silver, so beautiful it made her heart ache, so piercingly sweet it brought tears to her eyes.

Patience closed her eyes tight. She'd been right-right to press for the knowledge, right to take this road. No matter what happened, she would treasure this moment-and all that had brought her here. No regrets. Not ever.

The intense emotion faded, sinking from her conscious mind. Lips gently curving, she shifted, and planted a warm kiss on Vane's chest.

He looked down. Looking up, Patience smiled more deeply and, eyes closing, sank against him. "Hmm-nice."

Nice? Looking down at her face, at the smile on her lips, Vane felt something in his chest shift. Then lock. The feeling, and the emotions that coursed, tumbled and jumbled, in its wake, were not nice at all. They shook him, and left him feeling vulnerable. Lifting one hand, he brushed back Patience's honey gold hair; the tangled mass caught in his fingers. He started releasing the strands, gathering her pins as he went. "Once we're married, you can feel nice every morning. And every night."

Concentrating on her hair, he didn't see the shock flare in Patience's eyes as, stunned, she looked up at him. Didn't see the shock fade into blankness. When he glanced down, she was staring at him, her expression closed, unreadable.

Vane frowned. "What is it?"

Patience drew a shuddering breath, and desperately tried to find her mental feet. She licked her lips, then focused on Vane's face. "Marriage." She had to pause before she could go on. "I don't recall discussing that." Her voice was flat, expressionless.

Vane's frown deepened. "We're discussing it now. I'd meant to speak earlier, but, as you well know, our attempts at rational discussion haven't met with any great success." He drew the last of her hair free and, raking it back with his fingers, laid it across the hay. "So." Finding her eyes once more, he raised a cool brow. "When's it to be?"

Patience simply stared. She was lying here, naked in his arms, her body so sated she couldn't move, and he, suddenly, entirely without warning, wanted to discuss marriage? No, not even discuss it, but simply decide when it was to be.

The golden glow had vanished, replaced with an arctic chill. A chill colder than the grey misery outside the hay doors, colder than the breeze that had sprung up. Icy panic sent gooseflesh rippling over her limbs, then sank to her marrow. She felt the touch of cold steel-the jaws of the trap that was slowly, steadily, closing on her.

"No." Summoning every ounce of her strength, she pressed against Vane's chest; closing her eyes to its bare state, she struggled to sit up. She would never have made it except that he deigned to help her.

He stared-as if he couldn't credit his hearing. "No?" He searched her face, then the shutters came down over his grey eyes. His expression leached. "No what?"

His steely accents made Patience shiver. Turning away from him, keeping her skirts over her lap, she reached for her chemise. She pulled it over her head. "I have never intended to marry. Not at all."

A white lie, perhaps, but a position more easily defended than the unvarnished truth. Marriage had never been high on her agenda-marriage to an elegant gentleman had never figured in her plans. Marriage to Vane was simply impossible-even more so after the last hour.

His voice, coolly precise, came from behind her. "Be that as it may, I would have thought itfe activities of the last hour would suggest that a rearrangement of your intentions was in order."

Tying the ribbons of her chemise, Patience pressed her lips together and shook her head. "I don't want to marry."

The sound he made as he sat up was derisive. "All young ladies want to marry."

"Not me. And I'm not that young." Patience finished pulling on her stockings. Swinging about, she grabbed her petticoats.

She heard Vane sigh. "Patience-"

"We'd better hurry-we've been out all morning." Standing, she hiked up her petticoats and cinched them at her waist. Behind her, she heard the hay rustle as he rose. "They'll worry if we don't return for lunch." Under cover of swiping up her skirt, she turned. Not daring to look directly at him-he was, after all, still naked-she could nevertheless see him from the corner of her eye, and prevent him from touching her. From catching hold of her.

If he did, her shaky, somewhat confused resolution might disintegrate-and the trap might slam shut on her. She could still feel his hands on her skin, sense the imprint of his body on hers. Feel the heat of him inside her.

She yanked her skirts up. "We can't afford to dally." In a state bordering on the frenzied, she scanned the floor for her jacket. It was lying beside his breeches. She hurried over.

Aware that he was standing, naked, hands on hips, frowning at her, she picked up her jacket, and flung his breeches at his head.

He caught them before they hit. His eyes narrowed even further.

"Do come on," she implored. "I'll get the horses." With that, she rushed to the ladder.

"Patience!"

That particular tone had been known to snap unruly, half-drunk soldiers to immediate attention; to Vane's disgust, it had no discernible affect on Patience. She disappeared down the ladder as if he hadn't spoken.

Leaving him disgusted-thoroughly and absolutely-with himself.

He'd muffed it. Completely and utterly. She was annoyed with him-piqued to her toes-and she had every right to feel so. His offer-well, he hadn't even made it; he'd tried instead to slide around it, to arrogantly push her into agreeing without having to ask.

He'd failed. And now she was in a royal snit.

Not for an instant did he believe that she didn't want to marry, that was merely the first excuse that had sprung to her mind-a weak excuse at that.

Swearing roundly-the only viable way he could relieve his temper-he hauled on his breeches, then reached for his shirt. He'd tried to avoid making the declaration he knew he had to make-and now it was going to be ten times worse.

Gritting his teeth, he stomped into his boots, swiped up his jacket, and stalked to the ladder.

Now he was going to have to beg.