The Ideal Bride

Chapter 12

Michael elected to return to the ballroom via the secondary stairs at the end of the wing. Still pleasantly aglow and a trifle distracted, Caro allowed him to guide her. They were on the landing halfway down when the sound of a door closing brought them both to silent attention.

Below, in the corridor connecting the library and Geoffrey’s study to the front hall, Ferdinand came into view. He walked confidently along; at one point, he looked around, but he failed to glance up.

Silent and still, they waited until he disappeared; they heard his footsteps fading across the hall tiles.

They exchanged a glance, then continued down. The door from which Ferdinand must have emerged led into the library. As they stepped off the stairs, it opened again; Edward stepped out. He closed the door, then started along, and saw them.

He smiled grimly. “Did you see?”

Caro nodded.

“I take it he searched?” Michael asked.

“Carefully and thoroughly for the past half hour. I watched him from outside.”

Caro frowned. “I know there’s nothing there, but did he take anything? Or look at anything in particular that might give us some clue?”

“No, but he went over the books very quickly. If I had to guess, I’d say he was looking for folios—the sort that look like books but are really folders of notes or letters.”

Michael grimaced. “Camden’s papers.”

Caro humphed. “Well, at least he now knows there’s nothing here.”

“Or at Sutcliffe Hall.” Michael took her elbow and steered her toward the ballroom, from whence sounds of guests regathering were emanating.

Edward followed. When they reached the ballroom, Michael released Caro; she headed for the terrace, no doubt intent on checking that her supper by moonlight had gone as she’d planned. He let her go. Pausing on the threshold, he scanned the heads, eventually locating Ferdinand’s.

Beside him, Edward quietly said, “I wonder where Leponte will think of looking next.”

“Indeed.” Michael glanced at Edward. “We’ll need to think more on that.”

Edward nodded. “He’s already checked the study, but I’ll continue to keep an eye on him, just in case.”

Inclining his head, Michael moved away. When he had a chance, he was going to have to try to put himself in Ferdinand’s shoes, but the Russian attache was, possibly unwittingly, standing next to the Prussian ambassador’s wife—duty called.

Two hours, he’d said. As far as Caro could see, that meant she’d be waiting until the day after the fete, at the earliest, to learn the answer to her desperately urgent question.

She felt like having the gig harnessed, driving around to Eyeworth Manor, grabbing Michael by the cravat and hauling him off…

Where? That was the problem. Indeed, the more she thought of it, she couldn’t imagine how he’d solve that particular difficulty at any time… unfortunately, today, she couldn’t put her mind to devising a solution—she had a fete to help stage and a small horde of guests to herd to it.

The weather had held; the day had dawned fine, free of any but the lightest clouds. The lilting breeze was just strong enough to rustle leaves and set ribbons dancing.

Breakfast was held late due to the previous night’s festivities; as soon as it was over and the guests, refreshed, reassembled, she, aided by Edward, Elizabeth, and Geoffrey, shepherded them up the shady drive and across the village street.

For decades, the fete had been held in the meadow behind the church; a good-sized clearing, it was bound at the back and to the right by the forest, with a secondary clearing to the left, perfect for leaving horses and gigs under Muriel’s stableman’s watchful eye. Stalls set in a large circle displayed jams, cakes, and homemade wines amid a host of other local produce. There were wood carvings and paintings, horseshoes and ornamental brasses; the latter proved popular among the foreign visitors, as did Miss Trice’s watercolors.

The offerings of the Ladies’ Association—doilies, crocheted scarves, beribboned handkerchief sachets, embroidered tray cloths, antimacassars, and more—covered two long trestle tables. Caro stopped to chat with Mrs. Henry and Miss Ellerton, who were currently overseeing the wares.

While she talked she kept an eye on her guests, but they all seemed quite taken with this, for them uncommon, slice of English life. Lady Kleber and the general in particular seemed in their element; they’d stopped to talk with the woodcarver.

She was turning away when another large group came through from the stabling area. Michael steered the Swedish and Finnish contingents she’d billeted at the Manor into the main clearing, pausing to point out various stalls. She watched him smile and charm the Verol-stadt girls, but when they went off, parasols gaily bobbing in their parents’ wake, he remained where he was.

Then he turned his head, looked straight at her, and smiled.

A warm glow filled her; he’d known she was there. Not only that, but his smile—the smile he seemed to save just for her—was quite different. Somehow more real. He started toward her; she went forward to meet him. He took her hand, deftly raised it to his lips, kissed it.

His eyes on hers reminded her, stirred memories inappropriate to indulge in while in public. She felt a blush tinge her cheeks, tried to frown. “Don’t.”

His smile deepened. “Why not?” He wound her arm in his and turned her toward the homemade wines. “You look delicious when you blush.”

Delicious. Of course he would use that word.

She retaliated by ensuring he bought two bottles of Mrs. Crabthorpe’s elderberry wine, then guided him around the stalls, loading him with produce, even making him purchase two doilies from Miss Ellerton, who blushed even more rosily than she had.

His eyes laughed at her; indeed, he bore her managing in such good vein she started to become suspicious. Then they came upon Mrs. Entwhistle, who exclaimed at his load and insisted on relieving him of it; all the packages disppeared into her capacious bag while she waved aside his protests. “It’s no difficulty at all, sir. Hardacre’s here— he’ll see me home.”

“Ah, good.” Michael’s expression eased. “Given our guests won’t be returning, I meant what I said earlier—please spend as long as you like here, all of you. I don’t expect to be back until late. After all your hard work, you deserve some fun.”

Mrs. Entwhistle beamed. “Thank you, sir. I’ll tell the others. This is one of those occasions where we can catch up with our cousins and nieces and nephews—having the time to chat without thinking of ought else is a boon. I know Carter’ll be happy to spend time with his mum.”

“If I see him, I’ll tell him, but do spread the word.”

They parted; Caro felt her instincts pricking, but she couldn’t fathom over what. Then Muriel saw them and swooped.

“Excellent! Just in time to perform the official opening.” Muriel ran her eye critically over Michael, as if expecting to find something to correct.

When she frowned, defeated, Caro hid a smile; for this setting, for his role, Michael was sartorially impeccable in a perfectly tailored riding jacket in brown-and-green tweed, his cravat snowy white, simply styled, his waistcoat an understated brown velvet, his breeches tight-fitting buckskins that disppeared into gleaming topboots. He looked the part he was there to play, the part he wished to project to this audience, that of a gentleman accustomed to moving in the highest circles, but who also was one of them, approachable, not above riding through their lanes, a man who appreciated their country pleasures as they did.

Had Muriel really thought he’d falter?

More, that if he had, that she, Caro, wouldn’t have put him right?

Linking her arm more definitely in his, she nodded to a dray drawing up before the stalls. “Is that the platform?”

Muriel looked. “Yes, indeed! Come along.”

Muriel strode ahead, calling to others to gather around. Seeing Reverend Trice, she imperiously directed him to the dray.

Michael caught Caro’s eye; the glance they shared was one of complete understanding and politely suppressed amusement.

Reaching the dray, Caro slid her arm from Michael’s and stood watching as he climbed up, assisted Reverend Trice up, then looked around, nodding and exchanging salutes with those he’d yet to chat with while they waited. Muriel came striding back; at her sharp command, numerous hands helped her up to the dray’s tray.

Regaining her balance, Muriel smoothed down her skirts. She was a large woman, taller than Caro and rather heavier; in her dark green gown she looked imposing and severe. In a ringing voice, she called the crowd to order; briefly mentioning the long history of the fete and its purpose in raising funds for the physical betterment of the church, she graciously if somewhat superiorly thanked those who had assisted in staging today’s event.

Muriel stepped back, inviting Reverend Trice to address the crowd. His tones imbued with the authority of his office, he accepted the support of the community and thanked all who had assisted and all who had come to share in the event in the name of the church and the Almighty.

Michael spoke last; it was instantly apparent he was the most gifted speaker of the three. His attitude was relaxed, his message succinct, his tone and inflections natural and assured as he applauded their community spirit, alluded to its strength, and how it owed its existence to each and every one of them. With just a few words, he bound them together, made each individual feel personally included. Then, drawing on local lore, thus subtly underscoring that he was one of them, he made them laugh, and then, speaking over the laughter, owned himself honored to declare the fete officially open.

The emphasis he placed on “officially” left everyone with a smile on their face; in true country fashion, no one had waited for any official sanction.

Caro had heard many such speeches, but not before from him. Yet she knew talent when she heard it; the Prime Minister’s push to promote Michael into the Cabinet, where his eloquence would be of even more use to the government, now made complete sense.

Watching him shake hands with Reverend Trice and exchange a few words with Muriel, she sensed he was a politician who, although already successful, still had further to go. He had the talent to be a real power, but had yet to fully develop his strengths; to her experienced eyes, that was very clear.

He jumped down from the dray and rejoined her. Smiling, she took his arm. “You’re very good at that, you know.”

Michael looked into her eyes, read her sincerity, lightly shrugged. “It runs in the family.”

Her smile deepened and she looked away; he seized the moment to tuck the compliment safely away in his mind. Such praise from her would have been gold in any case, yet now it meant much more.

The crowd had returned to the stalls and the various activities— the horseshoe throwing, the woodchopping and archery contests, among others. Despite her long absences, Caro was popular; as they strolled, people came up to greet her. And him. She was easy to spot in her summery gown of wide white and gold vertical stripes. She hadn’t bothered with a hat; a gauzy gold scarf lay about her throat, protecting her fine skin from the sun.

Many members of the Ladies’ Association stopped them, congratulating her on her idea of steering her ball guests to the fete, thus, as was quite evident about them, ensuring a special success for the day. Again he was struck by her facility for knowing what was happening in the lives of so many, even though she so rarely resided at Bramshaw; she picked up snippets from this one and that, and always seemed to remember to whom they applied when she next met that person.

He had more than one reason for clinging to her side; she commanded his attention on so many levels. Luckily, the fete was primarily Muriel’s responsibility; when he asked, Caro confirmed that, as he’d supposed, once she’d delivered her guests as promised, her duty was discharged.

And she was free.

He bided his time, buying a selection of savories and two glasses of Mrs. Hennessy’s pear wine to take the edge from their visceral hunger.

Normally, at such gatherings most participants would remain all day. The ball guests, who to a person had attended, had made their own arrangements for departure, instructing their coachmen to stop in the nearby clearing at prearranged times. There was no reason, therefore, that he and Caro could not remain until late afternoon.

He gave her no hint that he planned anything else. Arm in arm, they wended through the now considerable crowd, meeting others, in between amusing each other with observations and anecdotes that, un-surprisingly, were colored by their worldliness, by the background they shared.

Caro grew increasingly aware of that last, of just how much at ease in Michael’s company she’d become. As they parted from Mrs. Carter, voluble in her thanks to Michael for having hired her son—which thanks he’d glibly yet sincerely turned aside with praise for Carter’s service, thereby allaying any lingering doubts raised by Muriel’s rejection of same, a fact Caro was perfectly certain he both knew and intended—she glanced at him. He caught her eye, lightly raised a brow. She merely smiled and looked away.

Impossible to tell him—explain to him—what a pleasure it was to be with someone who saw and understood as she did, to share even such minor yet significant matters with someone who thought and acted as she would. It was an emotional pleasure, not just an intellectual one, something that left, her with a warm inner glow, a sense of shared achievement.

She’d grown used to his strength, to the sense of it surrounding her, to him being by her side, yet today she was conscious of the less obvious, less deliberate attentions he paid her. Without making any point of it, he seemed devoted to her pleasure, constantly seeking to smooth her way, to find things to amuse her, to please and entertain her.

If it had been Ferdinand, he’d have expected her to notice, and to reciprocate in kind; Michael hardly seemed aware he was doing it.

It occurred to her that he was taking care of her—that he considered her as being in his care, his to care for. Not as in a duty, but more as an instinctive act, an expression of the man he was.

She recognized the role; it was one she often assumed. Yet it was novel to find that role reversed, to discover herself the recipient of such unobtrusive, instinctive care.

They’d paused; she glanced at him. He was looking through the crowd, his expression impassive. She followed his gaze and saw Ferdinand talking to George Sutcliffe.

“I wonder,” Michael murmured, “what Leponte is up to now.”

“Whatever,” she replied, “knowing George’s taciturnity, especially with foreigners, I can’t imagine Ferdinand will have much joy of him.”

Michael raised his brows. “True.” He glanced at her. “You’re sure we shouldn’t go and save him?”

She laughed. “Ferdinand or George? But regardless, I think we can leave them to their own devices.” She had no wish to mar her day by having to deal with Ferdinand, to let him attempt to seduce her into revealing more about Camden’s papers. He wouldn’t succeed, and then he’d sulk; she’d known him for too long not to be certain of that.

Michael had pulled out his watch and was checking it.

“What’s the time?” she asked.

“Nearly one o’clock.” Returning the watch to his pocket, he looked over the crowd toward the forest. “They’re starting the archery contest.” He looked at her. “Shall we go and have a look?”

She smiled, took his arm. “Let’s.”

Many men had attempted to charm her, yet this—this simple day and his caring companionship—touched her in a way no other ever had.

The archery contest should have started by now; however, the participants, many eager to try their luck, had yet to agree on the precise structure of the contest. She and Michael were both appealed to, but were too experienced to get drawn in; laughing, they disclaimed all knowledge and, after a shared glance, beat a hasty retreat.

“Enough!” Taking her hand, Michael led her back into the crowd. They circled the central ring of stalls, passing three more, stopping to talk to the helpers who’d relieved those who had manned the same stalls earlier.

The crowd was dense, the sun high. Waving a hand before her face, regretting her lack of a fan, Caro tugged on Michael’s arm. “Let’s step to the side for a moment—catch our breath.”

Instantly, he led her free of the bustle. A tall birch with a smooth trunk stood just within the clearing; reaching it, she turned and leaned against it, half closing her eyes, lifting her face to the sky. “It’s really the perfect day for the fete, isn’t it?”

Michael stood between her and the crowd; he let his gaze dwell on her face, on the light flush the sun’s warmth and their peripatetic exertions had brought to her fair skin. When he didn’t immediately respond, she lowered her gaze and looked at him. Slowly, he smiled. “That’s precisely what I was thinking.”

Smile deepening, he reached for her hand. “Indeed.” He drew her from the tree, almost into his arms as he leaned close to murmur, “As I was about to say—”

Whizz-thunk!

Startled, they looked up. Froze. Stared at the arrow quivering in the tree trunk precisely where Caro had been an instant before.

Michael closed his hand hard about hers. He looked down at her. Slowly, she brought her gaze back to his face. For one instant, her screens were down. Shock, bewilderment, and the first stirrings of fear were all there in her silver eyes. The fingers locked in his quivered.

He swore, drew her closer, into the protection of his body. One glance around showed that with all the noise and bustle, no one else had heard, much less seen, what had happened.

He glanced down at her. “Come on.”

Keeping her close, he drew her back into the safety of the crowd, her hand still locked in his as they tried to disguise their shock. Caro put a hand on his arm, slowed him. He looked down. She was shaken, pale, but in control.

“It must have been an accident.”

His jaw clenched so hard he thought it might crack. “We’ll see.”

He halted as the crowds parted and they got a clear view of the archery butts, now properly set up and with the contest in full swing. Laughing, Ferdinand laid down a bow. He appeared to be in high good humor, exchanging comments with two locals.

Caro grabbed his arm. “Don’t make a fuss.”

He looked down at her, grimaced. “I wasn’t intending to.” His protective instincts might have leapt at the sight of Ferdinand, bow in hand, but his wits were still functioning; he knew the two men running the contest—neither was so witless as to allow anyone to point an arrow toward the crowd.

And, as he’d assumed but had wanted to confirm, the butts all the contestants were aiming at had been positioned along the edge of the forest. There was absolutely no chance that even a stray arrow could have struck where he and Caro had been, all but in the opposite direction.

In addition to that, the arrow they’d left sunk in the tree trunk had been fletched with dark-striped feathers. All those for the contest carried plain white ones. He scanned the quivers standing filled and ready; not one arrow sported even a single stripe.

“Come on.” He urged Caro back into the crowd.

She drew a tight breath and stayed close. After a few steps, she said, “So you agree. It must have been an accident.”

From her tone, she was trying to convince herself.

“No.” She glanced up; he caught her eye. “It was no accident—but I agree there’s no point in making a fuss. Whoever fired that arrow wasn’t in the crowd. He was in the forest, and he be long gone by now.”

Caro’s chest felt tight, her heart thudding in her throat as they pushed on through the crowd. But more people had arrived; they had to stop and talk as before. Both she and Michael slipped on their polished masks—no one seemed to guess that behind those masks, they were shocked and upset. However, the more they talked, the more they were forced to respond in a normal fashion to those about them, to discuss the gentle vicissitudes of country life, the further the incident, and the sudden fright it had caused, receded.

Eventually, she realized it really had to have been an accident— perhaps some boys larking about in the forest edge, as boys were wont to do, with no idea they’d shot at anyone. It was inconceivable—there was simply no reason—that anyone would want to harm her.

Certainly not Ferdinand. Even Michael seemed to have accepted that.

Only when they reached the far side of the clearing and Michael continued on did she realize she hadn’t, indeed, any idea what he was thinking.

“Where are we going?” Her hand still locked in his, he was heading for the clearing where the carriages and horses had been left.

He glanced at her. “You’ll see.”

Muriel’s stableman was on watch; Michael saluted him and continued on, leading her to where a long line of horses were tethered. He marched along, then stopped. “Here we are.”

Released, Caro blinked at a faintly familiar bay rump. Then Michael backed his big gelding out of the line.

Her instincts jerked to life. “What—”

“As I was about to say before being rudely interrupted by that arrow”—he lifted his head and met her gaze as his hand locked once more about hers—“come with me.”

Her eyes widened with very real shock. “What? Now?”

“Now.” Reins wrapped about his hand, he reached for her—and hoisted her up to sit in his saddle.

“What… but—” She had to grab the pommel, desperately fight for balance.

Before she could manage anything else, he slipped a boot into the stirrup and swung up behind her. Wrapping an arm about her waist, he lifted her, settled her against him, locked her there.

She looked up, fleetingly glimpsed the main clearing and the distant crowd as he wheeled the huge horse away. “We can’t just leave!”

Michael touched his heels to Atlas’s flanks; the big bay surged. “We have.”

He’d planned, schemed, to make this afternoon their time—the only time when his house lay truly empty, no staff about. Everyone was at the fete and would remain there for hours, happy to while away the day.

While he and Caro seized their moment.

As they emerged onto the lane just outside the village and he turned Atlas away from Bramshaw, he was aware of the thud of the horses’ big hooves—and the echo driving through his veins.

How much of the emotion that hardened his muscles, that fired his determination to cling resolutely to his plan and his goal—to grasp the hours he’d promised himself they would share—derived from the incident of the arrow he couldn!t say, couldn’t at the moment even reasonably guess. Some part of it certainly derived from a primitive conviction that he should claim her without delay, make her his and thus secure the right to protect her, yet while the incident might have acted as a spur, deepening his need to bring their wooing to a swift and satisfactory conclusion, the arrow hadn’t given rise to that need.

She had.

She twisted before him, making him wince; she tried to glance back at his face, then back toward the fete. “What if someone misses me? Edward might—”

“He knows you’re with me.”

Leaning forward, she focused on his face. “Geoffrey?”

“As usual hasn’t a clue, but he saw us.” Looking ahead, he negotiated the turn into the lane that led to the Manor. He glanced at her as Atlas lengthened his stride. Raised his brows. “If he does wonder, he’ll imagine you’re with me.”

Which she was.

Caro faced forward. Her heart was thudding again, but with an even more unsettling cadence. He was carrying her off like some knight in a minstrel’s tale, tossing the maiden he desired over his saddle and making off for his isolated keep.

There to have his way with her.

It was a distracting thought.

She blinked back to the present—to the reality before her—when they clattered into the Manor’s stableyard. Michael reined in the big horse, dismounted, then lifted her down. Quickly, he unsaddled the great beast…

Two hours. That’s what he’d said.

She tried to imagine it. Failed completely.

“Come on.” Seizing her hand, he towed her out of the yard and on through the orchard.

She really should protest—shouldn’t she? She cleared her throat.

Over his shoulder, he flicked her a glance. “Save your breath.”

She frowned at the back of his head. “Why?”

He kept towing her along. “Because you’re shortly going to need every last bit of it.”

She frowned harder, tried to peer around and see his face. His jaw was set; the planes she could see resembled chiseled granite. She pulled back, dug in her heels. “Why? And anyway, you can’t simply drag me off like this, like some”—with her free hand, she gestured wildly— “prehistoric caveman.”

He halted, turned, met her gaze, then yanked, sending her tumbling into his chest—into his arms.

They locked around her; looking down, he met her wide eyes. “I can. I have.”

He kissed her; what he’d left unsaid echoed through her brain. And now I’m going to ravish you.

The kiss stated that clearly; it was a storming that left her senses reeling and her wits disengaged.

That cindered every possible protest she might have made.

Her lips parted beneath his, gave before the devastating onslaught. He took her mouth, filled it and her with a heat that was already molten; hot as lava, he sent it flowing down her veins. His hands firmed on her back, holding her so she was acutely aware of his strength, and her relative weakness, then he molded her to him, making no secret of his desire, or his intent.

She clung to him, kissed him back, suddenly wanting as much as he, aware to her curling toes that this—this—was what she needed. This was the right answer—the answer she’d always longed for—to her question. He wanted her, desired her beyond doubt. If only…

As if he sensed her need, her real, impossible-to-state wish, he broke from the kiss, bent, and swept her into his arms.

He strode the last steps to the back door, juggled her and opened it, then strode through. His heels rang on the tiles as he made for the front hall, then he swung around and climbed the main stairs two at a time.

Clinging to his shoulders, she waited to be set down, but he didn’t so much as pause. Glancing at his face, she found it set, his expression resolute and uncompromising. He paused before the door at the end of the corridor; with a quick twist of his wrist, he sent it swinging, and carried her through.

He heeled the door closed; the sharp snap as it shut echoed through the room.

It was a large, airy chamber; that was all she managed to gather as he swiftly carried her across it. To the large bed.

Again, she waited to be set down—again, he surprised her. Effortlessly, he raised her, and tossed her onto the coverlet.

She gasped—gasped again as he joined her, as his weight landing beside her made her bounce—and roll toward him. He helped her along, one large hand wrapping about her hip and pulling her flush against him. With his other hand he framed her face, held her still as his head came down and he covered her lips with his.

Fire. It poured from him into her, and ignited her starving senses. His lips moved on hers; he pressed her into the bed, and his tongue filled her mouth. No languor this time, just a burning, driving need that had her reaching for him, pulling him down to her, sinking her fingers into his shoulders, then spreading them, grasping his clothes, wanting—needing—to feel his body under her hungry hands.

He knew, understood. He drew back enough to shrug off his jacket; still trapped in the kiss, eyes closed, she searched and found the buttons of his waistcoat, frantically undid them. Then she pushed the halves wide and slid her hands over the fine linen of his shirt—over the hard ridged muscles beneath, up over the heavy planes of his chest.

Her touch—the heat of it, the flagrant greedy hunger of her fingers—distracted Michael. Eyes closed, sunk in savoring the wonders of her mouth, he paused…

She froze. Stopped. Suddenly hesitant.

He tore his mouth from hers. Groaned, “For God’s sake, don’t stop.” Then he plunged back into the rich honeyed pleasures of her mouth—and felt her hands attack him again.

Felt her need of him in a flagrantly animalistic way.

Then she found the hem of his shirt where it had come loose from his breeches, and slipped her hands—first one, then the other—beneath.

Touched him. Spread her greedy little fingers wide and tactilely devoured him. He could barely believe the heat, the intensity of the desire she sent raging through him with each evocative touch.

Each evocative claiming.

For it was that. He wasn’t sure she knew it, but he did. In the distant corner of his brain that still functioned, he knew, even as he groaned and urged her on, that he was surrendering—giving himself to her—that he would give whatever she needed to sate her.

Her hunger ran deep—deeper than he’d realized. He sensed it, sensed her response, her powerful yearning, through their kiss. They both held to the kiss avidly, their anchor, their most assured means of communication in a world suddenly full of heated longing that had reduced, drawn in to the limits of their tightly focused senses.

Riding the urgency of her unfurling desire, he mentally groaned and held his own back, let her take the first bite, at least enough to slake the edge from her appetite.

He managed to shrug out of his waistcoat; hands between them, he undid his cravat, then flung it away. Blindly groped, caught enough of his shirt to wrestle it up, then broke from the kiss to drag it off over his head.

She surged up, pressing him back to the bed; he dropped the shirt over the side, gasping, eyes closing the better to savor the feverish urgency of her touch, the way she spread her hands over his bare chest, fingers flexing, searching—as if he were hers and she was intent on possessing him.

He had no argument with her direction.

Opening his eyes, he studied her face, saw delight and something close to wonder in her expression. The sight made him ache. Then she lifted her gaze and her eyes met his. Molten silver, burning bright, then she veiled them, lowered her gaze to his lips.

He urged her more fully atop him; she obliged, then without further encouragement bent her head and set her lips to his.

He was waiting for her, waiting to draw her back deep into the kiss, to anchor her there, caught in the swirling, building heat of interlocking desires, while he set his fingers to her laces.

She drew back briefly to unwind her scarf, then sent it to join his shirt on the floor. His hand firming in the mass of her soft hair, he drew her back down, tongue thrusting boldly, finding and enticing hers, capturing her senses, holding her attention deep in the kiss as he skillfully eased her gown from her.

When he finally drew it free and it, too, hit the floor, he could no longer hold back his own need to touch her, to spread his hands over the lithe curves, to trace the sleek lines of her body with his palms. To fill his senses with her. To learn as she was intent on learning him, to possess as she was intent on possessing him.

She murmured through the kiss; he felt her breath hitch as he closed his hands over her breasts and kneaded. She responded by slanting her mouth over his and pressing deeper, flagrantly inviting. He met her, caught her nipples and squeezed, until her attention splintered and she gasped. Releasing her breasts, still holding her to their kiss, he boldly slid his hands down, proprietorially tracing her sides, her hips, to reach beneath the hem of her chemise and caress the globes of her bottom. He reveled in the dewed flush that sprang to his touch, at the urgency that rose and coursed through her.

She shifted upon him provocatively, quite deliberately teasing his aching erection. Not taunting, but with her sleek thighs exploring its contours, shifting hips and legs to sinuously stroke him.

He nearly broke, but caught his reins in time to remind himself they had hours. Even more than the two he’d promised himself. There was time to play, to savor. And there would be only one first time.

Spearing one hand into the glory of her hair, he anchored her head and kissed her. As ravenously as he—and she—wished, as blatantly, wantonly, primitively evocative as they both desired.

No rush.

He took his time savoring her mouth anew, feeding from her, stoking their passion as, with slow deliberation, he explored her body. Found each hollow and stroked, traced, searched for each point where her nerves fluttered, where any touch, however light, made her breath catch. High on the backs of her thighs—she was excruciatingly sensitive there. The undersides of her breasts, too. Inch by inch, he eased her chemise up, until finally he broke from the kiss and drew the fine garment over her head.

The instant it was free he let it fall where it would, caught her and rolled, pressing her back to the bed, leaning over her, hand splaying over her midriff, holding her down as he sank deeply into her mouth, then drew back.

And looked at the treasure he’d uncovered. Discovered.

At the feminine beauty of lithe limbs and svelte curves encased in ivory silk already delicately flushed with desire.

Wits barely engaged, breathless, Caro watched his face as he examined her body. Saw the austere planes tighten as with his hand he almost reverently sculpted her flesh. Her nerves tightened with an anticipation more delicious than she’d imagined. She felt on the brink of shivering, yet she wasn’t cold.

It was a glorious midsummer afternoon; the window was open—a balmy breeze wafted in to caress them. To add its gentle warmth to the heat already pulsing so hotly within her. And him.

He was burning. For her.

She raised a hand, gently traced the harsh, almost graven lines of his face. His gaze deflected for one moment to her eyes, then he turned his head and pressed a kiss to her palm. Desire glowed in his eyes, turning the soft blue more solid, more intense. It was passion that etched his face, that hardened its lines as he returned his attention to her body.

To drawing fire beneath her skin, with each increasingly intimate caress pulling her deeper into the vortex of her own hungry desire, tempting her need—a need only he had ever evoked. She watched his face, watched his concentration as he loved her, clung to that evidence of his commitment to their goal. The tension investing his large body, which had tightened his muscles to bands of steel, which she could feel through her fingers locked on his shoulder, likewise reassured. Then he bent and took one already ruched nipple into his mouth, and suckled. Deeply.

She moaned; sliding one hand to his head, clenching her fingers in his hair, she wordlessly lifted against him. Felt his rumble of approval as he shifted his attention to the other breast she so wantonly offered him, simultaneously soothing the first with clever fingers.

The path of his orchestrated worship was familar; she gave herself up to it, valiantly trying to mute her cries until he murmured, his tone gravelly and low, “Scream all you like. There’s no one to hear… except me.”

The last two words made it clear it pleased him to hear the sounds he drew from her. Just as well; she found it increasingly difficult to mute them, to spare enough wit and strength to do so.

All her attention, all her senses, were caught in the flames, in the pulsing conflagration he was so assiduously building within her.

But when he pressed her thighs wide and touched her, traced the slick folds already swollen and wet, sudden uncertainty gripped her. Opening her eyes, she reached for him, with one palm boldly found, and cupped him.

He froze, sucked in a sudden breath as if her touch were painful; she knew enough—had gathered enough—to know it wasn’t pain that closed his eyes, that locked his features.

Then he opened his eyes, looked at her.

She met his gaze, hazed and burning. Caressed him, through his breeches let her fingers trace, then close about his length. Eyes locked with his, she licked her lips, forced herself to find breath enough to say, “I want you. This time . .

He shuddered; his lids started to fall, but then he forced them up. Impaled her with a burning blue gaze. “Yes. Definitely. This time…”

She sensed rather than heard his inward curse, saw the fight he waged to try to regain his control—then his fingers wrapped hard about her wrist and he drew her hand from him. “Wait.”

He sat up and swung his legs off the bed. Coming up on one elbow, ready to protest if need be, she watched—relief and a surge of giddy anticipation flooded her when she heard the dull thud of one boot hitting the floor. The second followed; he glanced back at her as he worked the buttons of his waistband free, then he stood, stripped his breeches down, stepped out of them as he turned, kneeled, then fell back on the bed beside her.

Her heart leapt, swelled, ached. He was beautiful, fully aroused, elementally male. Her mouth was dry. She couldn’t drag her eyes from him, from the evidence that his desire for her hadn’t, yet, waned. She reached for him, traced lightly, trailing her fingers up the burning, baby-fine skin, then she closed her hand about his length, felt the weight of him fill her palm.

He groaned, the sound heartfelt. “Damn! You’re going to be the death of me.”

He caught her hand, lifted it from him, and rolled, coming over her, pressing her into the bed, nudging her thighs wide and settling between. Ground out as he shifted, “We’ll take it slowly next time.”

Caro’s lungs seized; her heart leapt to her throat. The time had finally come; her question hovered, about to be answered. Unequivocally.

Her senses locked, focusing on the soft flesh between her thighs, feeling it throb as he reached down between them, with his fingers stroked, then probed, then parted her folds.

The broad head of his erection touched her, pressed against her, then eased in a fraction.

She nearly cried out; hips lifting in wordless entreaty, she closed her eyes, bit her lip, willing him to enter her. Every particle of her being strained, held poised on an emotional edge higher than any she’d previously climbed, acutely aware of the drop below her, of the ocean of disappointment that waited to swallow her if he didn’t…

Spreading her hands over his back, she held him to her, pressed her hips nearer, urged him on.

Beneath her hands, the long planes of his back flexed. With one slow, powerful thrust, he joined them.

Eyes closed, savoring every inch of her scalding sheath as it stretched, took him in, and enclosed him, Michael noticed the tightness, then the constriction as he thrust through it; caught in her sensual web, he might not have understood if it hadn’t been for the pained gasp she tried unsuccessfully to smother, and the telltale tensing that gripped her, held her.

Stunned, dazed, opening his eyes he looked down at her, into her eyes, molten silver looking back at him. Understood in that moment all she’d hidden, all she’d never told, him or anyone else.

Finally understood the truth of her past, the true reality of her marriage.

She was waiting, breathless… tense, nervous… he suddenly understood what she was waiting for.

Slowly, deliberately, he withdrew a fraction, then reseated himself fully within her.

Saw her eyes flare—with wonder, with a joy so profound he felt his own heart turn over. But this was no time for words or explanations. Bending his head, he covered her lips with his, and spun them both into the fire.

Into the intimate dance they both craved.

He didn’t spare her, didn’t try to be gentle, realized that that, assuredly, was not what she wanted, more, was very definitely not what she needed. He sank into her body, drove deep, then withdrew until he was almost free of her clinging heat and her fingernails had sunk into his skin, desperately holding him to her, before thrusting into her again, slowly, inexorably, so she could feel every inch of his throbbing erection as he buried himself inside her once more.

She pulled back from the kiss. Her sobbing gasp, echoing with relief, with pure happiness, urged him on.

He took her mouth again, pulled her ruthlessly back to him, back into the kiss, let his weight pin her, then sent one hand sliding down, around over her hip to cup her bottom, gripping, anchoring her at just the right angle beneath him, then he settled to ride her, to let his body plunder hers as he and she both wished. Let the driving rhythm take over, binding their heated bodies in an orgy of elemental lust, driven by desire, by the passion that swirled about them, unleashed and almost tangible.

She met him, matched him; not at any moment did he doubt that she wanted this. Every bit as much as he did.

It might be her first time, yet she was no wilting virgin; quite the opposite. She was a quick study; as their tongues tangled and their bodies strove, within minutes she’d learned how to meet his thrusts, how to most effectively ride them, how to clasp him within her body and drive him wild… he dimly realized that for her, this was a long-sought-after release—a freeing of all she’d held within her, trapped inside, denied outlet for so long.

A catharsis of passion, of desire, of the simple need for the intimacy of human mating.

He gave her all she needed, took all he wanted in return, conscious she surrendered it—all he wished to take—gladly.

It was certainly not his first time—he’d had more women than he could truly remember, all of them experienced ladies if not outright courtesans—yet as he sank into her body, into her mouth, plundered and gloried in her open welcome, there was something new, something different in the act.

Perhaps it was the simplicity—they knew each other so well, so completely in so many other ways, understood each other so instinctively that knowing each other in this way, skin to skin, hands search-ing, gripping, mouth to greedy mouth, tongues tangling, gasping, loins to heated loins, plunging, driving… all seemed so natural.

Meant to be. Without any veils or masks to disguise it.

Power, fueled by their joint passion, welled up, spilled through them both and took them.

Captured them, swept them into a sea of whirling, greedy need that suddenly, abruptly, coalesed.

Their skin was alive, nerves tense and tight; their bodies fused, driven by primal urgency. She pulled back from the kiss, gasped, eyes closed as she struggled to breathe.

He pushed her faster, harder; she strained upward, and with a cry touched the sun. Clutched, held tight to him as she shattered, then melted, pulsing around him.

Her release called on his own; he followed her quickly, drove deeper, harder, emptying himself into her, with a long groan finally collapsing atop her, sated to his toes.