The Lady Chosen

Chapter Fifteen

Accomplishing that goal—making her peace with Tristan—arranging to do so, required a degree of ingenuity and bold-faced recklessness she’d never before had to employ. But she had no choice. She summoned Gasthorpe, boldly gave him orders, arranged to hire a carriage and be conveyed to the mews behind Green Street, the coachman to wait for her return.

All, of course, with the firm insistence that under no circumstances was his-lordship-the-earl to be informed. She’d discovered a ready intelligence in Gasthorpe; although she hadn’t liked subverting him from his loyalty to Tristan, when all was said and done, it was for Tristan’s own good.

When, in the darkness of late evening, she stood in the bushes at the end of Tristan’s garden and saw light shining from the windows of his study, she felt vindicated in every respect.

He hadn’t gone out to any ball or dinner. Given her absence from the ton, the fact that he, too, wasn’t attending the usual events would be generating intense speculation. Following the path through the bushes and farther to where it skirted the house, she wondered how immediate he would wish their wedding to be. For herself, having made her decision, she didn’t truly care…or, if she did, she would rather it was sooner than later.

Less time to anticipate how things would work out—much better to take the plunge and get straight on with it.

Her lips lifted. She suspected he would share that opinion, if not for quite the same reasons.

Pausing outside the study, she stood on tiptoe and peeked in; the floor was considerably higher than the ground. Tristan was seated at his desk, his back to her, his head bent as he worked. A pile of papers sat on his right; on his left, a ledger lay open.

She could see enough to be sure he was alone.

Indeed, as he turned to check an entry in the ledger and she glimpsed his face, he looked very much alone. A lone wolf who’d had to change his solitary ways and live among the ton, with title, houses, and dependents, and all the associated demands.

He’d given up his freedom, his exciting, dangerous, and lonely life, and picked up the reins that had been left to his care without complaint.

In return, he’d asked for little, either in excuse, or as reward.

The one thing he had asked of this new life was to have her as his wife. He’d offered her all she could hope for, given her all she could and would accept.

In return, she’d given him her body, but not what he’d wanted most. She hadn’t given him her trust. Or her heart.

Or rather, she had, but she’d never admitted it. Never told him.

She was there to rectify that omission.

Turning away, taking care to tread silently, she continued toward the morning room. She’d guessed he would stay in and work at estate matters, all the matters he’d no doubt been neglecting while concentrating on catching Mountford. The study was where she’d hoped he’d be; she’d seen both library and study, and it was the study that held the most definite impression of him, of being the room to which he would retreat. His lair.

She was glad to have been proved right; the library was in the other wing, across the front hall.

Reaching the French doors through which they’d entered on her previous visit, she placed herself squarely before them, braced her hands on the frame as he had—using both hands rather than just one—and pushed sharply.

The doors rattled, but remained closed.

“Damn!” She frowned at them, then stepped close and put her shoulder to the spot. She counted to three, then flung her weight against the doors.

They popped open; she only just saved herself from sprawling on the floor.

Regaining her balance, she whirled and closed the doors, then, catching her cloak about her, slunk silently into the room. She waited, breath bated, to see if anyone had been alerted; she didn’t think she’d made much noise.

No footsteps sounded; no one came. Her heartbeat gradually slowed.

Cautiously, she went forward. The last thing she wished was to be discovered breaking into this house in order to meet illicitly with its master; if she were caught, once they wed, she’d have to dismiss, or bribe, the entire staff. She didn’t want to have to face the choice.

She checked the front hall. As before, at this time of night there were no footmen hovering; Havers, the butler, would be belowstairs. Her way was clear; she slipped into the shadows of the corridor leading to the study with a prayer on her lips.

In thanks for what she’d thus far received, and with hope that her luck would hold.

Halting outside the study door, she faced the panels, and tried to imagine, in a last-minute rehearsal, how their conversation would go…but her mind stubbornly remained blank.

She had to get on with it, with her apology and her declaration. Drawing in a deep breath, she grasped the doorknob.

It jerked out of her grip; the door was flung wide.

She blinked, and found Tristan beside her. Towering over her.

He looked past her, down the corridor, then seized her hand and pulled her into the room. Lowering the pistol he held in his other hand, he released her and closed the door.

She stared at the pistol. “Good heavens!” She lifted stunned eyes to his face. “Would you have shot me?”

His eyes narrowed. “Not you. I didn’t know who…” His lips thinned. He turned away. “Creeping up on me is never wise.”

She opened her eyes wide. “I’ll remember that in future.”

He prowled to a sideboard and laid the pistol in the display case atop it. His gaze was dark as he glanced back at her, then returned to stand by the desk.

She remained where she’d halted, more or less in the middle of the room. It wasn’t a big room, and he was in it.

His gaze rose to her face. Hardened. “What are you doing here? No—wait!” He held up a hand. “First tell me how you got here.”

She’d expected that tack. Clasping her hands, she nodded. “You didn’t call—not that I’d expected it”—she had, but had realized her error—“so I had to call here. As we’ve previously discovered, me calling during the customary visiting hours is unlikely to provide us with much chance of private conversation, so…” She dragged in a huge breath and rushed on, “I summoned Gasthorpe, and hired a coach through him—I insisted he keep the matter strictly private, so you mustn’t hold that against him. The coach—”

She told him all, stressing that the coach with coachman and footman was waiting in the mews to take her home. When she came to the end of her recitation, he let a moment pass, then faintly raised his brows—the first change in his expression since she’d entered the room.

He shifted and leaned back against the edge of the desk. His gaze remained on her face. “Jeremy—where does he think you are?”

“He and Humphrey are quite sure I’m asleep. They’ve thrown themselves into making sense of Cedric’s journals; they’re engrossed.”

A subtle change rippled across his features, sharpening, hardening; she quickly added, “Despite that, Jeremy did make sure the locks were all changed, as you suggested.”

He held her gaze; a long moment passed, then he inclined his head fractionally, acknowledging she’d read his thoughts accurately. Dampening an urge to smile, she went on, “Regardless, I’ve been keeping Henrietta in my room at night, so she won’t wander…” And disturb her, worry her. She blinked, and continued, “So I had to take her with me when I left this evening—she’s with Biggs in the kitchen at Number 12.”

Tristan considered. Inwardly humphed. She’d covered all the necessary details; he could rest easy on that score. She was there, safe; she’d even arranged her safe return. He settled against the desk, crossed his arms. Let his gaze, fixed on her face, grow even more intent. “So why are you here?”

She met his gaze directly, steadily, perfectly calm. “I’ve come to apologize.”

He raised his brows; she went on, “I should have remembered about those first attacks, and told you of them, but what with all that’s happened more recently, they’d drifted to the back of my mind.” She studied his eyes, considering rather than searching; he realized she was assembling her words as she went—this was no rehearsed speech.

“Nevertheless, at the time the attacks occurred, we hadn’t met, and there was no other who considered me important in that vein, such that I would feel obliged to inform them. Warn them.”

She lifted her chin, still held his eyes. “I accept and concede that the situation has now changed, that I’m important to you, and that you therefore need to know….” She hesitated, frowned at him, then reluctantly amended, “Perhaps even have a right to know, of anything that constitutes a threat to me.”

Again she paused, as if reviewing her words, then straightened and nodded, her eyes refocusing on his. “So I apologize unequivocally for not telling you of those incidents, for not recognizing that I should.”

He blinked, slowly; he hadn’t expected an apology in such thorough and crystal-clear terms. His nerves started tingling; a nervous eagerness gripped him. He recognized his typical reaction to being on the brink of success. To having victory—complete and absolute—within his grasp.

Of being only one step away from seizing it.

“You agree that I have a right to know of any threat to you?”

She met his gaze, nodded decisively. “Yes.”

He considered for only a heartbeat, then asked, “Do I take it you agree to marry me?”

She didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

A tight knot of tension he’d carried for so long he’d become unaware of it unraveled and fell from him. The relief was immense. He drew in a huge breath, felt as if it was the first truly free breath he’d had in weeks.

But he wasn’t finished with her—hadn’t finished extracting promises from her—yet.

Straightening from the desk, he trapped her gaze. “You agree to be my wife, to act in all ways as my wife, and obey me in all things?”

This time she hesitated, frowned. “That’s three questions. Yes, yes, and in all things reasonable.”

He raised one brow. “‘In all things reasonable.’ It seems we need some definitions.” He closed the distance between them, halted directly before her. Looked into her eyes. “Do you agree that wherever you go, whatever you do, should any activity involve the smallest degree of danger to you, then you will inform me of it first, before you undertake it?”

Her lips compressed; her eyes were locked on his. “If possible, yes.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You’re quibbling.”

“You’re being unreasonable.”

“It’s unreasonable for a man to want to know his wife is safe at all times?”

“No. But it’s unreasonable to wrap her in some protective cocoon to achieve that.”

“That’s a matter of opinion.”

He growled the words sotto voce, but Leonora heard them. He shifted intimidatingly closer; her temper started to rise. She determinedly reined it in. She hadn’t come to war with him. He was far too used to conflict; she was determined to have none of it between them. She held his hard gaze, as definite as he. “I’m perfectly willing to do everything possible—everything within reason—to accommodate your protective tendencies.”

She invested the words with every ounce of her determination, her commitment. He heard it ring; she saw understanding—and acceptance—flow behind his eyes.

They sharpened until his gaze was crystalline hazel, intent on her. “If that’s the best offer you’re prepared to make…?”

“It is.”

“Then I accept.” His gaze dropped to her lips. “Now…I want to know to what lengths you’re prepared to go to accommodate my other tendencies.”

It was as if he’d lowered a shield, abruptly dropped a barrier between them. A wave of sexual heat washed over her; she suddenly remembered he was a wounded wolf—a wild wounded wolf—and she’d yet to appease him. At least on that level. Logically, rationally—in words—she’d made amends, and he’d accepted. But that wasn’t the only plane on which they interacted.

Her breath slowly strangled. “What other tendencies?” She got the words out before her voice grew too weak—anything to gain a few more seconds…

His gaze drifted lower; her breasts swelled, ached. Then he raised his lids, looked into her face. “Those tendencies you’ve been running from, trying to avoid, but nevertheless enjoying for the past several weeks.”

He shifted closer; his coat brushed her bodice, his thigh touched hers.

Her heart thudded in her throat; desire spread like wild-fire beneath her skin. She looked into his face, at his thin, mobile lips, felt her own throb. Then she lifted her gaze to his mesmeric hazel eyes—and the truth broke over her. In all that had passed between them, all they’d shared to date, he hadn’t yet shown her, revealed to her, all.

Revealed, let her see, the depths, the true breadth of his possessiveness. Of his passion, his desire to possess her.

He reached for the ties of her cloak, with one tug had them free; the garment slid to the floor, pooling behind her. She’d worn a simple, deep blue evening gown; she watched his gaze roam her shoulders, frankly possessive, frankly hungry, then once more he met her gaze. Raised one brow. “So…what will you give me? How much will you yield?”

His eyes were locked with hers; she knew what he wanted.

All.

No reservations, no restrictions.

Knew in her heart, knew by the leaping of her senses that in that they were matched, that regardless of any ideas to the contrary, she was and would always be incapable of denying him exactly what he wanted.

Because she wanted it, too.

Despite his aggressiveness, despite the dark desire that smoldered in his eyes, there was nothing here for her to fear.

Only enjoy.

While she finished paying his price.

She moistened her lips, glanced at his. “What do you want me to say?” Her voice was low, her tone unashamedly sultry. Meeting his eyes, she arched a haughty brow. “Take me, I’m yours?”

A spark to tinder; the flames flared in his eyes. Crackled between them.

“That”—he reached for her; hands spanning her waist, he drew her uncompromisingly flush against him—“will do nicely.”

Bending his head, he set his lips to hers, and whirled them straight into the fire.

She parted her lips to him, welcomed him in, gloried in the heat he sent pouring through her veins.

Gloried in his possession of her mouth, slow, thorough, powerful, a warning of all that was to come.

Lifting her arms, she wound them about his neck, and abandoned herself to her fate.

He seemed to know, to sense her total and complete surrender—to him, to this, to the heated moment.

To the passion and desire that spilled through them.

He raised his hands and framed her face, anchored her as he deepened the kiss. Melding their mouths until they breathed as one, until the same pounding rhythm had laid siege in their veins.

With a low murmur, she pressed to him, wantonly inciting. His hands left her face, drifted down, curving about her shoulders, then boldly tracing her breasts. He closed his fingers, and the flames leapt. She shuddered, and urged him on. Kissed him as hungrily, as demanding as he was. He obliged, his fingers finding the tight peaks of her nipples and squeezing slowly, excruciatingly, tight.

She broke from the kiss on a gasp. His hands didn’t stop; they were everywhere, kneading, stroking, caressing. Possessing.

Heating her. Setting fires beneath her skin, making her pulse rage.

“This time, I want you naked.”

She could barely make out the words.

“With not a stitch to hide behind.”

She couldn’t imagine what he thought she might hide. Didn’t care. When he turned her and set his fingers to her laces, she waited only until she felt the bodice loosen to slip the gown from her shoulders. She went to slide her arms from the tiny sleeves—

“No. Wait.”

A command she was in no position to disobey; her wits were whirling, her senses in eager tumult, anticipation building with every breath, with every possessive touch. But he wasn’t touching her now. Lifting her head, she drew in a shaky, broken breath.

“Turn around.”

She did, just as the level of light in the small room increased. Two heavy lamps sat on either end of the huge desk. He’d turned the wicks high; as she faced him he settled, sitting propped against the front edge of the desk midway between the lamps.

He met her gaze, then his lowered. To her breasts, still concealed behind the gauzy shimmer of her silk chemise.

He raised a hand, beckoned. “Come here.”

She did, through the tumbling cascade of her thoughts recalled that despite the fact they’d been intimate on numerous occasions, he’d never seen her naked in any degree of light.

One glance at his face confirmed that he intended to see all tonight.

His hand slid about her hip; he drew her to stand before him, between his legs. Took her hands, one in each of his, and laid them, palms flat, on his thighs. “Don’t move them until I tell you.”

Her mouth was dry; she didn’t answer. Just watched his face as he slid the sleeves of her bodice farther down her arms, then reached—not for the ties of her chemise as she’d expected—but for the silk-screened mounds of her breasts.

What followed was a delicious torment. He traced, fondled, weighed, kneaded—all the time watching her, gauging her reactions. Under his practiced ministrations, her breasts swelled, grew heavy and tight. Until they ached. The fine film of silk was just enough to taunt, to tease, to have her gasping with need—the need to have his hands on her.

Skin to burning skin.

“Please…” The plea fell from her lips as she looked up at the ceiling, trying to cling to sanity.

His hands left her; she waited, then felt his fingers close about her wrists. He lifted her hands as she lowered her head and looked at him.

His eyes were dark pools lit by golden flames. “Show me.”

He guided her hands to the ribbon ties.

Her gaze merged with his, she gripped the ends of the ribbons, and tugged, then, totally enthralled by what she could see in his face, the naked passion, the driving need, she slowly peeled the fine fabric down, exposing her breasts to the light.

And to him. His gaze felt like flame, licking, heating. Without looking up, he caught her hands and drew them back to his thighs. “Leave them there.”

Releasing her hands, he raised his to her breasts.

The real torture began. He seemed to know just how much she could take, then he bent his head, soothed an aching nipple with his tongue, then took it into his mouth.

Feasted.

Until she cried out. Until her fingertips clung to the iron muscles of his thighs. He suckled, and her knees quaked. He locked one arm beneath her hips and supported her, held her steady while he did as he wished, imprinted himself on her skin, on her nerves, on her senses.

She cracked open her lids; panting, glanced down. Watched and felt his dark head move against her as he pandered to his desires—and hers.

With each touch of his lips, each swirl of his tongue, each dragging nerve-tingling suction, he ruthlessly, relentlessly stoked the fire within her.

Until she burned. Until, incandescent and empty, she felt like a glowing void, one she yearned for, ached for, desperately needed him to fill. To complete.

She lifted her hands, with a wriggle slid her arms free of her sleeves, then reached for him, traced his jaw with her palms, felt them work as he suckled. She slid her fingers back into his hair; reluctantly, he eased back, released her soft flesh.

Looked into her face, met her eyes, then he set her on her feet. His large palms stroked up, tracing the heated swollen curves, then stroked down, over her waist, possessively following her contours, pushing her gown and chemise down, over the swell of her hips, until with a soft whoosh they fell, puddling about her feet.

His gaze had followed the fabric to her knees. He studied them, then slowly, deliberately, lifted his gaze, past her thighs, lingering on the dark curls at their apex before moving slowly on, upward, over the gentle swell of her stomach, over her navel, her waist, to her breasts, eventually to her face, her lips, her eyes. A long comprehensive survey, one that left her in no doubt that he considered all he saw, all she was, to be his.

She shivered, not with cold but with burgeoning need. She reached for his cravat.

He caught her hands. “No. Not tonight.”

Despite the grip of desire, she managed a faint frown. “I want to see you, too.”

“You’ll see enough of me over the years.” He stood; still holding her hands, he stepped to the side. “Tonight…I want you. Naked. Mine.” He trapped her gaze. “On this desk.”

The desk? She looked at it.

He released her hands, locked his about her waist and lifted her, placed her sitting on the front of the desk where he’d been leaning.

The sensation of polished mahogany beneath her bare bottom temporarily distracted her.

Tristan gripped her knees, spread them wide and stepped between. Caught her face in his hands as she looked up, surprised—and kissed her.

Let his reins slide, simply let go, let desire rage and pour through him, and her. Their mouths melded, tongues tangled. Her hands framed his jaw as his drifted lower, needing to find her soft flesh again, needing to feel her urgency, her flaring response to his touch—all the evidence that she truly was his.

Her body was liquid silk under his hands, passion hot and urgent. He gripped her hips and leaned into her, gradually eased her back, at the last pressing her down to lie across his great-uncle’s desk.

He drew back from the kiss, half straightened, seized the moment to look down on her, lying naked, heated, and panting, across the gleaming mahogany. The wood was no richer than her hair, still anchored in a knot atop her head.

He thought of that as he set a hand to one bare knee and slowly slid it upward, tracing the firm muscle of her thigh as he leaned down to her and took her mouth again.

Filled it, claimed like a conqueror, then set up a rhythm of thrust and retreat she and her body knew well. She was with him in thought and deed, in desire and urgency. She shifted beneath his hands; locking one about her hip, anchoring her, he trailed the fingers of the other from the spot between her breasts down over her waist, over her stomach to tantalizingly caress the damp curls covering her mons.

She gasped through their kiss. He broke from it, drew back enough to catch her eyes, gleaming an intense violet blue beneath her lashes. “Let down your hair.”

Leonora blinked, acutely conscious of his fingertips idly stroking through her curls. Not quite touching her aching flesh. It throbbed; all of her pulsed with longing. With a sensual need impossible to deny.

She lifted her arms, eyes locked with his, and slowly reached for the pins holding her long locks. As she grasped the first, he touched her, set one blunt fingertip to her.

Her body tensed, lightly bowed; she closed her eyes, gripped the pin, and pulled it loose. Sensed his satisfaction in his touch, in his slow, teasing caress. Cracking open her lids, she watched him watching her; fingers searching, she found another pin.

Had to close her eyes again as she pulled it free—and he made free with her body. Touched, stroked.

Then delicately probed.

Just a gentle pressure at the entrance to her body.

Enough to tantalize, not enough to slake.

Eyes closed, she pulled another pin; one large finger glided in a fraction farther.

She was swollen, throbbing, wet. Dragging in a breath, with both hands she searched, pulled, let the pins fall in a rain on the desk.

By the time her hair tumbled loose, he’d buried his fingers in her sheath, penetrating, stroking, stoking. She was gasping for breath, her nerves alive, her body writhing against his hold. Her long hair spread about her shoulders, across the desk. She looked up at him, and saw his gaze drifting over her, taking in her abandonment; stark possession stamped his features.

He caught her gaze, studied her, then leaned down, and kissed her. Took her mouth, captured her senses in a drugging kiss. Then his lips left hers; he nudged her jaw higher, dipped his head to trail hot, openmouthed kisses down the taut line of her throat, down over the swell of her breasts. He lingered there, licking, laving, suckling, but lightly, then his hair brushed the soft undersides as he followed the line of her body lower. She was struggling for breath, far past wanton abandon; feelings, sensations, poured irresistibly through her, filling her, sweeping her on.

Her hands had come to rest on his shoulders; he was still clad in his coat. The tactile reminder emphasized her vulnerability; he had her completely naked, writhing before him, displayed on his desk like a houri…she gasped as his lips cruised over her stomach.

He didn’t stop.

“Tristan…Tristan!”

He paid no heed; she had to swallow her screams as he pressed her thighs wider and sank between. Settled to feast as he had once before, but that time she hadn’t been naked, exposed. So vulnerable.

She closed her eyes. Tight. Tried to hold back the welling tide…

It rose inexorably, lick by lick, subtle flick by flick, until it caught her. Gripped her.

She fractured.

Her body arched.

Her senses shattered. The world disappeared into shards of bright light, into a pulsing radiance that surrounded her, sank into her, through her. Left her bones melted, her muscles limp, left a deep well of heat within her, still empty.

Incomplete.

She was giddy, all but incapable, but she forced her lids up. Glanced at him as he straightened.

His large frame thrummed with restrained aggression, with a finely tuned, powerful tension. His hands gripping her naked thighs, he stood looking down at her, hazel eyes burning as they roamed her body.

What she saw in his face made her lungs seize, her heart hitch, then beat more strongly.

Naked desire etched his features, harshly delineated every line of his face.

Yet there was an aloneness there, too, a vulnerability, a hope.

She saw it, understood it.

Then his eyes met hers. For an instant, time stood still, then she lifted her arms, weak though they were, and beckoned him to her.

He stirred. His eyes locked on hers, he shrugged out of his coat, stripped off his cravat, opened his shirt, baring the muscled contours of his chest, lightly dusted with dark hair. Recollected sensation, of feeling that hair rasp against her sensitized skin as he moved within her, had her breasts swelling to aching fullness, her nipples puckering tight. He saw. Reached for his waistband. Flicked the buttons undone, freed his erection.

He glanced down only briefly, fitting himself to her, then he nudged in, just a fraction.

And looked up. Caught her gaze again, then leaned down, bracing his hands on the table on either side of her head, flicking his fingers through her hair. He leaned closer, brushed her lips.

Eyes locking on hers once more, he pressed into her.

She rose beneath him. Their breaths mingled as she arched, adjusted, took him in. At the last, he thrust deep and filled her. Her breath fell from her lips; she closed her eyes, luxuriating in the feel of him buried inside her. Then she lifted one hand, speared her fingers into his hair, drew his head to hers, and set her lips to his. Opened her mouth to him, invited him in.

Flagrantly invited him to plunder.

And he did.

Each powerful stroke lifted her, shifted her.

They broke from the kiss. Without waiting for instructions, she raised her legs and wrapped them about his hips. Heard him groan, saw blankness sweep his face as he took advantage and sank deeper, thrust harder, farther. Sheathed himself in her.

He closed one hand about her hip, anchoring her against his repetitive invasions. As the tempo mounted, he leaned down to her again, let his lips brush hers, then plunged into her mouth as his body plunged wildly into hers.

As all restraint broke and he gave himself to her.

As she had already given herself, body and soul, mind and heart, to him.

She let go, truly let herself free, let him take her with him as he wished.

Even locked in the throes of an impossibly powerful passion, Tristan sensed her decision, her total surrender to the moment—her surrender to him. She was with him, not just locked together physically but in some other place, in some other way, on some other plane.

He’d never reached that mystical place with any other woman; he’d never dreamed such a soul-searing experience would ever be his. Yet she took him in, rode his every thrust, wrapped him in the heat of her body—and joyously, with true abandonment, gave him all he could wish for, all he had yearned for.

Unconditional surrender.

She had said she would be his. Now she was. Forever.

He needed no further reassurance, no evidence beyond the tight clasp of her body, the supple writhing of her naked curves beneath him.

But he’d always wanted more, and she’d given without him asking.

Not just her body, but this—an unfettered commitment to him, to her, to what lay between them.

It rose up in a tide, impossible to control. It rolled over them both, crashed, swirled, made them gasp, cling. Fight for air. Fight for their hold on life, then lose it as brilliance swamped them, as their bodies clutched, clung, shuddered.

He spilled his seed deep within her, held tight, immobile, as ecstasy drenched them.

Filled them, sank deep, then slowly ebbed and faded.

He let go, felt his muscles relax, let her hold him, cradle him, his forehead bowed to hers.

Wrapped together, lips brushing, together they surrendered to their fate.

She stayed for hours. Few words were spoken. There was no need between them to explain; neither needed nor wanted inadequate words to intrude.

He’d restoked the fire. Slumped in an armchair before it with her curled in his lap, still naked, with her cloak thrown over her to keep her warm, his arms beneath it, his hands on her bare skin, her hair like wild silk clinging to them both…he would have happily remained so forever.

He glanced down at her. The firelight gilded her face. It had earlier gilded her body when she’d stood unabashed before the flames and let him examine each curve, each line. This time, he’d left her largely unmarked; only the imprints of his fingers at her hip where he’d anchored her were visible.

Leonora looked up, caught his eye, smiled, then laid her head back on his shoulder. Under her palm, spread across his bare chest, his heart beat steadily. The beat echoed in her blood. Throughout her body.

Closeness wrapped them about, linked them in a way she couldn’t define, certainly hadn’t expected.

He hadn’t either, yet they’d both accepted it.

Once accepted, it couldn’t be denied.

It had to be love, but who was she to say? All she knew was that for her it was immutable. Unchanging, fixed, and forever.

Whatever the future held—marriage, family, dependents, and all—she would have that, that strength, to call on.

It felt right. More right than she’d imagined anything could feel.

She was where she belonged. In his arms. With love between them.