Beyond Seduction

Chapter 14

“I cannot tell you, my lord, how pleased I am to see you back in the district, in your rightful place.” Lady Felgate fixed her protuberant eyes on Gervase as he made his bow to her. “Absentee earls-indeed, gallivanting senior noblemen of any sort-are to be deplored. It is not what the country needs.”

Straightening, Gervase knew better than to argue. “Indeed. I plan to remain at the castle for the foreseeable future.”

Lady Felgate brightened. “Excellent! We must see what we can do about finding you a local gel to take to wife.” Her ladyship waved at her ballroom. “Plenty here-go and look.”

Gervase promptly complied, at least as far as following Sybil into her ladyship’s ballroom. His looking, however, consisted of scanning the heads, searching for a bright one taller than most. Not finding her, he inwardly sighed and consigned himself to escorting Sybil to a nearby chaise, then attempting to cling to his own company until Madeline arrived.

Lady Felgate was a character, one of those ancient beldames whose eccentricities everyone put up with simply because doing so was easier than resisting. The ball she held every summer at Felgate Priory was a local institution, one everyone attended-again because it was easier than attempting to avoid it.

That did, however, mean that everyone-literally every lady and gentleman in the district older than eighteen-would appear in her ladyship’s ballroom that night.

“Thank you, dear.” Sybil drew her hand from his arm and sank onto a chaise by one wall. She glanced around. “I can’t see Muriel or Madeline, can you?”

“No, but they’ll be here soon, no doubt.”

“If you see them, do direct Muriel this way.”

With a nod, Gervase moved away, inclining his head to Mrs. Entwhistle as she bustled up to speak with Sybil.

In some respects, the crowd was a boon; there were sufficient tall gentlemen present to give him cover. Gervase kept moving, slowly tacking through the crowd, acknowledging greetings, exchanging the usual pleasantries, yet maintaining the fiction that he was on his way to join someone. That, he’d long ago learned, was the best way to wait for someone in an arena such as this; he always had a reason to move on.

Smiling, nodding, even chatting, required little mental effort to sustain, leaving the better part of his mind wrestling with a subject he rarely addressed-his feelings. On the one hand he felt buoyed and encouraged by Madeline’s bold actions of the previous night, even more by her admission that she’d wanted to make love with him as her most special birthday treat. Contrarily, an odd uneasiness rippled beneath his usual confidence, undermining it in a way he neither liked nor understood.

The source of that uneasiness was that unsettling power that had grown between them, that he’d sensed and known was there from the first, but that he’d tolerated, allowed to be, accepted on the grounds that anything that drew her to him, that held the promise of tying her to him, was in his best interests.

He still felt it was-knew it was-that it wasn’t something he wished to lose, at least in the sense of it linking them, and tying her to him.

What he wasn’t so sure about-what was making him increasingly edgy-was the way it now tied him to her.

“My lord!” Just ahead, Mrs. Juliard waved to him.

He paused by her side, greeting her-and a young lady he learned was her niece.

“Harriet’s come to spend some time with us. I was just telling her what a pity it was that she missed the festival at the castle. She was quite intrigued to hear about the cannons.”

Gervase smiled into Miss Juliard’s youthful countenance-and wondered how on earth any sane person could imagine, as Mrs. Juliard clearly hoped, that his interest might fix on such a young, naïve lady.

But he liked the Juliards, so he made the appropriate noises; he was preparing to part from them, to utter a polite lie, when he suddenly knew-simply knew-that Madeline had arrived. Lifting his head, he looked across the room-straight at her where she’d paused just inside the main doors.

She looked delicious in apple-green silk, with both her brothers’ gifts on display-and his gifts, too, in her hair, and dangling from her wrist.

Turning back to the Juliards, he smiled; he had no more need for lies. “If you’ll excuse me, ladies, there’s someone I must speak with.”

They parted with smiles and nods; Mrs. Juliard hadn’t truly harbored any high hopes.

He had to cross the better part of the ballroom to reach Madeline; within a few feet he was reining in his impatience-he couldn’t actually push through the crowd. It took a good ten minutes to cover the distance without drawing attention to his fell intent…and when he neared her, he discovered someone else-several someone elses-had reached her before him.

Slowing, then halting, he inwardly swore.

She was surrounded by a coterie of Lady Hardesty’s guests. The sight made him pause-to reconnoiter before he rushed in. Courtland was there, by Madeline’s elbow, the cad, along with four other tonnish gentlemen. He wouldn’t have trusted any of them with his sisters.

He certainly didn’t trust them with Madeline but…even from ten feet away he sensed she was holding her own. Her Valkyrie shield was fully deployed. However, the fact that, despite there being five outwardly attractive ladies, friends of Lady Hardesty, in the party, all five gentlemen, including the handsome man on whose arm Lady Hardesty herself leaned, had their predatory gazes firmly fixed on Madeline told Gervase all he needed to know.

Lady Hardesty and her friends were no longer especially desirable prey, at least not to those five gentlemen. That was why all five were looking at Madeline as if she were a lamb. A frolicking, innocent, delectable lamb.

Resuming his stroll forward, he made for her side. He kept his gaze on her face. As he’d hoped, she sensed his presence before the others did, glanced his way, then stepped back, creating space for him by her side.

Space he smoothly filled. “Madeline, my dear.” With a confident smile, he took the hand she offered and bowed, inwardly gloating at the smile she’d turned on him; it still held a vestige of social veneer, but no one with the slightest experience could, on seeing it, doubt that he and she were lovers.

“Gervase.” She, too, used his given name, made it soft and private. “I wondered where you were.”

Straightening, he met her eyes, read in them that she’d reached much the same conclusion he had and was eager to make clear to the five other gentlemen that she had no interest whatever in them.

He squeezed her fingers, then laid her hand on his sleeve, covering it with his-and only then looked at the others, letting his gaze travel the circle of faces to come to rest on Lady Hardesty.

“Lord Crowhurst. How delightful!”

He very nearly blinked. Lady Hardesty had clearly missed his and Madeline’s blatant message.

With a smile that promised lascivious delight, Lady Hardesty offered her hand. “Well met, my lord.”

Reluctantly lifting his hand from Madeline’s, he grasped her ladyship’s fingers, half bowed, and released her. “Lady Hardesty. Ladies.” He nodded, distantly aloof, to the other females.

Smiling, Lady Hardesty introduced him to the two he hadn’t previously met.

One, a Mrs. Hardingale, a patently dashing matron, fixed him with an arch look. “Tell me, my lord-is this truly the most major ball in the area?” She glanced around, then brought her gaze, eyes laughing, back to his face, clearly inviting him to denigrate the company of his neighbors.

He regarded her impassively. “I believe it is one of the more major events, certainly a long-established one.” He paused, then added, “It’s usually a very pleasant affair.”

Madeline lightly gripped Gervase’s arm, whether in support or warning she wasn’t sure, but she needn’t have bothered; Mrs. Hardingale simply looked nonplussed, unsure whether the comment had been a jibe and if so, whether she should take umbrage.

Two of the other ladies tittered-actually tittered. Madeline managed not to stare.

Lady Hardesty moved forward; releasing the arm of the gentleman beside her, she crossed the circle to place a hand on Gervase’s other arm. “My lord.” She looked up into his face, ignoring Madeline entirely. “I’m especially glad to see you. I’ve been wanting to have a word with you.” Her voice was low, sultry; her brows arched lightly. “If I may?”

Say no. Madeline subdued her glare with an effort, held down the unexpected and alarmingly violent reaction that erupted from somewhere within her. Gervase shifted, drawing her if anything closer-a blatant attempt to make Lady Hardesty notice that she was on his arm.

Lady Hardesty did notice, but she merely glanced at Madeline, smiled lightly, then turned back to Gervase-as if Madeline had been an animated potted palm. A horse would have warranted more attention. Madeline’s temper, a force of nature rarely engaged, started to spiral. Upward.

“I was wondering, my lord”-Lady Hardesty edged closer, looking down, hoping to make Gervase lean toward her to hear her words-“whether I could prevail upon you to give me a few minutes of your time…in private?”

Lady Hardesty looked up-combined with her nearness, endeavoring to trap Gervase with her dark eyes.

Madeline could barely believe the woman’s hide. She glanced at Gervase-what she saw eased her temper, allowed her to press it back.

He was looking down his nose at her ladyship-from a very distant, exceedingly superior height. “I fear not. Miss Gascoigne has promised me the first waltz, which I believe will be commencing soon.”

As set-downs went, that was as direct as a gentleman could acceptably be.

But Lady Hardesty merely smiled-at Gervase, then, again with a mild, oblivious air, at Madeline. “I’m sure one of these gentlemen would be only too happy to take your place, my lord.” She brought her fine eyes to bear once again on Gervase’s face. “I greatly fear that my need for your company far exceeds Miss Gascoigne’s.”

No one could willingly be so obtuse, and Lady Hardesty was no fool, not socially. Madeline suddenly understood; for the first time in over a decade, she blushed. Lady Hardesty and her friends-as a quick glance at both the gentlemen and the other ladies confirmed-saw her as too tall, too countrified, too old, too much a spinster left on the shelf to ever have any real chance with Gervase.

They thought he was merely being polite to a neighbor, that his attentions to her were inspired by protective friendship, nothing more…for what more could a gentleman of his ilk feel for a lady like her?

The realization was a slap, one she absorbed, but…her temper roared to full life and snapped its leash.

But she-it-got no chance to act, to react.

Gervase spoke. Coldly, collectedly, his diction so precise each quiet word cut like a saber. “I fear I failed to make myself clear. Miss Gascoigne promised me the first waltz because I not just asked, but made a heartfelt plea for the honor.” Locked on Lady Hardesty’s face, his eyes had turned agate-hard, his gaze chilly. “And there is nothing-I repeat, nothing -on this earth that would persuade me to forgo that pleasure.”

He paused; despite the babel surrounding them, not a single sound seemed to penetrate the now-silent circle. No one shifted; Madeline suspected most were holding their breath.

“I trust,” Gervase finally said when the silence had grown taut, “that you now understand?”

Lady Hardesty had paled; frozen beside him, a tiger with teeth she’d presumed to tease, she didn’t know what to say.

Gervase shifted, removing his arm from under her hand, then he curtly nodded-a clear dismissal-and turned to Madeline. “Come, my dear.” As if he’d snapped his fingers, the opening bars of the first waltz floated over the heads. He smiled, intently. “I believe we have a waltz to enjoy.”

She returned his smile with perfect grace, nodded regally to the now-silent ladies and gentlemen, then allowed him to lead her away.

He took her straight to the dance floor, and swept her into the dance.

For long minutes, she let herself flow with the music, let the sweeping revolutions soothe her, let her temper-satisfied and all but purring-settle once more.

They were processing back up the long room when she sighed with pleasure, and focused on his face. “Thank you for rescuing me.” She knew that was why he’d joined Lady Hardesty’s circle. She studied his eyes, his still-stony expression. “I’m only sorry doing so forced you to make such an extravagant comment.”

He blinked; his features eased. Openly puzzled, he arched a brow at her.

She smiled. “About your heartfelt plea for the honor of waltzing with me, and of nothing on earth being enough to make you forgo the pleasure.”

He frowned at her. After a moment during which he searched her eyes, he asked, “What in all that did you find ‘extravagant’?”

She sent him a wry but smiling look. “You know perfectly well that you’re the only partner I’ll willingly waltz with. If you ask me to waltz, I’m not going to refuse-no ‘heartfelt plea’ likely ever to be required.”

“Good.” He drew her closer, spinning them effortlessly through a tight turn. “However,” he continued, as they fell into the long revolutions once more, “should you ever refuse, I would indeed plead, even go down on my knees, to secure your hand for a waltz.” He met her eyes. “I like waltzing with you.” After a moment, he added, “I appreciate waltzing with you. I adore waltzing with you-and not even that is stating it too highly.”

She looked into his eyes, and pleasure, warm and seductive, filled her. She smiled. “I like waltzing with you, too.”

“I know. And I like that, too.” He had to look up to steer them through the other whirling couples. When he looked down again he trapped her eyes. “So you see, there wasn’t anything the least extravagant in what I said. It was the truth as I know it.”

He was utterly serious; Madeline felt her heart stutter, felt the glow within spread. But…

“They’re from London, and rather maliciously inclined. You’ll be returning there in autumn to look for your bride-they could-”

“You needn’t concern yourself with that.” The sudden edge in his voice, almost a snap, was a reminder that that subject-his bride-was not one any gentleman would discuss with his…lover.

Despite the sudden lurch of her heart, she kept her expression mild and inclined her head. “Very well.”

She looked over his shoulder, and tried to recapture the magic of the waltz, but even though she was revolving in his arms, the soothing pleasure now eluded her.

Her mention of his bride had doused it. Had created a gulf between them, one that remained for the rest of the evening even though he stayed by her side throughout. They chatted with their neighbors and others from the district, outwardly so assured that no one would have guessed that inside, they were both mentally elsewhere, both thinking.

About the same thing.

They didn’t speak or even allude to it again, but when the ball was drawing to a close, and ahead of the rush Gervase escorted her and Muriel to their carriage, after helping Muriel up, he turned to her. Her hand in his, he studied her face, her shadowed eyes, then bent his head and whispered, “Come to the boathouse. Meet me there tonight.”

He straightened and looked at her-waited for her response.

She nodded. “Yes. All right.”

Relief seemed to wash through him, but it was so faint, so fleeting, she couldn’t convince herself she’d truly seen it.

He helped her into the carriage, then shut the door and stood back. He raised a hand as it rocked forward.

She stared out of the window-stared at him as long as she could-then, with a sigh, she sat back. Closed her eyes. And started to plan how she would get to the boathouse.

On the terrace flanking Felgate Priory’s ballroom, Lady Hardesty strolled on the arm of her occasional lover-who had finally deigned to be seen socially with her. She’d noticed him in the crowd, chatting amiably with numerous locals, from which she’d deduced that his tale of an elderly relative might just be true. He had to be staying with some recognized family in the district to have received one of Lady Felgate’s summonses.

He’d stopped by her side earlier, cutting her out so they’d been alone amid the throng, but only to give her his latest instructions. Although she knew why she obeyed him, the necessity still irked. Unfortunately, he wasn’t the slightest bit susceptible to her wiles. Even more unfortunately, that was part of his allure.

“So what did you learn?” he demanded, the instant they were sufficiently distant from the other couples taking the air. The night was unusually hot; the suggestion of a storm hung in the air.

She sighed. “I had to send Gertrude to ask-she wasn’t with us earlier, when Crowhurst was so vicious. Whoever would have imagined he’d defend Miss Gascoigne so fiercely? Amazing though it seems, he must be bedding her-it’s the only possibility that makes sense.”

“I don’t care about Crowhurst or which woman he elects to tumble. I want to know about that brooch.”

Menace and violence ran beneath the precisely enunciated words. His fingers bit into her arm. She spoke quickly, “Indeed, and for that you have both me and Gertrude to thank. She had to hide the fact she was one of us and pretend she was some lady visiting the district-she did an excellent job following my directions.”

“And?”

“Miss Gascoigne said she received the brooch for her birthday.”

“From whom?”

“Her brothers. And yes, Gertrude asked-according to Miss Gascoigne they bought it from one of the traveling traders at the festival.” She paused, glanced at his face. “You must have missed it when you looked.”

His eyes had narrowed. “I didn’t miss it.”

He sounded beyond certain. She frowned. Eventually she ventured, “So the boys lied?”

“Oh, yes. They lied-a perfectly believable lie in the circumstances. And the only reason they would lie is…”

She waited. When his gaze remained distant, locked on the dark gardens, and he said nothing more, she prompted, “What? Why did they lie?”

His lips curled in a snarl. “Because the buggers have found my treasure, and they don’t want anyone else-even their sister-to know.”

Madeline left her room half an hour after returning to it. She’d let Ada help her remove her new hair ornament and gown, then had sent the sleepy maid to her bed.

Ignoring her own, she’d dressed in her riding skirt and drawers, opting in the circumstances to dispense with her trousers; who, after all, would see? Aside from all else, the night was unusually warm, heat lying like a blanket over the land, still and unmoving. Slipping through the dark house, silent as a ghost, she made her way to the side door, let herself out, then headed for the stables.

Artur was happy to see her, and even happier when she placed the saddle on his back. A ride, be it by moonlight or sunlight, was all the same to the big chestnut. Any opportunity to stretch his powerful legs was his idea of Heaven.

He carried her swiftly along the cliff path. The castle loomed on the horizon before her, the battlements and towers silhouetted against the starry sky. There was little moon but the sky was clear; the radiance of the stars washed silver over the fields, over the waves, and glowed brightly phosphorescent in the surf gently rolling in to bathe the sands below.

Madeline saw the beauty, absorbed it, but tonight it failed to distract her from her thoughts. The same thoughts that had haunted her since that moment on the Priory’s dance floor.

The unexpected, unprecedented clash with Lady Hardesty and her guests had forced to the forefront of her mind a number of facts she’d been ignoring. She wasn’t a glamorous London lady, the sort the ton would see as a suitable consort for Gervase; it had been easy to ignore that point and its ramifications while they’d had only locals around them.

Lady Hardesty and her friends had brought home the fact that she could never compete with them and their peers-their unmarried sisters from whom Gervase would choose his bride. But she’d always known that, had accepted it from the first.

What she’d allowed herself to forget-had willfully let slip from her mind-was that he would, indeed, at some point, return to London to choose his bride. Accepting that, acknowledging that, keeping it in mind made her own position crystal clear.

She was his temporary lover, nothing more. A lover for this summer; when autumn came, he would leave, and she would again be alone.

She’d thought she’d accepted that, understood it, but now…now she’d unwisely allowed her heart to become involved, it ached at the thought. It hurt to think their time would soon be over.

Bad enough. It ached even more to think of him with another.

Lying with another. Kissing another. Joining with another.

That was the other thing the clash had brought to light-not, as she’d first imagined, her Gascoigne temper, but something rather more explicit.

She’d been jealous, and not just mildly so. When Lady Hardesty had moved to engage Gervase, her fingers had curled into claws. At least in her mind. But what had shocked her even more than her reaction-one she had no real right to feel-was the violence behind it.

Given her Gascoigne temperament, that didn’t bode well. While in the main her family were even-tempered, good-natured, that streak of recklessness that affected them all made indulging emotions such as real anger and violent jealousy a very bad idea. People who could, and would, in the heat of a moment risk just about anything had to be careful.

Which raised a question she’d never thought to ask: How on earth would she, could she, interact with the lady Gervase would ultimately make his wife?

She couldn’t imagine the answer. No matter how much she lectured herself, she’d always be that poor lady’s worst enemy.

She would have to…what? Go into a nunnery? How could she possibly live at Treleaver Park and not stumble constantly across the poor unsuspecting woman?

The thought, the possibilities, and the scenarios her imagination, now awakened to the notion, supplied were simply too horrendous to contemplate. When she reached the top of the path to Castle Cove, she had the beginnings of a headache, but no clue how best to proceed. She reined Artur in, then started him slowly down, letting him pick his way in the poor light.

She knew why she was there-because Gervase had asked her. Because he’d held out the prospect of another night in his arms-and if she was going to have him, be able to be with him and indulge her feelings-those it would have been wiser not to allow to bloom and grow, let alone blossom-only until he left to find his bride, then she would take all he offered, every last interlude.

She hadn’t asked for this, hadn’t been searching for it, but fate had sent him to her, and she, a Gascoigne to her soul, had recklessly fallen in love. So she’d embrace it, let the bud bloom for as long as possible before what had grown between them was forced to die.

Time enough to face that horror when it came.

Her emotions felt raw, too close to her surface, when she turned onto the ledge and saw Gervase waiting by the side of the boathouse. He caught Artur’s head; when she slid down from the high back he led the gelding behind the building and tied him alongside his big gray.

Returning to her side, he took her hand. She felt his fingers close, firm and strong, about hers, felt them shift, stroking, as he paused and through the shadows searched her face; his was, as usual, unreadable. Then he glanced at the sea. “Let’s walk on the beach.”

Surprised, she turned, let him lead her down the stone steps cut into the edge of the ledge and onto the soft sand. Her hand in his, he started toward the waves.

She pulled back. “Wait.”

He stopped, turned back as she drew her hand from his and sat on the steps. Rucking up her skirts, she pulled off her riding boots and stockings, and set them aside. Seeing, he followed suit, toeing off his shoes, pulling off his stockings, leaving them beside hers on the steps.

Retaking her hand, he set off; she kept pace beside him as they trudged down to where the retreating tide had left a section of compacted sand on which they could more easily walk. Reaching it, he turned east, away from the castle. They set out at a pace that quickly slowed to ambling. Neither spoke, but their thoughts-mutual, she had not a doubt-lay heavy between them.

They strolled a little way, slowing even more as they both watched the waves roll in, small and gentle, their edges laced with phosphorescence. When he said nothing, she drew in a tight breath. “About what I said this evening-”

“On the dance floor-”

They’d spoken over each other; both stopped, and faced the other.

Their eyes met. He nodded. “You first.”

“I wanted to say…to assure you that I understand.” When he searched her eyes, waited, she went on, “About your bride. I know that you’ll need to return to London, to choose a bride, then bring her back here. I wanted to say that when the time comes for you to do those things-” She broke off and gestured with her free hand. “I won’t make a fuss.”

She met his eyes, held his gaze. Drew in a breath and, lungs tight, lied. “I don’t want you to imagine I’ve changed my mind and expect more from you just because…” Again words failed her; a gesture had to suffice.

“Because we’ve become lovers?”

His voice sounded harsh, but that might have been the sea. She nodded, put up a hand to hold back her wafting hair. “Because we’ve drawn close.”

His eyes had remained locked on hers; his expression wasn’t as rigidly impassive as usual, but she couldn’t identify the emotion behind it.

Then he sighed through his teeth, a hiss of frustration. “You don’t understand.”

She blinked. He sounded exasperated.

Releasing her hand, he gripped her shoulders, drawing her closer, his eyes locked on her face. “You haven’t understood anything at all.”

She frowned. “I just told you I understand perfectly.”

“What you’ve just told me is that you’ve missed…” He broke off, his eyes narrowing on hers. “Or is it ignored?”

She narrowed her eyes back. “What? What in all this am I ignoring?”

His jaw set. “This.”

He pulled her to him and kissed her.

She had one moment of lucid thought: That she knew all about this. All about the heat, the yearning, the need. All about the passions that would flare, rage and swallow them.

A second later, the heat, the yearning, the need, the passion and the desire that swam in its wake, caught her, and ripped every scintilla of thought away. Replaced it with sensation.

And behind the sensation, as she was learning to expect, came emotion.

Stronger; every time she was with him it grew and swelled. More powerful; she couldn’t any longer deny it, let alone ignore it.

It drew her, captured her, drove her-to sink against him and yield, to surrender and take, to set aside all restraint and simply love him. Physically, yes-she now understood why the act was termed lovemaking-but the more precious, more costly gift she had to give dwelled in what powered the physical-her intention, her commitment, her devotion to him.

They’d come together too often for his kiss to be anything but incendiary; he’d meant it that way, so it was. His lips were hard, commanding, ruthlessly demanding, and she readily complied.

Readily surrendered her mouth, gasped when his hand closed over her breast. She barely registered him opening the front placket of her riding dress, then stripping it away-because by then the only thought in her head was to be naked in his arms.

Her dress fell to the sand, followed by his jacket, neckerchief and shirt, her chemise and his trousers…only when her drawers whispered down her legs and the sea air caressed skin rarely exposed did she realize…

She drew her lips from his, gasped, “We’re on the beach.”

“So?” His hands spread, he held her to him, her hips molded to his. “There’s no one else within miles. Just you and me, the stars and the sea.”

“Yes, but…” She blinked; pushing back her hair, she stared at him, then glanced at the beach, wet sand and dry sand, couldn’t imagine…

He laughed briefly. “In the surf. Come on.”

“What?” But he was already striding down the beach, towing her with him. She followed, still stunned. “In the waves?”

He glanced back at her. “Surely, as a Gascoigne, you’re not going to balk?”

“Being a Gascoigne has nothing to do with it,” she muttered under her breath. They reached the waves; she braced for their icy touch-and experienced an altogether different sensation. The summer had been warm, the days long and hot; the sea, at least in the shallows, had heated. The water purled around her feet and legs as he drew her relentlessly on; it felt cool against her already heated skin, but not cold.

The sensation was pleasant, a tempting, distracting sensual contrast.

It became even more so when he finally stopped, beyond the breaking waves where the water reached to his waist, planted his feet and pulled her around and to him, into his arms-and kissed her again.

Ravenously, voraciously-a kiss and a claiming deliberately calculated to set their fires raging again.

The resulting conflagration took less than a minute to reduce her once more to a state of heated, urgent, hungry and greedy, desperate need.

He knew-he lifted her, hoisted her against him; needing no direction, she locked her arms about his neck, wrapped her legs about his waist and kissed him back, all fire and determination, willing him, needing him, to take her.

The glide of his blunt fingertips over the slick, swollen flesh between her thighs had her gasping. She clung to their kiss, urged him on, demanded-then sighed, a near sob, as his fingers pressed in, thrust deep…but it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.

Gervase read her spiraling need through their kiss, through the desperation that reached him so clearly, that so powerfully joined with his own. He didn’t truly know what had possessed him, only that he had to have her now, here, had to make her see…

He savaged her mouth, driven by that pounding primal need to make her his-and have her acknowledge it. Have her know it, comprehend it, understand it.

The waves were retreating, their repetitive surge a caress in itself. His fingers buried in her sheath, he stroked, and felt her sob. But the water was level with his hand, the to and fro motion distracting, both water and air cooling what didn’t need to cool. Holding her against him, supporting her weight, he walked deeper into the sea.

She knew, clung, waited until he stopped again with the water at mid-back, below her shoulders, leaving the waves flirting with her breasts, with her tightly furled nipples.

The sensation evoked a strangled gasp, then she tightened her legs around him and shifted, restlessly seeking, wanting.

Inwardly smiling-his beast intent and slavering-he drew his fingers from her sheath, positioned his erection, then thrust up as he pulled her down.

They both lost their breaths.

Lips parted, they gasped; from under their lashes, mere inches apart, their eyes locked. Slowly he lifted her, then brought her down again, thrusting even deeper, filling her to the hilt.

She exhaled, her breath washing over his lips, breathing with him as he moved her upon him, her breasts rising and falling as his chest did the same.

Her gaze lowered to his lips; he shut his eyes, concentrated on all he could feel… She closed the last inch between them and pressed her lips to his.

Gave him her mouth, welcomed his tongue, wrapped him in her arms and let their own tide take them.

Slow, forceful, repetitive; a drawn-out excruciatingly intense loving.

They’d learned not to rush, and the surge of the waves about them helped. The steady, measured, inexorable rise and fall gave them another rhythm to cling to when their own grew too fraught. The coolness of the water helped keep the heat from cindering their wills too soon, let them stretch the moments out, and out, and out…let them commune in the dark sea, in the depths of the night, with the wild cliffs behind them and the stars above, the surf a constant whisper in their ears, alone but for nature all around them.

He gave himself up to it, completely, utterly, and prayed she would know, that she would see. That she might, tonight, finally understand.

The end was spectacular, even for them. It came upon them in a rush and caught them, shattered them. Wrung every last iota of passion from them, then flung them high, beyond the world, where every sense vaporized and glory filled the void-and filled them, glowing in their veins as they slowly spiraled back to earth, to the sea, the waves and the darkness of the night, to the comfort and inexpressible joy they found in each other’s arms.