On a Wild Night

Chapter 12

At precisely midnight, Amanda slipped out onto the narrow balcony at the end of the Kendricks' ballroom. Reached through glass doors, the balcony extended around the corner of the building to overlook the side garden.

Shivering, she wrapped her arms about her. The weather had turned unaccommodating; a blustery wind scudded rain clouds across the moon. A downpour threatened. Hugging herself, she hurried to the corner.

The door behind her opened. "Amanda?"

She whirled, blinked at the fair-haired figure silhouetted against the ballroom's brightness.

"What are you doing out here?" Simon's tone, one that could only be managed by a younger brother, suggested he thought she was insane.

"Ah… I'm taking the air. It's stuffy in there." She hadn't even known he was watching her. Worse, his narrowing eyes, the very fact he'd followed her… her little brother was growing up. And he was a Cynster to his toes.

So was she. She waved dismissively. "I'll come in in a few minutes."

Simon frowned, and stepped onto the balcony. "What are you up to?"

Amanda drew herself up; she would have loved to look down her nose at him, but at nineteen, he towered over her.

"I'm not 'up to' anything." Yet. And if he didn't leave, she wouldn't be. She skewered him with a censorious look. "Just what are you imagining? I step out on a balcony so narrow it should be called a ledge, and you're concerned about what?" She spread her arms wide. "I'm out of reach of the ground, and there's no one here!"

The clouds chose that moment to empty; the wind gusted, flinging fat raindrops against the house. Amanda gasped and shrank against the wall.

Simon grabbed her arm. "It's freezing! You'll catch cold, and Mama will have a fit. Come on!"

He yanked her back toward the door. Amanda hesitated; the rain began to pelt down in earnest. If she didn't go inside, she'd be drenched. Grumbling under her breath, she allowed Simon to bundle her back into the ballroom.

She just hoped Martin knew she'd kept their appointment.

From his position below the balcony, Martin heard their footsteps, heard the door click shut, then he was left listening to the rain pour down all around him. A Romeo in the rain without his Juliet.

That's what happened when plans were made in the heat of desire.

The essential uselessness of this evening's meeting hadn't occurred to him until he'd reached home after leaving Osterley. It had taken that long for his focus to shift from all that hadn't happened in the dell. And all that had. Once he'd been able to think constructively, it had waxed plainfully clear that given the current state of their discussions, there was nothing to be gained from snatching a few illicit moments with Amanda, let alone on a ledge. For the arguments he wished to put to her, allowing for the way in which he wished to put them, he'd need an hour, preferably two. On a bed.

He'd come here tonight purely to arrange such a meeting. Instead…

As soon as the rain eased, he ducked out from under the balcony, slipped out of the garden gate and climbed into his carriage, black and anonymous, waiting in the mews. Stretching out his long legs, he wrapped his greatcoat about him. As the carriage rattled back to Park Lane, it was difficult to avoid the observation that the eruption of Amanda into his life had already wrought considerable change.

Two months previously, he would never have been heading home alone at this hour. He would have been out, hunting-for distraction, for dissipation. For entertainment to fill the lonely hours.

Now… despite the fact he'd be alone once he reached home, he wouldn't be lonely, wouldn't feel the emptiness of the house closing in on him; he wouldn't have time. His mind would be racing, assessing, planning how to beguile one stubborn lady into accepting him as her lot, even though that would assuredly mean making even more changes in his life.

Taking Amanda Cynster to wife was going to cause nothing short of an upheaval. The wonder was that, despite his inherent laziness, his dislike of being disturbed, that fact didn't deter him in the least.

Kidnapping her seemed the only viable option.

The next morning, seated at his breakfast table slowly sipping coffee, Martin considered the where and how. And discovered that the card sent to him by Lady Montacute for that evening announced a masquerade, albeit one of the tame, watered-down affairs that these days went by that title. Domino, half-mask and the invitation as entrance, so her ladyship had decreed.

All those, he had.

Deciding how to make Amanda, disguised in domino and mask, readily identifiable to him and only him took no more than a minute.

Fourteen hours later, draped in a regulation black domino, her face concealed by a halfmask, she appeared on the threshold of Lady Montacute's ballroom, accompanied by another lady and a gentleman. Judging by height and the golden curls beneath the unknown lady's hood, Martin assumed she was Amanda's sister; he'd take an oath the gentleman was Carmarthen. He waited only until, after exchanging a few words, the three parted before closing in on his prey.

He was the first to her side, but only by a few strides; other men had noticed her, alone, looking about, and thought to claim her hand. He didn't bother with her hand; he slid his arm about her waist and drew her to him.

"Oh!" She looked up, knowing him in the same way he knew it was indeed her and not some other golden-haired lady who just happened to be wearing three white orchids at her throat. She blinked. "Where are we going?"

He was already steering her through the crowd.

"Somewhere we won't be disturbed."

He said nothing more as he whisked her into a corridor, then through a deserted parlor and out onto a terrace that rejoined the front porch; his hand at her back, he urged her down the steps, around the curved drive and so to the street. His carriage was waiting, horses prancing.

He opened the door. She clutched his sleeve. "Where…?"

He looked down at her. "Does it matter?"

She glared, then turned to the carriage. He helped her in, then followed, shut the door; the carriage jerked, and they were off.

Amanda set back her hood. "That was-"

He moved-gripped her waist, lifted her onto his lap. One hard hand cradled her face and his lips came down on hers.

She lost her wits in that first assault, clutched his arms and let reality slide. Her senses drowned in the sudden rush of desire, of hot, unmistakable, irresistible passion. He took her mouth and she gave it, pushed her arms up to his neck and clung as the carriage rattled on and he continued to evocatively plunder. His arms locked about her, a warm steel cage cradling her, holding her to him, safe and secure.

It wasn't far to his house; she was dazed but unsurprised when the carriage halted and he set her back on the seat, then flung open the door and she saw, beyond him, the dark, unlighted mass of his home.

This time, the carriage had halted before the front door; he descended, turned, swept her into his arms and carried her up the steps. The massive door swung open the instant his bootheels rang on the porch flags; as he strode through, she glimpsed a figure in the door's shadow, one who inclined his head with dignity.

She waited for Martin to stop. He didn't. "Is that your man?" she asked pointedly.

"Jules."

She'd assumed, as far as she'd thought of it, that he'd head for the library. Instead, he took the stairs three at a time.

Her heart started to beat faster. "You can put me down now."

He glanced at her. "Why?"

She couldn't think of an answer, not one he might accept. That he had only one thing on his mind seemed transparently clear, and only compounded her distraction. Increased the dizzying notion that nothing else truly mattered.

The first time he'd carried her to his bedchamber, she hadn't been awake; it seemed wise, this time, to take note of the way. The vast emptiness echoed; she recognized the gallery, then he headed down a familiar corridor.

He stopped, juggled her and threw open a door.

Gloom, coldness and emptiness were dispelled as he carried her over the threshold. He heeled the door shut; eyes opening wide, she sank her fingers into his arm and he paused.

Let her drink in the sheer, sensual splendor.

Some things she remembered-the massive carved stone overmantel shading the hearth in which a fire blazed, the rich brocade curtains swathing the huge carved bedposts, the sumptuous silk of his sheets and pillows. Elsewhere, carved chests and tables in dark mahogany glowed in the soft light from brass lamps stationed about the room. Brass and gold inlays winked in the flickering firelight. Jewel-hued oriental rugs lay spread across the floor; even more gorgeous examples hung on the walls.

As in the library, there were a thousand points of interest, myriad colors, textures, artifacts, ornaments to please the mind and fill the senses.

The oddity stood out by virtue of its absence.

What wasn't evident, not anywhere in this mecca of sensual delight, was any item, any object, anything at all that hinted that this was the bedroom of an English earl, a man born and bred in this country, schooled at Eton, raised to rule his portion of England.

This was the lair of an eastern pasha, a man ruled by the sun, a man to whom sensuality was second nature. For whom sensuality was life and breath, an inherent part of him, strong, vital, inseparable from the rest.

Walking forward, he swung her down to stand before him on the silk rag beside the bed. She looked into his face, tried to reconcile all that was about them with what she could see there.

He tugged his domino's ties loose, flung the voluminous black cloak aside. His gold-flecked gaze remained steady on her face, on her eyes.

Raising a hand, she touched the cheek she'd traced so often in past weeks-a simple fascination with the aggressively angular planes, so reminiscent of her own Norman ancestors. A thoroughly English part of him.

She looked into his eyes, again recognized her own race, her own kind. Felt understanding dawn.

He'd been disowned, or so he believed. So he'd buried his Englishness, let another side of his personality dominate. But the Englishman was still there, the other half of his coin, yet even here, he hid in the shadows.

She wanted them both, the Englishman and the pasha, wanted them both in one. Stretching up, palms flat against his chest, she set her lips to his.

Kissed him. Encouraged him.

Felt him wait, passive, letting her make her wishes clear, then his lips firmed and he took command, surged in and took her mouth, set his mark on her, on her lips, on her tongue, on the softness of her mouth.

She gave them gladly, heart thudding as she felt his hands rise, felt the tug as he unraveled the domino's ties, set them loose, sent the cloak sliding down. Then his palms slid about her waist, the pressure firming as he grasped, and drew her to him.

Flush against the hard length of him.

She pushed her hands up, wound them about his neck, pressed closer-gave herself to him. The only way she knew to tempt him into the open was to offer herself, all she was, all she could be-to love him as she wished him to love her.

Completely. Without reserve.

Martin sensed her decision; he'd had too many women not to recognize when a woman gave herself without restriction, offered herself without demand. On all others he'd lavished attention, sensual pleasures, transitory joys. With her, now, it was different-there was so much more he wished to give. Deeper pleasures. Greater joys.

A lasting commitment.

He didn't have the words, didn't have any intention of finding them, finding a way to admit to a condition the past had taught him was the ultimate vulnerability, the one true chink in the armor his heritage had otherwise bequeathed him. Caring openly was too costly, the one sacrifice he would not again make. Not even for her. All else, he was willing to give her-his body, his name, his protection. His devotion.

Holding her between his hands, fingers flexing, sensing the supple strength of her, the sleek, slender, unutterably feminine length of her pressed against him, he set his mind to the task of laying heaven before her.

Convincing her to be his.

He deliberately let his reins slide. Let go. Let instinct take him, drive him, guide him. With her, he needed no thought, no logic, no considered plan. All he needed was to follow his heart.

She stood, eager and very willing, gathered against him, her tongue tangling with his, while he peeled her gown away. Blindly stepping out of her slippers, she kicked them aside. He couldn't stop his hands from closing about her breasts, still screened by her chemise, from fondling the soft mounds in anticipation, feeling them firm beneath his fingers. He drew his lips from hers, traced kisses down the taut column of her throat as she arched her head back so he could lave the thudding pulse at the base of her throat. Letting his hands slide down, around, he closed them about the globes of her bottom, lifted her against him, evocatively kneaded.

Felt her breath catch, felt desire well.

He set her back on her feet; the instant she was steady, he sank down, kneeling before her. He looked up at her face, caught her gaze as she looked down, blinking, lips swollen and parted. "Your stockings."

She blinked again, but when he sat back on his heels, she bent one knee and lifted her stockinged foot to balance it on his thigh.

Inwardly smiling, knowing the sentiment would not shift the stony cast of his features, he reached beneath the edge of her chemise and gripped the scrap of niched silk circling her leg. He removed that stocking, then the other, openly appreciating the silken wonder of her long legs. Tried not to think of them wrapped about him, as they shortly would be.

Tossing aside the second stocking, he returned his attention to her, cupped both hands about her thighs, ran them slowly down, all the way to her ankles, then reversed direction, slowly stroking each curve, caressing each hollow, sliding his hands to the front of her thighs as he leaned into her, felt her fingers slide into his hair as his own flicked up the hem of her chemise.

Closing his hands about the tops of her thighs, he held her still as he nuzzled the hollow between. She gasped, but didn't pull away, didn't resist, curved her hand about his skull and let him part her thighs, let him part her soft flesh and taste her.

The scent of her sank into him, wreathed his senses, an elemental attraction that called to every primitive instinct he possessed. Her willingness, the acquiescence and encouragement in her stance, in her shivering breaths, fed his most primal need.

Drawing back, he rose, hands sliding up over her body, raising the chemise, drawing it up, over her head. She raised her arms, slid them free.

Reached for him-for his coat. Their gazes clashed, and he stilled. Remembered. Tightening his grip on his impulses, he held still and gave her the moment she sought. Watched the play of her thoughts over her face as she undressed him. He moved only when necessary while she stripped his coat, cravat, waistcoat and shirt from him, then she fell to tracing muscle and bone with a touch that left him aching.

His hand went to his waist; he flicked open the buttons-she pushed his hand aside and parted the flap. He couldn't see her face, just the top of her head as she looked down, stilled… then he remembered that she hadn't, until then, seen him-that part of him-naked. Not until after. Later…

Before he could wonder what she was thinking, she wrapped her fingers about him, and her touch told him. Fascination, wonderment, worshipful excitement. Anticipation.

She moved her hand upon him; he bit back a groan-felt her start, glance up. Then she closed her hand again, caressed him again. And again.

He reached for her, drew her to him, found her lips. Captured her mouth, let both their senses feast… for a time. Then he closed his fingers about her wrist, reluctantly drew her hand away. Lifted his head, stepped back, stripped off his trousers, stockings, toed off his shoes.

Her arms were waiting to slide about him when he straightened. She came into his arms and he closed them about her; she lifted her face and he bent his head, covered her lips. Surged into her mouth, traced her tongue, tangled with it, and felt her sink against him. Press nearer. Hot body to hot body, naked flesh to naked flesh.

Passion surrounded them, wings of heat beating steadily, slowly closing in.

He reached out and hauled back the bedcovers, urged her the last step to the bed. She hitched herself up to sit on the silk sheet. He followed, one knee on the bed; she let him tumble her back so she lay with her head on the pillows, golden curls spilling across his ivory sheets.

He knew just how he wanted her, knew the position that would most suit their need. Stretching out beside her, the covers pushed back behind him, he ran his hands over her arms, her shoulders, down her back, around her hips, down her legs, settling her half beneath him in the accommodating comfort of the thick featherbed so its support would cushion her against his thrusts, so their bodies could entwine and merge without restraint.

The firelight shed a warm glow over her milk-white skin, sent flickering fingers to dance across her full breasts, already peaked and swollen. He savored the contrast as he closed his tanned hand about one firm mound, then traced possessively down, over her sleek curves, over the sumptuous flesh, over the curve of her hip, down the long line of her thigh. To her knee.

Her body was soft, supple, receptive; his was hard, muscle-bound, menacingly strong.

They were both burning, barely holding the urgency at bay, both struggling to harness the driving need just this much-enough to savor the moment, to know it, see it, feel it all.

Closing his hand, he looked into her face, into the blue eyes, brilliant and dark, that watched him from beneath heavy lids. Their faces were close, his above hers as he lay propped half over her. His gaze shifted to her lips, bruised and yearning, waiting; he felt her breasts rise and fall with each shallow breath.

Desire welled like a tide; passion closed in, ever tighter, around them. If he kissed her, they would both be swept away…

He locked his gaze with hers, pressed her knee outward, then let his hand slide up the inner face of her thigh. Eyes on hers, he cupped her, waited through her reaction-her quick intake of breath, her instinctive shift against him-then he parted her, touched her. Probed, caressed, until her breath shuddered, until her fingers gripped and tugged.

Still holding her gaze, he drew his fingers from her, lifted against her, set his erection to her entrance, pressed in.

Slowly. Inch by inch, he sank into her softness, steadily merged their bodies until, with a last little thrust, he seated himself fully within her. She shivered, closed her eyes-her body gripped him. With a guttural murmur, he touched his lips to her closed lids, ran his hand down and around her hip, down her thigh, gripping, lifting, wrapping her leg about his hip.

Then he moved-upon her, inside her. She gasped, arched, breasts caressing his chest, fingers gripping. The repetitive, intimate rocking captured her senses; her body softened, accepted, adjusted, tentatively, then with greater assurance, met and joined with his.

Her lashes flickered, parted-she studied his face, then glanced down, watched her body fluidly shift with each rhythmic thrust as he possessed her.

Her gaze lifted again to his face. Her fingers trailed from his shoulder to his cheek, then slid into his hair.

She drew his lips down to hers, opened her mouth beneath his. Drew him deep when he boldly surged in. Drew them both into the fire.

They burned and bathed in the heat, in the passion, in the elemental tide of desire. Amanda knew nothing beyond the moment, nothing beyond the sensations of his body and hers sliding, merging, cocooned in his silk sheets. The pressure of his chest against her breasts, the rasp of crisp hair against her sensitized skin, the wanton arching of her body, the surrender as she took him in-deeper and yet deeper-all these were imprinted on her mind.

Along with the caress of his hands, the reverence with which he soothed her, eased her into the ever deepening intimacy, the warm brush of his breath across her lips when they paused, fighting for breath, for a moment of sanity, before sinking back into the addictive heat.

Even through the flames, even through her own yearning, she was aware of his, of the way he moved upon her, around her, within her, caressing her in every way a man could, lavishing pleasures, taking his own but not seizing. Accepting all she gave, but not demanding, not commanding as he might have done-as he had the ability to do…

Worshipful. The word whispered through her mind as he drew back a fraction, lifted slightly from her to drive deeper still into her pliant body.

Supplicant… him or her? She couldn't work it out. Couldn't think, could only spread her hands on his back and hold him to her as the fire rose and took them both.

Yet still there was no hint of desperation, of that familiar all-consuming urgency, only the steadily escalating rise, the inexorable build of that indescribable need.

Until, at the last, they crested, thrown high on a wave of heat and mindless pleasure. Ecstasy swept her; delight and so much more rushed through her veins, turned her body incandescent with glory. She heard her own cry; he bent his head and drank it from her. Moments later, his body stiffened; she wrapped her arms about him, held tight as he thrust deep, then the shuddering wave of his release swept through him. She held him cradled between her thighs; as his locked muscles eased, she drew him down. Felt his hands, gentle, reverent, settling her beneath him. She closed her eyes and drifted with the tide.

It couldn't have been that long before she opened them again, yet so much had changed. Not on the physical plane-he still lay beside her, stretched out alongside, large, warm and naked, his hand drifting lazily over her, his gaze on his fingers, on the skin they caressed.

His touch was the same as before-reverent. She let her gaze dwell on his face, on the hard planes that gave so little away, that shielded his secrets so well.

She was the one who had changed. Physically in that, having tasted such glory, she would forever want it again. He might as well have branded her, so completely physically his did she feel. But those were the more minor revelations, the lesser adjustments. The knowledge she'd gained in the last hour far transcended that.

It was inherent in the golden glory that held her, and him. That stretched between them, lapped about them-linked them. All she'd felt, all she'd sensed-all she could still not see in his face, but could feel in his touch.

She watched him, felt her heart swell, yet she reined her triumph back. Wondered… she might have won the last hand, but it was up to him to provide the next lead.

He'd moved lower in the bed when he'd lifted from her; his shoulders level with her chest, one leg bent, anchoring hers, he watched his fingers trace the curve of her stomach. Spread his hand, as if gauging…

She suddenly knew what he was thinking. "I'm not pregnant." Suddenly giddy, she pushed up onto her elbows the better to see his face.

The mossy green eyes that rose to meet hers had one word blazoned in them: mine.

"How do you know?" His tone was even. His fingers kept tracing; his gaze remained on hers.

She stared at him, at what she could read in his eyes-he looked exactly like a thoroughly satisfied lion, tail twitching as he surveyed his prize…

He was watching her carefully. "You may as well agree to marry me."

She wanted to marry him-the revelation burned her tongue: I'll marry you if…

If he told her he loved her?

That wouldn't work, wouldn't convince her heart. There were at least ten gentlemen searching Lady Montacute's ballroom for her, all of whom would be only too willing to go down on their knees and swear to eternal love despite the fact none of them knew what it was.

She needed to know Martin loved her, completely, utterly, beyond all reservation. But that wasn't the principal reason she needed to hear the words, volunteered, freely offered. She needed to know that he knew.

The soft thud of her heart still filled her ears, the warm glow of aftermath still held her as she studied his eyes, considered his direction, and what he wanted her to believe. If she asked for a declaration of love, made her acceptance of his suit conditional on hearing one, he might well oblige-without actually meaning it, without truly facing the fact.

"No." She slumped back onto the pillows, stared up at the canopy. Tried to blot out his nakedness, and hers.

Silence, then he stirred, came up on his hands and knees over her-prowled up to look down at her face.

His was a mask of utter implacability. "I won't give up."

A growl-a warning. She glared up at him. "Neither will I."

The comment took him aback-clearly mystified him-which only added to her ire. "Let me up." Twisting, she bent her knees, pushed at his left arm; he let her slide from beneath him, but swung up and followed on her heels.

"This is ridiculous!" When she didn't pause but, spying her chemise, headed for it, Martin reached out, wrapped his hand in the curls at her nape, and drew her back to him. All the way back, finally looping an arm around her and drawing her flush, once more, against him.

Her eyes snapped at him. "I couldn't agree more."

She tried to free her hair, but he declined to unclench his fist. Looking into her face, he tried to ignore the immediate reaction of his body to the silken caress of hers, knew by her breathing that she was perfectly aware of it, too. "We've been intimate on three occasions."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Four."

He counted. "Four. Which only increases the odds that you're carrying my child."

"Possibly."

"If you are, we're getting married."

Her eyes clouded; he could see thoughts whizzing through her mind, but couldn't define them.

She suddenly pushed back, her palms to his chest. Releasing her hair, he let her go. "If," she stated, "it proves to be so, then we can discuss marriage." She turned away, swiped up her chemise. "Now, if you please, you may take me back to the masquerade."

He narrowed his eyes. "Amanda."

He argued, and swore, then argued some more.

It did no good. And by then she was dressed.

Shrugging into his coat, he followed her downstairs. Jules appeared from the kitchen; Martin flung him an order to have the carriage brought around. Jules retreated. Martin stalked down the hall to the front door where his paramour waited, head high, all but tapping her toe.

He stopped directly before her; towering over her, he glared down into her defiant face. "Why?"

She didn't pretend to misunderstand. She met his gaze directly, appeared to consider how best to explain. "I told you before, I want more. There's something only you can give me, but unless and until you agree to do so, I will not agree to marry you."

"What is this thing?" He managed not to roar, but the bellow vibrated in his voice.

"That," she replied, her tone turning glacial, "is what

you"-she jabbed his chest-"have to discover! I'm only assuming you have what I need. If you don't…"

Her gaze suddenly unfocused, she drew back, turned her head away. "If you don't, then you haven't, and that will be that."

He gritted his teeth, then opened his lips-probably on unwise words-

Hooves clattered outside and she swung to the door, putting up the hood of her domino. "I wish to return to the masquerade, my lord."

He closed his eyes for one instant, reshackled his temper, then reached out and wrenched the door wide. "As you please, my lady."

His. She was, very definitely, that.

If it hadn't been for the hours they'd spent in his bed, he might have wondered if she'd played him for a fool, if she'd been interested only in an illicit interlude, or four, with one whom her circle would dub seriously dangerous. Even now, he wasn't sure his reputation hadn't, in part, contributed to the attraction, at least at first. But now… now, there was more to her motives than simple lust.

Returning to his bedchamber an hour later, having seen her back into the chaos of the masquerade, watched until she'd found her sister and Carmarthen and left, he exhaled. He was relaxed but not at peace, tired but not sleepy. Shutting the door, he headed for the huge armchair before the fire. A splotch of white glowing against the rich hues of the rug caught his eye.

The orchids he'd sent her, the orchids she'd worn at her throat so he'd known her instantly; he picked them up.

She'd left the masquerade as soon as she'd rejoined her sister and Carmarthen; at the time, he'd wondered if that was because she'd known he was watching and he wouldn't allow her to flirt with other gentlemen, or because she'd only attended the masquerade to meet with him. Dropping into the armchair, he turned the orchids between his fingers. His frame of mind, then, had not been all that rational.

Looking back on their encounters, studying the orchids, he knew full well it was the latter-she'd come to meet him, as she had so often before.

Aside from anything else, she was not that sort of woman-the sort who went easily, without thought or affection, to a man's bed. She was a Cynster-he understood her type well. She came from the same stock as he, but he'd never known a Cynster female, one born and bred, only Cynster males. His experience of her thus far suggested he'd be wise to extrapolate.

Thus far, he'd underestimated her at every turn.

He'd known from the first that she was playing some game, yet he hadn't been able to perceive her goal-what she'd wanted to win. He'd let himself be cajoled into playing with her, let himself fall under her spell, all the while confident that she-an innocent no matter her years-could not possibly wring from him anything he didn't wish to give.

He considered the orchids, the thick, milky-white petals soft, smooth, like her skin, then curled his fingers, closed his hand about the flowers.

Breathed in their scent.

Closed his eyes, let his head rest against the chair's back.

He knew what she wanted.

He'd hoped to avoid having to play for that stake, having to defend it, yet she'd taken every trick thus far, and left him with little else to toss on the table to avoid having to risk his heart.

A log in the fireplace cracked, broke. Opening his eyes, he watched the flames leap, felt their warmth roll over him.

Considered his last remaining option.

For there was one thing more, one trump he yet held, a penultimate card that just might see him through, might let him turn the tide and seize her hand-and her-without having to risk his heart's defenses.

The question was: was he willing to play it?