The Edge of Desire

Chapter 14

They gathered at the Bastion Club later that afternoon. Christian met Letitia at the gate; they climbed the porch steps to find Gasthorpe receiving a packet from a messenger.

“Ah-here he is.” The majordomo bowed to Christian and Letitia, then extended the packet to Christian. “From Mr. Montague, my lord.”

“Excellent.” Christian took the packet, handed it to Letitia, and hunted in his waistcoat pocket. He tipped the messenger and dismissed him. The boy clattered down the steps just as Dalziel came walking up the path.

Dalziel exchanged nods with them, then waved Letitia and Christian into the house. After a few murmured words with Gasthorpe, he followed them up the stairs and into the library.

Tony, Jack, and Tristan were already there. They got to their feet as Letitia swept in; she smiled and waved them back to their chairs. Appropriating one of the armchairs by the hearth, she sank into it, laying the packet, which she’d retained, on her lap.

Entirely unexpectedly, the door opened again and Justin sauntered in. Although partly disguised in a heavy, nondescript overcoat with a cap pulled low over his face, with his height, build, outrageously handsome features, and distinctive coloring, he remained readily identifiable.

Christian sensed his fellow club members come alert. They exchanged glances with each other and with him; they were all dying to ask Justin where he’d been staying-and more to the point, who his host really was.

Justin flashed a smile around the room, then seeing Letitia’s surprise give way to ire, he held up his hands placatingly. “I came in through the back alley-no one saw me.”

She humphed, cast him, and then Dalziel, a darkling look, and subsided. She looked down at the package in her lap.

Christian was about to suggest she open it when Dalziel, sinking into one of the deeply padded wing chairs, stated, “I heard from my Hexham contact.”

All attention swung his way. He smiled, all teeth. “As we suspected, Swithin was indeed a peer of Randall and Trowbridge at Hexham Grammar School. They entered the school in the same year, and all three were governors’ scholars-the only three that year. They banded together from the first, no doubt to ward off the inevitable bullying. Randall as we know was a farmer’s son. Trowbridge’s father was a goldsmith-quite a talented one by all accounts-and his mother was a potter. His liking for artwork presumably grew from that. Trowbridge’s parents are still alive-he visits them occasionally, although the more he’s gone up in the world, the more awkward that’s become. However, the elder Trowbridges are proud of their son, if a trifle in awe. He’s risen far from his humble beginnings-in many ways his life is now beyond their comprehension.”

Settling his shoulders in the chair, Dalziel continued, “Which brings us to Swithin. His father was a merchant in the town. He’s still alive, but unlike Trowbridge, Swithin has cut all ties. Swithin the elder knows nothing about his son, not even his current address.”

“So Randall lost all ties to his past when his parents died,” Letitia remarked, “Swithin cut his ties, but Trowbridge didn’t.” She frowned. “Does that tell us anything?”

No one seemed to know.

“Why don’t we see what Montague’s sent?” Christian nodded to the packet in her lap.

“Yes, of course.”

While she broke the seal and spread out the sheets, Christian explained to the others what tack they were now following to locate the company’s customers. “Given that cash payments can’t be traced back to the payer, the direct approach is the only one left to us.”

Letitia was scanning Montague’s communication; from her expression it was clear the news was good. She glanced up, saw them all watching, and beamed. “Montague’s a wonder. He’s traced three of the large regular payments-all made on Mondays, one to each of the company’s three accounts-and all invariably made at the following three banks-Rothchild’s in Piccadilly, Child’s in Oxford Street, and Barkers in the Strand.”

Triumph glowed in her eyes as she lowered the sheet and looked across at Christian.

Tony leaned forward in his chair. “So on Monday, at each of those three banks, someone will come in and go to the teller and make a cash payment into an Orient Trading Company account?”

Letitia nodded. “On Monday, two days from now.”

“So”-Jack’s voice, too, held a note of anticipation-“if we’re there, at each of those three banks keeping watch-”

“And the tellers have been asked to tip us the wink when a particular payment is made to the relevant account”-Tony took up the evolving plan-“we can identify and follow the person making the deposit-”

“And learn what, exactly, their business is.” Tristan beamed back at Letitia. “Excellent!”

The sense of building excitement was pervasive; they were all, including Letitia and Justin, constitutionally better suited to action than waiting.

“We don’t even need to follow them, at least not far.” As ever, Letitia was inclined to directness. “We can simply ask them what they’re paying the Orient Trading Company for.”

“Damn!”

They all looked around at Justin’s muttered oath.

He looked at his sister, disgust in his face. “I can see where this is leading-while you all get to hunt, I’ll have to stay indoors and wait.” He glanced at Dalziel, a hopeful expression replacing the disgust. “I don’t suppose-”

“No.” Letitia uttered the single syllable in a tone that brooked absolutely no argument. “You cannot go out, not even in a much better disguise.”

She directed her statement not solely at Justin but at Dalziel as well. He held up his hands in a gesture signifying that he wasn’t going to get involved.

Satisfied, Letitia turned her gaze pointedly on her brother.

Justin looked mulish.

Christian caught his eye.

After a moment of inner railing, Justin surrendered. “Oh, all right.” He slumped back in the chair. “I’ll sit at home, safe by the fire, while you have all the fun.”

Entirely satisfied-sufficiently calmed-Letitia glanced at Christian. “So on Monday, how should we proceed?”

They made their plans, eagerness returning in full measure.

“So,” Christian summarized, “Tony and Jack will take Barkers in the Strand, Dalziel and Tristan will be at Child’s, and Letitia and I will keep watch at Rothchild’s. Having two pairs of eyes at each location should ensure we don’t miss our quarries.”

“It’s also easier to remain undetected when following someone if you’re walking with another and talking.” Tony grinned, and spoke for them all. “It’ll be good to be on the street again, rather than leafing through files.”

Feeling better-more buoyed and confident-than she’d felt since she learned of Randall’s death, Letitia stood. “Well, gentlemen.” She cast an appreciative glance around the circle. “On Monday we’ll learn what the Orient Trading Company actually does-and then we’ll approach Trowbridge, and hopefully learn a great deal more.”

It was Saturday-Monday was two days away.

Bearing that and his aunt Cordelia’s warning in mind, Christian saw Letitia home, then repaired to his aunt’s house to ask her advice.

Cordelia and Ermina were laid down upon the twin sofas in the drawing room, but when he walked in, were quite content to open their eyes and wave him to a chair.

“What brings you here?” Cordelia inquired, surprise edging her voice.

He outlined his dilemma.

After due discussion and deliberation back and forth between the pair, Cordelia pronounced judgment. “While attending the theater is in general not done while in deep mourning, in the case of the Vaux, suffice to say that if Letitia were seen suitably gowned and veiled in a private box at the Theatre Royal, such a sighting would provoke neither excessive surprise nor scandal.”

Christian smiled. “Thank you, dear aunts.” He rose, inclined his head to them both. “I’ll leave you to your…musings.”

With a salute, he turned and walked from the room; he could hear the buzz of their gossiping before Meadows closed the door behind him.

Later that evening, after an entirely unexpected excursion to the Theatre Royal with Christian, Hermione, and Agnes, where the drama and farce had succeeded in diverting her for more than two hours, Letitia paced restlessly across the library in the house in South Audley Street.

She glanced at Christian as he settled into one of the armchairs, a glass of brandy in his hand. She summoned a grateful, perfectly sincere smile. “Thank you for the evening. I truly appreciated the gesture. And the…” She waved.

He smiled and raised his glass. “Distraction?”

“Precisely.”

Agnes and Hermione had retired when they’d returned, yawning and sleepy. She, in contrast, felt far too wide-awake to contemplate her bed.

Even with him in it.

She knew he intended to be there, to sleep beside her tonight-to make love to her first, and probably later as well.

And she had absolutely no intention of dissuading him, much less arguing. That didn’t, however, mean she’d made her final decision about letting him back into her life-into her heart and soul, as well as her body.

Her reticence over making that commitment surprised her. Left her a touch uneasy. Emotional caution didn’t come naturally; she normally knew exactly what she wanted, yet with him…she knew what she wanted, but she still couldn’t make herself believe it would be, not with her whole heart and mind and soul. In the deepest recesses of her mind, she hadn’t yet accepted that what she truly wanted was still there, that if she embraced him again, totally and completely, admitted him again into her heart as her one and only love, that he would stay.

When it came to him, her reactions were complex and complicated. Difficult to unravel even for her.

Knowing how futile dwelling on that subject would be, especially with him in the same room, she cut off that train of thought and sent her mind in another direction.

Reaching the end of her track, she lifted her head, let her gaze travel the room as she slowly swung around. “I still think of this house as Randall’s. I never did consider it mine-which in retrospect was odd. Even now, it’s just a house I’m staying in.”

Christian was silent for a moment, then murmured, “If you never considered yourself his, then you never accepted what was his as yours.”

Looking down, she paced, nodded. “I daresay you’re right.

Casting about for another-safer-topic, she remembered the scene she’d witnessed as they were leaving his club. “I had no idea you were all so obsessed with learning Dalziel’s identity.”

On quitting the library, Jack and Tony had cornered Justin at the top of the stairs. Tristan and Christian had gone ahead, flanking Dalziel, talking to him-distracting him and making noise. She’d been descending in their wake when she’d heard, behind her, Jack ask, oh so innocently, “So where exactly does Dalziel live?”

After a moment’s hesitation, Justin had replied, “London.”

She hadn’t needed to look to know that Jack and Tony had been disappointed. But apparently they’d realized Justin had given his word and so wouldn’t be swayed. They’d accepted defeat with good grace-and huge sighs.

“It just seems unfair,” Christian said, “that he should know so much about us, even things we’d rather he didn’t, yet we know absolutely nothing about him, not even his real name.”

“You don’t need to know his name-you know the man.” She hesitated, then added, “I rather think that was his point.”

“What point?”

“The reason he uses that name.”

Christian snorted and they let that subject fall.

She kept pacing back and forth as the minutes ticked by.

He sighed. “You do realize that the entire purpose of this evening was to distract you?”

“Yes, I know. But I can’t get my mind off what, come Monday, we might learn. I have a very bad feeling about the Orient Trading Company’s business.”

So did Christian.

“I mean,” she went on, one arm sweeping wide as she turned, “why did Randall-and Trowbridge and Swithin, too-go to such lengths to keep the company so hidden? I can understand not wanting to be openly associated with any mercantile trade-they certainly wouldn’t have wanted that if their underlying purpose was to be accepted within the haut ton-but distancing themselves from any legitimate enterprise could easily have been done by appointing an agent, or man-of-business. Lots of others do that-why didn’t they? Why did they instead work so hard, with codes no less, to keep the whole enterprise an absolute secret?”

Sweeping up to where he sat, she halted dramatically and fixed him with an uncompromising stare. “The business of the Orient Trading Company has got to be something scandalous. That’s the only viable conclusion. You all think so, I know.”

He held her gaze. “As Jack pointed out, given the incoming sums are so large, it can’t be what we all thought.”

Folding her arms, she looked down her aristocratic nose at him. “The sums being so large might also be because whatever scandalous doings Randall and his cohorts were-are-involved in, and have now involved me in, is run on a grand scale.”

It was pointless to argue, especially when she might well be right. Yet her restless energy was still building; unless it subsided, she’d never sleep.

He’d tried distraction. He’d tried talking.

That left…

She humphed and swung away, pacing once again across the room.

Soundlessly, he rose and followed her.

The next time she swung around, she turned into his arms.

He caught her to him, bent his head and kissed her. Given distraction was his aim, he didn’t hold back; he parted her lips, surged into her mouth and laid claim.

She was passive for all of two heartbeats, then her hands were in his hair, holding his head while she kissed him back.

Voraciously.

Her mouth was as hungry as he was, her lips pliant and wantonly seductive, flagrantly demanding. She stepped into him, pressed her slender body to his, wordlessly communicated her desire.

In that, at least, they were as one.

Letitia knew why he was kissing her-knew what his stated purpose would be-and even though she suspected he had a deeper motive along the lines of seducing her into loving him again, she didn’t in that moment care.

What she cared about was the heat, the instant firing of her blood-just because he was who he was, and he wanted her.

Tonight, for his stated purpose and for her, that was enough.

Enough to let her set aside her reservations and grasp-seize-him with both hands. Enough to have her moving against him, blatantly inviting, with her body demanding his heated attentions.

And more.

Tonight she needed more, as much as he could give her to hold back the tide of her unsettling thoughts, to bury the sense of something dreadful approaching that had burgeoned with each successive discovery about her late husband’s business.

Tonight she wanted to forget-to set it all aside and be at peace. And in Christian’s arms she knew succor lay.

Not peace, not yet, not while passion and desire, the flames and the fire, were upon them. But tonight they could let them burn, could surrender themselves to the conflagration and be consumed.

So she kissed him back, with her lips and tongue teased and taunted, then reveled as he took control, as his tongue found hers and stroked, then arrogantly explored, reclaimed.

As he deepened the kiss and she surrendered, as she felt the rising heat melt her bones.

His arms tightened about her, crushing her breasts, already peaked and tight and aching, to the hard solid planes of his chest. One large palm swept down her back, pressing her to him, then sliding lower, over her hip, to grasp her bottom and angle her hips to his.

So he could move against her, so he could mold her against the rigid length of his erection, let her feel and anticipate having that hard length inside her. Thrusting into her, filling her, taking her…

Her mind reeled. She broke from the kiss on a gasp. “Upstairs.” The word was breathless, weightless. She hauled in a breath and tried again. “We should go up to my room.”

He stared down at her, gray eyes dark with passion-the passion she’d stirred, that had turned every muscle in his large body to hard-edged steel.

Then he blinked, focused-and she realized he’d been so caught up in having her, if she hadn’t spoken he would have had her there-on the rug before the fire or bent over the desk. A shiver of awareness and something more illicit slithered down her spine.

Before she could rethink, he managed a stiff nod. “Yes. Upstairs.” His voice was low and gravelly, already choked with desire. Another shiver threatened, this time one of sheer anticipation.

He had to force his arms to release her. The instant they did, before she could surrender to her baser self she turned and led the way from the room. He followed on her heels, close, close enough when they turned onto the stairs to rest a heavy, possessive hand on her back. Low on her back, on the curve of her bottom. She’d forgotten that-how, in the distant past, when they’d slipped away from balls and parties to be together, he’d always touched her, steered her, like that.

As if he couldn’t wait to touch her even more intimately.

As if he couldn’t wait to have her naked.

He often hadn’t.

But that had been then, when he was younger. Now, as she opened her bedchamber door and led him inside, she was very aware that he, the man at her heels, the male she would give herself to that night, was no callow youth.

Halting in the center of the room, she faced him. Saw him still by the door, watching her. Heard the click as, his gaze on her, he snibbed the lock.

Then he moved.

He walked toward her slowly, shadows and moonlight dappling his large frame.

When he halted before her, less than a foot away, he was all heat and power in the darkness, his very maleness sliding like a hand over her skin, leaving her nerves flickering. Waiting for his touch.

Moments ticked by as he looked into her face. Although she was tall, he was taller, broad and heavy where she was slender and slight, so much stronger she should have felt fear, yet she never had.

His strength was under his absolute control, and hers to command; she’d always known that.

So it wasn’t fear of that sort that sent a tingling lick up her spine.

He seemed to sense it, for he moved. Lifted both large, hard palms and framed her face.

Gently. As if to remind her his strength wasn’t to be feared.

But she felt something else in his touch, sensed it in his gaze. An intent she couldn’t name, that she hadn’t before encountered in him, that she had no experience of to draw on.

His lips curved subtly, as if he could read her sudden wondering in her eyes. He lowered his head-slowly-until his breath washed over her lips.

Making her hungry, making her want-until she tried to stretch up and press her lips to his and take what she needed-

And discovered she couldn’t.

That although his touch was gentle, it was enough to restrain her.

She sank back, would have frowned if desire hadn’t had her in thrall.

His lips curved a touch more and he bent his head-and gave her what she wanted. He took her lips in an achingly slow, devastatingly thorough kiss.

He drew back, lips supping idly at hers, then lifted his head far enough to meet her eyes. To look into them as he murmured, “Tonight, it’ll be my way.” His gaze lowered to her lips; he took them again in a heady, flagrantly explicit caress. “All my way.”

The words were deep, dark, his voice roughened by desire; she wasn’t surprised when he kissed her-even more explicitly, even more suggestively-on their heels.

When next he freed her lips, she breathed back, “I’ll think about it.”

She could imagine handing him the reins, as she’d recently done, but she couldn’t see him taking them from her without her leave, without her explicit consent.

His smile took on an edge. “You might find that difficult.”

His eyes, dark with a promise she couldn’t-didn’t know enough to-read, held hers, then he bent his head and his lips found hers.

In a kiss so scorching it curled her toes. That had her sinking her fingertips into his skull just to hold on to sanity.

His hands released her face, drifted away-for a moment she didn’t know to where-long enough to have her senses stretching, searching…

Long enough to have her nerves tight with anticipation when he closed one hand about her breast. Her breath caught, hitched; he kneaded, claimed, possessive beyond question, and her heart started to race.

As she felt his other hand pass across the back of her waist, then slide slowly down, tracing, claiming, to ultimately splay over her bottom and hold her, press her helplessly to him as he once again shifted against her.

A promise explicit both in intent and unscreened desire.

He kneaded her breast, kneaded her bottom, and filled her mouth, the heavy thrust of his tongue mimicking what he intended-and she wanted-to come. His touch wasn’t gentle, yet neither was it rough; he was far from untutored, knew just how dominant he could be without awakening her resistance.

He knew her too well; her senses reeling, her wits long gone, sensation her only guide, she reveled nonetheless, amazed and eager to engage with him-this male she’d never before encountered.

Older, wiser, and infinitely more knowing.

More threat to her, and her senses-and she knew it.

But she’d always loved playing with fire.

Christian had a plan. He had no idea if it was wise or not, but now he’d taken the first steps, he couldn’t draw back. Couldn’t put the genie of his possessiveness back in its bottle, not without first paying its price.

Not without first indulging it to the full.

So he filled his hands and his senses with her. Gorged on the bounty of her mouth, fully yielded, gloried in the knowledge she was under his hands and would do all he wished, everything he wished, yield every last gasp he wished tonight.

They’d never had barriers between them, not long ago. But long ago he hadn’t spent years believing she’d betrayed him, only to learn that wasn’t the case and he was the one at fault. Only to learn that she wasn’t yet ready to forgive him. To welcome him back into her arms, into her body. Into her heart and soul.

The warrior in him had needs, needs his more civilized self held in check. But tonight she needed distraction-tonight she needed something more than his civilized self could, or would, offer.

So he’d dropped the shields he’d learned to employ, and let the genie of his warrior self free.

Now he had to feed it.

She had to appease it.

To be what he needed, give all he needed.

Surrender as needed.

Everything.

He backed her, steered her, not toward the bed but away from it. To the window, uncurtained, where moonlight spilled in. He halted when they stood within the silvery shaft, hauled her even tighter against him, angled his head and deepened the kiss, until she was gasping. Mentally reeling. Too overwhelmed to deny him.

Lifting his head, grasping her waist, he turned her. Set her to face the window, then stepped close behind. Slid his hands around her and filled them with her breasts, closed his hands and felt her sway.

He took a moment to savor her struggle to breathe, to sense the thudding of her heart. Then he bent his head and set his lips to the sensitive hollow beneath her ear.

She shuddered, leaned back against him. He kneaded her breasts, already firm and swollen, already peaked, straining beneath her bodice. He listened to her gasps, orchestrated, sensed when the line where pleasure became pain was approaching.

Releasing the taut mounds, he set his fingers to the buttons of her bodice. Set his lips cruising the long line of her throat, set his teeth to score lightly along the same path.

While he laid her breasts bare.

Opened her bodice, pressed the halves wide, loosened her chemise and lowered it. Exposing the flushed ivory skin to the cool night air.

Smiling at the sight, at her nipples ruched tight, he raised his hands and once again closed them on her, this time skin-to-skin.

When she shuddered, dropping her hands to his thighs clutched, he lowered his head and murmured in her ear, “You’re going to stand there and let me love you-let me do whatever I wish to you. Let me have my way with you.”

Rubbish, Letitia’s rational self scoffed.

Why not? her curiosity prompted.

With the steady beat of passion thrumming in her veins, with the fog of desire clouding her brain, she could find no good answer to the question.

Could summon no resistance when he took her silence as agreement, and eased her gown and chemise down, stopped to unlace her petticoats, then pushed gown, petticoats, and chemise over her hips so they fell with a soft swoosh to the floor.

His hands returned to her skin, but his touch was different, lighter, frankly assessing, exploratory. As if he’d never seen her naked, as if she were a prize, a present he’d unwrapped for the first time.

She dragged in a breath past the constriction in her chest, conscious of her breasts rising, her midriff tightening, aware that he saw and watched. Naked but, once again, for her black lace garters and fine black silk stockings, she could all but feel the silvery touch of the moonlight as it bathed her long limbs, caressed the curves and valleys of her body, and illuminated a self she’d all but forgotten existed.

He moved behind her, a large, dark, powerful figure still fully clothed. She felt the cloth of his coat brush the long planes of her back. His hands caught hers, fingers briefly tangling with hers, then he glided his palms slowly up her arms, closed them for an instant over her shoulders, then slowly slid them, palms to her skin, down.

Over her breasts, hot and aching for more than a simple caress, over her midriff, tight with desire, over her waist and her taut belly, over the curve of her hips and down, around; gripping her bottom, he kneaded.

As he bent his head and set his lips over the pulse point at the base of her throat.

She gasped at the heat of that simple contact. Shivered and closed her eyes-only to have her other senses sharpen. To have her skin grow even more sensitive to his touch.

From behind, one trouser-clad knee pressed between hers, forcing her thighs apart. She sucked in a breath as, releasing her bottom, his hands cruised her hips. One splayed across her stomach and held her captive, pressed her back so she was straddling that hard thigh, the cloth of his trousers abrading the delicate skin of her thighs’ inner faces-an unsubtle reminder that he was fully clothed while she was all but naked, impressing a sense of vulnerability heavily on her senses.

His other hand drifted down over her thighs; his fingers briefly flirted with the tiny ribbons securing her garters, then left them for the bare skin above. With cool deliberation, with his fingertips he traced up the inner face of her thigh. Higher, higher…then he reached across and traced up the other side.

As if assessing the fineness of her skin, as if fascinated by it.

She tensed, and waited, breathing all but suspended…

Eventually, with a languid authority that in itself was arousing, he let his fingers rise to the next point on his trail of conquest, lightly stroking, then playing with the crinkly dark hair shielding her mons.

He was patently in no hurry; her whole body was taut-she was ready to scream-before he consented to part her curls and reach farther.

To trace, stroke, and caress the already swollen flesh, to slide his fingers through the slickness his earlier caresses had drawn forth.

He chuckled at how wet she was, a dark rumble of male appreciation deep in his chest.

Her hands rose, locked about his hand where it splayed over her belly. He continued to play, as if learning her anew. She was quivering when, after an excruciatingly slow exploration of her tender flesh, he finally pressed one long finger into her sheath.

One slow, smooth, complete penetration.

The sensation brought her onto her toes.

Head back against his shoulder, eyes tightly closed, she gasped.

He held her there, naked before him, her silk stockings sliding against his trousers, her bottom held against his thighs, his erection a heavy rod against her lower back-and made her writhe.

Although her eyes were closed, her mind still saw-saw herself in his arms, held trapped against him, her flushed skin pearlescent in the steady moonlight, her hair tumbling from its pins, long tresses curling over her shoulders as she-her body-responded, helplessly surrendered to the simple blatant act of possession expertly executed.

She no longer had the will to resist. She was captured, not by him but by her fascination with this different side of him, this other lover who was him, yet not the him she’d once known.

The dark lover who held her before him, and pressed pleasure upon exquisite pleasure on her. He was not just older, but more experienced, a scarred warrior who’d lived through battles and had at last come home to claim…her.

His due, his reward. His bounty.

His without question.

That seemed to be the case, for he asked no permission, waited for no assent when, once the heat within her built, and the fever threatened to consume her, instead of allowing her to shatter and find relief, he withdrew his hand from between her thighs, set her on her feet, waited only a heartbeat to ensure she was steady, then grasped her hand and towed her toward the bed.

Thank God, was her initial thought. She expected him to lay her down, strip off his clothes and join her.

Instead he led her to the nearest corner of the bed, to where the thick post of the four-poster bed was hung with heavy green damask curtains. He reached for the silk cord that held the curtains back, wrenched it free, with one hand pushed the curtains to either side, exposing the post.

Before she could blink, he had her backed against the post. He caught both her hands in one of his, drew them up, then looped the curtain cord about her wrists and lashed them high above her head.

Stunned, she could only stare. He stepped back, leaving her standing with her spine against the post, her arms raised but not stretched; there was enough play in the loop for her to curve her hands down and hang onto the cord. She did, testing, but his handiwork held; the lashing didn’t budge, even under her full weight.

What…? She looked at him, intending to ask.

He met her gaze, his own dark and hard, simply said, “Wait.”

He turned away from her and started to undress.

She wriggled, glared, tested her bonds again. Glared at his broad back as he shrugged out of his shirt. Her body was on fire, the flames he’d stoked so deliberately still burning brightly, hungrily, greedily. All she could think about was having him inside her, having the thick rod of his erection moving within her to quench the flames.

But then he turned back, gloriously naked, fully aroused, and expectant relief flooded her. Heightened her readiness, her waiting, her wanting.

She needed him against her, skin-to-skin, more than she needed to breathe.

Then he halted before her-face-to-face, eye-to-eye.

And she suddenly remembered that this wasn’t the lover she’d known before, but a hardened warrior intent on claiming his due.

Her.

A shiver raced through her as she looked into his eyes-pure excitement laced with expectation, honed by a sense of dealing with the unknown.

He said nothing, simply raised his hands, framed her face, bent his head and kissed her-as if he would-was fully intending to-devour her.

Her every thought cindered beneath the heat in that kiss.

Her mind was awash with raw scalding need when he lifted his head. He looked down, following his hands as he ran them down her body, heavily, possessively, sculpting her curves, his prize, his reward. He reassessed, caressed, repossessed-then bent his head and set his mouth to her breast.

Treated her swollen flesh, as he had her lips and mouth, to a single-minded ravishment. One that had her hanging in her bonds, the fire within her escalating to an unbearable degree.

She would have writhed but his hands held her steady. She sobbed as he released the nipple he’d tortured to throbbing hardness. Unrelenting, he bent and skated his lips lower, with wet, open-mouthed kisses, with his tongue and his teeth, possessed as he wished.

He went to his knees before her, placed hot kisses over her quivering belly, then set his lips to her curls…then he settled back, his knees wide, grasped her thighs, raised them and placed one over each broad shoulder, grasped her hips with both hands and held her, then set his lips to her core.

She swallowed a shriek, tensed against the bonds, spine arching, her thighs pressing down hard against his shoulders.

To no avail. He possessed her there as he had elsewhere, with slow, thorough deliberation. Reduced her to a state of breathless panting need, consumed by the fire he’d so mercilessly stoked.

She was his beyond doubt or question, his to do with as he wished…she shrieked as his tongue entered her, screamed as he thrust and her senses imploded.

Letting her legs slide from his shoulders, he surged up, grasped the backs of her thighs, lifted her up and to him, and entered her with one long, hard, relentlessly powerful thrust. Impaling her, filling her.

She screamed again, felt her body clamp hard about him, helplessly clutched her bonds, wound her legs about his hips as he withdrew and thrust heavily again-sobbed as he moved within her and the pleasure rolled on and on.

He possessed her utterly. Thoroughly. Entirely. He refused to let the flames fade, but held her hips and drove steadily into her, almost immediately stoking the blaze again.

Forcing the flames and her higher, then higher.

Then he bent his head and fastened his mouth about the peak of one breast and suckled fiercely.

She shattered into a million shards, so completely fragmented she wasn’t, for one bright shining instant in time, sure she’d survived.

Then glory rushed through her, golden and welcome, filling her veins, swamping her nerves, pouring delight through her as he continued to fill her, thrusting long and hard, yet still ruthlessly in control.

She was open to him, completely given over to him.

Surrendered.

His.

Christian’s warrior self crowed, gloated, even as he tightened his reins and held himself back from the beckoning edge.

He wasn’t finished with her yet. She’d needed distraction; he’d needed her. The exchange was straightforward, but he hadn’t yet had his fill.

When the last ripples of her release faded, and she slumped, boneless against the bonds, her body softening deliciously about his, he reached up, yanked the cord free of the bedpost. Leaving it dangling from her wrist, he drew her against him. Lowering her arms, she draped them about his shoulders. His throbbing erection still buried in her scalding sheath, his hands beneath her bottom supporting her, he carried her to the side of the bed.

Juggling her, he drew down the covers, then withdrew from her and tumbled her onto the bed.

Swiftly he arranged her as he wished-stretched out on her stomach down the length of the bed, her head to one side, just off the pillows, her hands level with her head, one on either side. He’d positioned one plump pillow beneath her hips before he’d rolled her over. He drew her long legs down, her ankles only a little apart; she was so boneless she could barely raise her head, much less question his decrees.

He knelt at her feet and considered her, smiled at the sight of her legs still clad in her garters and stockings. Shifting, he caught a garter and worked it down, drawing the stocking off with it. He repeated the exercise on her other leg, stripping garter and stocking away, leaving her totally bare.

Then he stretched himself over her, eased himself down on her, sensed the slight tension that reinvested her limbs as she took his weight, felt it pin her.

Half supported on one arm sunk in the bed beside her shoulder, he reached between her legs, positioned his aching erection at her entrance, and slid slowly home, eyes closing as he thrust slow and deep into the slick scalding haven of her sheath.

He nearly groaned.

She tightened just a little about him, but she didn’t have enough energy left to do anything other than lie beneath him and-as he’d warned her she would-let him have his way with her.

Greedily, hungrily, eager for the contact, he let himself fully down upon her, his chest to her back, his shoulders heavy across hers.

He’d taken her from behind before, but never like this. Not with her helpless beneath him, his body spread over hers, trapping her fully under him-giving her no option but to receive him as deeply and for as long as he wished.

Her body was a cushion of feminine curves and hollows against which his rubbed, another delicious friction as he settled to ride her with a slow, steady thrust and retreat.

He’d waited for this. He was going to extract every last ounce of pleasure from it, from her. Expose her to every last facet of his need of her.

And hope she understood. Hope she saw the raw need that drove him to have her as explicitly and as possessively as this for what it was-a symptom of complete and helpless devotion.

A need to have, to possess, that went beyond sinew and bone, that, as his spine flexed in its slow, rigidly controlled rhythm and he felt her instinctively soften, then tighten about him, welled and filled him.

Expanded, then coalesced and tightened within him.

Bending his head, his chest tight, his breath gasping, he pressed his lips gently to her shoulder.

Closed his eyes and let her take him.

Let her have and know all he was. All that he wanted and needed.

Her senses swamped with glorious warmth, Letitia felt his strength all around her, surrounding her, enveloping her, holding her. Rocking her, pressing into her, stroking inside her.

He lay like a cloak over her, possessive unquestionably, yet there was more to it than that. Even with her mind floating in hazed pleasure, in the golden aftermath that courtesy of his body moving on and within hers seemed to be stretching endlessly, she felt the connection-the forging of something new, blending and strengthening what had previously been, what had in the past linked them.

Pleasured to her toes, as his fingers found hers and tangled, and he rode her, unrelentingly slow and deep, to completion, she sensed in her bones that he was giving her more-not just in the physical sense, but more of him. Sharing more of him, aspects of himself he usually kept hidden.

Her cheek pressed to the pillow, she felt her lips curve. Welcomed the escalation as he thrust harder, deeper, nudging her up the bed even though he held her beneath him. The fluctuating pressure of his groin against her bottom, never quite leaving her, a continuous tactile impression mirroring his deeper possession, struck her as frankly erotic.

She’d always loved the sensation of being skin-to-skin with him. Of being naked, no barriers of any sort, with him.

Feeling the telltale rising tension invest and harden his limbs, tighten the steely muscles holding her down even more, her smile deepened and she let her senses expand-to her surprise felt her own body stir, respond, rise again to his beat.

He thrust still harder, once, twice, then a long groan ripped from his chest as his hips slammed hard against her bottom. Pressed in as he pumped into her, his release washing through him-triggering hers.

Amazed-she hadn’t thought it possible-she felt the golden tide rise and sweep through her once again, this time gentler, yet longer and more pervasive, an extended moment of exquisite pleasure that had her gasping, struggling for breath. Deep within, she felt her womb contract, felt her body clutch and hold him.

Satiation came in hard and swift, rolling over her, claiming what was left of her mind, disconnecting her senses and setting them free. In the instant before she surrendered to the glorious drugging bliss, she wondered if her body knew more than she.

Tie her up fast.

Lying slumped over Letitia, his head cradled on her breast, her fingers moving slowly, caressingly through his hair, Christian recalled his aunt’s words. Hoped he’d managed, over the past hours, to fashion a loop or two with which to reel his elusive lady in.

He’d eventually summoned enough strength to disengage and lift off her. He’d rolled her over and settled them more conventionally in the bed, but had yet to pull the covers over their cooling bodies.

He liked lying on her, their limbs damp and tangled in aftermath, and she didn’t seem to mind in the least.

Her fingers slowed. From above him, her voice drifted through the darkness. “What are you doing here, in my bed, in my arms?”

An easy enough question to turn aside with some jocular remark, yet…“I’m waiting for you to open your eyes and see me. Here. In your bed, in your arms.”

She snorted softly. “I know you’re here.” She shifted beneath him. “That’s no news.”

“No.” He lifted his head and looked up at her face. “But what you need to see is that I’m not leaving. Not this time.”

A long moment passed while she looked into his eyes. Her expression was serene, madonnalike, unreadable, then, her eyes still locked with his, she raised her brows. “Is that so?” Her tone cast the question as rhetorical. After another moment of considering him-studying what she could see-she quietly said, “You don’t own me, Christian.”

“No.” If he’d failed to grasp that before, he knew it now. “I never did.”

But as he in turn looked into her green-gold eyes, he had to wonder if, perhaps, he had owned a part of her all along, and simply hadn’t understood.

She wasn’t sure of his current tack-of him; her uncertainty showed in her eyes. “So…what do you want from me?”

The easiest question of all. “The same thing I’ve wanted from you from the first. You, as my wife.”

“Your wife?” She let another moment tick past, then asked, her tone cooler, “And what of your revenge, your strategy to pay me back for not waiting for you and marrying Randall instead?”

“You didn’t have a choice. I know that now.”

He kept his gaze locked with hers. She searched his eyes, his expression, considered what she saw. Then she quietly said, “Your head knows that. But does your heart?”

The question hung between them.

She did, indeed, know him very well.

He looked inward, found, sensed, the lingering threads of his years-old anger-yet as he looked deeper, as he searched for the truth with which to answer her, he felt those threads wither and crumble. Blow away.

What he saw, what he found…

Between them now only the truth would do.

He felt his lips curve in self-deprecating cynicism; he’d been a fool to imagine his heart had ever been, or could ever be, otherwise.

“My heart?” He refocused on her eyes, held her gaze steadily. “My heart only ever had one thought, one want. One need. Despite all, in spite of all.” He felt as if he were sinking into the golden depths of her eyes. Let go. “All my heart has ever wanted is you.”

The moment stretched, then he asked, “What of yours?”

“Mine?” Her gaze remained unwavering while she debated whether to answer. Eventually she said, “I put my heart aside a long time ago. I locked it in a casket and buried the key.”

Her meaning was clear. She’d protected her heart in the only way she could.

And she wasn’t yet ready to trust him with it again.

He didn’t try to argue. Instead he merely nodded and settled his head once more on her breast. Waited until her fingers returned to stroke his hair before murmuring, “Then I’ll have to find the key.”

Tie her up fast.

Fast as in quickly, fast as in tightly. Both applied.

She might be stubborn, but he was stubborner. He was in her bed, in her arms. He had her with him again, and he wasn’t going to let her go.