The Truth about Love

11

They returned to Hellebore Hall thoroughly satisfied with their afternoon’s endeavors. The evening passed quietly. After dinner, Gerrard excused himself, leaving Barnaby to convey his apologies and entertain Jacqueline and Millicent in the drawing room. Climbing the stairs, he imagined Jacqueline laughing gaily at one of Barnaby’s tales, and felt something within him stir; as he unlocked the door to the studio and went in, he realized what that something was.

Jealousy.

He stood for a moment, then pocketed the key and closed the door; faintly uneasy, he crossed to the table where the sketches he’d earlier selected lay waiting.

The sight of them helped push his unsettling, uncharacteristic reaction from his mind.

He’d instructed Compton to leave the five lamps stationed about the room alight. The flames had had time to steady; they cast even, un-flickering light across his easel, and the large blank canvas clamped upon it. For long moments, he stood staring at the sketches, absorbing all they conveyed-shape, form, energy. Then he shrugged out of his coat and tossed it on a chair. Rolling up his sleeves, he searched through his pencils; selecting one with a lead worn to precisely the right angle, he picked up the first sketch, and turned to the canvas.

He worked steadily, pausing only to exchange one sketch for the next. Each represented another aspect, another layer of the menacing mystery with which he wanted to imbue his setting-the entrance to the Garden of Night. Never had he worked like this before, from the surroundings inward. He was driven by instinct, by unfathomable conviction that that was the way this portrait had to be approached.

It made sense, in a way, although he barely paused to consider it; Jacqueline would be the central and crucial last element-the core, the meaning, the purpose behind the portrait. She would be the life in it; no matter how potent the surroundings, they wouldn’t-couldn’t-overwhelm her.

The clock doubtless ticked, but he remained oblivious, wholly absorbed in his work. Beyond the window, darkness closed in and night fell. On the floors below, the house quieted as the other occupants settled into their beds.

A slumbering silence enshrouded the house.

He sketched on, his pencil flying ever faster as the surroundings took shape, as he sketched in the barest outline of a figure as a future guide. The tones, the shading, formed in his mind, bringing the collection of fine lines to life, at least to his eyes.

The stairs beyond the studio door creaked, the sound sharp enough to penetrate his absorption. He glanced at the door, frowning. Compton knew better than to interrupt, as did Barnaby, not unless there was some desperate reason, something he had to know.

He heard someone moving beyond the door, then a light tap sounded on the panels.

Not Compton, not Barnaby.

Even while his mind informed him who his midnight visitor most likely was, the knob turned and the door opened.

Jacqueline looked in.

She saw him; raising her brows, she half smiled. “May I come in?”

He looked at the canvas, at the thousand lines he’d laid down in the past hours; he couldn’t seem to focus. He looked back at her, half expecting her to be fuzzy, but his vision was clear and sharp; every sense he possessed had no difficulty locking on her.

Laying aside the last sketch, he waved her in, and promptly lost all interest in the canvas; he couldn’t drag his eyes from her as she stepped through the door, shut it, then turned and, smiling lightly, came toward him.

She was wearing a heavier robe than last night. This one was of ivory satin, belted at her waist, yet judging from the gauzy glimpses he caught at throat and calf, the nightgown beneath was close to diaphanous.

His mind immediately wanted to find out; his body reacted, not just to the question, but even more to the likely answer.

Dragging his gaze up to her face, fixing his eyes on hers, he stepped away from the easel. Grabbing a sketch pad and pencil in one hand, he grasped her elbow with the other, and turned her down the room. “Since you’re here, you have to let me sketch you.”

She looked at him; amusement flirted about her lips. “I do?”

He nodded; jaw set, he marched her to the window seat. And managed to release her. “Sit there.”

She did, and looked up at him, ivory satin spread about her. Her hair, lit by the lamps, glowed rich and warm and inviting, as were her lips, lush and full, softly sheening…

He forced himself to look around, then lifted his coat from the straight-backed chair and dropped it to the floor. Setting the chair at a safe distance, he sat; placing his ankle on his knee, he balanced his sketch pad-and looked at her. Instructed himself to view her as just another subject-and failed.

He made a swirling motion with one finger. “Swing around and lean one elbow on the sill.”

She did, shifting her hips, lifting one knee onto the padded seat to accommodate the pose.

The robe gaped, both over her breasts, and below her knees. Her nightgown was indeed diaphanous. The glimpses of pale, smooth skin left his mouth dry.

“Just stay there.” His voice had grown gravelly. He shut his lips, and drew-not one of his usual quick sketches but a study, a detailed work of line and shade that showed more, conveyed more.

And captured him fully, in a completely different way than any work before.

Even as he recorded the vulnerable line of her throat, the sirenlike quality of her luscious lips, the provocative curves of breasts, hips and thighs outlined beneath the subtle sheen of satin, he was simultaneously conscious of his own fascination, not, as was usual, with the medium with which he worked, but with his subject.

Conscious of his deepening enthrallment, helpless to resist.

Twenty minutes must have passed, and she made no complaint, but simply watched him steadily with her green-gold eyes. He captured that direct gaze, then studied what he’d drawn-there was no element of challenge in her eyes, but a simple certainty, a reflection of that steadiness of character that had attracted him from the first.

He looked up, and met her gaze. “There’s no need to seduce me.”

If she could deal in blatant honesty, so could he.

Her eyes widened slightly, then the curve of her lips deepened. “Isn’t there?”

“No.” After a moment, he added, “You don’t seem to realize how dangerous this could be…to you.” And him. He no longer recognized the landscape into which they’d journeyed; when it came to her, he was no longer sure he recognized himself.

Jacqueline held his gaze, dark and frankly stormy, while she considered his words, his warning. Eventually, she replied, “I have thought of it, but I’ve decided the greater danger lies in inaction.”

He frowned, but she had no intention of explaining further. She had thought, at length; to her, her conclusions were sound. She had no guarantee he would remain in her orbit beyond the completion of her portrait; that evening, Barnaby had told her that that might mean she’d lose Gerrard’s company in less than two months.

Going slowly, carefully, was no longer an option. She wanted to know, to explore fully whatever it was that stirred and flared whenever they were close. He’d made it clear he would make no promises; that was as may be-she still had to know, had to grasp the opportunity fate had handed her, to explore this until now unknown arena.

Who knew when next she’d get the chance? He was the first and only man who’d ever made her feel like this.

Even more critically, what if, by not acting but instead taking the safe road, they missed something-unknowingly passed up an experience that, if given a chance to evolve and bloom, might lead to some vital development for them both?

Beyond doubt, not acting was the greater risk.

Lowering her elbow, she shifted, facing him. His gaze lowered, drawn to her full breasts outlined beneath her robe; his frown deepened, a degree of puzzlement quite clear.

“What is it?” she asked.

Lips thinning, he lifted his gaze to her face. “I was wondering if this was the natural outcome of keeping young ladies like you hidden away until the advanced age of twenty-three.”

She laughed.

Although patently distracted again, he continued, “If so…I can guarantee it’ll become all the rage.”

His eyes openly roamed, then returned to hers. He looked at her; desire burned steadily in his eyes, yet he didn’t move. Gave no sign at all that he would.

She set her feet to the floor, and slowly stood. Paused until her robe and nightgown slithered down, then she walked the few paces to stand before him. Boldly reaching for the sketch pad, she took it; his fingers tightened for an instant, then he let it go.

Turning it, she studied what he’d drawn.

Felt not so much shock as satisfied surprise warm her-was that truly her? There was a quiet sultriness in her face, a sirenlike quality in her gaze. A lush invitation in every line of her body, a body she recognized well enough, but had never before seen as blatantly sexual.

Now she saw through his eyes, understood, and was pleased.

She glanced at him, saw that he’d been tracking her emotions, her thoughts, in her face. “It’s very good.”

She handed the pad back to him. He took it, but his eyes didn’t leave her face. “Accurate, would you say?”

There was something in his eyes that warned her she was standing very close to some edge. She drew breath, found her lungs had constricted, not with fear but anticipation. “Yes.”

He dropped the pad; the pencil rolled away across the floor.

He reached for her, and drew her down onto his lap, into his arms-into a kiss that within a minute had set fires alight everywhere under her skin.

Raising one hand, he cradled her head, and pressed her lips wide. Angling his head, he filled her mouth, and took everything she offered, all she freely yielded. She clutched the fine linen of his shirt, fists clenching tight, then realized…slowly straightening her fingers, she spread her hands.

Over his chest. Beneath her thighs, his felt like rock, solid and un-giving; the arms about her felt like iron bands, not crushing her yet holding her captive. But his chest felt like cushioned stone, warm, unyielding yet comfortable. She sank her fingers into the heavy muscle and pressed closer, drawn by his heat.

By the urge to get closer still. Pushing her arms up over his shoulders, she pressed her already heavy, already aching breasts to his chest-and felt his pulse leap. Sensed the catch in his breathing, then his fingers shifted about her jaw, his lips firmed-and fire and molten heat poured from him, flooded through their fused lips and into her.

Gerrard’s head was spinning. Again. Just being near her when she was thinking sexual thoughts was enough to arouse him. Painfully.

Kissing her was sheer torture.

He couldn’t stop.

Yet some part of his mind knew exactly what to do, knew exactly what script he should follow. That he had such a side to him was something of a revelation; more ruthless, more primitive, and passionate, possessive and protective in the extreme, driven by primal instincts and content to be so, such maleness was something he’d associated with Devil and Vane, and the other Cynster males he knew-not him.

Until he’d met her, he hadn’t met this side of himself, hadn’t known it existed. Now he did.

Now it felt right, and he embraced it; he had no choice.

He tugged the sash of her robe free, slid his palm beneath the satin, skated over warm skin shielded by filmy silk, then closed his hand firmly about her breast, and provocatively, possessively, kneaded.

Instinct informed him what he wanted her to feel, what he needed the interlude to achieve. Settling her more firmly in his arms, his lips on hers, he set out to educate her senses, to educate the passion he sensed in her.

Jacqueline let herself flow on the heated tide he sent rushing through her. She felt no fear, no hesitation, but gave herself up to the wild and thrilling ride. Eagerness buoyed her, anticipation and expectation were a giddy mix roiling through her veins; excitement flowered and desire burgeoned, powerful and compulsive.

His lips and tongue demanded her attention; his hand on her breast shattered it. His long fingers teased, taunted, then soothed. She gasped through their kiss, gripped his head with both hands and with her lips and tongue urged him on.

She wanted to know all; pressing heated kisses on his firm lips, inviting ever more in return, she made that plain.

She was perfectly certain he understood. His hands, palms and fingers spread, traced her body; her robe hung from her shoulders, wide open, no impediment as he pandered to her senses and, she was sure, his. There was hunger in his touch, quite blatant, an element of desire she’d not before encountered-it sent frissons of mindless anticipation sliding through her.

This and more-she wanted to know it all, to experience all there was, all that might be. When his lips left hers she sighed, floating in the warmth they’d created, wits whirling yet able to follow as he bent his head and, nudging her chin up, set his lips to her throat. Paid homage to the sensitive region beneath her ear, then skated down, tracing the long line to her collarbone, pausing to hotly lave the pulse point above it, then his lips glided over the fine silk covering her breast, and fastened about one tightly budded nipple.

She tensed in expectation of a repeat of the sharp sensation she’d felt before, but his ministrations this time only soothed; he licked, laved, dampening the silk until it clung to her skin, then his tongue swirled and her world shook. Trembled.

Her breasts, full and tight, ached; he switched his attention to the other, repeating the subtle torture, then divided his time until she thought she would scream.

The instant before she did, he lifted his head, covered her lips with his, filled her mouth with his tongue and, like a marauding pirate, plundered. His hands slid lower, outlining her waist, gripping momentarily, fracturing her attention, then gliding lower to sculpt her hips. To learn her form as an artist might; for one moment, she wondered…then his fingers brazenly pressed between her thighs, stroked her curls, pushed past them to reach the throbbing flesh beyond, then pressed further and probed, and she lost all ability to think.

Discovered to her surprise that she could only feel, that there was such a state as being overwhelmed by her senses. Heightened to almost excruciating sensitivity, they commanded every last ounce of her concentration, held her ruthlessly focused on his touch, on the openly predatory way in which he was caressing her. She’d offered, and he was taking. Despite her whirling wits, that fact registered clearly.

She was in complete agreement.

Reassured he was taking the road she’d wished to take, she dragged in a breath, and turned her attention to him. To other aspects she’d yet to explore.

Like his chest. His shirt was of the finest linen; through it she could feel his flesh, feel the muscles shifting beneath her fingers as like a cat she kneaded. But that wasn’t enough; she wanted to feel his skin. Leaning her elbows on his chest, trying not to think too much about the far too evocative play of his fingers between her thighs, she set her hands to his cravat.

Sensually captured by the tactile wonder of the hot, slick flesh his fingers caressed, Gerrard didn’t realize what she was about until she wrestled his shirt wide, and laid his chest bare.

She wrenched back from the kiss to look-one glance at her face, at the expression that lit her eyes, and he was lost. Slayed by a desire so deep, so complete, it spared no part of him, left no vestige of his self, his soul, free. From that instant, he was hers, no matter she didn’t know it. From beneath heavy lids he watched her face, enthralled by the play of emotions across it, by the directness he’d from the first seen in her, and valued for what it was.

All that it was-the most arousing element in any sexual enounter was the response of the other. With her, he would never need to wonder, not even to think-she lavished her appreciation on him, and in so doing enslaved him.

He let her play as long as he could, as long as he dared. He knew the script-she didn’t; control, his control, was vital. And with that, she wasn’t helping.

Her hands traced down; her expression plainly stated she was fascinated with his ridged abdomen. Fingers spread, she tested, explored; from beneath her lashes, she threw him a sultry glance, then returned to her avid play. His painter’s brain happily re-created the scene in his mind, titled it: Siren Exulting.

She was. The sight held him in thrall.

But when her hands eased and drifted lower, his newfound ruthlessness rose to the fore. Catching her hands, he lifted them to his shoulders, released them there; ignoring her questioning glance, he drew her back to him, back into his arms, back into a kiss expressly designed to render her witless.

To plunge her back into the sea of desire, of heady wanton passion, that had been steadily rising about them.

She went eagerly; grasping his head between her hands, she kissed him back with abandon. An abandon that only made him ache all the more, that only made it harder to do what he knew he should.

He had to break her spell, her increasingly strong grip on his senses.

Before he could change his mind-before she could further weaken his resolve-he lifted her, stood, and carried her to the window seat. She drew back from the kiss; he had to let her. From beneath her long lashes, she looked into his eyes, studied his face; he could read her thoughts easily-see the anticipation, the flare of expectation that flamed in her eyes, brilliant emerald and gold, gilded by the fires of passion.

The nursery was old, the window seat wide and liberally supplied with soft cushions; he tumbled her down onto it, and followed, trapping her half beneath him. She laughed softly, a sound of pure abandon that raked his soul, and racked his desire one notch higher. Reaching for him, she drew his head down, drew his lips to hers, parted in flagrant welcome.

He sank into her mouth, for long moments simply indulged, and wallowed in her clear encouragement, in the honest passion that was so much a part of her. He wanted that-wanted to seize-but experience warned that with her, caution and care were imperative. Steeling himself, he mentally drew back, and turned his mind to executing the strategy instinct drove him to employ.

Jacqueline sensed his attention shift; his lips remained fused with hers, a potent distraction, but then his hands were on her, roaming her body, so scantily clad she might as well have been naked.

She wished she were naked-she wanted to feel his hands on her skin, ached for the greater intimacy, wanted that hurdle crossed so there’d be fewer between her and her goal. His touch had grown harder, more demanding, each caress a blatantly sexual act, an intimate claiming.

He touched her as if she was his, sculpted her flesh as he wished, explored without reserve.

Each caress stoked the fires beneath her skin until she writhed beneath him, insensibly sure she needed even more. Exactly what, she wasn’t sure, but he responded by running his hand from her collarbone down over her breast, squeezing, swiftly kneading, tweaking the nipple to painful erectness before sweeping down, tracing the indentation of her waist, then passing over her stomach, splaying and pressing possessively, then sweeping lower still, stroking her curls, veiled by fine silk, before gliding down the long line of one thigh-to her knee and the hem of her nightgown.

He drew it up, up to her hips, then he tugged and drew it higher still, to her waist. Cool air played over her bare skin as with one knee he nudged her thighs apart; through their kiss, she gasped-she would have pulled back, broken the kiss to drag in air and steady her giddy senses, but he didn’t permit it. He held her to the kiss as the exchange turned scorching, as he set his hand to her bare knee, then ran his palm up, over her thigh, and found her.

Cupped her, then his fingers stroked and he parted her soft flesh, and slid not one but two fingers into her.

She felt the intimate penetration to her soul, felt her body arch, not in protest but in welcome. He stroked, possessive and sure; her every sense locked on the movement. On the sensations he evoked, that he drew from her, pressed on her. She had to cling to the kiss as her world spun; he held her to it, her lips beneath his, feeding her kisses laden with passion, with a desire that burned as bright as her own. More than anything else, that desire, his blatant wanting, buoyed and reassured.

She wanted him, and he wanted her. That seemed totally right.

Gradually, he eased back from the kiss; lifting his head, he looked down at her, studied her face from beneath heavy lids, then his lips quirked in smug, wholly male satisfaction. Between her thighs, his hand worked, knowingly stroking, stoking a need that was already threatening to sweep her away. She sank her fingers into his shoulders and tried to pull him back, but he moved lower, then shifted-with his free hand caught her nightgown hem and raised it higher still, then bent his head.

His mouth, hot and wet, closed over her nipple. She almost screamed, the sound only half smothered; the sensation wasn’t new, but had grown immeasurably sharper. And only swelled more as he feasted, as he made free with all she’d willingly offered. Steadily he drew her, body and senses, into deeper waters, into the hot, surging tide of passion unrestrained.

She went willingly, aware her horizons were rapidly expanding, that she’d lost touch with the world she knew, and would have to rely on him to guide her back.

Her body was no longer hers to command. Her world had reduced to the window seat; she was acutely aware of how her body, all but naked, writhed beneath his experienced caresses, how it rose, responding to every ardent touch, how the lamplight played over the valleys and hollows-how he watched, and saw, and was pleased.

Grimly pleased. She sensed that last as he lifted his head and looked down at her breasts, firm, swollen and aching, nipples tightly furled, skin flushed with desire. He moved lower still, and let his gaze wander, down over her waist, her stomach, to the damp curls one thumb idly stroked, to the junction of her thighs, to where his hand worked, constantly caressing, probing, but never quite pressing as he had once before.

Slowly, he traced his way back to her face, met her eyes, then the light of sheer conquest gleamed in his, and he bent his head.

His lips touched her navel; his tongue swirled, then probed. She shrieked, but the sound came out as a breathless squeak. She felt him chuckle, then he drew back and blew gently on her damp flesh, then touched his lips once more to her skin, and set about trailing hot, wet, open-mouthed kisses down over her stomach.

To her curls.

To-

She screamed, but she’d lost her breath entirely-no sound came out at all. She twisted, but he’d grasped her hips, anchoring her while he pleased himself, and pleasured her.

“Gerrard!” She finally managed a shocked whisper.

“Mmm?” He didn’t lift his head, barely paused in his ministrations.

Her wits had spun away; her mind was blank. “You…can’t.” She felt like she was dying, her chest so tight she couldn’t breathe, her every nerve coiled and shrieking.

“I can.”

He demonstrated, and her world shuddered. Closing her fists in the cushions beneath her, she clung for dear life. She’d thought they’d been following the usual pattern of events-the pattern as Eleanor had described it more than once. But this had never featured in Eleanor’s experience.

His hands gripped and he lifted her to him.

She felt her body react, felt the intimate surrender to her bones.

Felt the mind-numbing pleasure to her toes.

She moaned his name, closed her eyes tight. Gave up the fight to do anything other than give herself to him, to let him do with her as he wished.

And he knew.

He lavished sensation and more upon her, intimacy beyond her wildest dreams, until, quite suddenly, it was all too much. The glory built to an unbearable degree and she broke apart-flew apart in a cascade of pleasure and physical joy, and gold and silver glory.

Heat pulsed through her, flooded her mind and her soul, buoyed her as he lapped, then laid her gently down.

Blindly, she reached for him; after an instant’s hesitation, he came to her, let her draw him to her, but then he settled beside her, his hand soothing her flushed body, gently drawing her back to earth.

Something was wrong. Her body was drowning in the languorous aftermath of the pleasure he’d brought her, yet all he did was draw her nightgown down and lift her robe over her, protecting her cooling skin. Raising her lids, heavy with satiation, she watched his face, the planes still etched with the desire he’d held back-that he was still holding back.

She waited until his eyes met hers, then simply asked, “Why?”

He couldn’t pretend not to understand. She may be a novice, yet for him to have given her such pleasure, yet taken none for himself…that wasn’t the way things should be.

For a moment, he studied her eyes, then to her surprise, he caught her hands, one in each of his, pressed them to the cushions on either side of her head and leaned over her. Leaned close-his face was inches from hers, his lips a handbreadth away.

He looked at her lips, then lifted his gaze and met her eyes. “I want you. You know I do.”

She did; his desire for her screamed, not just from his eyes, not just in the deepened, roughened tone of his voice, but from the tightly leashed tension that invested every muscle in his large lean body. If that wasn’t evidence enough, his erection rode against her hip, rampant and rigid.

Moistening her lips, she kept her eyes on his. “Why, then?”

“Because…” He searched her eyes. “You’ve offered yourself to me twice. Twice, I’ve given you the chance to step back, to retreat to safer ground.” His gaze lowered to her lips, then again returned to her eyes. “To escape me, and the demands I’ll make of you if I make you mine.”

Her body was still throbbing with the aftermath of what he’d wrought; between them, she could feel not only her own heart, but his, too, thudding. Pounding. “Do you want me to escape?”

His lips lifted, but it wasn’t in a smile. “No. I want to have you.” His head lowered, his lips brushed hers. “But what I want, what I’ll demand and take if you surrender yourself to me, might be more than you’re prepared to give.”

The words feathered over her lips, promise and warning combined.

She met his eyes again, felt herself drowning in their depths. “What, exactly, would you demand of me?”

“Everything. All of you.” He shifted, looking down; his hand brushed the side of her breast, instantly stirring her body to life. “What I’ve taken so far is much less than I want. I want every scintilla of passion you have in you, every iota of desire you have to give.” He paused, then raised his lids and again met her eyes. “I want to, and will, possess you utterly.”

About them, all was silent and still; between them, passion arced, desire burned. The predator in him was starkly evident, in the lines of his face, in the intensity of his gaze.

She knew what she wanted. She opened her mouth-

He kissed her. Kissed her with all the passion he’d held back, ravished her mouth and her senses, plundered and took, giving her a taste-just a taste-of his ravenous hunger, then he pulled back.

“Be in no doubt.” His voice grated, a sexual rumble that rasped her senses. “If you offer a third time, I’ll take, and there’ll be no going back. I won’t play the gentleman and turn you away. I want you-if you tempt me again, you’ll be mine. Every inch of you. With every gasp, every moan, every heartbeat, you’ll be mine.”

Straightening his arms, he lifted himself over her; looking down, he held her gaze. “Think about it.” His eyes searched hers. “If you decide you truly want that, I’ll be here. Waiting.”

Prowling. The energy that crackled beneath his skin was new. Something beyond his experience, as he was beyond hers.

Gerrard paced before the darkened windows of his bedroom, still aching, still driven.

One part of him, the primitive prowling part of him that now gave him no surcease, hadn’t wanted to warn her-had wanted instead to seize and be damned.

But he’d known better. The more sophisticated part of him that had evolved through the years, that had watched and seen and, it now seemed, absorbed, knew the price he was paying for warning her and letting her go-letting her go to make her own decision-was a bargain in terms of what he would gain.

Her. Committed by her own act, not swept into his arms by his more powerful libido.

He knew, to his bones, what he felt for her. Something he’d never expected to feel. He now understood what he never had before-the driven quality behind the protective possessiveness of the Cynster men, especially Devil and Vane, the two whose marriages he’d most closely observed. Devil, being Devil, was forever arrogantly blatant, while Vane was quieter, stubborn and immovable, yet the force driving their behavior was the same. He hadn’t expected to feel the same compulsion, but now he did…his approach would be more subtle.

He knew women, had interacted more closely with them than most-he knew enough to cloak his driving need, to veil his vulnerability by insisting Jacqueline make her own decision to give herself to him, to commit herself through her own, considered act.

Now he’d chosen, fought and succeeded in following that tack, when the time came, she would view the consequences of becoming his as something she’d invited, and, he hoped, accept them without complaint.

His plan was sound, well grounded. It would work.

Smothering an inclination to growl, he swung on his heel and paced across the room. His blood was still coursing too fast through his veins, desire still lashed and passion prodded-leashed, for now.

But not for long.

He was as arrogant as Devil or Vane, enough to feel confident of her decision-of what she’d choose. She’d choose to be his, and then he’d have her.

Without her knowing she’d been seized.