What Price Love?

21

Absorbed with her side of the equation, she hadn’t considered his. Now that Flick had pointed it out, along with the implications, Pris had a great deal more to think about-a much wider view of Dillon Caxton and his pursuit of her.

She still couldn’t be certain of his reason for wanting to marry her, but, with Flick’s revelations, the scales had tipped.

If belief had yet to surface, hope at least had bloomed.

Later that evening, whirling down Lady Kendrick’s dance floor, she listened to Rus enthusiastically describe his plans-not just for the next months, but for the rest of his life.

“We’ll go back to the Hall eventually, of course, but first…”

He hadn’t specified, but it seemed clear that “we” meant he and Adelaide. He’d slipped into the habit of referring to them in the plural-just as Dillon insisted on doing with her and him. It was always them. Us.

Suddenly aware that Rus had stopped speaking, she looked, and found him regarding her with unusual seriousness.

What are you going to do? was on the tip of his tongue; instead, he looked over her head. “If you’re still at the Hall, you might well be an aunt by then.” His lips curved lightly. “You could help take care of our children.”

Pris narrowed her eyes to slits, but he refused to meet her gaze. “It’s no use, you know. I won’t be prodded.”

He glanced at her. “Adelaide suggested a little nudge might help.”

She widened her eyes in an affronted glare. “You know better.”

He sighed. “Well, anyway.” Blithely, he returned to his life, his future, and left her to plan her own.

Which still wasn’t any easy matter. Adelaide had known where to prod.

Returned to Dillon’s side at the end of the mea sure, she grasped the excuse of a trailing flounce to escape to the withdrawing room. While repairing the damage, she tried to bring some order to her thoughts, to approach the vexed question of her future-as Dillon’s wife or not?-from a different angle.

If she didn’t marry Dillon, what would she do?

The answer wasn’t heartening. What, outside marriage, remained for her to achieve?

Rus was safe, welcomed into his chosen field, and he and her father were reconciled. Indeed, they were all three in greater harmony than she could ever recall. Her younger siblings were happy and well cared for, largely as a result of her planning; they didn’t need her to be there, on hand. While she would instantly return should any trouble threaten, with her father, Eugenia, Rus, Adelaide, and Albert all present and in league, it was difficult to imagine what such trouble might be.

As for the Hall, her home, she’d grown up knowing it would never be hers to run; the reins would pass to Adelaide, Rus’s wife. Leaving, establishing her own home…she’d always assumed she would one day.

She’d traveled with Eugenia to Dublin, to Edinburgh, to London. She enjoyed cities well enough, enjoyed their distractions, but she enjoyed the country more.

She’d felt at home in Newmarket.

The thought slid through her mind. Wrinkling her nose, she sat before a mirror to tidy her curls.

A movement to her left drew her attention. A lady, elegantly gowned and coiffed, sank onto a chair alongside and simply stared.

Slowly, Pris turned and looked-directly-at the lady.

She blinked. “Oh.” Her eyes remained round as she studied Pris’s face. She seemed disposed to simply stare.

“Is there something I can help you with?” Pris asked.

The lady’s eyes lifted to hers, then her shoulders slumped. “No. That is…” She frowned. “You’re very beautiful. My sisters warned me, but I didn’t really believe…” Her frown deepened. “You’ve made things very difficult.”

Pris blinked. “In what way?”

“Why, over Dillon Caxton, of course.” The lady, blond and brown-eyed, regarded Pris with increasing disfavor. “It was supposed to be my turn-mine, or Helen Purfett’s, but if I say so myself, my claim is the stronger.”

“Your claim?” Pris frowned back. “To what?”

Glancing about, the lady leaned closer and hissed, “To him, of course!”

Pris looked at her; she didn’t appear demented. “I don’t understand.”

“Every time he visits London, there’s a…a competition of sorts. To see who can catch his eye and lure him to her bed. We all know the rules-only matrons of the ton, only those he hasn’t indulged before. My sisters-all three of them-have had their turns. We’re all acknowledged beauties, you see. So I was quite determined that next time he came to the capital, he would be mine. But instead”-the lady glared at Pris-“he’s spent all his time chasing you. He hasn’t spared so much as a glance-not for me, or Helen, or anyone else!” The lady leaned back; surveying Pris, she spread her hands. “And just look at you!” Her lower lip quivered. “It’s not fair!”

Pris understood the plight of the bored matrons; they’d married for the socially accepted reasons and consequently were reduced to searching for excitement outside their marriage vows. They epitomized the reason she refused to marry other than for love; she felt a certain compassion for their straits. However…“I’m sorry. I can’t see how I can help you. I can hardly change my face.”

The lady’s frown grew more pointed. “No, and I daresay it’s senseless asking you to refuse him. Besides, he seems totally committed. But you could at least marry him quickly, then, once you’re settled, he’ll be free again for us.”

Pris blinked. It took effort, but she managed not to react, not to, succinctly and with great clarity, disabuse the lady of that notion. If she married Dillon, he’d look at another lady at his peril. However, as she read it, this was a matter of the ladies looking at him-almost as…as if he were she. This was a mirror image of the way men too often viewed her.

Her wild and reckless self stirred.

She summoned a smile-a sweet, Adelaide-like expression of willing but uncertain helpfulness. Deception might be beyond Dillon; it was definitely not beyond her, not in a good cause, specifically theirs.

Theirs. The word rang in her mind, made her hesitate for one instant, then she accepted it. “I’d be happy to marry him with all speed, but…” She shrugged lightly. “To do that, I need to bring him to the point sooner rather than later.” She looked innocently at the lady. “You-or at least your three sisters-must know him well. Perhaps you could give me some hints of how to…encourage him?”

For a moment, she feared the lady wouldn’t be gullible enough to share her sisters’ knowledge. Her eyes narrowed, her lips pursed, but then she grimaced. “It will probably shock you, and goodness knows, it’ll certainly shock him coming from a naïve young lady like you, but…”

The lady tapped a finger to her lips, glanced around, then leaned closer. “First, you must arrange a private interlude. Then-”

Pris listened, and learned. The lady was most helpful.

Later that night, Pris waited in her bedchamber for Dillon to appear.

They’d attended the usual three balls, then he’d seen them home and gone off, she presumed to his club. Soon he would return, to her room, to her. A robe belted over her nightgown, she paced before the hearth, and waited.

She’d made up her mind. It hadn’t been Flick’s insight that had tipped the scales irrevocably, but rather what the lady-Lady Caverstone-had revealed. It had suddenly dawned that if she didn’t accept Dillon-didn’t take the risk, grasp the chance, and make of them what might be-she would condemn him to precisely the sort of life she would never accept for herself.

They were very alike. Outward beauty set them apart, yet few understood the dramatic passions that lay beneath. Regardless, until now, she hadn’t perceived just how closely their mirror-destinies matched.

If, as Flick had suggested, she was special to him, the only one he’d ever pursued with a view to matrimony, if, as he’d told her, she was the one woman with whom he felt complete, then…if she didn’t embrace all she was, and allow herself to be who he needed her to be-his wife, and more, that wild, tempestuous, passionate goddess who could hold his heart and soul-if she instead refused his suit and went back to Ireland to live a quiet, unchallenged life, where would that leave him?

At the mercy of ladies such as Lady Caverstone and her sisters.

A deadening existence, one with no fire and passion, no wild and reckless thrills, no real comfort.

No. Not that road.

The idea of him dwelling in such soul-eating aloneness, the emotion that notion had evoked, had not just answered her questions but dismissed them. They didn’t matter; this-he-did.

It was time to make an end, to declare her decision, to make her direction known.

After listening to Lady Caverstone, she knew precisely how.

When the door to her bedroom opened, she was ready.

Ready to smile, to herself more than him, ready to offer him her hands, and lead him to her bed. To the side of it, where she halted, braced her hands against his chest and stopped him from drawing her into his arms and kissing her. “No. Not yet.”

He blinked, studied her; suspicion and wariness slid through his eyes.

She met them, arched a brow in challenge. “My turn to lead.”

Suspicion fled. His lips quirked. “This being the sort of dance where you can?”

“Exactly.” She breathed the word as she pushed his coat off his shoulders and down his arms. She left him to free his hands from the sleeves, and gave her attention to his cravat.

Unraveling the knot, she drew the ends free, then pulled on them to bring his head down to hers, to kiss him-openmouthed and eager, hungry and wanton. The instant she felt his arms slide around her, the instant he moved to take control, she drew back.

“Uh-uh.” Stepping back, out of his arms, she wagged a finger. “No touching. Not until I give you leave.”

He cocked a brow at her, but obediently lowered his arms. He stood passive as she set her fingers to the silver buttons of his waistcoat. She slid the garment off, flung it aside, then set to work on his shirt. The buttons dealt with, she wrestled the tails from his waistband, spread the halves wide-then paused. To admire. To gloat.

All this could-and would-be hers. Lady Caverstone and her sisters could go begging.

Dillon sucked in a long, slow breath, felt desire slide and coil through him as he watched her, saw in her face a possessiveness he hadn’t thought to see there. Why not, he couldn’t have said, but the sight…surely it could mean only one thing?

Carefully, he reached for her, intending to draw her to him and learn what that expression truly meant.

“No.” She batted his hands away. Frowned at him as she wrenched his shirt over his shoulders, trapping his arms. “Stay still.”

They were speaking in whispers even though the room next door was unoccupied. Swallowing his impatience-she’d taken the role he usually played; he wasn’t accustomed to submission-he waited for her to free his hands. Instead, she spread hers on his chest, blatantly possessively caressed, then set her lips to his already heated skin.

Her teeth came into play, distracting nips, a subtle grazing over one tight nipple. Then her tongue swept across it and he sucked in a breath; shifting his weight, he leaned down and tried to nudge her head up-for a kiss, not a touch.

She avoided him, commanded, “Don’t move.”

Impossible. There was one part of him not even she could command; it was already straining against the flap of his trousers, and she knew it. He gritted his teeth. “Pris…”

She laughed, low, sensuous, the waft of her breath against his skin a subtle torture. “Wait.” She drew back.

Jaw clenched, he sighed, and stared-martyred-at the ceiling, then he heard a muted thump-her robe hitting the floor-a second later glimpsed a flash of white nightgown. His eyes locked on her in time to see her wriggle the long gown off over her head.

He stared; his chest ached. Grudgingly, he freed enough of his mind to breathe. He’d seen her naked only in bed, or shrouded in darkness. Now…

Clothed in a seductive mix of moonlight and candlelight, she was the goddess he dreamed of. Pagan, wild, untamed. Her black curls cascaded over her shoulders, silken locks framing the furled peaks of her breasts. Her long limbs, graceful, skin pearlescent, were a deity’s bounty.

She came to him, softly smiling, emerald eyes smoldering, and something within him shook. Broke. Then she was there, and her hands spread, her breasts touched, and he was lost.

Lost in wonder as she pandered to a dream he hadn’t known he’d had. She moved against him, sinuously supple, her promise implicit, yet for the moment withheld.

Behind his back, he freed first one hand, then the other from the tangle of his shirt, barely daring to breathe as she dealt with the buttons at his waist, then, crouching, drew his trousers down.

At her direction, he helped her dispense with his shoes and stockings, at her prodding stepped clear of his trousers and allowed her to sweep them away.

He sucked in a too-tight breath. He couldn’t think clearly, not enough to take control, not when she was in this mood. He had to see what more she’d planned; that she had planned had finally sunk into his distracted brain. Instead of the usual single candlestick on her nightstand, a four-armed candelabra stood there, shedding ample light over the bed.

And her as, still crouched at his feet, she swiveled to him, and looked up-let her gaze travel slowly up his body, from his knees up his thighs, past his jutting erection, past his taut abdomen, past his locked chest to reach his eyes.

For a heartbeat, she held his gaze, her own a blaze of emerald intent, then she smiled and slid to her knees; spreading her hands on his thighs, she sent them cruising. Upward.

He nearly swallowed his tongue when she clasped both hands around his rigid length. Nearly lost his mind when she calmly leaned close, and licked. He literally shuddered when she followed one bulging vein with the tip of her tongue, then lightly traced the rim of his shaft.

Then she smoothly took him into her mouth, and his brain died.

He couldn’t breathe. Every muscle he possessed had locked tight. As she suckled gently, then drew him deeper, he closed his eyes, and felt his world rock.

Her injunctions held no power against his reaction; as she freely and wantonly pleasured him, no power on earth could have stopped him from tangling his fingers in her silky mane. She suckled more powerfully, and his fingers spasmed, clutched as he fought not to thrust into her hot, wet, welcoming mouth.

Her hands drifted, circled his thighs, rose, caressed his buttocks, then tensed, flexed, as her lips and tongue played…

She might be a goddess; he was only human.

Smothering a groan, he dragged in a labored breath. “Pris! Enough.”

He didn’t know whether he felt relief or disappointment when she obeyed and released him.

Breasts rising and falling, she looked up at him, the expression in her eyes frankly calculating.

Before she could return to her recent obsession, he reached for her. To his relief, she let him draw her to her feet, but planted her hands on his chest, held herself from him. She met his eyes, met his experience with determination. “No-not enough.”

He frowned, arched a brow.

She arched one back, more pointedly, very much a goddess in control. “How much are you willing to give? To surrender?”

For me. For my love.

Pris let her eyes say the words, with them told him unequivocally what the prize she was offering was.

His palms curved around her shoulders, gripped. He was breathing as rapidly, as shallowly as she; heat poured from him and lured her, drew her, but not until he paid, and admitted he did, would she appease them both.

He’d been studying her eyes; he hauled in a tortured breath. “How much do you want?”

The right answer. She smiled. Intently. And prodded his bare chest with her fingertips. “Lie on your back in the middle of the bed.”

He hesitated, but, his hands falling from her, did as she asked.

She watched while he arranged himself, head on the pillows, hands by his sides, legs slightly spread. Smile deepening, she clambered up on the bed, then around to kneel between his feet.

She paused to admire the view, then set her hands to his calves, sent them sliding slowly upward-and followed, lowering her body to his, feeling muscles harden, contract, and shift as she slid skin to skin over him, up to where she could angle her knees to either side of his waist and rise up, straddling his abdomen as she caught one of his hands, lifted his arm and pushed it back-over his head and out to where the silk scarf she’d left tied to the headboard lay waiting.

He turned his head, stared incredulously as she swiftly secured his wrist. Mouth open, jaw slack, he turned his head, watching as she did the same with his other hand, leaving him, theoretically at least, helpless. At her mercy.

He narrowed his eyes at her as, delighted, she settled back across his lower chest. “What are you about?”

The tone of his voice assured her he wasn’t intending to argue.

She smiled; placing her hands on either side of his chest, she leaned low, and licked. “Possessing you.” She breathed the words across the spot she’d moistened, and felt the hard body beneath her react. Without taking her eyes from his, she added, “As I will. As I wish.”

She let her eyes add the As you deserve.

He looked deep, read her message, then groaned and closed his eyes.

She smiled even more, and set her lips to his skin. And set about fulfilling her sentence. Set about taking all she wished of him, all that he willingly surrendered. All that he usually demanded of his lovers, she demanded of him; all he usually gave them, she gave him. With lips, tongue, and teeth, with her hands, with her body, with the tips of her breasts, she caressed him, and drove him wild.

Drove him mindless. As mindless as he usually made her, as wild and reckless, as urgently, openly needy. Greedy.

What she hadn’t counted on was his rising hunger feeding her own.

Heat raged as she moved over him, as she twisted and twined, explored and caressed. As he answered every demand, gave her his mouth when she wished it, then when she moved lower, closing his eyes, setting his jaw, and letting her have her way.

Without restriction letting her take every shred of his self into her, then letting her give it back. Over and over, a worship unending, until neither could wait any longer, and she rose over him and sheathed him and took him in. And rode him.

Wild, uninhibited, paganly wanton in the moonlight, abandoned and erotic as the candlelight flickered and gilded her skin.

Dillon watched her, barely able to believe what he saw, what he sensed, what he felt reaching through the thundering in his veins, an emotion deep and true. Reaching for his heart, closing about his soul.

Holding him, embracing him as she shattered above him. Teeth gritted, jaw clenched, he held to sanity and watched as passion took her, as for that timeless moment glory filled the void and rushed through her, and him.

She slumped over him, then eased down to collapse on his chest.

Shutting his eyes, he breathed deeply, prayed for control, then lifting his lids, he looked down, and nudged her head with his jaw. “My hands.” His voice was barely working. “Untie them. Pris-please?”

For a moment, she lay dead, then he felt her breasts swell as she drew in a huge breath. Then she shifted, reached for one wrist, stretched, and tugged.

The instant he felt the silken shackle give, he wrenched his hand free, reached across, tipping her on his chest, and with one yank had his other hand untied.

Then he caught her, kissed her, claimed her mouth, and let all he felt for her free. He rolled, and she was beneath him; deep in the kiss, he reached for her thighs, spread them, lifted them, and sank home.

Deep. Where he belonged.

She thought so, too. On a gasp and a sob, she wound her legs over his, tilted her hips, and pulled him even deeper.

He filled her, savoring every inch of her tight clasp, of her complete and willful surrender. Then he took, filled his soul, his heart, his senses with her. Let the thunder in his veins drive them both. Felt her join him, felt her clutch, heard her moan.

Then they were flying far beyond the edge of the world, well beyond perception’s reach, one heart, one soul, two merged minds, two bodies in thrall to that elemental hunger. Driving, reaching, striving, wanting.

She fragmented, came apart, and took him with her; hand in hand, fingers tightly laced, they gained their private heaven. And felt the glory close around them, welcoming them in, assuring them beyond words, beyond thought, that this truly was their home.

That this was where Us belonged.

Ask me again.” Pris lay slumped, exhausted, beside him, the glory of aftermath a golden warmth in her veins.

He lay spooned around her, cradling her against him, her back to his chest. “No.” A mumbled rumble.

She tried to frown, failed, then remembered he couldn’t see. “Why not?”

“Because neither of us is thinking straight-capable of thinking straight. I’m not going to risk you giving me the wrong answer, or, heaven forbid, later forgetting what answer you gave.”

Flick’s words whirled in her mind; Pris managed an inelegant snort. “You thrive on taking risks, especially with what matters.”

“Not when I might lose more than I’m willing to lose.”

She thought that over and realized it was a statement with which she couldn’t possibly argue.

She also realized she couldn’t recall ever winning an argument with him. She grumbled on principle, but he held firm, finally silencing her with, “Besides, you’re not the only one who can plan.”

Before she could decide if that was a threat or a promise, she fell asleep.

The next morning, Dillon was seated at Horatia’s dining table, happily alone, even more happily putting the final touches to his plans for the day, when the knocker was plied with considerable force.

Highthorpe strode past the dining room door; Dillon heard voices, then Barnaby walked in.

A disheveled, bedraggled, exhausted Barnaby.

“Good God!” Dillon sat up; setting down his coffee cup, he waved to a chair. “Sit down before you fall down. What the devil happened?”

Through two days’ growth of beard, Barnaby grimaced wearily. “Nothing a cup of strong coffee, breakfast, a bath, a razor, and a day of sleep won’t cure.”

“We can start with the first two.” Dillon nodded as Highthorpe placed a cup before Barnaby and filled it.

He waited until Barnaby had taken a long sip, eyes closed, clearly savoring the relief. When he opened his eyes and looked over the breakfast dishes spread on the table, Dillon said, “Help yourself-just talk while you do. You’re hardly a sight to calm nerves.”

Barnaby fleetingly grinned and pulled a platter of ham his way. “I drove all night. And most of the day and night before that.”

“Martin?”

Barnaby nodded grimly.

Dillon frowned. “You found him?”

“Yes, and no.” Barnaby stabbed a piece of ham. “Stokes and I visited the house in Connaught Place.” He put the ham into his mouth, waved the empty fork as he chewed, then swallowed. “It wasn’t Martin in the house, but a family renting from Mr. Gilbert Martin. We found the agent, and Stokes persuaded him to give us Martin’s address.”

Barnaby looked at his plate. “Northampton. Stokes went with me. When we got there, it was the same story. Someone else in the house, renting via an agent from Mr. Gilbert Martin. And so we found that agent, and went on to Liverpool.”

Dillon held his tongue while Barnaby ate.

“After that, it was Edinburgh, York, Carlisle, Bath, then Glasgow.” Barnaby frowned. “I might have missed one or two towns, but the last was Bristol. That’s where we ran Mr. Gilbert Martin to earth, entirely by accident, through an acquaintance in the town.”

Barnaby met Dillon’s eyes. “Mr. Gilbert Martin is seventy-three years old, has no son, knows of no other Gilbert Martin, and although he does indeed own the house in Connaught Place and rents it via that first agent, Mr. Martin hasn’t the faintest idea about his supposed new address in Northampton or any of the other houses.”

Barnaby paused, then added, “The rental monies from the London house are paid into an account in the city, and Mr. Martin draws on that. There’s been no change there, so he had no idea anything was going on.”

Dillon’s frown deepened. “So we have no idea who that other Mr. Gilbert Martin is?”

“Other than a devilishly clever cove? No, none.”

After a moment, Barnaby went on, “During our travels, Stokes and I had plenty of time to dwell on various scenarios. Once we learned what a goose chase Mr. X had sent us on, and how neatly it had been arranged, more or less guaranteeing that even the head denizens of the underworld would never be able to trace him, it became clear just what danger you, especially, now face.”

He looked at Dillon. “If Mr. X decides on revenge, we’ll have absolutely no idea from which direction the blow might come.”

Impassive, Dillon nodded. “Yet there might be no blow, no revenge. I can hardly go through life constantly expecting it. Mr. X has to have been savaged financially. He might already have fled the country.”

“There’s that, but…” Barnaby met Dillon’s eyes. “It doesn’t feel right. He went to all that trouble to hide his identity-what are the chances he’s one of us, a member of the ton?”

“Gabriel’s continued searching, but as of yesterday, he’d found no trace, no trail, not an inkling.”

“Just so. Mr. X is a past master at hiding his tracks. He could be the gentleman at your shoulder next time you stop by your club, or at the next ball you attend. I don’t suppose you’d consider repairing to Newmarket?”

“No.”

Barnaby sighed. “I told Stokes so, but, like me, he’s sure Mr. X will have a try at you, even if he then scurries off overseas. He’s probably planning to, so killing you just before will fit nicely into his plans.”

Dillon couldn’t help his smile. “Are you trying to frighten me?”

“Yes. Is it working?”

“Not quite as you imagined, but…I have an idea. As you’re both so convinced Mr. X will come after me, doesn’t that suggest we have an opportunity-possibly our last opportunity-to lay our hands on him?”

Barnaby blinked. “You mean use you as bait?”

Dillon raised his brows. “If I’m the one lure we’re all agreed he’ll come after…why not?”

He called for Pris at eleven, bullied her into her pelisse, then drove her to his chosen place.

As he led her through the doors and down the nave, she looked around, then leaned close to whisper, “Why are we here?”

About them, the sacred peace of St. Paul’s Cathedral held sway. “Because,” he whispered back, winding her arm with his, “I wanted a place where despite being alone, we wouldn’t run the risk of distracting ourselves. We need to talk, and for that we need to think.”

She considered protesting, then thought better of it; she looked around with greater interest. “Where?”

He’d planned that, too. “This way.”

The day was cool, clouds scudding overhead, a brisk wind debating whether to unleash some rain or not. An assortment of sightseers wandered both nave and transept, studying the plaques and monuments, but when he escorted Pris through the door at the rear of the side chapel, as he’d hoped there were no others enjoying the peace of the ancient courtyard beyond.

A narrow, walled rectangle, in days gone by the courtyard had provided herbs for the infirmary attached to the cathedral. Now it was simply a quiet place for contemplation.

The perfect place to consider and decide the rest of their lives.

He led her to a gray stone bench thickly cushioned with thyme. Gathering her skirts, she sat and looked up at him. After an instant’s hesitation, of gathering his thoughts, he sat beside her.

“Never having done this before, I’m not sure of the best approach, but I can’t see that going down on one knee is going to help.”

“It won’t.” Her voice was noticeably tight, a touch breathless.

“In that case…” He took her hand in his, gently tugged off her glove, tossed it in her lap, then clasped her hand palm to palm in his. He looked across the courtyard at the ancient walls-as old as time, a fitting setting for them. In some ways they were “old souls,” too, more pagan than most.

“We’re not like other people, other couples, you and I.” He glanced at her; he had her full attention. “I knew that the instant I set eyes on you, on the steps of the club. You were…so unlike any other woman I’d ever met, ever seen. You saw me, the real me. Not through a veil but directly. And I saw you in exactly the same way. I knew then, and I think you did, too. But for both of us, the concept didn’t fit what we’d thought would be, so…we prevaricated.”

His lips curved; he looked down at her hand, tightened his about it. “You more than me, I think, but then came the confusion of why I’d offered for you, and that was my error. I knew why all along, but fate’s intervention and a moment’s hesitation meant you weren’t sure. I’ve since told you something of my reasons, but I haven’t told you all. I’ve told you what I feel for you-that you’re the woman who makes me feel whole and complete, the natural other half of me-but I haven’t told you why you…are so precious to me.”

Her eyes on his profile, Pris gripped his fingers, from her heart softly said, “Isn’t that implicit?”

She saw his lips curve, then he shook his head.

“No more prevarications. The truth is, if I hadn’t met you that day on the steps of the Jockey Club-if you hadn’t been there, searching for Rus-then I seriously doubt I would ever have come to this point. I don’t think I could ever have married, not because I don’t wish to, but because marriage to a woman who couldn’t see me, who could never truly know me, would be…”

“Something very like prison.”

He nodded. “Yes-you see that. But few others ever would.” He glanced at her, lips still curved, yet with seriousness and honesty in his dark eyes. “The truth is, you’re my savior. If you’ll accept me as your husband, if you’ll take my hand and be my wife, you’ll be freeing me, replacing the specter of that prison with a chance to live the life I would, if I could, choose.”

His eyes locked with hers, he shifted to face her. “And my chosen life would be to live with you, to renew Hillgate End as a home with you, to have children with you, and grow old with you.”

He paused, then, his eyes still on hers, he raised her hand to his lips, and kissed. “Will you marry me, Pris? Will you be my savior and take my hand, and be my goddess forever?”

It took effort not to let her tears well to the point where they would fall. She had to take a moment to find her voice, conscious, even through that fleeting instant, that he was watching her, that the tension in him rose a notch even though he had to know how she would reply.

He embodied everything she wanted, all she needed. Drowning in his dark eyes, in the steady light that shone there, she had no doubt of her answer, yet he deserved more than a bare acceptance. She drew in a not quite steady breath, held it for an instant, then said, “Yes, but-” She held up her other hand, staying him as he drew her nearer. “If we’re to speak truth here, then my truth is that you’re my savior, too. Perhaps I would have married, but what are the chances I would have found another gentleman who not only recognizes but appreciates my ‘wild and reckless ways’?”

She looked into his eyes. “The truth is, if I hadn’t found you, I would have suppressed that side of myself, and it would have been like a slow death. But if I marry you-if you marry me-I won’t have to. I can simply be me, become the best me I can be, for the rest of my life.”

Her heart leapt, then soared at the prospect. Her lips curved irrepressibly as joy filled her, steady and sure.

He studied her eyes, her dawning smile; to her surprise, he remained sober. Then he drew in a breath, tightened his hand about hers. “I have a caveat to make.”

It was her turn to study his face. “A caveat?”

“Your ‘wild and reckless ways’…do you think you could promise to indulge in them only when I’m with you?” He was serious and uncomfortable, uneasy in making the request.

She blinked. “Why?”

Jaw setting, he looked down at her hand, trapped in his, then looked up and met her eyes. “Because”-his expression had changed to one she knew well, all arrogant, domineering male-“losing you is the one risk I will never take.”

You are my life. You mean too much to me.

That message was blazoned in his eyes, etched in the hard planes of his face, carried in the defined lines of muscles that had tensed. She felt that reality, unequivocal and unyielding, reach out to her; she hesitated, breath caught, but then she closed her eyes and let it wrap about her.

Accepted it. Accepted him.

As he was. As she needed him to be.

Wild and reckless, passionate-and possessive.

That was the real truth of him. Of them. Of us.

She opened her eyes, looked into his, still burning with possessive heat. “Yes. All right.”

He wasn’t sure whether to believe her, to put his trust in the bright joy in her eyes. He hesitated, then asked, “All right? Just like that-all right?”

She considered, then nodded. Decisively. “Yes. Yes to everything.” Rescuing her glove from her lap, she stood. Happiness was welling, flooding through her, threatening to spill over; better they left before it did.

Dillon rose with her, retaining his hold on her hand. “So you agree not to take any risks-any risks at all-unless I’m with you?” Feeling a trifle off-balance, he tried to see her face as they walked back to the chapel door.

“Yes! Well, as far as I can.” Reaching the door, she halted and faced him, met his eyes directly. “And no, I am not pleased to have to make such a promise, but…” Tilting her head, she searched his eyes. “You won’t rest unless I do, will you?”

He’d forgotten she saw straight into his soul. He looked into her eyes, saw all the joy he could wish for, along with too much understanding to deny, and surrendered. “No.”

She nodded. “Precisely.” She turned to the door. “So I’ll try my best-”

“Please tell me you’ll do more than try.”

“-to accommodate you.” She glanced sideways at him, caught his eye. “Isn’t that what wives are supposed to do?”

There was a subtle smile on her lips, a light in her emerald eyes-more than teasing, an outright challenge-another element of her understanding.

His gaze fastened on those distracting lips.

She stiffened. “No. Not in a cathedral. This was your plan. You have to live with it.”

He closed his eyes, groaned, and opened the door for her. He followed her into the church, now as eager as she to leave, and mildly amazed that the deed was done, that despite all, their path was set and agreed.

She glanced at the altar as they went past, then looked at him as he took her arm. “Have you given any thought as to when we should wed?”

The point didn’t require thought. “How about as soon as humanly possible? Most of your family’s here-we could send for your younger brothers and sisters.” He hesitated. “Unless you want to marry in Ireland?”

“No.” Pris shook her head. That would make it too hard for many of her new friends to attend, and besides, there was nothing for her there; her future lay…she glanced at Dillon. “Let’s marry in Newmarket.”

He met her gaze as they emerged through the main doors, into brilliant sunshine lancing through the broken clouds. “If you’re happy with that?”

“Yes.” Smiling delightedly, she felt her heart soar; all their decisions felt unequivocally right.

They stopped on the porch. Dillon signaled to the tiger to bring the curricle and pair to them, then swept her into his arms and kissed her-thoroughly. When he released her, the smile on his lips set the seal on her joy. She looked about; the sun warmed her; everything seemed sharper, cleaner, more crystal clear. More finite and settled, outside and within, as if from that first meeting in Newmarket she’d been living in a kaleidoscope of ever-shifting possibilities, but now the kaleidoscope had stopped, revealing the fabulous, exciting pattern that her future-their future-would be.

Eagerness gripped her. Impatience welled. The instant they were in the curricle and Dillon had set his horses pacing, she asked, “Where should we go first?”

“First?”

“Where should we go to start the arrangements? Our wedding isn’t simply going to happen, not without a great deal of discussion and organizing.”

Dillon grimaced, but didn’t take his eyes from his blacks. “I’ll make a deal with you-you make the arrangements, tell me where to be when, and I’ll be there. Just don’t ask me for an opinion on anything.”

She laughed; the sound curled around his heart and warmed it.

“Done.” She leaned lightly against his shoulder, then straightened. “So where should we call first, to tell them our news?”

“Flick’s, or she’ll never forgive me, and Eugenia and Adelaide will be there, too. I suspect they won’t have gone out yet.” They’d be waiting to see what had transpired, he had not a doubt. “And no doubt Flick will then rush us around to Horatia’s.”

Pris happily agreed.

Dillon tooled the curricle through the city streets, reassured that he could safely leave her in the Cynster ladies’ company, especially in the throes of planning a wedding. All attention would be focused on her; she would be the center of the gathering.

With her safety assured, he could turn his mind to his latest risk-one last throw of the dice to flush out Mr. X, and ensure that Pris and he did not remain at the mercy of a vengeful villain, possibly for the rest of their lives.

That shared life had now taken shape in his mind; with Pris, he would make it a reality. And there was very little he wouldn’t risk to make it safe, to protect it, and her.