Charlotte crossed her arms behind her head and stared up at the blue sky. This, she decided, just might be her favorite place in the world. She was in the field near the lake, stretched out on her back, hidden away by a wall of golden wheat. She’d made a bed for herself by walking in a circle until the wheat had flattened. Then, for comfort and to keep the still-damp ground from seeping into her gown, she’d thrown her cloak over the crushed stalks. Now she had a secret, cozy nest with nothing but blue sky overhead.

When she’d been younger, she used to make these nests all of the time. But it had been years since she’d bothered. She crossed her bared feet at the ankles and brushed away an errant ant she’d caught climbing up her sleeve.

It was lovely today, and warm, and so long as she didn’t think about Marco, the tears rarely came. She had better things to do than think about him, anyway.

She plucked a stalk of wheat and ran the stalk through her finger, the prickly seeds scattering, drops of gold that glistened in the sun as they fell. Some grains disappeared on the ground, while others clung to her skirts like so many seed pearls. It was nice to be alone, truly alone, with no dark, disturbing eyes watching her and making her feel things she shouldn’t.

A lazy cloud drifted past, and the hum of bees grew sleepy as the sun rose. It was such a beautiful day, the sun-kissed air sweetened by the smell of the crushed stalks. She should have been blissfully happy to be here, but she wasn’t. Her mind was too caught up in all of the things Marco had said to her.

Blast him for so arrogantly deciding that he was the one to make decisions for them. She hated being told what to do, as anyone who knew her could have told him. She was just beginning to realize that in the months after Caroline’s death, Charlotte had gone to sleep, or rather her spirit had. A part of her soul had ceased breathing and was only now gasping back to life.

Of course, with it came her familiar desires. The urge to break every code of behavior society forced upon her. To laugh louder, dance faster, and talk more than was permitted. It was a fire she’d fought her entire life, and had, at times, lost to, much to her parent’s chagrin and disappointment. No one had understood how hard it was for Charlotte to do the ‘right’ thing. No one except Caroline. She’d known the truth, that Charlotte’s happiness would never be encased in silks and satins. Her happiness lay in the stream of sunshine on her shoulders, the feel of grass beneath her bare toes. And now her happiness lay in the deep brown eyes of a forbidden man.

“But why must he be so bossy?” Charlotte asked a butterfly as it flittered softly overhead. “Why can’t he—”

Somewhere in the distance, Charlotte heard Simmons calling her name. Aunt Verity must be looking for her as the modiste was due back to deliver her gowns and to make some last-minute adjustments. Charlotte knew she should get up, but she was held in place by the comforting buzz of bees and the mesmerizing sway of the grass, and the desire to never again be pinned or poked by a modiste with a fake French accent.

Perhaps she wouldn’t go, Charlotte decided. She didn’t need a trousseau, anyway. She’d stay here, safe in her nest, and someone else could get pinned and prodded. Charlotte smiled sleepily, and let her eyes flutter close, just for a moment . . .

She awoke to the sound of dripping water. Confused, she looked around her and her memory came flooding back. Ah yes, she was in her nest.

She shaded her eyes and glanced up at the sun, and realized it was much later. Charlotte sighed and then stretched, freezing in place as the slow drip sound became a splash. What is that?

She sat up, peering over the grass to the lake – and there he was. Marco was thigh deep in the lake. Bold, beautiful, and as naked as the day he was born, he washed his chest with a cake of soap, the sun glistening off his wet shoulders as suds slid down his broad, defined chest.

Charlotte blinked, unable to look away and suddenly too afraid to move. Dear God, if he sees me, he will think I’m spying on him. Nothing could be as humiliating as that.

She’d just have to stay in her nest for a few more minutes. She really had no choice.

Of course, she did have a choice whether or not to keep watching him. She should look away. Perhaps hunker down behind the tall wheat and wait for him to leave.

He lifted the wet clothe over his head and squeezed it, water dropping onto his head and down his face. He had such a fascinating face, all hard planes and straight lines. His jaw was as marked as they came, his nose bold, his mouth hard. She wondered what it would be like to be there in the water with him, to feel – at the same time – the coolness of the water and the heat of his skin.

She bit her lip. She’d wager ten guineas that even in cold water, his skin would be warm – searing, even. She stirred restlessly and peered back over the wheat.

A voice in the distance lifted on the breeze. It was Simmons once again, but he was speaking to someone, his voice coming closer.

Charlotte lifted up on her knees and peered through the tall grass in the direction of the house. She could just make out Simmons walking down the path, Aunt Verity following close behind, her face flushed as she fanned herself with a lace handkerchief.

“I vow, but I cannot believe she’s been gone such a time and no one told me,” Aunt Verity said in a waspish tone. “Was no one worried about the poor thing? She’d been gone for hours!”

“As you know, it is Miss Charlotte’s way to disappear for hours on end.”

“On a horse! The groom said Angelica hasn’t been ridden today.”

“We didn’t know that, did we?” he said in a waspish tone. “I’m certain we’ll find her at the lake. It’s where she used to go.”

Oh no! They are coming here! And Marco is— She turned to peer back at the lake, but he was gone, although the water was lapping against the bank as if recently disturbed.

Where was he? Perhaps he was underwater, rising his hair. She lifted higher on her knees when a rustle in the grass made her turn. A thick arm wrapped about her waist and twisted her back to her cloak-bed. She was now on her back, a warm body against hers as she stared up at a head outlined in sunlight. “Mar—”

He covered her mouth with his hand. “Shh!”

And indeed, she could hear Aunt Verity’s drawling tones by the lake, asking why on earth Simmons had thought to find Charlotte in such an untamed, damp place.

Marco bent close to her ear and whispered, “Just be quiet. They will return to the house soon enough.”

Charlotte cast a wild glance his way, noting that he’d managed to put on his breeches, but not his shirt. She grasped Marco’s wrist and tugged his hand from her mouth. “How did you know I was here?”

Reluctant amusement warmed his eyes. “You are not a very good spy,” he whispered back.

“I wasn’t spying,” she returned, irked because he was partially right. “I was here first. I fell asleep and when I woke up, there you were.”

“How long have you been here?”

“An hour.” Or longer. She wasn’t really sure. “I was due for a fitting and didn’t wish to go.”

“No wonder your aunt is looking for you.”

Aunt Verity was still chastising Simmons, but Marco was right, having found no one at the lake, they were returning to the house, their voices fading.

Charlotte and Marco waited. She could feel the length of him pressed to her side, his bare chest against her arm. It felt good. So good she didn’t wish it to end.

And yet, if Marco had his way, it would.

She frowned. She was tired of Marco deciding everything for them as if he were the only one capable of decisions. Perhaps it was time she made some decisions of her own.

Simmons voice faded and soon there was no sound but the buzzing of the bees and the stir of the wind.

“There.” Marco started to get up, but she was quicker.

She slipped her arms around his neck and held him there. “You invaded my fort, so now you must pay the price.”

“What price?”

“A kiss. Two, if you don’t do it properly the first time.”

Every vestige of humor left his face. He tugged her arms from his neck. “No.”

Freed, he sat upright and started to stand.

“Wait!” She sat up, too, and yanked at the lacings of her gown. It was a front laced gown, which she preferred as it allowed her to slip into her clothes on her own whenever she wanted to go for a walk or else.

He looked as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “What are you doing?”

“You can see what I’m doing. I’m untying my gown.”

“Why?” He had the same look in his eyes as the deer she sometimes startled when riding through Balesboro.

She tugged her gown free, pulling out one arm, and then the other, shivering more from her boldness than anything else. “You bathed naked in the lake. Now it’s my turn.”

“No.” His brows lowered. “It wouldn’t be safe. Someone might see you and—” He clamped his mouth closed, looking adorably mulish. “No.”

“I either want to bathe in the lake, or I want a kiss.” She pushed her gown to her hips and then stood. The heavy skirts fell to her ankles, leaving her wearing nothing but her thin, lace chemise.

She reached for the tie at her neck.

“You won’t do it,” he said firmly, as if his harsh tone would make it happen.

“Wouldn’t I?”

“No well brought up young lady would ever—"

Her chemise fell to her feet, the fine lawn ruffling in the breeze.

Face red, Marco grabbed her and swung her onto the ground, his warm body covering hers. His face was dark with fury. “What are you doing?”

“This.” She slipped her arms back around his neck and kissed him. She didn’t kiss him gently, but with the blazing passion that even now flooded through her. God, but she’d wanted this, needed it even.

Marco moaned once and then, lost forever, he followed her into the madness. His hands moved over her, cupping her breasts, sliding down her stomach and then back. His bared skin against hers felt deliciously decadent and she urged him on, following instincts as old as time, seducing him even as she was seduced.

For the life of him, Marco couldn’t remember a single argument he’d made to Charlotte as to why they had to end their flirtation. But then right now, he couldn’t think about anything except how sweet she tasted, how her breasts filled his hands when he cupped them, how the silk of her skin drove him mad with desire. She was as succulent and sweet as a ripe pear, and he was determined to taste her.

She ran her hands over his chest, each stroke driving him wilder and madder. He moved on hand to his breeches and, without breaking the kiss, loosened them and soon kicked them away. Now he felt all of her, naked and writhing, and damned it if it still wasn’t enough.

Charlotte reveled in the rough skin of his hands, in the wildness of his kisses. His tongue met hers, and she answered him with such fervor that he moaned against her mouth. She had no fear, a slave to her own wild, heated passion. Her thighs grew slick with her desire, and she moved restlessly against him.

He broke the kiss and lifted up on his elbow, panting heavily. His eyes had never been so dark, his expression so intense. “Roll over,” he whispered.

“What?”

A wicked smile touched his lips.

Trepidation flickered through her, as heady as the passion. God, but she loved the uncertainty of life, of love, of this man. She rolled to her stomach, and he pushed her hair out of the way. He pressed a kiss to her neck at the top of her spine and then, with one kiss after another, he made his way down her back, to the rounded cheek of her ass. As he did so, he murmured what he was going to do to her when he finished. He told her all the ways he would take her, and how many times he would make her cry his name. Each kiss was both torment and tease. And she was possessed, fully and completely, her body heating, her thigh growing yet slicker as she writhed under his ministrations.

He stopped and lifted up on his arm. Desperate with want, she started to turn toward him, but he imprisoned her against him, his hand warm over her breast, her back against his chest. “Can you feel this, my love?” he whispered, his voice more growl than else. He slipped his hand between her thighs and showed her what madness pleasure could be.

She gasped, but he didn’t stop, moving his hand, the roughness of his calloused fingers never still. He stroked, insistent and firm as she arch wildly against him. It was such an intimate touch, and heated longing grew inside her.

He must have sensed she was ready, for just as she gasped his name, he flipped her to her back and took her with a rough passion that she answered in kind, one hand clutched in his thick hair, the other tight on his arm as she met him, thrust for thrust. Somewhere in the madness, there was a faint pain, but it was obscured by the waves and waves of pleasure that wracked her as he possessed her.

Oh God, nothing had ever felt so good. She clung to him, unable to think, struggling to breathe as he buried his face in her neck, gasping her name as he collapsed beside her.

For the longest time, they remained where they were, entwined and breathless. Charlotte soaked in the feel of him, aware of every sensation, every feeling. She savored the weight of his shoulder where it rested against hers, the warmth of his skin, the stickiness of her thighs, the sweetness of his breath where it brushed her bared neck. I could stay here forever and never want for another thing.

But that wasn’t true of course, and to her chagrin, her stomach rumbled.

Marco lifted his head. “You, my lady, have worked up an appetite.”

She opened one eye. “A gentleman would have ignored that.”

He laughed and moved against her, his thigh rubbing hers as he buried his face against her neck to murmur, “What more must I do to convince you that I’m no gentleman?”

She slipped her arms around his neck. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

“Oh, I will.” He pulled her closer and rested his head on her shoulder as he ran his hand lightly over her stomach and then up to her breast. Back and forth he trailed his fingers, stirring her body back to life.

This time, she ignored the trembling. As much as she hated to destroy this perfect moment, there were things that must be dealt with, and soon. She took a steady breath, and then said quietly, “This changes everything.”

His hands tilled. “It cannot.”

“But it has.”

He lifted up on his elbow, his brows knit. “Charlotte, we—”

“Yes. We. Not you, making decisions for us. But us, making decisions for us. That’s what a ‘we’ is.”

He frowned. “I was doing what was best for us.”

“No, you were doing what you thought was best for us. There is no one answer to life. Caroline’s death taught me that.”

He was silent a moment, his gaze never leaving her face. “Then what do you think?”

“I think we are still discovering things about one another.”

“That’s an optimistic way to say we don’t know one another well enough.”

“It means that even were we to live together for a thousand years, we would still be learning things about one another. The other day, my aunt admitted that my mother doesn’t know everything there is to know about my father. They are deeply in love and have been together for decades.”

“We’ve had such a short time.”

“A very short time. But that doesn’t mean it’s not a good, wonderful chance that we should take.”

A reluctant smile curved his mouth. “So we’re a chance, eh?”

“All relationships are.” She cupped his cheek. “And I want to take a chance on this relationship.”

“What about your mother? You said she would never forgive you if you broke with family tradition.” He cupped her face. “You wouldn’t be truly happy if your family broke with you. I don’t want to be the cause of that.”

“Then we’ll have to see to it that she doesn’t overreact.”

“She may not see it as ‘overreacting.’”

Charlotte smiled. “Perhaps we’ve given her too little credit. Either way, it’s a chance I must take. A chance we must take.”

He looked as if he wanted to believe her so badly, and yet was afraid of doing so. “Charlotte, little one, you make it seem so simple.”

“Maybe it is.”

“Most likely it is not.” He drew in a deep breath.

She watched as he thought through her words. She could almost see the thoughts flickering through his mind.

Into this quiet, he surprised her with a chuckle.

“What?”

“You said you didn’t have the mark of Nimway.”

She looked at him. “I don’t.”

He blinked. “But . . . you do. I saw it. It’s on your shoulder right where—

She sat up, straining to look.

And there it was. An oval mark, paler than Caroline’s had been, to be sure, but an oval just the same. Shocked, she looked at Marco. “I’m the Guardian.”

“Apparently so.” He pulled her back into his arms. “You didn’t know.”

“I never saw it. It . . . it didn’t used to be there!”

“Well, now it is. Perhaps the sun brought it out like a freckle.”

He tucked her against him and rested his cheek against her hair.

“Perhaps,” she said, although she didn’t believe it. She was the Guardian. What did that mean, she wondered. What if . . . what if it means whatever I want? For some reason, the thought made her smile. She wasn’t the only one with the mark. Mama had it, too. Charlotte had seen it whenever Mama had worn a ball gown with a low shoulder.

Marco sighed. “You may have been right, Charlotte. Perhaps I was hasty in assigning us to failure.”

“Oh, you were hasty. You very hasty.”

He chuckled. “Then let me show you how unhasty I can be.” He bent to kiss a trail from her neck to her shoulder, sending shivers through her yet again.