As Michael had predicted, Hamilton, the Wolverstone House butler, didn’t turn a hair on being informed that the body deposited on the tiles of the front hall was very definitely dead.

“Of course, my lord. Leave the matter with me” was the extent of Hamilton’s perturbation.

Somewhat to Michael’s amazement, despite it being four o’clock in the morning, the butler and the two footmen he summoned to remove the body, and Drake’s man, Finnegan, who came hurrying down the stairs, were all wide awake and fully dressed.

On seeing Michael’s puzzlement, Hamilton explained, “We are expecting the marquess to return at any moment, my lord.”

“Ah.” Michael nodded. “I see.” The Wolverstone House staff were utterly devoted to the family, but most especially to Drake now that he’d stepped into his father’s shoes, government intrigue-wise.

Finnegan, a short, slight Irishman who looked a great deal more youthful than he actually was, hurried to peer into the bundle as the footmen hoisted it. Looking at the man’s face, Finnegan’s eyes went wide. “A body! And a gentleman at that.” He cocked his head. “Possibly one down on his luck.” Finnegan looked at Michael. “Do we know his name, my lord?”

“Sadly, no.” Michael knew Finnegan was entirely in Drake’s confidence; Drake frequently used him for this or that inquiry. “However, your master and I and all concerned in this latest mission need to learn his name as quickly as possible.”

Finnegan nodded. “I will endeavor to discover it, my lord.” He murmured something to the footmen, then led them into the nether regions of the mansion.

Michael glanced at Cleo. With the fingers of one hand interlaced with his, and her gaze taking in the magnificence of the ducal front hall in a mildly interested fashion, she’d stood quietly beside him, absorbing the interplay between him and the staff.

They’d sent her carriage back to Clarges Street, bearing a message that she would remain in Grosvenor Square with Michael until after their meeting with Drake, whenever that might be. Michael had told coachman and groom that he would see their mistress home in due course, an assurance they’d accepted without apparent qualm.

As he watched, her gaze shifted to Hamilton, who she’d met the previous afternoon, and she smiled tiredly. “Good morning. I rather think the marquess will want to speak with us as soon as possible. Indeed”—she waved in the direction in which the body had been taken—“we certainly need to speak with him urgently. I wonder if there’s somewhere we can rest until his lordship arrives. We’ve been up all night and would appreciate a chance to refresh ourselves.”

Hamilton didn’t exactly smile, but his features eased, and he bowed low. “Miss Hendon. The marquess would consider me quite remiss not to offer you and Lord Michael all the comforts this house can provide. None of the family bar the marquess are currently in residence. It would be our pleasure to provide you with rooms and beds and every other amenity.”

Michael hid a grin and watched Cleo try to disclaim the need for quite that degree of hospitality, but as he could have told her, turning Hamilton from such a tack was something few had ever managed.

“But you said the marquess was likely to arrive at any moment,” Cleo protested. “There’s no sense putting your staff to such trouble for us to gain just a few minutes of rest.”

“Well, as to that, miss,” Hamilton explained, “while we are holding ourselves ready to welcome the marquess home, there’s no saying when he will arrive. It’s quite likely he won’t grace this hall until closer to noon, and then you and Lord Michael will have wasted a good seven hours you might have spent regrouping.”

Cleo narrowed her eyes on Hamilton’s face, but the butler met her suspicious look with an air of complete and utterly unshakeable certainty.

She surrendered with what grace she could muster. “Very well. As you insist, you may show us to rooms for the rest of the morning. But you will inform the marquess that we are here the instant he arrives.”

“Indubitably, miss.” Hamilton bowed, then straightening, waved to the grand staircase. “If you will follow me, I will show you to suitable chambers.” He nodded to another footman who had taken up a position in the hall. “Jeffreys will alert one of the maids to attend you, miss, and will arrange for hot water to be brought up for you both.”

Jeffreys immediately sped away to do so.

Michael walked beside Cleo up the stairs. He was still suffering from a species of inner turmoil in the aftermath of the action in Morgan’s Lane and, even more, the clash in Black Lion Court. That they had somehow, out of that, managed to come to some sort of amenable understanding without railing at each other was, he felt, nothing short of amazing. Yet when they’d both been forced to witness the other waltzing one step away from death, their reactions—and the words that had subsequently tumbled from their lips—had established a truth it was impossible to step back from, much less suppress.

That didn’t make the roiling feelings, the impulses denied, any easier to bear. But as his father had intimated, he’d just have to manage it.

Hamilton led them to the guest wing. Michael was relieved to note that the rooms to which the butler showed them were close, with only two doors between. His protective instincts were still a trifle raw; even in such safe and secure surrounds, knowing Cleo was close soothed his inner guardian.

Michael halted closer to the main stairs, at the door to the room that Hamilton had indicated would be his, and watched as the butler guided Cleo to the room three doors along. A little maid came hurrying up, still tucking strands of hair under her cap.

Cleo glanced back along the corridor, caught his gaze, fractionally shook her head in resigned surrender, then followed the maid into the room.

Michael opened the door and went into his allotted chamber. He’d already declined the offer of Finnegan or a footman to help him to bed; on that score, he needed no help.

The bed was a large tester much like Michael’s own. He shrugged out of his greatcoat; on registering the weight of his pistol and that of the villain’s in the pockets, he reminded himself he would need to clean his pistol later. He would offer to clean Cleo’s pistol—her revolver—too. He was curious to examine the gun; he rather thought he should get one of his own.

If his wife had such a gun…

He stilled. Then he straightened and eased off his coat. It was the first time he’d attached that label to any woman, even in his mind, yet it fitted the woman he’d chosen to a T.

Cleo, his wife.

He smiled and unknotted his cravat, then he turned down the lamps and opened the curtains over one wide window before sitting on the side of the bed and easing off his boots. After setting the boots aside, he weighed the notion of removing the rest of his clothes, but who knew when Drake would arrive?

Deciding he didn’t need to strip to get some sleep, he tipped backward, brought his legs onto the bed, then settled his head on the pillows.

He clasped his hands on his chest, closed his eyes, and waited for sleep to claim him.

---

Cleo lay on the big, wide bed and stared up at the canopy. It was blue. Royal blue. Everything in the room was in some shade of blue. Which was an interesting observation, no doubt, but in no way contributed to her finding her way into slumber.

She’d washed, grateful for the warm water, and had allowed the maid to let down her hair and ease out the tangles. Then she’d dismissed the girl, doused the lamps, lay down on the bed, closed her eyes, and tried to relax.

After ten minutes of relaxing, she was still wide awake. Keyed up, with a certain tension thrumming along her nerves.

She knew what the problem was. She’d made a decision—prompted by the heat of the moment, perhaps, yet she’d stepped over a line, decisively and with intent. In her mind, that decision was settled, sealed, accepted, and was now a part of her. She’d recognized and acknowledged where her future lay, and now, she wanted to get on with it.

Now, she wanted to seize it.

She wanted to seize him, be seized in return, and see what came next.

On top of that, there was a compulsion building inside her, fed by some need, some yearning far deeper and more compelling than any rational argument.

Restless, she shifted onto her side.

Ten seconds later, she rolled once more onto her back. “This is hopeless.”

She sat up, swung her legs over the side of the bed, and stood. She glanced down at her skirts as she shook them straight. She’d disguised herself as a high-class lady of the night; if seduction was her goal, that wasn’t a bad start.

Should she do this?

Could she?

Would she?

She raised her head, straightened her spine, and with great deliberation, walked to the door. She was her mother’s daughter; she was perfectly capable of seizing the moment and acting decisively to secure the future hovering before her, hers if she dared to claim it.

Patience had never been her strong suit; she wanted that future now.

She opened the door and paused to check the corridor. Although lights burned in the front hall, all seemed quiet and calm downstairs—awaiting the arrival of the house’s junior master. On this level, the mansion lay slumbering, blanketed in the pervasive stillness that signified unoccupied rooms. Reassured, she stepped onto the runner, quietly closed the door behind her, then walked—quietly but not surreptitiously—to the door three doors up the corridor. The door to the room into which Michael had gone.

Pausing outside the door, she debated whether to knock or not, then with a mental shrug, she grasped the knob, opened the door, and calmly walked in. She shut the door behind her, then looked toward the large bed.

He, too, had turned down the lamps, but he’d opened the curtains over the window to the side of the bed. There, in Mayfair, the fog was no denser than a wispy veil, allowing moonlight to wash over the bed, illuminating the expanse in a silvery radiance while, by contrast, making the shadows swallowing the rest of the room darker, more impenetrable.

She wasn’t interested in the rest of the room, only in the man stretched out on the bed. He lay with his head cushioned on the pillows, his hands, fingers interlaced, resting on his chest, his legs straight, his stockinged feet crossed at the ankles. He still wore his waistcoat, shirt, and breeches, but had dispensed with his cravat, leaving the strong column of his throat exposed between the points of his collar.

She was visited by a sudden urge to set her mouth to the bare skin of his throat, to lick and taste. Quelling the impulse—reserving it for later—she fastened her gaze on his face. His eyes were open; no more than she had he fallen asleep.

Incapable of completely hiding her satisfaction, she allowed her lips to curve just a little as she walked to the nearer side of the bed. She watched him track her approach and noted the faint signs of the heightening tension that laid siege to his muscles. Recognized, too, the stirrings of something more primitive, more primal, as, with his features hardening, his gaze remained unrelentingly locked on her, and something darkly powerful stared at her through his eyes.

Steering this clash—for she felt sure it would be a clash of sorts—in the direction she wished it to go would require retaining control of the reins, at least at the start, and the only way she might achieve that ambition was to keep him off balance.

She reached the bed, met his gaze for a long second, then she turned, sat, swung her legs up to the coverlet, and lay down.

Michael watched her settle beside him. Her expression calm and open as it generally was, she lay staring up at the canopy overhead—exactly as he’d been doing when she’d come in. Unable to even collect his wits, much less think with her so close—in the dark of the night, in the same bed, no less!—he stared at her for a good minute, then, because it seemed the only sentence his brain could muster, asked, “Why are you here?”

The single most important question as far as his inner warrior-guardian was concerned.

She turned her head and, across the pillows, looked at him. Unhurriedly, her gaze traced his features, then she met his eyes. “I couldn’t sleep. Trying was futile.” Through the silvery moonlight, her eyes searched his, then she arched her brows. “What about you?”

Her tone had turned sultry, loaded with feminine invitation. The sort of invitation that made his pulse leap. But…he needed to go carefully here. He needed to stay in control—of himself as well as her.

Ruthlessly clinging to impassivity, he straightened his head and, once again, gazed at the canopy. “The same.” After a second’s pause, in a somewhat diffident tone, he added, “It’s the aftermath of the action.” He felt it was important he mention that; he doubted she’d lived through such excitement—such danger—before.

“The inability to sleep? Perhaps. However, as that does seem to be our mutual state, I thought we might seize the moment to address…”

When her voice trailed tantalizingly away, he set his jaw and counseled himself to wait and not show his very real interest…but she seemed to have lost her train of thought. Eventually unable to stand not knowing, he prompted, “Address what?”

As if she’d been waiting for the words—for that invitation from him—she drew in a deep yet distinctly tight breath, then she rolled toward him, came up on her elbow by his side, looked into his face, and succinctly stated, “This.”

Before he could stop her, before he could react, she bent her head, pressed her lips to his, and kissed him.

With fervor, with passion, with desire unleashed.

Firm and warm, deliberate and certain, her lips moved on his in a blatant incitement that exploded across his senses. That reached straight through his defenses and connected directly with the warrior-guardian inside.

The kiss lured, powerful and potent, laden with the promise of making his most immediate and urgent dream into reality, and he couldn’t not respond. Couldn’t not reach for her. He’d grasped her shoulders and drawn her to him, into his embrace and deeper into the kiss, before his whirling mind caught up with his actions.

And by then, it was far too late.

Too late to haul on any reins and pull back.

He cupped her nape and held her head steady as he took control and deepened the kiss. Her lips had parted, luring him in; he took full advantage, thrusting into the honeyed warmth to plunder and claim.

But she wasn’t about to surrender so easily.

Stoked by the ensuing duel, the exchange flared into a blaze of heat, hunger, and escalating need.

Her free hand traced his jaw, then trailed down to rest, palm down, on his chest; her fingers curled, and she clutched his shirt, braced her arm, and supported her weight as she leant over him the better to engage. The better to press the reality of her need upon him.

Not that he needed any instruction. His senses had expanded; even while engrossed in every nuance of the kiss, in the passionate duel it had become, he was acutely aware of every element of her—of the alluring feminine curves pressed against his side, of her legs brushing and threatening to tangle with his, of that evocatively clutching hand on his chest. Of the warmth of her breasts that hovered so tantalizing mere inches above him.

As his warrior self, that guardian who she alone truly touched, who she alone truly commanded, that inner self for whom protection of his woman—this woman—was a compulsion impossible to resist, vied with her for control, through the now-blazing kiss, through the insistent, persistent message of her lips, through her blatant caressing of his tongue with hers, he sensed her purpose.

One part of him—that warrior part—thought: Why argue? As long as he scripted the play, there would be no danger. Wasn’t this—her surrendering to him—what he wanted?

Against that, his rational, cautious side pushed him to slow their onward rush—long enough, at least, to determine that she really did intend them to thunder down this particular road.

That she understood where the road ended.

That seemed a sound idea on several fronts. With an effort, he drew his awareness from the kiss—and from where her busy fingers had opened his waistcoat and were currently engaged on a quest to slide every last button down the front of his shirt free.

Breaking from the kiss—battling his own urges, primitive and powerful as, when it came to her, they were, while simultaneously countering her and her always-flagrant incitements—wasn’t easy. In fact, it rated as one of the hardest things he’d ever done. But finally, he closed his hands about her shoulders, lifted her more fully across him, then held her high enough to press his head back into the pillows and force their lips apart.

Apparently accepting the change, she hung in his hold, her gaze falling to her fingers and a recalcitrant button. By relying on his support, she could use both hands and eagerly did—rushing ahead in her usual impetuous fashion. Further compounding his problems, she shifted and slid one sleek thigh, still screened by gold satin, thank heavens, across his hips, and swung to sit astride his waist.

He drew in a deep breath and fought to block the sensations of her warm weight across his stomach, of the firm pressure of her inner thighs gripping his hips, fought to block his awareness of the softness that lay at the apex of those widespread thighs… For him, that was a losing battle.

Clenching his jaw, battling the impulses she was inciting, the flames she was so deliberately stoking, in a voice that desire had roughened to a low growl, he managed to say, “Cleo—you do know where this leads, don’t you?”

She glanced briefly at his face; her eyes fleetingly touched his. “Yes. Of course.” Immediately, her attention shifted to tugging his shirt from the waistband of his breeches. Triumph infused her features as, succeeding, she hauled the halves of the shirt wide, baring his chest.

The look on her face as she stared down at what she’d uncovered—the open delight and blatant covetousness that gleamed in her eyes and stroked him like some invisible flame—made him literally groan.

From the brightening of her expression, the sound delighted her even more. Ignoring the tensing of his fingers on her upper arms, she eagerly spread her hands and set her palms and fingers to his chest. To skin that flamed at her touch, to heavy muscles, already hard, that her evocative caresses turned to iron.

The trail of her fingers over his skin shattered his concentration; the tripping of her fingertips through the wiry hair that adorned his chest vaporized his ability to think. The intensity of her gaze as she visually drank in his body, her focus as, like a cat, she sank her fingertips into the muscles she’d claimed, testing their resilience, felled his good intentions and left him awash on a sea of conflicting emotions, of clashing impulses.

He wanted her—beyond thought.

And it was perfectly obvious that she wanted him. In the same physical, sensual, earthy way.

He caught his breath as she found the flat disc of one nipple and artfully circled the sensitive skin. Closed his eyes as she threaded her slim fingers through the coarse hair on his chest and gently—very gently—tugged.

He opened his eyes, read the truth she made no effort to hide in her gloriously open expression, and knew without question in which direction she was—with her usual deliberate impatience—heading.

But he—they—had to get this right. He had to be sure they were walking the same path. He could assume…but he needed to know. With her, he needed to be certain.

From where such unexpected vulnerability sprang, he had no idea, but this was her—and she was different. She was the only woman he had ever wanted to—yearned to—wake up with after, in the stark light of morning.

When she sat back and, hands stilling, fingers splayed, on his chest, stared as if memorizing the landscape, the contours she’d conquered, he seized the moment. He steadied wits rendered giddy by barely leashed desire, hauled in a breath, and stated, “Just to be clear, if we go any further with this—you and me, together in this bed tonight—there can be only one possible outcome, and that’s marriage.”

Cleo raised her gaze to his face. It took an instant for her brain to shift from its preoccupation and replay his words. Her immediate impulse was to flash him a quick smile and say: Yes, of course. But something—instinct of a sort—made her hold both smile and words back.

She stared at his face, at his set expression. Simply agreeing—as if to a formal proposal—with a man like him…would mean that later, she would have no leverage when it came to discussing the aspects they would need to agree on to make any marriage between them work. Such as her work with the company. And her need for independence, at least to a point.

For her, tonight was supposed to be a step toward commitment—a vital step, but still just a step. Tonight wasn’t—or at least, hadn’t been—about any final and unalterable declaration, not on her part. Only after she was sure on all fronts…

Yet looking into his eyes, she could see that there was nothing flippant about his stance; he was in earnest and intent on getting an answer—the answer he wanted—from her. It struck her that, compared with the way she’d always heard such conversations went, they seemed to have switched roles. It was she who murmured, as seductively as she could, “We can discuss that later.”

Immediately, before he could tighten his grip on her shoulders, she gave in to her earlier impulse, swooped, and set her lips to the long, strong, lightly tanned column of his throat. She pressed a hot, damp, open-mouthed kiss to the warm skin, then licked up, then down to the hollow at the base of his throat. There, she laved, tasting his skin, feeling even such minor muscles tense at her touch.

He groaned softly, the sound plainly escaping despite his best efforts to stifle it.

A sense of power hummed beneath her skin as she drew back just enough to survey her playground.

“Damn it, woman!” His voice was a low, grating rumble. “Listen to me.”

The for-him-distinctly-weak command made her smile. “Why?” She was too absorbed, too intent, to meet his eyes. “Do you have any particular requests regarding what you would like me to do?”

“Yes—no! What?”

His confusion was music to her ears. “How about this?” She bent and, with her teeth, grazed the taut tendon at the side of his throat. His entire body tightened beneath her; excitement surged through her.

“And this?” She nipped, and various muscles spasmed, and his lower body jerked.

He sucked in a breath, then softly swore. He released her shoulders, swept his hands between them, and seized her wrists. Holding them together, he pushed her up and held her above him.

Balanced there, still straddling him, she looked down into his eyes—and saw something close to desperation in his bitter-chocolate gaze.

“No,” he gritted out, his eyes searching hers. “Answer me…please. Tell me you understand—that you accept.” He hesitated, his eyes locked with hers. For a second, he held back, then more quietly added, “Because for me, this—with you—is…it. Everything. The end of one life and the beginning of another.”

The sincerity in his eyes, the need in his tone, floored her. That she mattered that much to him, enough for a man of his ilk to find the words and the courage to tell her, to in unambiguous terms reveal to her how much he now saw his life as being dependent on her…with three brothers, with a father like hers, she knew the value of that.

She found a need of her own rising in response. Easing one wrist from his hold, she reached down and laid that hand, gentle and caressing, against his cheek. She hadn’t shifted her gaze from his eyes—couldn’t have even had she wished to. Drowning in his gaze, she found the right words waiting on the tip of her tongue. “I have no intention—none whatsoever—of backing away from this, from you. I harbor no thought of not committing to a life with you—marrying you is my shining goal.”

His eyes searched her face, and he seemed to breathe again.

She trapped his gaze and went on, “But if you feel that way—and I accept you do—then before we go further, I need to hear a declaration from you, too.”

Lost in his eyes, with her senses steeped in him, wrapped in the warm confines of the bed with the pale glow of the moon washing over them both, she looked into her heart, found her own vulnerability residing there, and forced herself to enunciate that critical fear—as he had. “I want nothing more desperately than to marry you—to be your wife and your partner in all things, to share a life and a future with you. But I need to know that you’ll accept me as I am in that role—that claiming you, and you claiming me, and us going forward thereafter hand in hand isn’t contingent on me changing. On me no longer being me—being the lynchpin at Hendon Shipping, being a lady more interested in managing an enterprise than in ton balls.”

She held his dark gaze and went on, “I know there’ll be adjustments on both sides—of course, there will. But if becoming Lady Cynster means I need to fundamentally alter who I am—”

“Hush.” He’d raised his free hand and laid a finger across her lips. In the poor light, his eyes seemed impossibly dark, his gaze impossibly intense. But his expression had eased, the hard angles and planes softening; his lips curved, his smile openly affectionate—openly loving—as he gazed up at her. “I don’t want you to change. The lady I want to take as my wife is you—exactly as you are at this moment. The lady who refused to run away and leave me to my fate in Black Lion Court. The lady who came to Morgan’s Lane tonight because she felt I might need her help.”

He paused, then, his voice low yet resonant, his eyes locked with hers, continued, “You, Cleo Hendon, exactly as you are, are my perfect other half—my perfect partner. You are the lady I’ve been waiting to meet, and now I’ve found you, I will never let you go. And for the record, to have you as my wife, having you by my side, in my life, is all I truly want or need. However you wish to fill your days, whatever undertaking makes you happy, whatever adventure next strikes your fancy, know one thing—as your husband, I will be at your back, supporting and protecting you every step of the way.”

She felt her lips curve in a smile that mirrored his. Her heart swelled, filled to overflowing. She let every last shield fall and, with complete confidence, let her joy at his words shine through. “Thank you. That is all and everything I needed to hear.” Their fates, their future, were well and truly sealed. Her eyes on his, she tipped her head, her brows arching in question. “So…as you mentioned adventure, there’s a particular area of personal interaction I’m rather keen on exploring. Might I tempt you to join me?”

He laughed, then grinned at her. “Nothing”—he reached up, cupped her nape, and drew her down until their lips were separated by less than an inch—“would please me more.” He closed the gap and kissed her—and she kissed him back—with passion, with desire, with a hunger too long held at bay.

That hunger roared, erupted, and surged through them; it seized and ruthlessly commanded them.

He rolled and brought her down to the silky coverlet.

She wrestled with his shirt and waistcoat; he obliged by rearing back on his knees, stripping his arms from the sleeves, then flinging the garments into the shadows.

Before he could do more than lower his arms, she halted him by the simple expedient of spreading her hands over the magnificence of his chest and breathing the words, “No—let me look.”

He stared at her, but although his hands fisted, he remained kneeling and allowed her to explore.

When, emboldened, she eased upward and, pulling her full skirts out from under and around her legs, came to her knees the better to reach, the better to caress, his lids fell, and he tipped his head back, his jaw setting, for all the world as if he was battling some ferocious force.

She suspected he was.

Smiling to herself, she bent her head, set her lips to his heated skin, and traced…

His muscles tensed even more. Without opening his eyes, he ground out, “You’re not going to make this easy, are you?”

After a moment during which she licked her way around one pearled nipple, she murmured, “I can’t see the point in rushing.”

In those words, delivered with sultry intent, Michael saw, if not his salvation, then at least a viable way forward. He straightened his head, raised his lids, looked at her, then opening his hands, he raised them, gently gripped her waist, and murmured, “If you want to take things slowly…”

Predictably intrigued, she drew her lips from where she’d been branding his chest and glanced up.

He swooped and covered her lips with his, took possession of her mouth, her tongue, her senses, and calling up every ounce of his long-established expertise, waltzed her—slowly—into the dance.

A dance of which he knew every step, every dip and whirl, every variation and version. Clinging to a slow, regimented beat was guaranteed to heighten awareness—his as well as hers—and would ratchet the inevitable tension by several degrees, draw out expectation and anticipation to an almost-excruciating extent, and finally, augment the intensity of the crucial moments by an order of magnitude.

But she’d wanted slow, and as they danced—as their hands swept and caressed to the steady beat, and their pulses pounded to the arousing rhythm, as their breaths came in increasingly shallow drafts, and he helped her from the froth of her skirt and petticoats and, later, still clinging to the slow beat, unlaced her light corset, then ultimately, drew her fine chemise off over her head—she clung to him, to their kisses and increasingly arousing caresses, to the moment, and to that unrelenting beat with a fervor and a determination to match his own.

His partner.

Even in this.

Even when he eased her down against the pillows and feasted on her breasts.

Even when he trailed his knowing hands over her heated skin, watching the fine, creamy silk flush a delicate rose as he traced every curve and hollow.

Cleo had lost touch with the world beyond the bed. Lying naked amid the rumpled sheets with him hovering over her, a dark shadow so intrinsically male, she’d discovered a universe ruled by sensation. He’d led her there, shown her the way—opened her eyes and all her senses to the pleasures and delights.

To the heat that steadily grew to furnace-like proportions, to the glorious tension that tightened nerves until they leapt at even the most delicate touch. To the slow, driving compulsion that steadily grew within them both to eventually rule their minds.

Between them, desire burned and passion raged, yet their adherence to the steady beat that resonated in their hearts held strong, held firm, and let her, let them, absorb each moment of scintillating pleasure to the full before being forced by that compulsion to move on.

She’d wanted to take sufficient time so she would remember the way, but she now knew she would never forget. Every new sensation he offered her—from his attentions to the full, swollen mounds of her breasts to the long, sweeping caresses that had her arching against his hard, so very male body—seemed to etch itself into the bedrock of her psyche.

She’d never imagined lovemaking would involve such a close communion, that it would involve layers of herself and of him that lay far beneath the surface of their conscious minds—far deeper than speech or touch, more in the realm of feelings. She opened her senses, her mind, her soul, and embraced it all—embraced him as he patently embraced her.

They opened their hearts, and with thoughts exchanged via soft gasps and the touch of their gazes through the moonstruck shadows, through the stroking of their hands, reverent yet sure as they progressed along the route they’d chosen, they anchored the other deep within.

Each to be forever a part of the other.

As the engagement spun on and the beat intensified, he touched her, caressed her, and drove her wild with desire, with passion and hunger and wanting. His lips traced her curves, leaving damp trails on her overheated skin, then he parted her thighs and touched her most private flesh and found it swollen, soft and slick. Then he dipped his head and set his mouth to that slick softness, and for several heated moments, she was quite sure she would lose her mind.

But then he disengaged, drew back and away.

Panting, she sprawled on the coverlet, naked and heated, and waited and watched as he shed his breeches and stockings and, finally naked himself, joined her on the bed.

Their control held, even then. Even as he lowered his hips between her widespread thighs and, with the moonlight gilding his tensed and straining muscles and her sleek curves, they discovered just how well they fitted, how perfectly, despite her momentary discomfort, they matched in this way, too, the beat thundered and pounded through their blood, through their hearts, and bound them.

And into the dance they plunged, with that beat still driving them, still constraining and compelling them. Not in her wildest dreams had she imagined the sensations could be so acute, so intense; never had she guessed at the indescribable impact of feeling the hard, heavy weight of his erection buried so snugly, so deeply, inside her.

The intimacy of the moment—the closeness, the shattering togetherness—flooded her mind.

And with every long, slow thrust, her gasps of wonder, of delight and burgeoning pleasure, filled the soft shadows engulfing them.

The power of his body, repetitively driving into hers, pleasuring her senses to her very fingertips in so very many ways and taking her soaring beyond this world, thrilled and fulfilled her. The physical reality of the act was so much more compelling, so much more consuming than she’d ever dreamed.

She clung and rode with him, her body instinctively matching his—partnering his. Yielding and taking, absorbing and clutching.

This, she dazedly realized, was what she’d been born for. Not just being all she could be in her daytime life, but forging this connection, participating in this communion—this completed her.

This, surely, was the greatest adventure that would ever come her way.

She was gasping, clutching, striving with him to reach some peak of pleasure she only vaguely perceived when, finally, they lost their guiding beat. The forces they’d harnessed to that point snapped their fraying leashes and broke free—and overwhelmed them.

Both of them, for he was with her, as he’d promised, every step of the way; she heard it in his tortured breathing, in his guttural groan—he was as swept away as she.

They had no choice. They clung and surrendered and gave themselves up to the fury of the moment—and together, they raced.

Flat out for that beckoning peak.

On that non-corporeal plane, she reached through the driving, pounding desperation and put her hand in his, and when they reached the pinnacle, together they leapt—

They soared.

And reality shattered.

A supernova of sensation burst across her mind, searing through her awareness, crystal clear and sharp, an eruption of her senses etched in golden glory as he drove into her one last time, then held still, quivering as his own release ripped through him and emptied him…then ecstasy, powerful and unstoppable, rose and flooded them.

Delighted to her toes, still floating on that plane far removed from the world, she turned this way and that, bathing in that sea of coruscating glory.

Gradually, the sensation faded.

She sighed and let go, and he slumped upon her, and something inside her eased; she reached as far around him as she could and held him, claimed him, too, and let oblivion’s tide float them into slumber.

---

Michael woke, he had no idea how much later. The moon had sailed on across the sky, and the room now lay in darkness. Nevertheless, as he cautiously levered himself up and looked down at the woman sprawled boneless beneath him, quietly sleeping, he could see well enough to appreciate the sight.

To see and rejoice.

To remember and feel compelled to bend his head and brush a feather-light kiss to her forehead.

Carefully, he lifted from her. She seemed dead to the world and didn’t stir even when he slumped beside her, then, unable to resist, gathered her to him, settling her against his side, within the circle of his arms.

His.

He closed his eyes and felt that truth resonate through him.

He’d been dubbed “the huntsman” for many years, but now, his hunting days were over. His new role was as a protector—her protector, hers and any children they were blessed with—and that role suited him to the ground. More, such a role would satisfy and fulfill him in ways the hunter’s role never had and never could.

The woman sleeping within his arms was his new future personified. The future he’d been unconsciously searching for, at least for the past decade. The future he’d now claimed.

She was now his, and he was hers, and no power on earth would ever put them asunder.

Such was the magic, such was the power—the power that now linked them.