As soon as the coach took off, Locke dragged her to his lap, latched his mouth onto the soft skin at her throat, suckled, nipped, journeyed up and down the long column, while she moaned, dropped her head back, gasped short breaths. “If you ever leave me again, without so much as a word of warning—”

“You’ll what? Spank me? Lock me in my room? There is little point in running away if you warn the person ahead of time or leave a message stating where you are.”

Threading his fingers through her hair, he brought her head level with his, held her gaze. “Never leave me again.”

“I did it for you. To spare you—”

“The agony of losing you nearly killed me.” Something he’d never admit to another soul, but to her he suddenly felt that he could admit anything.

“How did you find me?”

“Not as easily or as quickly as I should have. I went to see your parents.”

Her eyes widened. Wanting to drink in the whiskey, he wished it wasn’t dark, that they weren’t ensconced in shadows. “I told you I was dead to them.”

“Since you’d lied about other things, I thought perhaps you’d lied about that. Or maybe I was merely hoping that you had, that they wouldn’t have it within them to turn you out. I punched your father, by the way.”

Her eyes growing more circular, she covered with her hand that mouth he was about to kiss. “You did not.”

“I didn’t like him. He was the reason you hid in trees.”

She nodded, remembering how she’d recklessly revealed that information the first night. “Yes. I could never do anything right. He made me spend hours on my knees praying for my soul. It only made me want to rebel more.”

“They know you’re a viscountess now. Should you ever wish to invite them to Havisham, I shall strive to behave, but I can’t promise I won’t strike him again.”

“I might invite them just to see you smack him.” She shook her head. “No, I’ll never invite them. I will not have them ruin Havisham for me as they ruined Fairings Cross. But they wouldn’t have known where I was, so how could they help you?”

He skimmed his fingers over her face, her brow, her cheek, her chin. He couldn’t get enough of touching her. “They didn’t, but then I remembered you mentioning Sophie, so I had a talk with Beaumont. He now has a broken nose.”

Laughing, she pressed her face to his shoulder, angling herself so she could kiss the underside of his chin. “I had no idea you were so violent.”

“He called my father a nutter, a disparaging term for a madman. He may not be totally sane but he is still a marquess and entitled to respect.”

“I’m glad you hit him.”

He grinned. “You’re a bit bloodthirsty yourself.”

“Your father is a kind, sweet man. He misses his wife. Nothing wrong in that.”

Months before, Locke was convinced his father missed her too much, but that was before he knew what it was to lose someone he loved—and he’d only lost her temporarily. He’d known she was alive and he would locate her whereabouts, reclaim her. For his father, there was no hope of finding his wife again. At least not until he died.

But Locke didn’t want to ponder that, consider the fact that his father was mortal. He wanted to think only about Portia. He returned his mouth to her neck, nibbling his way along until he neared her lips.

She placed her hand on his shoulder, pushing him back slightly. “You’re distracting me, and I still have questions. Beaumont didn’t know where I was, so how did he help?”

“He knew where you’d lived and you told me about a neighbor you visited. Once I knew which was your residence, I had only to knock on doors until I found the correct one. Fortunately I found her on the second try.”

“How far would you have gone?”

“Down the entire blasted street.” He cradled her face. “Portia, do you not understand that I was lost without you?”

“I didn’t want to leave.” She knocked her head against his shoulder. “I sold the pearls.”

“They’re replaceable. You’re not.”

Straightening, she met his gaze. “I like you very much when you’re in love.”

“You’re going to like me a good deal more before the night is done.”

She was still laughing when the coach drew to a stop outside the London residence. A footman opened the door. Locke leaped out, turned back, and handed Portia down. As soon as her feet hit the pebbled path, he lifted her into his arms.

“I can walk,” she stated.

“You need to conserve your energy.”

He carried her up the front steps, into the residence, barely acknowledging the butler before bounding up the stairs to their bedchamber. Word would make the rounds that Lady Locksley had returned. Her maid would be alerted but he trusted that the girl was smart enough to know she wouldn’t be needed until morning.

He set Portia on her feet. Because the frock wasn’t hers, because it was an atrocious fit, because he’d overheard that she didn’t need to return it, he ripped it from her, taking satisfaction in the rending of material. Other than the evening when she’d worn no undergarments, he didn’t know if he’d ever divested her of her clothing so quickly.

It had only been a few nights since he’d last seen her naked, but it seemed as though her body had changed, or perhaps he’d just not looked as closely. But her breasts were larger, her stomach more swollen. Now that he knew she was further along than he’d realized, he supposed changes would be happening more quickly.

Filling his hands with her delightful orbs, he pressed a kiss to the valley between them. Scraping her fingers through his hair, she dropped her head back on a moan. Then to ensure she understood his dedication to her, he dropped to his knees and kissed her belly.

“Locksley,” she whispered on ragged breath.

He looked up at her gazing down on him. “I love you, Portia. Every aspect of you, every part of you. And I shall love this child if for no other reason than because some part of it is you.”

“I don’t deserve you.”

“You’ve told me on numerous occasions that I’m an ass. I don’t think you’re getting any great prize here.”

“You’re wrong there. I’m getting the greatest prize of all: love.”

He shot to his feet. “Take off my clothes.”

She gave him a seductive and wicked grin. “Gladly.”

He’d always loved that about her, how comfortable she was with the body, with sex. He didn’t know if it came from her being a mistress or the devil in her, as her father claimed. It wasn’t important. He was coming to realize that a good many things he’d worried over didn’t matter. With her at his side, he was going to have everything he’d ever wanted, ever needed.

She took her sweet time disrobing him, tormenting him, slowly rubbing skin that became visible, licking it, taking it between her teeth, nipping. When he was completely nude, he moved to take her in his arms and she stopped him with a hand pressed to his chest. Her eyes, her intoxicating whiskey eyes, held his for two heartbeats before she went to her knees.

“Portia, you don’t have—”

“I’ve always wanted to do this. I’ve heard about it, but I’ve never done it. I never wanted to and Beaumont didn’t force me. But I want to now.”

His mouth had gone so dry that he doubted he could have spoken had the residence caught on fire and he needed to warn people. He merely nodded.

The rough edge of her tongue traced the length of him, up and down, over and over. His groan echoed through the room, and he thought she would be the death of him. Then her lips were taunting and teasing. He’d never known such exquisite torture. He fully intended to return the favor.

“Ah, my little vixen. You have the power to bring me to my knees.”

“It would make it more difficult to do this.”

He couldn’t believe he was chuckling. Before her, he never laughed when bedding a woman, although he realized it had been a good long time since he’d thought of himself as bedding her. Sometime between the moment that he married her and now, he’d begun to think of himself as making love to her.

Her mouth enveloped a good part of him, heated silk against velvet, her tongue swirling over him. He plowed his hands into her hair because he had to touch her, had to complete a circle. Christ, he was beginning to think like a poet. The next thing he knew he’d be spouting rhymes.

Although for her, he’d spout anything she wanted. With each sweep of her tongue, the pleasure spiraled through him, with each stroke of her mouth sensations set his nerve endings afire. She was innocence and vixen, daring yet unschooled, and he loved her all the more for it. Reaching down, he slipped his hands beneath her arms and brought her to her feet. Her mouth was wet, swollen, and he took it, tasting the saltiness of his skin on her tongue.

He backed her up until the backs of her knees hit the bed. Then he lifted her up and placed her gently on the mattress so he could feast on her.

She’d not yet had her fill of him, but she’d sensed his tension, his quivering need. She’d been driving him to the brink of madness. She’d understood that well enough as he did it to her far too often and easily.

Spreading her thighs, he skimmed his mouth up one leg and down the other. Up again and down. Up again . . . and hovering there. Blowing on her curls, using his fingers to open her up as though she were a rose that needed help unfurling. Then just as she’d tormented him, he tormented her with long slow licks, knowing exactly when to apply pressure and when to recede. He came at her like the waves of an ocean, undulating, forceful, retreating but leaving dampness behind. Burying her fingers in his hair, she wondered if he truly understood the power he held over her. She would do anything he asked, even remain his wife.

He loved her. She was still humbled by the notion, and yet she’d also never felt more victorious. He was hers. Completely. He’d given her a portion of himself that he’d never given to anyone. No other woman had ever held his heart, and while she could not determine what she’d done to acquire it, she certainly wasn’t fool enough to argue with him.

She loved him too much, and she would love him until the day she died.

The pleasure cascaded through her, ebbing and flowing, taking her breath, taking her strength, taking her will. With so little effort he could possess her, control her, rule her. Yet he never pushed to own her. He gifted her with his touch, his tongue, his fingers. Kisses and licks, strokes and nibbles. She could so easily come undone, but tonight was a new beginning; tonight was one of lovemaking, of unselfishness, of giving and taking equally.

“Killian,” she breathed, hovering on the edge. “I want you inside me. Now.”

He took one last stroke, one last swipe with his tongue, before moving up and flopping onto his back. “Straddle me.”

Rising up, she rolled over until her legs were on either side of his hips. Plowing his hands into her hair, he held her still.

“Tell me you love me,” he ordered.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too, and the thought of losing you terrifies me. I understand now why my father went mad.”

“You’ll not lose me.” She said the words with conviction even though she knew it was a promise she shouldn’t make. No one knew what the future would bring, but she had to believe that for them it held years of being together, years of knowing each other’s love.

“I’ll hold you to that,” he said before grasping her hips and lowering her, filling her.

She began to rock against him, controlling the rhythm, the tempo, running her hands over his chest, across his shoulders, dipping down to take his mouth, to circle her tongue around his nipple. His groans filled the air; his growls incited her passions.

Had she truly thought she could leave him, leave this? Perhaps her father was correct. She was a wanton, sinful creature. But dear God, wantonness felt so grand, sin so rewarding, especially when shared with a man who knew his way well around a woman’s body.

A man who was hers.

Moving his hands back to her hips, he guided her movements, helping her to move faster as the tension built. The sensations danced in frenzied gratification, sweet and torturous, from her toes to the top of her head.

“Look at me,” he demanded. “Look at me.”

She locked her gaze onto the green. This position gave her an advantage. She controlled the tempo, the pressure, the pulsating between her thighs. She watched as he tightened his jaw, shortened his breath—

“Don’t you close your eyes,” she commanded.

“You are a witch.”

“Your witch.”

Then it was all too much. The ecstasy ripped through her, hard, fast, intense. She couldn’t hold back her scream as he pounded into her, his feral growl echoing around her. Totally spent, she collapsed on his chest, aware of his final deep thrust as he tensed below her. He clamped his arms around her, held her tightly.

“Welcome home, Lady Locksley.”

Laughing, she pressed a kiss to the center of his chest before lifting her head and looking down on him. “Welcome to love, Lord Locksley.”