She shivered.

He cocked his head, examining his handiwork. “Beautiful.”

“They are my favorite,” she said.

His eyes moved to hers, amused, aroused, and dangerously possessive. “I wasn’t referring to the earring.”

She arched her brows innocently. “Weren’t you?”

“No.” He bent and licked her throat.

Goose bumps rose over her skin, making her nipples come almost painfully erect.

“I think I first fell in love with you when you threw that earbob at me,” he whispered against her skin.

“How could you?” she gasped. She wanted to take her arms out from underneath the covers, but his weight on the sheets prevented her. “You were making love to another woman.”

“Not making love,” he contradicted her choice of words. “I never made love until I met you. And besides, it doesn’t matter. I forgot her the moment I saw you.”

She laughed, though her lips trembled. “Do you expect me to believe such balderdash?”

“Oh, yes,” he murmured, tugging the sheet lower on her bosom. “Believe me and love me in return.”

He raised his head, and she met his gaze, suddenly serious. “I do. I do love you.”

A corner of his mouth quirked up. “When did you know?”

She bit her lip, wishing he’d go back to kissing her, wanting at the same time to draw this out endlessly. “You’re fishing for compliments.”

“And if I am?” He took the coverlet between his teeth and tugged it down beneath one breast. He hovered over the nipple, close enough that she felt his hot breath, but he didn’t touch her.

“I think it was when you kissed me at Harte’s Folly,” she whispered.

He snorted. “You thought I was Thomas.”

She laughed. “I didn’t! I was only teasing you by pretending I thought you were he—you’d made me so irritated. I’d never mistake you for—Oh!”

He’d leaned down and delicately taken her nipple between his teeth. She felt the flick of his tongue against the sensitive tip, and then he was sucking strongly on her.

She moaned, low and shockingly animal.

He let go of the nipple. “You were saying?”

“I’d never mistake you for another,” she whispered, watching him from beneath half-closed lids. “We talked about true love on that first night. Do you remember?”

“How could I forget?” He pulled the coverlet down another inch and exposed her other breast. Idly he played with her nipples. “I had an uneasy feeling, even then, that you were the one for me.”

She swallowed, having trouble forming words with his hands working so exquisitely on her. “You are my true love, Griffin, now and forever. Sometimes when I think how close I came to turning away from you out of pure cowardliness, I want to weep.”

“Hush,” he murmured, brushing kisses over her lips, still pinching and fondling her nipples. “You didn’t. We are together—and we’ll remain together. Forever.”

“Promise?” she whispered beneath his lips.

“Promise,” he said just before kissing her deeply.

When he raised his head again, she was wet and wanting, but he still had her pinned beneath the coverlet.

“Are you ever going to let me go?” she asked.

“No,” he said, looking very satisfied. “I think I rather like you in this position, unable to move or object to whatever I want to do to you.”

She squirmed a little, feeling the slide of the silken covers against her bare skin. “I do like this, but it does have one drawback.”

“What is that?” he asked absently as he traced circles on her breasts.

“I might find it hard to kiss you.”

“What do you mean? It’s easy enough for…” He trailed away as he obviously rethought her words.

“Not there,” she purred. Really, she’d had no idea she could make such a sound.

His gaze flew to hers, suddenly very green and hopeful. He was off the bed in a thrice, doffing his clothes eagerly.

Hero took the opportunity to remove the covers. She lay like a wanton, head propped on one hand, watching as her husband, nude and gloriously erect, turned to her.

His gaze swept over her naked form and came to rest on what she knew was the blush on her face. “I love you.”

“I love you as well.” She inhaled, feeling very scandalous as she crooked one finger. “Come here and I’ll give you a kiss you’ll never forget.”

And she did.

Epilogue

Queen Ravenhair walked into her stables and found there, away in the back, her stable master currying her favorite mare. “My suitors have all fled, Ian,” she said to the man.

The stable master looked faintly surprised. “You know my name, Your Majesty?”

“Oh, yes,” she said, drawing nearer. “I wonder if you might answer me a question?”

“I’ll do my best,” said he.

“What is in my heart?”

The stable master threw down the curry brush and turned to face the queen. He looked at her gravely with warm brown eyes. “Love, Your Majesty. Your heart is filled with love.”

She raised a haughty eyebrow. “Indeed? And will you tell me what is in your heart, Ian?”

He stepped closer and took her dainty, white hands in his own big, calloused ones. “Love, Your Majesty. Love for you.”

“Then I think you ought to call me Ravenhair, hadn’t you?” she murmured as she kissed him.

He threw back his head and laughed. “I am far from perfect, my darling Ravenhair, but I would be the happiest man in the world if you would take me as your husband.”

“And I will be the happiest woman in the world to be your wife.” She smiled back, her heart overflowing with joy, and rose on her tiptoes to whisper in his ear, “I don’t think I truly want perfection anyway.”

—from Queen Ravenhair

“Mamoo!” Mary Darling giggled as she knocked over the tin cups Silence had carefully helped her stack on the kitchen floor.

The cups fell with a great clatter, and the little girl clapped her hands in glee.

“Goodness! That was very loud,” Silence said fondly.

The baby bounced on her bottom. “Mo’! Mo’!”

“Very well, we’ll stack them once more, and then, young lady, I think it’ll be time for a nap.” Silence had found that though Mary Darling might protest mightily at the thought of a nap, she was much happier with one.

“You look cheerful this afternoon, sister.” Winter came in the kitchen and set down his bundle of books.

“Do I?” Silence was aware that Winter had been keeping a close eye on her since William’s death.

“Yes.” Winter made a sudden horrible face at Mary, which sent the baby into gales of laughter. “I think that cap becomes you.”

Silence smiled a little sadly. It wasn’t the cap, she knew. It was little Mary Darling. One couldn’t let oneself wallow in grief with an active baby to care for. And perhaps that was for the best. She stroked a finger over Mary’s downy cheek. Life had to go on, after all.

“Is it stew again?” Winter peered into the pot on the hearth.

“Beef and cabbage,” Silence replied.

“Good.” Winter never seemed to notice what was set before him, but like all men, he had a deep appreciation for tasty food. “I’ll just go and wash before luncheon.”

“Hurry,” she called after his retreating back. “I’ve still got to put Mary down for a nap.”

He waved over his shoulder to indicate he’d heard her.

“Let’s just hope Uncle Winter doesn’t start reading a book up there,” she confided to Mary.

The baby chortled and knocked over a tin cup.

“Mrs. Hollingbrook!” Joseph Tinbox, one of the home’s older boys, ran into the kitchen. “Look what I’ve found on the step.”

He held out a small wooden box.

Silence stared at the offering like it was an adder. Their step had been mercifully free from any gifts since the morning of the riots, and she’d been hoping that perhaps the giver had forgotten them.

“Shall I open it?” Joseph asked eagerly.

“No,” Silence said a little too sharply. She inhaled. “Shouldn’t you be at your afternoon lessons?”

“Aw!”

She lifted a brow. “Now, Joseph.”

Joseph wrinkled his nose but slumped off obediently to his lessons.

Silence picked up the box with trembling fingers. She prized open the lid and stared inside. A lock of hair lay there, tied with a scarlet ribbon. She picked it up between thumb and forefinger, but no note was hidden underneath.

“Whose do you suppose it is?” she whispered to the baby.

It was a black lock, the hair so dark it shone blue-black. In fact, it was very like Mary Darling’s own hair. Now that her curls had grown in thickly, they’d revealed themselves as inky black. Silence held the lock to the baby’s head experimentally as Mary bent over her tin cups.

The hair was a perfect match.

But the lock didn’t come from Mary Darling’s head. Silence would know if someone had cut it, and besides, Mary’s hair was still too short. No, the lock of hair was long and curling, and really rather beautiful. A woman with hair like this—

Silence suddenly dropped the lock in shock.

Or a man. She knew of one man who had long, curling, inky-black hair. She gazed in horror at the baby playing before her. The baby she’d nursed and played with and sung to like she was her very own for the last seven months. The baby she’d given her heart to.

Mary’s hair matched Charming Mickey’s hair exactly.