Her smile was beatific as she reached up and drew his lips to hers. “I’m sure that, together, we’ll think of something.”
They kissed—once, twice, three times—then, hungry for more, repaired to her room.
There, in the summer-scented starlit darkness, the passions stirred by the dangers of the evening—by the undeniable vulnerability of loving—swelled and rose in an ungovernable tide and swept them away.
Into a landscape that was familiar yet not, to a place where each witnessing the other’s close brush with death had honed a fine edge to their passions. That night, they came together in a world where desire was sharper, brighter, where need pounded an irresistible tattoo through their veins, and pleasure lanced, excruciatingly titillating, boundlessly exciting and exhilarating, and utterly, overwhelmingly devastating, through them both.
Gasps rose and fell, sighing through the night. Hands gripped; fingers clenched.
Palms stroked, while hands sculpted and possessed.
Joy welled, silver and gold, and threaded through the mounting urgency, adding another layer, another dimension, to their joining.
To their loving.
The end, when they seized it and it seized them and ecstasy roared over them, was shattering in the extreme.
It left them wrung out, sated as neither had ever been before, awash on a sea of pleasured completion, wrapped—safe, secure, and forevermore—in each other’s arms.
Later, Christopher rose and, drawn by he knew not what, walked through the darkness to Ellen’s window.
He stood before the open panes; hands rising to his hips, he looked out and realized that, in the distance, standing above the canopies of the trees between, he could see the roofs of the manor. The lane lay in a dip, and the manor, like Bigfield House, was built on a slight rise. The play of the starlight on the different angles of the roofs was strangely fascinating; he’d never seen his home from this angle before.
He heard a soft patter and felt the warmth of her nearing. He turned and, lowering his arms, smiled and drew her into his embrace. He brushed a kiss to her forehead. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“Hmm. You didn’t.” She’d grabbed a shawl and wrapped it about her shoulders, but the night air was soft, not even truly cool. Her hands resting on his chest, she turned her head and peered out of the window. “What were you looking at? You seemed transfixed.”
He pressed a kiss amid the unruly curls above her temple. “I was thinking of our future.”
She looked up at him. “Oh?” She blinked. “What about our future?”
He could have smiled and, with some light comment, led her into the less threatening aspects of that subject, but…now and forever, he owed her the truth. All his truth.
He turned her and nudged her forward, then he sat on the window seat and drew her down to sit before him, between his widespread thighs, with her back to his chest. He urged her to relax against him, which she readily did.
Resting his chin on her curls, he snugged his arms about her waist and, before she could ask, confessed, “I thought everything would be easy, because it was so very easy to fall in love with you.”
He was grateful when she didn’t immediately react, didn’t prompt or hurry him. He gathered his thoughts and went on, “But tonight, seeing you trapped in that bastard’s hold with a knife at your back, and later”—involuntarily, he closed his eyes and shuddered—“seeing him raise that knife toward your throat— that wasn’t easy at all.” He opened his eyes and went on, “In that moment, I felt, truly felt, the threat of having my heart ripped from my chest—the feeling hovered so real and so close I could taste my fear.”
He paused, then, voice lowering to an almost guttural register, admitted, “I’m not a fanciful person, but it was as if having my soul ripped to shreds was just about to happen before my very eyes.”
He hauled in a huge breath, then slowly exhaled. “I was so frightened, yet over and above all else, my principal fear was for you. Even being swamped by those riotously wretched feelings and gripped by that presentiment of devastation, I didn’t fear for myself so much as I feared for you.”
After a moment during which he breathed in and out, he murmured, “I’ve never felt like that about anyone or anything before. I thought I knew about love—about how powerful it was—but I wasn’t prepared for what happened tonight. I didn’t realize how deep love could reach, that it could alter my perceptions of life—of my life and what was important to me—to such a fundamental extent. But it did. It has.”
Several seconds of silence passed, then he sensed her filling her lungs, and he tightened his hold about her waist and, bending so he was speaking close by her ear, quickly said, “I’m telling you this by way of explaining that I’m still grappling with loving you—with what that truly means for me. Consequently”—he lightly grimaced even though she couldn’t see—“I’m likely to have ideas and reactions and suggestions that you might view as a trifle extreme.”
He felt her lungs quake, just a little, but she didn’t laugh. Instead, she wriggled around, and even in the weak light, as she looked into his face, he could see and sense and quite literally feel the love that shone in her eyes.
She raised her hands to frame his face, something she often did and he now welcomed, seeing it as a sign of her claiming him.
She searched his eyes, then replied, “No, love isn’t easy. Love—real, true, active love—is too powerful to ever be easy, facile, much less controllable. It’s the opposite of superficial—its roots reach deep into one’s soul, into one’s very being.”
Her eyes, gloriously certain, held his effortlessly, and her lips gently curved with rueful understanding. “Love is too powerful, wonderful, and precious to be without cost.” Her gaze was direct, open, and true. “And I’ve come to know and understand that, too.”
The question rose to his lips without the slightest thought. “Are you willing to pay love’s price?”
Her answering smile was radiant. “You know the answer to that. I couldn’t give you up if my life depended on it. In fact, my future life, certainly the quality of it, depends entirely on keeping you in it.”
He exhaled. “Good.” Then he returned her smile. “Very good.”
She arched a brow. “So are we in agreement, sir?”
“I believe we are, lady mine.”
She wriggled around again, so she was, once more, leaning against him and looking toward the manor. “So what about our future do we need to discuss and decide?”
He rested his chin amid her curls and gazed at his home. “Given we’ve already agreed to share our futures, the only detail I really want to decide is when we should marry. However, I should warn you that I strongly suspect the instant we tie the knot, my parents will declare the positions of master and mistress of the manor vacant.”
She turned her head and cast him a faintly frowning glance. “Why?”
He grinned. “Because they’ve had enough of running the show, here in Kent, and have been talking of moving to live with their closest friends, my father’s cousin and his wife, the Duke and Duchess of St. Ives. Their residence in London is St. Ives House, and the ducal seat in Cambridgeshire is Somersham House, and both are huge, so there’s plenty of room.” He paused to cuddle her close, then added, “I think my parents are using this holiday of theirs as a trial to see how I cope with the estate entirely on my own.”