His shoulders and chest were broader than hers; she could see his body on either side of hers, a visual promise of his strength, of his ability to surround her with it.
Raising his hands, he pushed her loosened gown off her shoulders; she withdrew her arms and let it fall to the floor with a soft swoosh. The sound focused her mind, her eyes, on the contrasts revealed, on the steely muscles that flexed in his arms as he ran his palms down her arms—over the delicate skin, the subtle feminine curves.
She was slender, delicate, where he was broad, heavily muscled; she was pale to his dark, weak to his strong, yet she didn’t, never had, feared his strength; instead, she reveled in it.
Complementary, well matched. Equals, but not the same.
A pair, perfect foils each for the other.
Reaching out, she placed her brush on the table, quelled a shiver of anticipation as he shifted closer, as his hands slid around her and she felt his strength slowly, carefully engulf her. Easing back in his arms, she watched as he lowered his head, as he nuzzled her throat, then nudged her head aside so he could fasten his lips over the point where her pulse raced.
A smile curved her lips. She knew beyond question that she was the only woman who had ever interacted with him as she did, as she always had—close with no barriers, inside his mask, dealing with the real man rather than the persona he showed to the world. Seeing his vulnerabilities as well as his strengths, being allowed to know of them and ease them.
There was no other man she had ever wanted, ever needed to be with. Only him.
She could feel the tension still thrumming through him, not so much the aftermath of the day’s events as a sense the episode had yet to be laid to rest.
Her smile deepening, she turned into his arms.
Charles had no idea what she meant to do when she insisted on taking the reins. But he yielded, let her do as she wished with his body, with his heart, with his soul. He’d given her all three long ago; it was a relief to be able to consign them so simply into her keeping. Into her care.
Hours later, lying on his back, sated, exhausted, and at peace beside her in the rumpled bed, he acknowledged how different this was to the end of any previous mission. This time, thanks to her, he’d reached a completion that had never before been his; he’d traveled full circle from initiating protectiveness to final conclusion, and she’d welcomed him back, guided him back—absolved him. She’d acted as his anchor, his guardian and mentor in the personal sense; he’d never before had that connection, had someone not just acknowledging but personifying the link between his mission and those he sought to protect.
He glanced down at her, slumped, boneless, beside him. Accepted wisdom held that a lady’s life revolved about her lord’s; with them, he knew beyond doubt that his life would always and forever revolve about her. His place would be wherever she was, his bed would always be hers, not the other way around, no matter what society thought.
She stirred; after a moment, she lifted her head, glanced at his face, then shifted over him, leaning her forearms on his chest so she could study his eyes.
He studied hers, but could read little beyond a certain satisfaction, a certain decisiveness. “What?”
Her lips lifted. “Can we go directly back to Lostwithiel rather than going via London?”
He blinked. “Yes. Why?”
She held his gaze. “If we’re going to get married, then there’s a lot we need to organize, and if we announce our engagement in London, you know what will happen—we’ll be expected to make a social event of it, attend all the right balls and allow the major hostesses to dictate to us. We’ll be placing ourselves in your and my sisters’ and our mamas’ hands, and much as we love them, it’ll be so much easier if we keep the reins in our hands—”
He shut her up in the only way he could—he kissed her. Kept kissing her until she was floundering as much as he was. She was racing impulsively ahead again. Raising his hands, he cradled her face, aware to his bones of the simple honesty behind the kiss, of the unalloyed sweetness of what they now shared.
Drawing back, he looked at her, with his thumbs brushed wisps of her hair aside, met her bright eyes. Took a moment to wallow in the light that lit them, in the warmth he could feel even through the shadows.
His mind was still reeling. “I don’t understand. I haven’t yet given you what you want, or at least you don’t know I have—I haven’t yet told you I love you, or sworn undying love forever more.”
A wise man would have hidden his surprise, seized her acceptance, and kept his mouth shut, but…he frowned. “I thought, being you, that you’d at least demand a red rose and me on my knees.” He’d been anticipating doing something rather more flamboyant when the time came; strangely, he now felt cheated of his moment.
She blinked at him. “A red rose…on your knees?” She looked faintly stunned, as if he’d told her something new.
He frowned more definitely. “I haven’t yet shouted it from the steeple—that can be rectified—but you know I love you, that I always have.”
She frowned back. “You haven’t always loved me—you didn’t years ago.”
He stared at her. Felt his muscles harden, tried to keep them relaxed. “I’ve loved you for forever.”
At his flat tones, her frown grew more direful; she pushed up from his chest. “You didn’t. Not before.”
Jaw setting, he came up on his elbows. “I’ve loved you—only you—since I was sixteen! What the devil did you imagine that episode in the barn was about? How did you think it came about? Just because you decided?”
“That was lust!” Face-to-face, eye to eye, she dared him to deny it.
“Of course it was lust!” He heard his roar and fought to lower his voice. “Good God—I was twenty and you were sixteen. Of course it was lust, but it wasn’t only lust. I never would have accepted your invitation if I hadn’t been in love with you!”