When Muriel had joined them, she’d reclaimed her childhood room in the central block of the house; Madeline had grown used to her isolation, to her privacy.
She leaned against the window frame; warm air wafted in, lifting her hair, setting it floating about her face and shoulders. She was smiling to herself, imaging how she must look, when a shifting shadow in the gardens caught her eye.
A deliberately moving shadow. She’d already doused her candle; her eyes had adjusted to the night. She watched long enough to be certain that a man was approaching the house, but he was walking surely and purposefully, albeit carefully, rather than skulking.
Once she was sure he was making for the morning room French doors—a route she knew her brothers occasionally used on nocturnal forays—she left the window, paused, considering, by her dressing table, then hefted the heavy silver candlestick she’d left there, and on silent feet went to the door.
Her slippers made no sound on the corridor runner. She knew the house literally better than the back of her hand; hugging the shadows, she made her way to the head of the stairs.
She knew the male she’d glimpsed hadn’t been Edmond or Ben, but in the poor light she hadn’t been able to tell whether he was Harry or not.
The thought of Harry, of the evidence of his evolving maturity she’d witnessed that evening—and Gervase’s earlier allusion to what might constitute the emerging Harry’s idea of adventure—made her wonder just how much he’d truly grown.
Was the man she’d glimpsed Harry returning from some tryst?
Given the time since they’d returned, it was possible.
If it was he, he’d never forgive her if she roused the household; he’d be embarrassed beyond measure.
But if it wasn’t Harry…they had an intruder in the house.
Straining her ears, she could just detect not footsteps but the faint creak of boards. From the familiar sounds, she tracked the man as he crossed the morning room; standing at the gallery rail, she looked down into the shadowy pit of the front hall, and saw the morning room door open.
Just in time she remembered her nightgown was white; she jerked back into the shadows, then inwardly swore. She didn’t want the intruder, if he wasn’t Harry, to glance up and see her at the top of the stairs. The candlestick was all very well, but surprise—as in her surprising him—would greatly help. But if she’d hesitated for just a second she might have been able to see if the man was Harry or not, but she hadn’t, so she didn’t know, and so now she had to retreat into the gloom behind the old suit of armor facing the stairhead.
And wonder if the intruder would climb the stairs.
As if in answer, a tread creaked. Raising the candlestick, she waited.
Straining through the shadows, she watched as a head slowly came into view.
Immediately she knew who it was. Stunned amazement held her motionless, long enough for him to reach the gallery. He glanced around; lowering the candlestick, she stepped around the armor to where the faint moonlight would reach her, and hissed, “What are you doing here?”
Gervase turned, studied her, then reached out and took the candlestick from her. “I couldn’t sleep.”
His gaze ran over her, from her head to her toes, paused at her bare feet, then, slowly, reversed direction. Blindly, he reached to the side and set the candlestick on a nearby sideboard. “As I was saying, I couldn’t sleep, and as you haven’t yet agreed to share my bed, I thought I’d join you in yours.”
He’d spoken in a rumbling murmur throughout, but his tone had subtly altered, sending delicious anticipation skittering down her spine. However…“You can’t be seri—”
She broke off as his lips covered hers. He’d moved so quickly, pulling her into his arms, she hadn’t even had time to squeak, and then he was kissing her, answering her question in a highly explicit manner—and she suddenly knew why she hadn’t been able to sleep.
Reaching up, spearing her fingers through his hair, she kissed him back. Voraciously.
For long moments they communed in the dark, then he broke off and darkly, nearly breathlessly demanded, “Your room?”
“End of the corridor.” She waltzed him in the right direction. He steered her toward her door.
How they ever reached it, let alone got inside the room with the door shut upon the world, she never knew. But once they were inside, clothes flew, not that she had many to lose, but that left her with more to strip from him, more to goad her impatience to fresh and frantic heights.
Then they were naked, skin to hot skin, hands feverishly reaching, touching, stroking, caressing, stoking the fires that burned from within, making them blaze.
And then they were tumbling into her bed, onto the crisp sheets. She gasped, clung, clutched as he spread her thighs wide, wedged his hips between and with one powerful surging thrust joined them.
They wrestled and rode, laughed, gasped and battled for supremacy even while the conflagration within built, then roared, and came racing through them.
Until it took them, consumed them, seared them and fused them, until she clung, weak and close to weeping with pleasure. Suspended over the void, senses sharp and bright, tense and tight. Waiting….
With one last thrust he sent her spinning, every nerve alight, every sense fracturing into a million shards of glittering, earthly delight.