Patience blinked her eyes wide; all she could see was darkness.
"Here."
Vane's arm slid around her waist, and tightened, locking her to his side. He turned her toward the main stairs, strolling slowly. Despite the lowering gloom, Patience found it easy to relax into his warmth, to sink into the comfort of his strength.
They walked in silence through the darkened house, and on into the opposite wing.
"You're sure Gerrard will be all right?" She asked the question as they reached the corridor leading to her room.
"Trust me." Vane's lips brushed her temple. "He'll be fine."
There was a note in his deep voice, rumbling softly through her, that reassured far more than mere words. The last of her edgy, perhaps irrational, sisterly trepidation slid away. Trust him?
Safely screened by the dark, Patience let her lips curve in a knowing, very womanly, smile.
Her door loomed before them. Vane set it wide and handed her through. A gentleman would have left at that point-he'd always known he wasn't a gentleman. He followed her in and shut the door behind him.
She needed to sleep; he wouldn't be able to rest until she was dreaming. Preferably curled in his arms.
Patience heard the latch fall home and knew he was in the room with her. She didn't look back but walked slowly to stand before the fire. I
t was blazing, stoked by some thoughtful servant. She stared into the flames.
And tried to clarify what she wanted. Now. This minute.
From him.
He'd spoken truly-Gerrard was no longer six years old. Her time for watching over him was past. To cling would only be to hold him back. But he'd been the focus of her life for so long, she needed something to replace him. Someone to replace him.
At least for tonight.
She needed someone to take from her all she had to give. Giving was her outlet, her release-she needed to give in much the same way as she needed to breathe. She needed to be wanted-needed someone to take her as she was, for what she was. For what she could give them.
Her senses reached for Vane as he drew nearer. Drawing a deep breath, she turned.
And found him beside her.
She looked into his face, the angular planes burnished by the fire's glow. His eyes, cloudy grey, searched hers. Setting aside all thoughts of right and wrong, she raised her hands to his chest.
He stilled.
Sliding her arms upward, she stepped closer; locking her hands at his nape, she pressed herself to him and lifted her lips to his.
Their lips met. And fused. Hungrily. She felt his hands lock about her waist, then he shifted, and his arms closed, viselike, about her.
Her invitation, her acceptance, shook Vane to his soul; he only just managed not to crush her to him. His demons howled in triumph; he swiftly shackled them, leashed them, then turned his attention to her. Of her own volition, she pressed closer. Letting his hands glide down the delicate planes of her back, he molded her to him, urging her hips nearer, then, sliding his hands further, he cupped the firm curves of her derriere and drew her forcefully into the V of his braced thighs.
She gasped and offered him her mouth anew; rapaciously he claimed her. In the back of his mind rang a litany of warning, reminding him of his reined demons, of the concepts of civilized behavior, of sophisticated expertise-all the hallmarks of his rakish experience. Said experience, without conscious instruction, came up with a plan of action. It was warm before the fire-they could disrobe before it, then repair to the civilized comfort of her bed.
Having formulated a plan, he focused on its implementation. He kissed her deeply, searchingly, evocatively-and felt her flaring response. Her tongue boldly tangled with his; distracted, keen to experience the sweet response again, he tempted her, taunted her, to repeat the caress. She did, but slowly, so slowly his senses followed every flick, every sliding contact, with giddy intensity.
Not until he finally summoned his wits and eased back from their kiss did he feel her hands on his chest. Through his shirt, her palms branded him, her fingers kneading. She swept her hands up to his shoulders; his coat impeded the movement. She tried to push the coat off. Breaking their kiss, Vane released her and shrugged. Coat and waistcoat hit the floor.
She fell on his cravat, as eager as his demons. Brushing her hands aside, Vane rapidly flicked the knotted folds undone, then dragged the long strip free. Patience had already transferred her attentions to his shirt buttons; within seconds she had them undone. Hauling the tails free of his waistband, she flung the sides wide and greedily set her hands searching, fingers tangling in the crisp hair.
Looking into her face, Vane savored the look of sensual wonder in her features, the glow of anticipation in her eyes.
He reached for her laces.