On the cusp of oblivion, Phyllida felt him within her, hot and liquid at her core. With her hands, her arms, her body, she held him tight. If she was his, then he was hers. And he'd definitely lived up to her dreams.
She woke to find herself high in the bed. His head against her breast, his arms wrapped around her waist, he was a warm, solid mass of muscle trapping her mostly beneath him.
She was curiously comfortable and not in the least sleepy-presumably the afternoon's rest had been enough. She felt relaxed. No specter of death could possibly haunt her, not in his bed. Raising one hand, she lifted a dark lock from his forehead, smoothing it back amid the rest.
He stirred, tensed for an instant, then, eyes still closed, hugged her and placed a deliberate kiss on the nipple all but against his lips. "Very nice."
Phyllida laughed. He sounded like a very large human cat, purring with masculine satisfaction. Shifting, he freed a hand from beneath her, then settled back, head cradled on one breast, his hand on the other. He touched her gently, soothingly-not so much with desirous intent as for sensual comfort. She had no difficulty making the distinction.
Content, she lay back, luxuriating in the warm caresses, in the golden glow of the moment that still held them. Fingers stroking his hair, she set her mind free-free to feel, to think. To wonder. "I think I love you." It had to be that, this golden feeling.
The lazy drift of his fingers ceased. "Why aren't you sure?"
She answered truthfully. "I don't know what love is." Lifting her head, she peered at his face. "Do you?"
He met her gaze, eyes dark, mysterious. Then he looked at his fingers, lying on her breast, and started to gently stroke once more.
She smiled and leaned back on the pillows, her gaze lost in the shadows of the canopy above. She didn't press for an answer. If she didn't know, why would he?
Then again… "Do you love me?" She didn't look down but she felt him look up.
After a moment, he said, "Can't you tell?"
"No."
She waited. He shifted, lifting his head, moving back just a little. She felt his gaze on her face; it lingered for some time, then swept down, over her breasts, over her waist, over her hips, down her long legs. It returned, but stopped at the top of her thighs. The hand at her breast firmed. His touch changed.
"I'll have to demonstrate, then."
"Demonstrate?"
"Hmm. Cynsters are better with actions than words."
He proved it. The night became a heated odyssey through realms of passion, desire, sensation, anticipation, hunger, and need. He drew from them both and created the landscape, then guided
her through it, ever onward to peaks gilded with ecstasy.
Each touch became invested with more than just feeling, each joining with more than the physical fact. Sensations battered at them, emotions drove them, onward, upward, to impossible bliss.
At the last, she shattered and drank it in, and felt it sink into her bones. A heartbeat later, he joined her. They clung, and the wave washed over them, through them, then the tension slowly drained. Her lips curved. She leaned her forehead to his. He traced her face, then touched his lips to hers in a chaste, final kiss.
Their pact was sealed.
Giddy with release, relaxed beyond this world, they slumped together, drew the sheets up, and slept in each other's arms.
At ten the next morning, Lucifer left the Manor and set off for the old Drayton cottage. The night had given him more than he'd thought he'd ever have, but it had also left him with much to think about. Possessing for such as he always entailed a certain responsibility-the obligation to take due care. How much did he care for Phyllida? There wasn't a word to encompass the reality.
He strode out, drawing the morning air deep, letting it clear his mind. He'd been up since dawn when he'd lifted Phyllida, still asleep, from the cocoon of his bed and carried her to her own. She'd clutched at him as he'd placed her between the cold sheets. He'd stayed with her, sharing his warmth, until the first sound of his awakening household had sent him back to his bed.
His extremely rumpled, storm-tossed bed. God only knew what Mrs. Hemmings would make of it, but he was quite sure she wouldn't imagine the truth. Or, at least, nothing like the whole truth. That was hard enough for even him to believe.
Underneath her serenely decorous facade, Miss Phyllida Tallent was a wanton in disguise. He now knew that for a fact, and very comforting it was. He'd strolled into her room after breakfast, having been informed by Sweetie that her erstwhile charge had agreed to rest quietly for the morning but was suitably attired to permit of a visit. So he'd visited and with just one look, one wicked, suggestive grin, had sent a wave of heat rising to her cheeks.
She'd glared, then had to hide it as Sweetie bustled in. He'd stayed long enough to assure himself that Phyllida was indeed well; with carefully worded replies, she'd given him to understand that she was suffering more from sexually induced lethargy than from fire-induced trauma.
He'd been careful not to smile too triumphantly, or to show his relief. He'd explained where he was headed and why, then left her sewing on the buttons he'd sliced off the week before.
Striding along the tracks, he followed the acrid smell of burned thatch. The day was cool, so peaceful, when yesterday had held so much panic.