Their blood pounded in their veins, and glory beckoned.
Desire lifted them on a wave of raw, exquisite, mind-numbing sensation.
Ecstacy sharpened, heightened, brightened, then exploded.
And they shattered, fragmented.
She screamed his name as she clung and fell.
He smothered a roar in the curve of her throat as he followed.
They spiralled back to earth through the fading brightness, to the comfort of that familiar golden sea, to satiation and completeness.
And, he suspected—he hoped—to a deeper understanding.
Never had he felt so utterly wracked with pleasure.
Never had the act been so deeply fulfilling.
Never had he felt so vulnerable—as if he’d placed his heart and his soul in her hands.
Deliah didn’t immediately sink into sated slumber. Sated she was, to her toes, yet…curiosity niggled. What had changed? And, more importantly, why?
He’d dropped his guard completely, lowered all inner shields, and given her honesty—emotional honesty. With a compelling sincerity he’d shown her what he felt.
But why? Or rather, why now?
From the depths of her mind surfaced the thought that tomorrow might well see the end of his mission. If, as she suspected he would, he decided to stay in Cambridgeshire to wait for his friends to reach safety, he might well send her north with an escort.
Once his mission was over, there would no longer be any further danger to her, no further need to keep her with him.
Was this—tonight—their last time? The last night they would share?
A species of dark panic bloomed inside; she felt it grip her throat, black and strangling.
His fingers touched, traced her forehead, her temple, her cheek.
She opened her eyes, and fell into his.
Searched them frantically. Waited, breath bated, for him to tell her their time together was over.
His gaze remained unwavering, rock-steady and sure.
“I want you to marry me.”
She opened her mouth, arguments jostling on her tongue—then his words registered.
And her world spun.
She blinked at him. “W-what?”
He frowned, then tried, not entirely successfully, to banish the expression. “You heard me. You can hardly be surprised…” His frown deepened as he studied her face, her eyes. His jaw firmed. “I want to offer for your hand—whatever the correct form of words is, consider it said.”
She gaped at him.
Del gave up trying to lighten his frown. “Why the devil are you so surprised?”
Surprise, shock—utter astonishment—were writ large in her eyes and invested every line of her face.
“Ah…” Finally she found her tongue enough to say, “I wasn’t expecting you to propose—that’s all.”
“All?” He blinked at her. If she hadn’t been expecting…his frown turned to a scowl, and he came up on one elbow so he could glare down at her. “We’ve been sharing a bed for nearly a week. What sort of gentleman do you take me for?”
“The usual sort.”
He stiffened, but then she waved as if to erase the words. “No—wait. Let me explain.”
“Please. Do.” He bit off the words.
He felt almost insulted when, wriggling up on the pillows the better to meet his glare, she vaguely patted his chest as if to calm him.
She stared down the bed, unseeing for a moment, then slanted him a glance—one filled with such uncertainty, such vulnerability, that he nearly weakened and gathered her to him to comfort her.
But he needed to hear what she was going to say. Needed an explanation. Needed her answer to his offer.
Needed to make sure she accepted.
“What?” he prompted.
She bit her lower lip—such an un-Deliahlike action that he nearly broke. “Are you really…I mean, did you really mean…what you just said? That you want me as your wife?”
There was some problem; he could see it in her eyes. Feeling grimmer by the second, he nodded. “I wouldn’t have uttered the words if I didn’t. Why?”
She drew in a breath. Held it for a second, then in a rush said, “Are you sure?”
“Deliah—” He held on to his frustration with an effort. Nodded again. “Yes, I’m sure.”
“Oh.”
When she stared at him, perplexed, he drew patience to him. “Earlier, you said you thought I was the usual sort of gentleman—implying that the usual sort of gentleman wouldn’t want to marry you. Why did you say that?”
“Because they don’t. Gentlemen—the usual sort—never marry ladies like me. I’ve been told that more times than I can count. And—”
“Who told you? Your parents?” Her parents, as he recalled, were strict and highly conservative—and she’d been the bane of her mother’s life.
“My parents, my aunts, my cousins—everyone.”
“Meaning everyone in a tiny pocket of the Wolds north of the Humber.” He caught her eyes. “That’s a very small, isolated, and, in this regard, narrow-minded part of the world.”
She held his gaze, then her lashes flickered and she looked away. “There’s more.”
She was already married. She was a convicted murderess. She…clinging to patience, he asked, “What?”
Looking down, she picked at the coverlet lying over her breasts. “You know I wasn’t a virgin.”
He’d noticed, in passing as it were, and been cravenly thankful he hadn’t had to mute his lust, or hers, to ease her through her first time. “You’re what? Twenty-nine? I would have been more surprised if you had been.”
She flicked him a frown. “It was only a few times with one young man, when I was twenty-one.” Her gaze grew distant; then she looked down. “He was the younger son of a viscount, on a repairing lease, although I didn’t know that until later. He was dashing, and charming, and I thought…”
“You thought he loved you?”
She nodded. “And I thought I loved him. I didn’t—I know that now—but I was young and naïve and I thought…so when he wanted me, I agreed. I thought it was all part of our courtship.”
“Only it wasn’t?”
“No. A week later—after quarter day had come—I heard he was leaving, going south again.” She dragged in a tight breath. “I asked him about us—what would happen. He laughed.” Her voice grew bleaker. “He told me I was a fool—that no gentleman in his right mind would ever marry a lady like me. I was a Long Meg, I was too sharp-tongued, too headstrong, too independent. I was too everything—no one would ever have me.”
“He was wrong.” Del made the statement unequivocally. She’d lived with that judgment, that belief, for eight long years. A species of fury boiled up inside him. “What is this younger son of a viscount’s name?”
“The Honorable Melvin Griffiths. But he’s dead now—he died at Waterloo.”
Sparing Del the need to beat the bastard bloody. “Good.”
Her lips twisted; she glanced at him. “That’s what I thought, too.”
He nodded. When she said nothing more, he asked, “Is that all?”
She met his gaze, surprise in hers. “Isn’t that enough?”
“To make me change my mind about marrying you?” He shook his head. “So, will you marry me, Deliah Duncannon?”
She held his gaze for a long moment. Hope and uncertainty warred in her eyes. Then, in a small voice she asked, “Why do you want to marry me?”
He could see all sorts of reasons, surmises, hovering in her mind—waiting for him to confirm them. That he felt he should because he’d ruined her in the eyes of his friends by sharing her bed. That he felt he owed it to her parents—and his aunts—to make an honest woman of her. That…there were dozens of reasons she would consider more likely than the simple truth.
Some part of him was horrified, but he didn’t hesitate.
“I want to marry you because I love you.” Cupping her face in one palm, he look
ed into her eyes, held her gaze steadily. “I love you, and want you and only you as my wife precisely because you’re not the common sort of lady. You’re more. You’re everything I need, everything I want, everything I must have to build the future I want—a future I couldn’t even see until we met.”
He paused, watched dawning belief lift the clouds from her jade eyes. “We belong together, you and I. Marry me, and together we’ll create a future that’s ours, that’s rich and vibrant, exciting and fulfilling.”
She raised a hand, touched the back of his. “You make me believe.”
“Because I believe—that I love you, and that you love me.” The twin facts were enshrined in his heart. Set in stone and immutable, they simply were. “So—will you do it? Throw your lot in with mine and see what we can make of life together?”
Her lips slowly curved. To his horror, tears filled her eyes.
But she was smiling.
“Yes.” She blinked, blotted her cheeks as the tears overflowed, then laughed at the look on his face. “I told you I didn’t love Griffiths—I know I didn’t because what I felt for him was nothing, simply nothing, to what I feel for you.”
She sniffed delicately, then smiled mistily up at him. “So yes, I’ll marry you. I’ll put my hand in yours”—she suited the action to the words—“and see where life takes us.”
He stared at her for a moment, then the wondrous reality finally impinged. “Thank God,” he said.
And kissed her.
She laughed through the kiss, wound her arms around his neck—and kissed him back.
December 19
Somersham Place, Cambridgeshire
He was still freely thanking all beneficent deities when, in the wee small hours by the faint light of a waning moon, he stetched an arm from beneath the covers and managed to snag his coat from where they’d left it lying on the floor. Deliah slept on, warm and snug beside him. Quietly going through his pockets, he withdrew the silk scarves he’d poked into them.
Dropping the coat, he turned to her.
She murmured sleepily when he reached over her to tie one long scarf to the bedhead on that side. He dropped a kiss on her temple, another on her bare shoulder as he drew back.
To anchor the second scarf more or less above where his head had been, it was easier to move over her and settle between her thighs—they parted welcomingly, her hips cradling him instinctively.
He reached up, secured the second tether.
Instinctively rocked his hips against her, the head of his erection seeking, finding, sliding into scalding wetness, penetrating her a fraction as he tugged the scarves tight.
After that, it was easier to slide slowly home. To feel her come awake beneath him as he filled her.
To feel her softness fully surrendered, and to instinctively take what was offered.
To bend his head and, as he rocked, find her lips with his. Cover them. Fill her mouth, helplessly yielded, and take that, too.
To lay claim. In the quiet of the night with the dark enfolding them, to love her.
Slowly, silently, she crested beneath him, her cries as she fell from the peak muffled by his lips. He felt the inexorable tug, the clenching of her sheath along his length, but this time resisted the call.
This time waited until she slumped, boneless and spent, beneath him.
Then he withdrew from her.
It was the work of a moment to lash both her wrists, one in each scarf. Dazed, still floating, she turned her head and watched him secure the second, then she looked at him.
Even in the dimness, he could sense her question.
In answer, he reared back on his knees, grasped her hips and flipped her. He drew her down the bed just enough for the scarves to pull taut, enough to keep her arms extended, her wrists higher than her head.
Then he lifted her hips, rearranged her long legs so she was kneeling on the bed, too, bent over her knees, her arms stretched before her.
He touched between her thighs, found her wet and weeping, set his groin to the luscious curves of her bottom, guided his erection to her entrance, then thrust powerfully into the scalding slickness.
And let instinct rule.
He took her as he wished, hard and deep, slow and thorough, until passion rose and swamped him. Until it drove him, ruthless, relentless, to, with his hands sunk into the bedding on either side of her shoulders, pump into her and fill her.
She shattered again, her strangled cry fracturing the silver silence of the night.
Her body clutched, spasmed, caressed. Lured…
He let go, let her take him. With a roar he muffled in her hair, let ecstacy wrack him.
Until he slumped, as boneless as she, over her.
He couldn’t move, had no strength he could yet command to lift from her. Freeing one hand, he brushed her hair from her face, glanced down at her features.
Noted their softness, the satisfied—sated—curve of her lips.
He remained where he was, savoring the lingering clutch of her body, until he had full command of his limbs. Then he gently drew back from her, reached over her head and tested his restraints, then he slid from beneath the covers, letting them resettle over her.
She woke as his weight left the bed. Watched in silence as he rapidly gathered his clothes. Frowned as he started donning them. “Where are you—” She blinked; straightening her legs, she slid around to fully face him, the scarves twisting as she did. She peered at the window. “Is it time to go?”
He glanced at his fob-watch, then slid it back into his waistcoat pocket, reached for his coat. “It’s nearly four o’clock.”
She tried to sit up, but the scarves held her back. Frowning even more, she looked at them, tugged. “You forgot to untie me.”
He stepped into his shoes, and didn’t say anything.
Slowly, she turned her head and looked at him, suspicion dawning in her face, her breasts swelling in incipient outrage, mounding above the upper edge of the covers.
“It was that, or lock you all in your rooms. We thought you’d prefer this way, so Bess—and the other lady’s maids—can release you when they come up, and you can join us at Ely once the action’s over.” Voice low, he hurried on, “We thought you’d like to see what the outcome was, and go with us to Elveden.”
“Well, of course we want that, but…” She tugged at the bonds. “We were supposed to go with you—as you well know.”
“No, you weren’t.” He took a step back.
It wasn’t just outrage that lit her face. “You can’t leave me tied up like this!”
“Not just you—all the ladies.”
She stopped struggling, stared again. “All?”
He saluted and backed another step. “Every last one. So there’s no point shrieking or calling for help. Everyone left on this level will be tied up, too.”
Turning, he had his hand on the doorknob when she said, “Delborough, so help me, if you leave me here like this, I’ll…I’ll…”
On a muttered curse he swung back into the room. Returned to the bed, leaned over her—and kissed her soundly.
“Be good.” He was at the door before she’d managed to draw breath. With a last salute, he opened it. “I’ll see you at Ely.” He walked out and shut the door behind him.
Listened. An ominous silence was all he heard.
Lips twisting, reassured by her promise to be his wife, he strode down the corridor.
Returning to his room, he quickly changed into breeches, boots and donned a heavier coat, then rendezvoused as arranged with the other men at the bottom of the main stairs. Devil was the last to join them, still shrugging on his coat as he came, a grin still lingering about his mobile lips. He waved them all on, then fell into step beside Del.
There was a strong sense of déjà vu as they strode out to the stables and saddled up. They’d done this before, he and Devil at the head of a group of men, many of whom were Cynsters, going out to face an enemy.
And bring him down.
In his saddle, Del looked up at the window behind which Deliah lay.
Sated, but almost certainly stewing.
Very likely planning retribution.
But that was for later.
With everyone mounted, Devil looked at Del. Grinned. “Lead on, Colonel.”
With an answering grin, Del wheeled his horse and smartly led the way out.
December 19
Ely, Cambridgeshire
In an icy misery of overwhelming dampness carried by a desolate, sleeting wind, the group reached Ely in the last of the long night.
Leaving their horses tethered in a field outside the town, they slipped through the shadows in twos and threes, approaching the massive bulk of the cathedral from the north, as planned.
The main doors would be unlocked, but they didn’t want to risk being seen. Gabriel picked the lock on one of the side doors, and they slid quietly inside.
To Del, who had been inside only once decades before, the cathedral, with its soaring arches and massive walls, felt like the belly of a sleeping stone giant. They all walked slowly around, getting their bearings and familiarizing themselves with the layout, with the numerous corridors, major and minor, the rooms giving off them, and, most importantly, the location of the doors that led outside.
Finally, wraithlike, they drifted to their assigned places.
The soft slap of their footsteps on the stone floor ceased.
They settled in for a long wait.
Silence descended.
Fifteen
December 19
Somersham Place, Cambridgeshire
Deliah roused from a fitful sleep to find Bess supervising one of the housemaids making up the fire. A glance at the window, at the narrow slit between the curtains, showed the faintest trace of gray light outside; it was barely dawn.
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