More, he could see himself with Emily in a relationship like that, but he didn’t know—truly had no clue—how to make it happen, what such a union was based on. What agreements were necessary to underlie the whole.
“I…” What? What could he say? I want what Jack and Clarice have?
They weren’t Jack and Clarice.
And he wasn’t sure she loved him enough. He seemed to be rushing forward, tripping over his feet in his haste to secure her, to discover the “more” he could entice her with in lieu of those three little words, but he needed to go slowly, surely, step by step.
Sliding his hand into the silken fall of her hair, he drew her down.
Arm braced on his chest, she held back. “What were you going to say?”
He shook his head. “Later.” Once he’d worked it out, once he’d found the words.
She opened her mouth, but before she could probe further, he kissed her.
Caught her and waltzed her into the passion, into the fires that rose so readily, into the latent whirlpool of their desires.
Here, on this plane, all was straightforward, all within his ken. Here, he knew just what made her gasp, what made her moan—what she liked.
What she wanted.
He set himself to give her that—and more. Committed himself to the task of showing her what he’d yet to find the words to convey.
Palming her head, holding her steady above him, he took his time savoring her mouth, languidly reclaiming the sweet hollows, the succulent softness she’d so readily yielded. He stroked his tongue alongside hers and felt her bones melt. Felt desire rise.
He took his time. Running his hands over her shoulders, down the supple feminine planes of her back screened by her fine nightgown, sculpting her body as it rested over his, her breasts, her waist, her hips, her taut thighs, her rounded derriere, relearning her curves, her valleys and contours, reclaiming them, too, making them his.
The first step of many.
She grew restless, wordlessly demanding. He rolled, taking her with him and settling her beneath him in the billows of the bed. His lips held hers, held her awareness; he fed and supped with lips and tongue while between them his fingers slipped buttons undone.
Until he could push aside her nightgown’s bodice enough to bare her breasts. Enough to close his hands about the firm peaks, and caress. Possess. He kneaded until she arched, until beneath his lips she moaned and surrendered.
The first of many such moments.
He drew back from the kiss, through the shadows surveyed the bounty that filled his hands, then he bent his head and set his mouth to the furled peaks, and feasted. Her hands fisted in his hair, clutched as her body arched, as, breathless, she accepted and asked for more.
Begged, her body subtly surging beneath his, primitively taunting, urging him on.
Still he took his time, thoroughly laving the swollen mounds before divesting her of her nightgown inch by slow inch, and claiming each inch of skin revealed by touch, by taste.
By right.
Branding her inch by inch, nerve by nerve.
Layering fire beneath her skin until she burned.
Emily writhed beneath him and rejoiced, even as her wits spun and her senses reeled and sensation crashed through her in swelling waves. The previous night, she’d taken the lead, pressing her quest. Tonight, he held the reins, and wielded them.
Drove her, consistent and insistent, scaling the familiar peak via a long, tortuous and novel path, while he assessed, weighed, worshipped.
Under his hands she felt precious. Every drift of his fingers over her skin screamed with primal possessiveness, while every brush of his lips, every subtle caress, was laden with reverence.
She felt like a goddess as he stripped her bare, as he drew back, parted her thighs, bent his head and kissed her there—as he used lips, tongue, teeth and his hot, demanding mouth to drive her wild. To, steady and sure, push her ever higher, until she gripped his hair, body bowing as a silent scream ripped from her throat and a cataclysmic climax shattered her.
He lapped, fed, continued to taste her until she eased back to the bed.
Then his hard palms smoothed over her fevered skin—a primitive claiming and a promise of more—as in the night he rose above her, pressed her thighs even wider, and the broad head of his erection found her entrance and he pressed in.
Slowly, deeply, completely.
The feel of him there, solid and hard, hot velvet over steel stretching her sheath, swamped her mind. She knew nothing beyond the fact that he filled her, that he banished the hot, aching, restless emptiness within her, that he completed her and fulfilled her and he was hers as she was his.
He withdrew and thrust in again, deeper still, demanding.
Hands sliding blind, splayed, over and around his chest, arms locking, she embraced him, rose to his rhythm, to the driving beat, meeting him and matching him in the compulsive dance, clinging as it whirled them high.
Worshipped him with her body as much as he worshipped her. Tipped her head back, found his lips with hers, and kissed him.
Engaged him in a duel as heated as the communion of their straining bodies. Nerves flayed by the indescribable friction of tautly encased, hair-dusted muscle, heated and hard, moving constantly, repetitively, over her satin skin, abrading the excruciatingly sensitized peaks of her breasts, by the rhythmic thrusting of his body into hers, the way he rocked her, by the echoes that found expression through the flagrant mating of their mouths, she joined with him and climbed, nails sinking, scoring as they reached the peak and her nerves snapped, unraveled.
He thrust in one last time, hard, deep, and she came apart.
And fell. Plummeted from the peak. Fractured and broke.
Disintegrated as ecstasy swept in, as it claimed her, filled her, buoyed her.
Joy followed, sweeping inexorably in as, over the pounding of her heart, she heard his ragged groan. As he went rigid in her arms, holding deep within her as his seed flooded her womb.
As at the last, muscle by muscle yielding to the inevitable, he collapsed, crushing her beneath him.
A smile curved her lips as she hugged him close, as satiation slid in and claimed them both.
17th December, 1822
Early evening
My bedchamber at Mallingham Manor
Dear Diary,
I have a little time before I need to dress for dinner. Today has been a day for consolidation and waiting. As usual, Gareth was gone when I awoke this morning, continuing his recent habit of exhausting me before slipping away with the dawn. Yet the events of the night confirmed my thoughts—the connection between us runs so deep neither he nor I can hold back from it. Indeed, when we come together, it is increasingly in mutual fascination and devotion. Together, we accept, embrace, and worship. On that front, at least, our way forward is clear.
I did not write this morning as, on the wider question of our marriage, I was still formulating my thoughts. And with the snows, although melting, still confining us to the house, in this place of relative safety where danger and its distractions are held at bay, I have indeed been able to make progress—at last.
Speaking with the old ladies—they truly are dears—and through further observing Leonora and Tristan, and Jack and Clarice, I have defined and confirmed what the principal elements necessary to underpin a successful marriage between Gareth and myself are.
Trust. Partnership. An appreciation and acceptance of each other’s strengths, and a willingness to allow for the other’s weaknesses. A sharing freely given and readily accepted in all areas of our lives, allowing the other to share the burdens, to help meet the challenges, and share fully in the triumphs.
Those are the elements I need to explain to Gareth, to make him see and understand how vital they are, and how wonderful our marriage and our future will be if we can work together to embrace them.
I do not imagine that will be simple and easy, but then nothing worthwhile ever is.
So
now, dear Diary, I am clearheaded and resolved, and waiting—here is the waiting—on only one thing. The end of Gareth’s mission. The end of the Black Cobra. In my view, that cannot come soon enough.
My resolution and clearheadedness have given birth to a certain eagerness. I feel I am standing on the cusp, not just of great happiness, but of an exciting journey that will fill the rest of my life—but I cannot take the first step until that wretched Black Cobra is caught and put down.
We are hoping to hear from Wolverstone soon.
Pray that it is so.
E.
A messenger from Wolverstone rode in late that evening.
The greatcoated rider handed his packet to Tristan in the front hall. “Would have been here earlier, m’lords, but the drifts are still thick through Suffolk. Howsoever, I was to tell you that as per those orders”—he nodded at the packet—“you shouldn’t have any trouble getting through, seeing as you’ll be in carriages and there’s no more snow coming down.”
“Thank you.” Tristan handed the man over to Clitheroe, then followed the others back into the drawing room, where they’d been sitting and chatting by the roaring fire.
They resumed their seats and waited expectantly as Tristan opened the packet. Frowning, he pulled out two folded sheets, then handed one to Leonora. “From Minerva.” He glanced at Gareth and Emily. “Royce’s duchess.”
Opening the second missive, Tristan scanned the lines within, then glanced up with an anticipatory smile. “Tomorrow we’re to travel via Gravesend to Chelmsford, seeing what cultists we can draw along the way, especially north of the Thames. After spending the night at the Castle Arms in Chelmsford, we’re to head to Sudbury, stop for lunch at an inn, then continue through Bury St. Edmunds to Elveden.” He offered the letter to Gareth. “Delborough is expected to be at Elveden to greet us.”
Gareth took the letter. “That’s excellent news.” He glanced over the instructions, then looked at Jack and Tristan. “So—how will we handle the travel?”
They discussed various options, the ladies contributing as much as the gentlemen, the missive to Leonora having contained an invitation from Minerva for Leonora and Clarice to visit Elveden with their families. Jack and Tristan exchanged a glance, but didn’t argue, clearly deeming Elveden to be safe enough, especially as they would soon be there.
In the end, it was decided that Leonora and Clarice would travel with their children in their own carriages, with their customary retinue of coachmen, grooms, and guards, taking Dorcas, Arnia, Watson and Jimmy with them. They would go via London directly up the Great North Road, then across via Cambridge and Newmarket to Elveden.
Gareth and Emily would go in another carriage, with Mullins driving and Bister and Mooktu as guards. They would follow Wolverstone’s stipulated route, shadowed by Jack and Tristan on horseback.
“The better to eliminate any cultists we find,” as Jack put it.
The two family carriages would leave three hours after Gareth and Emily’s, but as their route lay along major highways, it was likely the families would reach Elveden first.
With a glance at the clock, then at Clarice and Emily, Leonora rose. “It’s late, and we’ll need to leave as early as possible.” She looked at the men. “We’ll leave you to organize the carriages, coachmen and horses while we organize the people.”
The men nodded, and returned to their planning.
Rising with Clarice, Emily followed Leonora into the hall. Leonora rang for Clitheroe.
Emily had the simplest task. She explained to Watson what had been arranged, knowing she could rely on him to alert the others and have everyone ready in good time in the morning. Leaving Leonora deep in discussion with her housekeeper, and Clarice issuing instructions to her senior nursemaid, Emily climbed the stairs and headed for her room.
By the time she reached it, excitement had taken hold. Entering, she found herself smiling.
One last push from Mallingham Manor to Elveden, and their journey would be over. Two more days, and she and Gareth could turn their attention to their future—their marriage—to planning both.
She was in her nightgown, but, too excited to sit let alone lie still, she was pacing before the fire with a shawl about her shoulders, imagining, when the door opened and Gareth came in. She halted, eagerness lighting her face.
Closing the door, he met her eyes, read her expression, and smiled. But as he closed the distance between them, he sobered. Halting before her, he looked into her eyes. “Two more days.” He hesitated, then, to her surprise, he reached for her hands, enclosing them in his.
As his eyes searched her face, she remained silent. Wondering.
Eventually he drew a curiously tight breath. “I wasn’t going to say anything, not until this was all over. But…I can’t let us go on, into the next two days, without saying at least this much. Downstairs just now, we made plans, all straightforward and direct—we do this, go by this road, and we reach Elveden and it’s over.” His eyes held hers. “But it won’t be that easy. We know the Black Cobra will be marshaling his forces between us and Elveden, that he’ll have his best troops—his elite—waiting to intercept us. He will be, should be, desperate to seize the scroll holder. That’s what we’re counting on—that he’ll be desperate enough to commit his forces so we can reduce them, and that at some point he’ll make a mistake that will paint him even more definitively as the Black Cobra than the letter one of us is carrying does of itself.
“And all of that,” he went on, “assumes action and real danger. A real threat of death looming along our apparently simple road.”
Gareth paused. His gaze locked with hers, he searched for the right words, the words he had to say. “I haven’t yet asked you to marry me.” His grip on her hands tightened; he felt the delicate bones beneath his much stronger fingers and gentled his touch. “Not properly. I want to—I intend to—but I might yet be killed, or badly injured, and if I was, I wouldn’t want you tied to me.” She frowned, opened her mouth, but he spoke over her. “I wouldn’t want you to stay by me if I didn’t have a life to offer you. But…”
This was the difficult part, and at least she’d remained silent and was listening as intently as he could wish. Keeping his gaze locked with hers, he drew strength and steadiness from her moss-green eyes. “I want to marry you, and I want a marriage like Jack and Clarice’s, like Tristan and Leonora’s. I don’t know if that’s possible—if I can do what’s needed to have that sort of marriage—but I think I can, and I want to try. With you. Because I want us to have that, even though I can’t describe what ‘that’ is.”
Understanding shone in her eyes, her expression transformed to one of glowing happiness. The hard knot of trepidation in his chest eased.
She stepped closer. Freeing one hand from his, she laid her palm along his jaw. “I can describe it. I’ve spent the last days thinking of nothing else—looking and studying to learn what made marriages like Jack and Clarice’s, Tristan and Leonora’s, what they are—what makes them work. I know what we need to do—that we need to trust each other, value each other, and share everything in our lives—and yes, I want that, too.”
She smiled, and in that shimmering moment he could see her heart in her eyes. “There is nothing I want more in life than to have a marriage like that, with you.”
His heart cartwheeled, but he raised his hand and placed a finger across her lips. “Don’t say anything more.”
Eyes widening, she tilted her head, looked her question.
“It’s an old…I suppose you’d call it a superstition. A soldier’s superstition, yet there’s logic behind it. In going into battle, any battle, you try to ensure that you, personally, have the least possible to lose. It’s tempting fate to go into an engagement knowing you have something worth more than life itself at stake. More, it’s dangerous, because going on the offensive inevitably clashes with defensive instincts—and you’ll be caught, torn, at the worst possible moment. Facing an enemy knowing you have something of imme
nse and staggering worth to lose gives you a weakness that the enemy doesn’t have. It’s a distraction, a handicap.
“And that is why I want you to know what I want with you, but I don’t want us to speak of it—to make any declarations or decisions now.” He searched her eyes. “Do you understand?”
Her smile only grew more confident. She moved into him, molding her body to his. His hands slid around her, his arms instinctively closing about her. She raised her other hand to join the first, framing his face. “I understand—no declarations, no details, no mutual decrees. But you need to understand something, too—we’re already there. Words are necessary, but actions speak louder, and our actions have been declaring our truth for weeks, even if we haven’t been paying attention. What we need to have the marriage we both want—trusting, valuing, sharing all aspects of our lives, a partnership on all levels—we’ve been working on that, are well on our way to achieving that, and if we continue to grant each other those things, we will win through to the end. To the end we both want. We have to have faith in us—in what we are and can be together. And if we do, nothing—not even the Black Cobra—can deny us.”
Emily smiled into his eyes, her confidence, her faith, her unfettered joy all openly on show. “Together we’re stronger. Together we’ll weather this—whatever comes in the next two days—and then—”
“We’ll speak of our future. Of everything we want our future to be.”
Her eagerness was spiraling out of control. “How we want to shape it, and what it will hold.”
He bent his head. “How we want ‘us’ to be.”
Her lips were deeply curved when he covered them with his. She kissed him back with unrestrained passion, with elation and abandon. Her joy, her welling happiness, were so profound, so powerful, she couldn’t contain them—had to allow both expression.
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