He was poised on the crest of delirium when the depth of that need hit him like a blow. Understanding-of himself, of that urgent fundamental want-came in a blinding revelation. But nothing, not even his deepest fears, could stop him from seizing that which he’d thought for so long he’d never seek.
She climaxed beneath him and he was with her, drinking in her cry, fleetingly glorying in her completion before following her into the void.
His victory, or hers?
Sunk beside his sleeping wife in the satin sheets of her bed, Gyles wasn’t sure. And wasn’t sure he cared. If he could have his cake and eat it, too, why should he complain?
Despite her unexpected knowledge, despite all that had occurred, only he knew what had happened. Only he knew that she was the only woman to ever touch his barbarian core, the only woman whose surrender could sate, satisfy, and fulfill his true self.
The only woman his true self wanted.
She couldn’t know, not unless he told her. Not unless he admitted the vulnerability out loud, in words.
Pigs would fly before he did.
Lifting one lid, he looked across the rumpled bed, now lit only by moonlight. She was slumped on her side, facing him. He could make out the wild tangle of her black curls, the paler band of her forehead, the small hand nestled on the pillow between them. Under the covers, he had one arm slung possessively over her waist. He left it there.
He couldn’t, in all conscience, wake her and have her again. He’d already done that once-bad form, of course, but what did a barbarian care? The memory of the way she’d turned to him, her eyes searching his in the night, then focusing on his lips, the way she’d met his kisses, then focused on him, on them, on what they would do, sent a shiver down his spine.
Closing his eye, he slumped deeper into the bed, trying to block out the scent of sated lust that hung heavily about them. Trying to ignore his arousal.
In the morning. Just because he’d surrendered on one front, didn’t mean he had to let lust rule him.
Chapter 8
It was full light when he awoke and reached for her.
And realized she no longer lay beside him.
Gyles opened his eyes and stared, then groggily glared at the rumpled space where his eager new wife should have lain, warm and soft and ready to be aroused…
He bit back a groan, turned onto his back, and slung one arm across his eyes. Damn the woman!
Half a minute later, he lifted his arm, lifted his head, and looked about the room.
He sat up, then thrust back the covers and stalked to the door to her sitting room. He flung the door open. The room was empty. Not even a maid to send into hysterics.
Cursing, he shut the door, crossed the room, and righted the chair his loving bride had placed before the door to his room with the fell intention of keeping him out. Memories of the argument that had given rise to that event followed him into his room.
Five minutes later, fully dressed, he was striding across the lawns to the stables, no longer so sure of his victory of the night. Time and again he’d underestimated her, misjudged the way her mind worked. He’d thought last night would have smoothed their path, but had it? Or had he sunk himself deeper in the mire?
If he had, given her temper, given her resolution, what might she do?
Reaching the stables, he went quickly down the aisle to the mare’s box. The mare was in it; she lifted her head and stared him.
Gyles humphed and whirled.
“Shall I saddle up for you, m’lord?”
Jacobs, his head stableman, came trotting up from the tack room.
“Has anyone gone out this morning?” Jacobs would never imagine he was asking after his new wife.
“No, but I heard most of the visitors are gone.”
“Most, yes. I wondered if her ladyship’s uncle had gone out. He must be inside.” Dismissing Jacobs, Gyles strode back to the house.
He tried to put himself in “her ladyship’s” shoes, tried to imagine, if he were her, where he might go. To no avail-he had no idea what she might be thinking, feeling. Was she happy with their marriage, smugly content after last night? Ready to make the best of it, calmly resigned to the fact? Or was she sad, dismayed, even distraught that what she’d hoped would not be?
That he’d never in his life spent so much as a minute worrying about any woman’s thoughts, much less her feelings, he shrugged aside as irrelevant. The gypsy was his wife-she was different.
He paused at the end of the yew walk to draw in a deeper breath, to ease the nonsensical fear that was closing about his chest. Hands on his hips, he tipped his head back.
And saw her.
On the battlements of the nearest tower.
He reached the house in seconds and raced through the corridors to the tower stair. By then, a sliver of sanity had punctured his fear. The gypsy was neither weak nor fragile. What exactly was he thinking?
He climbed the stairs at a normal pace, making no effort to be silent. Regardless of the fact that the battlements were quite safe, he didn’t want to frighten her by suddenly appearing beside her.
One arm on the stone coping, she was leaning on the battlements, looking out over the park. She turned her head as he opened the tower room door and stepped onto the wooden walk. Far from being shocked, he had the impression she was not surprised to see him.
He was the one surprised.
He hadn’t previously seen her in an ordinary gown-seen her as he would see her every day for the rest of his life. Taking in the simple voile gown, noting how it lovingly displayed her ample charms, how the soft material caressed her hips and thighs, the single flounce flirting about her ankles, he was acutely aware of the body the gown concealed. The lush body he’d enjoyed throughout the night.
Noting the black curls piled artlessly atop her head, tumbling about her ears and nape, noting how large and vivid were her eyes, how perfectly lashed, noticing anew the lushness of her lips, he wondered what he would have done, said, how he would have reacted if he’d seen her this way before he’d married her. He had to question his sanity in wedding her.
And knew he wouldn’t have it any other way.
“I wondered where you were.” He walked toward her, halting a yard away.
She looked back at the vista of treetops. “I came up here for the views and fresh air.” After an instant, she added, “It seemed a good place to think.”
He wasn’t sure he wanted her to think, nor that he would like what she was thinking.
“The estate extends more to the east and west, I presume?”
“Yes. The escarpment’s the northern boundary.”
“And the Gatting property lies to the east?”
“Southeast.” He waited, then added, “I’ll take you to see it sometime, if you like.”
She inclined her head, then waved to where a glimmer of silver marked the course of the river. “The bridge that washed away-was it over there?”
“Farther upriver.”
“Was it wrecked?”
“Most of it’s gone. The only span still standing is badly weakened. We’ll have to rebuild completely, but meanwhile we’ve rigged a pulley system to ferry necessities across to the farms that way. I should go and inspect the progress-perhaps later today after the others have left.”
She started to slowly stroll, fingers trailing the stones. He followed, equally slowly, as she circled the tower.
“How many ‘others’ are still here? Who are they?”