Martin looked at her. "How's Reggie?"
She grinned. "Much better, and quite ready to travel back to London."
Martin rose. He rounded the desk to join her. "That's one other thing we know about our man. He was on the Great North Road two nights ago."
She let him turn her to the door. "Actually, that's several things."
He raised a brow at her.
"Our man was someone who knew you were headed up the Great North Road two nights ago-but not why, and not in what carriage."
Chapter 21
After making arrangements to leave the next morning, they retired early to their beds. Arms crossed, coatless, cravatless, shoulder propped against the frame, Martin stood at the bay window of the earl of Dexter's bedchamber and watched moonlight and shadows drift over the valley. Let the sight sink into him, along with an acceptance that the title, the room, the house, the fields he could see spread out before him, were now his.
His responsibility, his to care for.
Acceptance brought the first hint of peace-a peace he hadn't believed would ever again be his, that hadn't touched his soul for the past ten years.
It was within his grasp once more, all because he'd chased a golden-haired houri up the Great North Road. She'd been his beacon, the light that had drawn him first from the shadows, and now further, back into the life he'd been reared to consider his destiny.
Without her, he wouldn't be here. She'd given his future back to him. Intended to be an integral part of it.
His lips quirked. He thought back over the past weeks, over the vacillations, the qualifications. None seemed important anymore; they both knew where they were headed.
Thinking of her had the inevitable effect, knowing he could go to her, now, tonight, and she would open her arms to him, welcome him…
But she hadn't yet given him her answer. The fact she'd felt it necessary to put miles between them just to think clearly… he couldn't, in all conscience-in all wisdom-act as if he took her decision for granted, even if he knew very well what it would be. Regardless of how hard she thought.
It wasn't logic that bound them, and logic couldn't tear them apart.
The latch clicked; he glanced back at the door, expecting Colly on some errand. Instead, his houri, dressed in a soft robe, slipped in. She looked around and saw him, closed the door, then headed toward him.
He turned, beyond surprise. He'd blown out the candles so he could see outside; the room was awash in moonbeams and shadows, elusive, mysterious, enticing.
She came to him with a soft smile on her lips, a gentle, questioning light in her eyes. She said nothing as she walked into his arms, reached up to lay a hand against his cheek. As she had so often before.
Their eyes met in the dimness-no demand, no command, nothing beyond the moment and them-the here and now of their reality.
She tilted her face, lifted her lips, drew his lips to hers. He bent his head-their lips melded, then, with the familiarity of practice, their mouths fused. Tongues tangled as the world fell away. Reality shrank-to this room, then further, until their senses knew no more than each other, nothing beyond the inch of air that caressed their heating skins.
Wrapped in the wonder she so effortlessly conjured, the promise of sensual delight, he sank his fingers into her curls, spread them wide-stood still as she unbuttoned his shirt, dragged it from his breeches, pushed it back over his shoulders. He shrugged, stripped the shirt off, flung it aside-reached for her. Captured her mouth again, drew her to him, molded her against him, then sent his hands skating, searching for the tie of her robe, easing the garment over her shoulders while she dealt with the buttons at his waist.
It was cool in the room but when they broke apart, she reached for the hem of her ivory nightgown, bunching the long skirt, then lifting it up, wriggling it over her head. He sat on the window seat, stripped off boots and stockings, watching her, then stood and dispensed with his breeches.
Naked, he reached for her as she emerged, tossing her curls free of the voluminous gown. She let it fall, drifting from her fingers to pool in the moonlight behind her as his hands closed about her waist and he drew her up on her toes against him. Skin to burning skin-need to aching need.
Amanda wound her arms about his neck and gave him her mouth, took his, urged him on. Tonight was theirs-whatever else happened, nothing could change this. Their oneness was absolute, unshakable-on that she harbored no doubts. Being in his arms, feeling the abrasion of raspy male hair against her sensitized skin, sensing the strength in the muscles that flexed and locked about her, most of all sensing the blessing of the place-of the room, of the house, the estate, the cliffs and the valley and the moon beyond his window-it all came together, coalesced and sent her heart soaring on a wave of emotion too deep, too powerful to be mere delight.
She was where she was meant to be-here, now, in his arms. She'd searched for so long to find her place-now she'd found it, found her future, found her life.
She was his-her decision was behind her, commitment was upon her. That was why she'd come to him tonight, to make it plain her acceptance was unconditional-no if, no but, no maybe.
He understood. She could feel it in the tide of possessiveness that rose through him and surrounded her. In the strength in his splayed hands as they held her to him, molded her provocatively to his aroused body-a promise, both of what he would give, and what he would take.
That was echoed in his kiss, bold and commanding, an intent so blatant, so primal, it made her knees weak.
Hands spread on his back, she clung, glorying in the powerful muscles flexing beneath her fingers, in the masculine power that, regardless of all appearances, existed, first and last, to please her. To take pleasure in her delight, to let her pleasure him in return.
She set her mind to that, eased back so she could run her hands over his bare chest. It had been too long since she'd had him like this, naked in her arms, hot skin beneath her palms. He let her have her way, slid his hands down to her bottom and cupped, kneaded, held her up, her hips against his thighs while his tongue and lips teased, tantalized, made all manner of explicit promises. She let her hands roam, filling her senses with the curves of muscle and bone, with the weight of him, with the heat, the solidity-with his maleness.
He let her explore as she would, let her reach down and close her hand about his erection, rigid and burning, pressed against her soft belly. As before, the contrast of steel encased in peach silk fascinated; she stroked, circled with her fingers, slid them down, marveling, then closed her hand again.
Kissed him more urgently-and was swept away by his reaction, by the surging, rolling tide of possessive need. It crashed over them, pushed aside all restraint, drove them before it.
Not, to her surprise, to the bed, but to the bay window.
He lifted her to the window seat. "Kneel facing the window."
She did, recalling another time, another place, when she'd faced a window and he'd appeared behind her. He urged her feet and calves apart, then stepped between; his hands closed about her hips as she shifted her knees to accommodate him. Then he pressed close.
His hands rose, closed about her breasts, possessively kneading, then his fingers found her nipples, artfully teased, caressed… then delivered on the promise, fingers squeezing tight, tight-until she arched, her head falling back against his shoulder as she shifted restlessly before him.
At her back, he was hard, ready, an eloquent assurance of all that was to come, but he didn't immediately join with her. Instead, his hands roved her body, flagrantly possessive, stamping his brand on every inch of her skin until she writhed, on fire, hips pressed against him as she rocked, evocatively pleading.