One hard hand splayed over her stomach, anchoring her as the other slid between her thighs. He stroked, caressed, opened her-exposed the entrance to her body-then probed. He filled her with his long fingers, worked them until she sobbed and sank her nails into his thighs.
He drew his hand from her. She lifted her head, gasped, struggled to fill her lungs. Stared, dazed, at the moonlit beauty beyond the window as she felt him slide slowly, possessively, into her body. Felt every inch as he filled her, let her lids fall, felt her body ease and joyously accept him.
And then he was there, sunk in her softness, his stomach flush against her bottom. She exhaled, one long sigh of contented expectation. His arms wrapped around her, one crossing her chest, hand closing about one swollen breast, fingers stroking the aching nipple; his other arm wrapped about her hips, hand splayed across her lower stomach. Holding her trapped, captive.
Then he flexed his spine and sent pure delight rolling through her. Withdrew and thrust again. Sent a slow, repetitive undulation of hot pleasure coursing under her skin, spreading to every corner of her being, focusing every last fragment of her awareness on him, on them, on their joining.
In the last lucid corner of his mind, Martin gave thanks to the carpenter who had created the window seat-it was at precisely the right height. So he could hold her like this, her bottom flush to his groin, only slightly bent forward, his chest to her silken back, his hands full of her bounty, and effortlessly love her.
Effortlessly take her, all of her, slide so deeply into her and possess her so thoroughly that there would never again be any sense of separateness. Her body, hot, wet, yielding, closed lovingly about him; she rode his thrusts, each deep penetration, welcoming him in, encouraging him to linger, reluctantly letting him go-so he could return again, press deeper still, make her breath seize. Fill her deeply, give himself to her and claim all she was, take and give again.
It was elementally primitive, joining naked and free in the night. Feeling the burning heat of their bodies contrast with the cool night air. Feeling the mystery of the night enclose them, the caress of the moonlight on their merging bodies a gentle benediction.
Feeling the hunger grow and swell and stretch, feeling it roar and race through their veins. Feeling desire explode and drive them, turning their bodies slick and hard and tight.
They were both gasping, valiantly clinging to the last shreds of sanity, wanting, desperately, to prolong the moment, so intense, so intimate, so compelling, when he lowered his head, ran his teeth along the taut curve of her neck, exposed as she arched her head back. And thrust deeper still.
"I'll never let you go." The words were gravelly and harsh. "You know that, don't you?"
Her "Yes" was a whisper, a silver surrender wafting on the moonlight.
She lifted one hand from his thigh, reached up, back, touched his cheek. Lovingly traced as she had so often before, the simplest communion.
He turned his head, pressed his lips to her palm, then bent, pressed his lips to the base of her throat, tightened his hold on her.
Slipped the reins and let them free.
Let the power flow through him into her, felt it reflect back, thrust it back, felt the inexorable rise, the overwhelming rush, the irresistible escalation that caught them up, fused their souls, sent them soaring into bright ecstasy. Until they shattered.
The power gently ebbed, leaving them floating on a golden sea.
Martin woke before dawn as he had once before with Amanda's soft weight snuggled against him. This time, he closed his eyes and let contentment wash over him.
After wallowing for some moments, he sighed, turned on his side, and ran his hands slowly down her body. She murmured sleepily, arched, turned to him and wound her arms about his neck. He kissed her lingeringly, then murmured, "We'll have to separate when we get back to town."
"Hmm… but not for long… and… not yet." Eyes still closed, she drew him to her. He closed his arms about her, rolled her beneath him, and left tomorrow to take care of itself.
It took them most of the day to drive back to London. Onslow's arm wasn't healed sufficiently for him to drive; they left him recuperating under Allie's eagle eye, and drove down in Martin's curricle. Martin handled the reins with Amanda beside him; Reggie sat behind in the tiger's seat.
As the curricle sped south, Martin and Amanda outlined all they'd learned, all they'd concluded-all they suspected. Reggie listened, then soberly said, "He won't stop, y'know. If he was prepared to kill to see the matter left alone, when you appear again, he won't just let be."
Expression grim, Martin nodded. "The question now is, should we let him know who he shot-or should we let him worry about that, too?"
Reggie voted to increase the pressure. "In that case"-Martin flicked his whip and urged the horses on-"we'll have to hide you."
They accomplished that by taking a roundabout route once they reached London's outskirts; they approached the fashionable district along the south side of the park as the last of the daylight faded, slipped into the drive of Fulbridge House, and quickly rattled around into the coach-yard behind it.
"No one saw us." Amanda scrambled down.
"Not a soul who would recognize us, anyway." Reggie climbed down from his perch more slowly.
Martin handed the reins to a groom, then turned to Reggie. "How's your head?"
Straightening from stretching his back, Reggie thought, then replied, "Not as bad as it was-the fresh air seems to have helped."
"Good. We'll have Jules, my henchman, take a look at the wound. He has tried-and-true remedies for all injuries."
Amanda slipped her arm supportively through Reggie's and turned him to the house. "Presumably Jules knows how to make tea."
Later, when Jules had redressed Reggie's wound after announcing it was healing well, then supplied them with a sustaining if somewhat exotic dinner, they took refuge in the library and settled to plan.
On the drive down they'd agreed that the one other person they needed to involve was Luc Ashford. Martin wrote a note and sent it off to Ashford House, then they turned their minds to more immediate concerns.
"Reggie can stay here, which will keep him out of sight and also mean there's always one of us here-at the center of operations, so to speak."
Reggie had been wandering the room, looking at this and that; he considered, then nodded. "Everyone will know I left with Amanda." He looked at her, curled up in one corner of the fantastically draped daybed. "If you say I went to visit friends in the north, no one will expect to see me."
"Except your mother," Amanda reminded him, "who won't believe me. And I don't think you'll want me to tell her you've a hole in your head."
Reggie blanched. "Good God, no! I'll write a note. Tell her I'm going to see those friends. She'll accept that."
Martin looked at Amanda. "I'll take you home later tonight. Will your father have returned from his trip?"
She counted, then nodded. "But why do you want him?"
"Because he needs to know the truth." When she frowned, he raised his brows. "I'm going to marry you, and I haven't even spoken to him yet."
She knew better than to argue, but made a mental note to be present at any discussion between her sire-a Cynster born and bred-and her soon-to-be husband, another rigidly protective male. She had no wish to find herself somehow excluded from the pending excitement.
Martin made three copies of their list of suspects. He was blotting the last when the front doorbell pealed. Picking up the lists, he rose, crossed to the daybed and handed a copy to Amanda; Reggie came up and took another.
The door opened; Jules stepped in. "Viscount Calverton," he intoned in his heavily accented English.