be more careful now-he must fear being caught.'
'As for fearing being caught, I can't say. But'-Vane's jaw firmed-'I'm quite sure, if it's the empty ruins he wants, he won't be able to resist the opportunity of having them all to himself.' He caught Minnie's eye. 'Whoever the Spectre is, he's obsessed-whatever it is he's after, he's not going to give up.'
And so it was decided: The whole household would remove to London as soon as Gerrard was fit enough to travel. As he did a final round of the silent, sleeping house, Vane made a mental list of preparations to be put in train tomorrow. The last leg of his watchman's round took him along the third floor of the west wing.
The door of Gerrard's room stood open; soft light spilled across the corridor floor.
Silently, Vane approached. He paused in the shadows of the doorway and studied Patience as, seated on a straight-backed chair set back from the bed, her hands clasped in her lap, she watched Gerrard sleep. Old Ada dozed, sunk in the armchair by the fireplace.
For long, uncounted moments, Vane simply looked-let his eyes drink their fill-of Patience's soft curves, of the sheening gloss of her hair, of her intrinsically feminine expression. The simple devotion in her pose, in her face, stirred him-thus would he want his children watched, cared for, protected. Not the sort of protection he provided, but protection, and support, of a different, equally important, sort. He would provide one, she would provide the other-two sides of the same, caring coin.
He felt the surge of emotion that gripped him; he was long past breaking free. The words he'd used to describe the Spectre rang in his head. The description applied equally well to him. He was obsessed, and was not going to give up.
Patience sensed his presence as he neared. She looked up and smiled fleetingly, then looked back at Gerrard. Vane curved his hands about her shoulders, then grasped and, gently but firmly, drew her to her feet. She frowned, but let him draw her into the circle of his arms.
Head bent, he spoke softly. 'Come away. He's in no danger now.'
She grimaced. 'But-'
'He won't be happy if he wakes and finds you slumped asleep in that chair, watching over him as if he were six years old.'
The look Patience bent on him stated very clearly that she knew precisely which string he was pulling. Vane met it with an arrogantly lifted brow. He tightened his arm about her. 'No one's going to harm him, and Ada's here if he calls.' He steered her to the door. 'You'll be of more use to him tomorrow if you've had some sleep tonight.'
Patience glanced over her shoulder. Gerrard remained sound asleep. 'I suppose…'
'Precisely. I'm not about to leave you here, sitting through the night for no reason.' Drawing her over the threshold, Vane pulled the door shut behind them.
Patience blinked her eyes wide; all she could see was darkness.
'Here.'
Vane's arm slid around her waist, and tightened, locking her to his side. He turned her toward the main stairs, strolling slowly. Despite the lowering gloom, Patience found it easy to relax into his warmth, to sink into the comfort of his strength.
They walked in silence through the darkened house, and on into the opposite wing.
'You're sure Gerrard will be all right?' She asked the question as they reached the corridor leading to her room.
'Trust me.' Vane's lips brushed her temple. 'He'll be fine.'
There was a note in his deep voice, rumbling softly through her, that reassured far more than mere words. The last of her edgy, perhaps irrational, sisterly trepidation slid away. Trust him?
Safely screened by the dark, Patience let her lips curve in a knowing, very womanly, smile.
Her door loomed before them. Vane set it wide and handed her through. A gentleman would have left at that point-he'd always known he wasn't a gentleman. He followed her in and shut the door behind him.
She needed to sleep; he wouldn't be able to rest until she was dreaming. Preferably curled in his arms.
Patience heard the latch fall home and knew he was in the room with her. She didn't look back but walked slowly to stand before the fire. It was blazing, stoked by some thoughtful servant. She stared into the flames.
And tried to clarify what she wanted. Now. This minute.
From him.
He'd spoken truly-Gerrard was no longer six years old. Her time for watching over him was past. To cling would only be to hold him back. But he'd been the focus of her life for so long, she needed something to replace him. Someone to replace him.
At least for tonight.
She needed someone to take from her all she had to give. Giving was her outlet, her release-she needed to give in much the same way as she needed to breathe. She needed to be wanted-needed someone to take her as she was, for what she was. For what she could give them.
Her senses reached for Vane as he drew nearer. Drawing a deep breath, she turned.
And found him beside her.
She looked into his face, the angular planes burnished by the fire's glow. His eyes, cloudy grey, searched hers. Setting aside all thoughts of right and wrong, she raised her hands to his chest.
He stilled.
Sliding her arms upward, she stepped closer; locking her hands at his nape, she pressed herself to him and lifted her lips to his.
Their lips met. And fused. Hungrily. She felt his hands lock about her waist, then he shifted, and his arms closed, viselike, about her.
Her invitation, her acceptance, shook Vane to his soul; he only just managed not to crush her to him. His demons howled in triumph; he swiftly shackled them, leashed them, then turned his attention to her. Of her own volition, she pressed closer. Letting his hands glide down the delicate planes of her back, he molded her to him, urging her hips nearer, then, sliding his hands further, he cupped the firm curves of her derriere and drew her forcefully into the V of his braced thighs.
She gasped and offered him her mouth anew; rapaciously he claimed her. In the back of his mind rang a litany of warning, reminding him of his reined demons, of the concepts of civilized behavior, of sophisticated expertise-all the hallmarks of his rakish experience. Said experience, without conscious instruction, came up with a plan of action. It was warm before the fire-they could disrobe before it, then repair to the civilized comfort of her bed.
Having formulated a plan, he focused on its implementation. He kissed her deeply, searchingly, evocatively- and felt her flaring response. Her tongue boldly tangled with his; distracted, keen to experience the sweet response again, he tempted her, taunted her, to repeat the caress. She did, but slowly, so slowly his senses followed every flick, every sliding contact, with giddy intensity.
Not until he finally summoned his wits and eased back from their kiss did he feel her hands on his chest. Through his shirt, her palms branded him, her fingers kneading. She swept her hands up to his shoulders; his coat impeded the movement. She tried to push the coat off. Breaking their kiss, Vane released her and shrugged. Coat and waistcoat hit the floor.
She fell on his cravat, as eager as his demons. Brushing her hands aside, Vane rapidly flicked the knotted folds undone, then dragged the long strip free. Patience had already transferred her attentions to his shirt buttons; within seconds she had them undone. Hauling the tails free of his waistband, she flung the sides wide and greedily set her hands searching, fingers tangling in the crisp hair.
Looking into her face, Vane savored the look of sensual wonder in her features, the glow of anticipation in her eyes.
He reached for her laces.
Patience was enthralled. He'd explored her, but she hadn't, yet, had a chance to explore him. She spread her fingers, and her senses, drinking in the warm resilience of taut muscle stretched over hard bone. She investigated the hollows and broad planes of his chest, the wide ridges of his ribs. Crisp brown hair curled and caught at her slim digits; the flat discs of his nipples hardened at her touch.
It was all perfectly fascinating. Eager to extend her horizons, she seized the sides of his shirt.
