They departed from Amiens amid flurries of snow. Their tension had already been high, yet Gareth could feel that tension racking higher with every mile.
Yet, as he’d predicted, nothing occurred during the daylong journey. The Juneau coachmen continued to perform with outstanding skill, whipping their horses along. Bleak winter fields stretching endlessly under a louring gray sky flashed incessantly past.
Despite their relative speed, they didn’t reach Abbeville until evening. Their routine was well established. In less than half an hour, they were all inside and warm, the others sitting down to dinner in their hotel’s bar while he and Emily dined in reserved splendor in the great dining room.
Outside the wind howled, and hail rattled against the windows.
All of them retired early to their beds. Gareth, as he usually did, took the early-morning watch, between two and four o’clock. That way, he could fall asleep with Emily in his arms, and wake with her beside him, too.
She was already snuggled beneath the thick down coverlet when he reached their room, a fair-sized chamber at the end of one corridor. The fire had been built high, then banked for the night. With all the curtains drawn, the room seemed cozy.
It wasn’t warm.
He stripped quickly, and joined her between the sheets, leaving the candle on the bedside table burning.
He shivered as the cold sheets touched his skin. Relaxed again when Emily wriggled and settled, all warm, silken, and blatantly female, against him. Gathering her close, he turned to face her. “I can’t remember England being this cold.”
“It isn’t often.” Draping her arms over his shoulders, she slid her hands into his hair, fingers riffling as beneath the covers she fitted herself to him, her curves cradling his heavier bones and harder frame. “But after India, this is doubtless a shock to your system.”
His system was heating up quite nicely.
He looked into her eyes. For a long moment he drank in the assurance in the mossy hazel, the quiet confidence, the calm anticipation with which she regarded him.
Her lips were lightly, gently, curved.
Slowly he lowered his head and covered them with his.
The flames rose at their calling, steady and sure. More experienced now, there was less urgency, less immediate desperation-more time to savor each moment, to string out each inexorable step on the path to completion.
Knowing they would reach it, knowing that passion, satisfaction, and the ultimate satiation would be theirs, that ecstasy was assured no matter what route they took to reach it.
No matter how long, how tortuous, and drawn out that route might be.
This time, they took a longer road. He kept the pace slow, deliberate, intent.
Focused.
Emily surrendered to the insistent drumbeat, the measured tattoo driving each heavy caress. Wonder bloomed as, from beneath the fringe of her lashes, she watched his face as he paid homage to her breasts. Glancing up, he saw her watching, briefly met her eyes, then, still moving so slowly her nerves tightened, taut with anticipation, he lowered his head, and possessed.
Thoroughly, with a devotion to detail that ripped her wits away, that sent her senses spinning.
Every little touch seared like a brand. Fingers, mouth, lips, teeth, and tongue, he used them all in concert, playing, orchestrating, until her body sang, until passion and desire rose up in sweet symphony and buoyed her on their tide.
And swept her away into the heated moment, flooded her veins, flushed her skin.
She was eager and aching, filled with fiery longing when he finally parted her thighs, settled heavily between, and filled her.
Head back, she caught her breath, then sighed. Reached with her whole body, with her arms, her legs, her all, reached for him and wrapped him in her welcome.
Held him there as, head bowed, his ragged breath a song by her ear, he moved on her and in her, the long planes of his back flexing powerfully as he thrust repeatedly, giving them both what they wanted.
What they needed.
Even as his body strove for release, strove to pleasure hers and claim the ultimate prize, some part of Gareth’s mind watched and wondered-was filled with wonder, with a form of silent awe.
Things had changed since they’d left Marseilles, since at her insistence they’d begun sharing a bed every night.
Every night, the pleasure, the assurance, the wonder, grew. Intensified. Became measurably stronger, infinitely more addictive.
The simple act that before had always seemed so straightforward, so momentary and unaffecting, was now so much more. This…was heady, intoxicating. As he thrust deeper into her heated body and felt her clutch, felt her clamp and hold him, felt her arms tight about him, her legs clasping his flanks, her body cradling his…it felt as if she were feeding a part of his soul he hadn’t even known existed, let alone was hungry.
Yet he was hungry for this-not just the physical pleasure and the aftermath of bliss, but the connection, the togetherness, the blessed release of having someone that close, of having someone…who was his.
The reins slithered from his grasp. As they both, he and she, spiraled out of control, as the demands of their striving bodies overwhelmed their minds and took control of their senses, he raised his head, found her lips and kissed her-claimed her, honored her, thanked her.
And let go.
Gave himself to her and took her in return.
And no longer knew where one ended and the other began.
The storm took them, wracked them, shattered their senses, left their bodies boneless, floating on passion’s sea.
Left them melded, fused, joined at the heart.
Welded at the soul.
No longer alone. No longer separate.
The notions circled his mind as he drifted back to earth, to the warmth of their bed, to the haven of her arms.
Dreams made real.
She was that to him, and he would never let her go.
They left Abbeville in the dark before dawn. The cold was intense; frost lay heavy on the ground. Their breaths plumed as they bustled in the stable yard, rushing in organized chaos through the flickering shadows cast by the inn’s flares.
They were away before even a glimmer lightened the eastern horizon. Heading north at a cracking pace, they remained alert, on guard, yet Gareth felt certain they would meet with no resistance.
Sure enough, they reached Boulogne-sur-Mer without incident or delay. Courtesy of their early start, it was mid-afternoon when they rattled into the streets of the bustling town. This time, however, they did not stop in the town center.
As they passed the town hall and headed on down a hill, Emily looked inquiringly at Gareth.
“We need an inn close to the docks.” He leaned forward and looked out of the window. “The Juneaux say they know the area around there.”
The further they went, the more traffic there was. The carriages slowed to a crawl as they negotiated the streets around the marketplace, then continued along a fair-sized street until they reached yet another square. The Juneau cousins halted the carriages along one side.
The instant he opened the carriage door, then stepped down to the cobbles, the sights, sounds, and smells of the sea assaulted Gareth’s senses. It hadn’t been particularly windy above, but here the wind gusted, salty and tangy, damp with sea spray, slapping his face and tugging his hair.
Emily paused in the carriage doorway, looking out. “That’s the Channel out there, isn’t it?”
Gareth nodded. Beyond the quays and the harbor basin Napoleon had excavated in prepartion for the invasion of England that he never launched, out beyond the protective arms of the breakwaters and their lighthouses, lay a
