he wouldn’t leave the room.
Beneath his satisfaction lurked a growing restlessness, one unlike any he’d experienced before. He was impatient. Impatient to get on with his life, to take Heather’s hand and go forward into his — their — newly scripted future.
Perhaps not surprising. Since he’d regained his wits they’d spent countless hours discussing and planning. Joking and teasing often, yet steadily, element by element, refining their wishes and defining their marriage — their shared future life.
He knew he should sleep, that Catriona wouldn’t be pleased if he greeted her hollow-eyed in the morning, but impatience and sexual hunger combined to keep him wide awake.
The door latch lifted; as he turned his head, he had a flash of deja vu.
A flash that translated into solid reality as Heather slipped into the room.
She saw him looking, smiled, closed the door, and came to the bed.
As before, she was wearing her silk robe.
As before, she halted by the bed, tugged the sash free, and let the robe slide from her shoulders to the floor, revealing nothing but Heather — all pearly soft skin and mouthwatering curves — beneath.
He might have promised Catriona not to leave his bed — he hadn’t said anything about someone joining him in it. His own smile wide, he unlaced his fingers and reached across to lift the covers; she beat him to it, quickly raising the sheets and slipping beneath.
But the instant he started to turn to face her, she pressed a hand to his shoulder. “No. You have to lie still, as you are, on your back.”
“I do?”
She nodded, chin firm. “All the way through.” As she spoke, she was sliding across beneath the sheet. Slipping one sleek thigh across his hips, she shifted and wriggled until she straddled him. The sensation of her skin touching, caressing his, the memories that evoked, poured like unadulterated ambrosia over his senses. The distraction momentarily swamped his wits. It was all he could do to keep his hands, greedy for the feel of her, at her waist, keep his suddenly slavering lust from slipping its leash and ravening.
Propping her elbows on his upper chest, she looked down into his face. And grinned. “Catriona said this should be perfectly all right as long as you remain flat on your back. You mustn’t even try to sit up, or do anything else to put pressure on the stitches, but other than that. .”
She dipped her head and kissed him, a long, languorous promise of pleasure. The necklace she’d taken to wearing hung down, the crystal pendant warm against his skin.
When she drew back to catch her breath, he had to ask, “You discussed this with Catriona?”
Her lips curved; they brushed his. “Not specifically, you and me and this — I simply asked what physical restrictions a man with a wound such as yours would face. She understood instantly what I meant.”
He could imagine. “That, I suppose,” he murmured, his lips following hers in a series of tempting little brushes, “explains why she’s so keen to check my wound in the morning — to see if her handiwork has stood up to the strain.”
“Mmm.” Heather wasn’t interested in talking. She set her lips to his and shut him up, ridiculously thrilled that she could. Thrilled, when he kissed her back, when he followed her lead into the dance, that she actually had that power, that he would indeed consent to let her script and direct, that he — the foremost rake in the ton — was willing to indulge her and follow where she led.
This was her time, her moment to reaffirm, wordlessly yet in a language they both understood, all she’d told him on that night long ago, before they’d somehow lost their way. Before they’d thought too much, spoken too much, perhaps expected too much of the other.
That was behind them now, all misunderstandings wiped away by his selfless act, her response, and his injury.
Her commitment to him, to them, was now much stronger, tried, tested, and forged through the trauma of nearly losing him.
As she pressed him back into the billows of the bed, let her hands, then her lips, whisper over his skin, she opened her heart and let all she felt, all she now knew, tumble out. Let it flow through her hands, her lips, through her limbs as she used them to caress him. Let her love infuse every act, because that was what this was all about. Loving him.
Loving him truly, with a whole and grateful heart.
Loving him with every breath she took, every touch, every yearning heartbeat.
With every scintilla of her soul.
When she raised up and took him in, when she sheathed him in her body and with passion and desire flaring, rode him, pleasured him, she paid homage to that reality and let it free, let it shine.
Let it fill her and overwhelm her.
Let it fill and overwhelm him.
Breckenridge gripped her hips, held her as she rode him, steady and sure and with such open devotion. Eyes nearly blind, all he could see, all he could sense, was her and the powerful currents raging through them. Driven by, carried on, the exquisite sensations she pressed on him, lavished on him.
As she loved him.
He felt the surge of emotions — hers and his — combining in a torrent powerful enough to sweep them both away.
And he was with her again, once again caught in that most giving of acts, that communion of souls. But this time he came to it willingly, wanting it not just at this time but for ever more.
Wanting the transcendent communion for what it was, with no ulterior motive.
As she threw back her head and he felt her body tighten, even as his body answered her call, he glimpsed what drove them — no purpose, no desire beyond one, beyond a deep and abiding, powerful and triumphant, exquisite and enduring love.
She reached for it, clung to it, and he was by her side.
Together they crested, touched and tasted the glory, savored it.
And let it fill them, let it swamp their senses, expand and swell until it shattered them, fragmented them, and flung them into the void.
Ecstasy rushed in and caught them, filled them, buoyed them.
Drowned them in a blissful sea of golden glory and satiation.
It left them at the last, washed up on some distant shore, wracked yet replete, safe in each other’s arms.
Night closed her soothing wings over them.
Eventually, with gentle kisses and soothing murmurs, they disengaged. With the promise of that glorious, love-inspired future enshrined and shining in their hearts, in their minds, embedded in their souls, he closed his arms about her, and she held to him, and they slept.
“Catriona says my attack of measles would by now have run its course, so you and I are free to return to London whenever we wish.” Her arm linked with Breckenridge’s, Heather glanced up at him.
Lips curved, he shook his head in mock disbelief. “Measles. I’m amazed your mother consented to such a story.”
Having been released from his room, and all further restrictions, by Catriona that morning, he and Heather were taking the air — blessed fresh air — in a slow stroll around the herb garden. Although he felt steady enough, he was grateful for Heather’s support, the additional prop to his balance. His muscles would need a day or two to return to their usual reliable form.
“Mama and the others decided that, although your story of us coming up here to consider if we would suit away from the madding crowd explained our initial presence here, it didn’t account well enough for such an extended stay.” Meeting his eyes, she smiled. “You should be pleased — the story of you bringing me up here to recover, hidden away from the eyes of the ton, and then valiantly staying to keep me company through my convalescence, paints you in a distinctly romantic light.”
He humphed. After a moment, added, “I suppose the distraction of measles will at least have ensured none of the gossipmongers caught any whiff of your abduction.”
“Mama said they haven’t, so all’s well there.” She glanced up at him again, a soft, confident smile in her
