Temptation and Surrender (34 page)

Him. All of him. Not just the gentle lover he’d already shared with her, but this side of him, too. This more forceful, primitive male who wanted her.

Needed her.

That last was engraved on his face, in the harsh lines of his expression, in the rugged set of his jaw.

She had something he would give his all for.

She was in his power…and he was in hers.

He was conqueror and supplicant combined; increasingly ravenous expectation a sharp brilliance, bright and true, gilding every nerve, sliding through every vein, she waited—for him to take her.

His gaze had dropped again to her body; she could feel the burning heat in his dark eyes. Then he raised his head and saw her watching him.

Releasing her breast, he caught one of her hands, until then lying forgotten, loosely resting on her thighs. And guided it to the apex of her spread legs. His hand wrapped over hers, he guided her fingers into the slickness he’d drawn forth.

“Feel how wet you’ve become for me.” Head bent, his voice was a dark growl in her ear.

She shuddered as, under his, her fingertips slid along her swollen folds, caressed.

Her lungs impossibly tight, her senses focused between her thighs, she let her lids close.

His hand tightened on hers, stilled. “Open your eyes.”

She did, dragged in a desperate breath and obediently locked her gaze on her reflection, on the subtly shifting curves gilded to pearlescent ivory by the moonlight.

On where his dark sleeve reached around and across her, his hand tucked between her legs, cupped over hers.

Satisfied, he continued, his voice a deep murmur in her ear as he pressed her fingers deeper between her thighs. “Watch yourself feeling me readying you.”

She had no choice but to do so; the sight stole her breath, overwhelmed her mind. The combined sensations—of his hard hand holding her fingers, pressing them into the hot wetness, locking them where she could feel two fingers of his other hand slowly, repeatedly, thrusting into her body, of that fist flexing beneath her bottom, of her sheath stretching and giving against the invasion—completely ensnared her, drove every last thought from her head.

Then the hand surrounding hers shifted. He curled his thumb into her palm, and she felt him caressing the tight nubbin of pleasure beneath her curls—felt both the sensations his touch evoked, as well as his finger stroking against her palm.

It was all too much. The explosion she’d been waiting for flared brightly, hotly, then imploded, cindering her senses, leaving her physically and mentally gasping, reeling…yet still unfulfilled.

Beyond her control, her lids had fallen; before she could summon the strength to lift them, his hands left her completely, left her bereft. She sensed him shifting behind her, then felt him guide the thick rod of his erection between her thighs, felt the broad head stroke, then settle at her entrance.

She forced her lids up—as he locked one arm around her hips, anchoring her, holding her steady—then he thrust hard and deep, into her willing body. Her surrendered body.

Head rising, she uttered a breathless scream—not of pain but of pleasure. Pleasure so intense it ripped away any lingering anchors with the world and sent her spinning on a sea of pure sensation.

Jonas felt the ripples of a small climax caress his shaft, but he wanted—lusted after and was determined to wring from her—far more than that.

The primitive self who now ruled him, who had completely overtaken his civilized self, saw absolutely no reason not to make her scream again—much more loudly.

He set himself, his heated body still fully clothed, to the task. He’d only opened the placket of his trousers to take her, knowing she would realize—would feel the abrasion of cloth against her bottom and the backs of her thighs, that she would see and feel the fabric of his sleeve crossing her soft belly as he held her steady so he could plunder without restraint.

So he could thrust as forcefully as he wished—as powerfully as she wanted.

That she wanted was beyond question; the soft mewling sounds that fell from her lips was music to his primitive ears. Hands locked on his arm, half-tipped forward, she rode every thrust. Peeling the fingers of his other hand from her hip, he raised it to her breast, heard her keen as he played, possessed, pressed.

She shattered again, more deeply this time, her breathless scream a primal sensual benediction.

But he wasn’t yet finished with her.

In extremis, she slumped forward, catching herself on one arm.

He withdrew from her, lifted her; placing one knee on the bed, he moved her higher, then laid her down on her stomach on the coverlet.

Dispensing with his clothes took no more than a heated minute; his body felt too large for their constraint, his skin overheated, his muscles taut and tight. Her eyes had remained closed, her cheek resting on the softness of the bed; she didn’t stir as, naked, he stretched out alongside her.

Ignoring the throbbing urgency of his erection, he laid a hand on her shoulder, ran his palm down over the indentation of her waist, lovingly tracing the evocative curve of her hip and derriere, skin bare, still flushed and dewed, and flagrantly exposed to his gaze.

He took the time to savor the sight of her slumped, wrung out with passion, his to take and fill at his leisure…the prod of his own passion, his own rabid need, grew too great. Grasping her knee, he pushed it higher on the bed, opening her to him; lifting over her, he settled, half-braced on one arm, his hips below her bottom in the space between her thighs.

She was more than ready; he nudged into her, slowly eased deeper, then slid fully home. Closed his eyes as sensation swamped him, as her sheath closed tightly about him once more, bathing him in her passion.

The sensation of her bare bottom riding against his groin had been arousing before, when he’d been mostly clothed. Now as he rode her, naked skin to naked skin, the sensation bloomed on an even more evocative, more intensely primitive plane.

One more deeply arousing as she stirred, then joined him in the dance, as she worked her hips against him, beneath him, sliding her sheath over the impaling length of him until he thought his eyes would cross, until the flames roared and the all-consuming fire swept in and took him, razed him, burned through him.

And her.

As he shuddered over her, head bowed as his release claimed him, the sensation of her sheath rippling about him, milking every last drop of his seed, cut through the fire’s heat to blazon across his mind, his reeling senses.

Drained, more sated than he’d ever been, he slumped over her. And felt his more primitive self at last ease its grip, draw back, and let him free.

He felt her back rise beneath his chest as she drew in a long, slow breath. His heart still thundering, his muscles quivering, he pressed a gentle kiss to her shoulder, then eased sideways, slumped deeper into the mattress beside her, and surrendered.

To her, and to sleep.

Half beneath him, his body a large, warm, muscled blanket pressing her into the mattress, the weight both soothing and comforting, Em mentally sighed and drifted in the golden glow of aftermath. Never before had he been so…flagrantly possessive. Never before had she felt anything to compare with the sated bliss that coursed her veins, that slid through her body, deep into her heart and soul, and reassured.

This was what it felt like to be wanted beyond reason, to be needed as a vital part of a man’s life.

Relaxed and comfortable in the hazy world between paradise and the mundane, her mind finally had a chance to look—and see clearly. Clarity and its consequent certainty infused her. She’d spoken to others to learn what love was, but it was both the same, and different, for everyone, for every couple.

For her and him…love, she now knew, was always being there. It was the selfless devotion that had had him lowering all his shields and letting her see how much she really meant to him. That he’d intended to comfort and distract her she didn’t doubt, yet when faced with the strength of her absorption he hadn’t shrunk from doing what was needed to capture her attention—utterly and completely.

This interlude had been about many things—about possession, about caring, about…love.

About a gentle kiss on her shoulder.

And the way he even now held her in sleep.

The message borne on those heated moments had been crystal clear—he wanted her, needed her, and would give anything she or fate demanded to have her, hold her, protect and care for her.

From the moment she’d met him, his dedication to the latter two aspects had been unswerving; only tonight had he allowed her to see how much the former two meant to him. But he had, and she knew the revelation was not something to be taken lightly; it was something to cling to, cleave to, hold on to, a mast of certainty that would see her and him through all the storms of life.

As the moonlight washed over them in gentle benediction, she realized she had a smile on her face.

And a belief that was unwavering, and unquestionably clear.

No decision was required.

Love, for them, was trusting, sharing, protecting, caring.

Her heart and her soul knew the essential truth, and as she was a Colyton, they’d made up her mind.

T
hey’d all agreed the treasure was in the safest place it could be.

The next morning, after consulting with Lucifer and Phyllida at the manor, Jonas set off for the Grange via the path through the wood.

After leaving Em at dawn, he’d headed back home to change and think. The previous night had evolved into something far removed from what he’d planned; in setting out to distract her from the attempted burglary, he’d forgotten that he, too, might have a reaction to that occurrence—namely, over the potential danger had she happened to stumble on the burglar in action. His response to that scenario had led to his more primitive self gaining the upper hand; he’d been somewhat apprehensive over her reaction, but if the smug smile that had curved her lips when he’d left her at dawn had been any indication, he hadn’t harmed his standing with her, not in the least.

Just as well. In his present state, he wouldn’t handle any attempt to distance herself from him with any degree of equanimity.

After considering the situation, he’d gone to the manor for breakfast, to alert Lucifer, Phyllida, and their household to the latest development.

The most troubling aspect was the timing. Whoever had ransacked Em’s room had known, not just about the treasure, but about its hiding place. Specifically that the only way through the cell door was with the key. He’d checked the cell before he’d left the inn that morning; there had been no marks about the lock, no attempt to break in.

Everyone in the village knew about the cell and its impregnability. Everyone who’d been at the inn when they’d brought in the treasure had seen it and known where it had been secured.

Yesterday the tale would have started to spread beyond the village borders, but
during
yesterday, when Em’s room had been searched, only those who lived locally, those who’d learned the tale on the first night, would have had time to mount such a well-engineered search.

While Em’s rooms were empty through most of the day, the area around the foot of the back stairs was not; only at certain times would it be safe for someone who wasn’t part of the inn’s staff to venture into that region just beyond the kitchen.

The only other way to Em’s rooms was via the main stairs, but with Edgar a fixture behind the bar, and with so many others coming and going in the open common room, it simply wasn’t feasible to imagine that someone who had no right to be on the guest floor of the inn had managed to go up and later come down without anyone noticing and mentioning the matter.

It couldn’t have been a case of some outsider hearing the news and somehow knowing just how to access Em’s rooms, and when it would be safe to do so. Ergo…whoever was searching for the key was someone they knew, someone who’d been there on that first night, cheering and drinking to the Colytons’ health.

The prime suspect was clearly Harold Potheridge. He’d been around the village, specifically hanging about the inn, long enough to know where, how, and when to search.

Hands in his pockets, eyes on the ground, Jonas trudged on.

Lucifer had agreed with his assessment; he’d volunteered Dodswell, his groom, to keep an eye on Potheridge. On hearing the news, Dodswell had been happy to take on the assignment; he was one of those people who possessed an uncanny ability to be seen but not noticed.

Meanwhile, Jonas intended to spend the next hour or two dealing with business, then after lunch he would return to the inn, taking advantage of the postprandial lull to question Hilda and her girls, especially the scullery maids and the laundresses, to see if anyone had spotted someone unexpected in the region of the back stairs.

The treasure was safe while the key was safe. He’d left it in his room at the Grange. No one would think to look for it there, and the Grange, with its full complement of staff and no guests to confuse matters, wasn’t anywhere near as easy to waltz into as the inn.

A branch cracked, all but on his heels.

He started to whirl—

Pain exploded in his skull.

He saw nothing, heard nothing, knew nothing else as the ground rushed up to meet him.

A
list of items to be ordered in her hand, Em had just walked into the inn kitchen, looking for Hilda to discuss the menu for the next week, when movement beyond the window caught her eye.

She looked—saw Jonas, staggering, weaving, one hand to his head as he tried to cross the inn’s backyard…she was out of the door and racing to him before she’d thought. Hilda and her girls and John Ostler were close behind.

“Jonas!”

She clutched his coat, steadied him as he halted, swaying, eyes closed in obvious pain.

“Someone hit me on the head. On the path through the wood.”

“Here.” John ducked a shoulder under Jonas’s arm.

Em quickly caught his other arm and looped it over her shoulders. “Let’s get you inside.”

Hilda called for a bowl of water and some cloths; she hurried ahead of Em, Jonas, and John, shooing her girls before her.

By the time Em and John eased Jonas into a chair at the kitchen table, Hilda had everything in hand. She wrung out a cloth and applied it gently to Jonas’s head. She parted the thick hair, peered, then dabbed solicitously. “A very nasty bump.”

Em itched to take over, but Hilda was clearly an expert.

Jonas winced as she worked, then squinted up at Em. “Send John to fetch Lucifer and Filing.”

She nodded, looked up to find that John, hovering by the door, had heard. He saluted and went.

When she turned back to Jonas, he caught her eye again. “You might want to ask Edgar which men have been in the tap—” He broke off. “Damn! I don’t know how long I was unconscious for.” He frowned even more blackly, then his face cleared. “Ask Edgar which men have been in the common room and haven’t left at all since ten o’clock.”

Em nodded and left.

She returned as Hilda was winding a wide bandage about Jonas’s head. Hilda tied it off. “That’ll do you for now. No doubt Gladys will have it off to take a look at the damage when you get back to the Grange.”

Jonas grimaced. “No doubt.”

Footsteps sounded outside the kitchen door, then Phyllida appeared, Lucifer behind her. Her gaze went immediately to Jonas, then she glanced at Em. “Don’t worry—he has a hard head.”

Jonas glanced Phyllida’s way and grunted.

“We came through the wood,” Lucifer said. “Your attacker was waiting for you. I found the spot where he stood just off the path—the ground was soft enough to hold vague footprints. You walked by him, then he stepped out behind you.”

“I was thinking.” Jonas supported his head with his hands. “I wasn’t paying attention to what was round about. He went through my pockets—they were inside out when I came to my senses.”

“The pertinent point,” Lucifer said, “is that whoever it was knew you were at the manor, and that you’d take the path through the wood when you left.”

Frowning, Phyllida slipped into a chair. “A local?”

Lucifer grimaced. “It would have to be someone who knows Jonas’s habits well enough to know he generally uses that path.”

Em slowly subsided onto the chair beside Jonas. Was the Colyton treasure going to prove to be a curse?

Filing came in from the tap. He nodded to everyone. “I just heard.” Glancing at Em, he added, “John called me outside to tell me—I left Henry in ignorance, busy with his books. I didn’t think you’d want him involved at this stage.”

“No—he’d just worry.” She smiled a trifle weakly. “Thank you.”

Jonas reached along the table and closed his hand about hers. “You don’t need to worry, either. Whoever’s doing this—searching for the key to get to the treasure—we’ll find him. This is too small a village for him to hide for long.” He met her gaze. “So what did Edgar say?”

She grimaced. “At ten there were only the older men—Mr. Weatherspoon and his cronies—by the fire. No one else, although a few others have stopped by since for a snack, but most don’t linger at this time.”

Jonas grunted. “No help there. I didn’t imagine it was Mr. Weatherspoon who coshed me.”

Lucifer leaned against the table. “Theoretically, I grant you, it could be any able-bodied male, anyone with sufficient knowledge, but do we really suspect any of the locals?”

“Even if they laid hands on the treasure,” Phyllida said, “what would they do with it? They’d have to dispose of it somehow—and even if they could find a way, chances are they’d be caught.” She shook her head, looked at Em. “Aside from all else, I have to say I find it difficult to imagine any of the locals stealing from one of our own, but most especially from the Colytons. To the village—all of the village—your family is special. Everything I’ve heard since you’ve let your identity be known suggests everyone is pleased, even thrilled, to see you and yours back in Colyton, and the treasure is part of that wonderful tale. Any local trying to steal it would be risking—well, village infamy and social eviction, so to speak. I just can’t see it.”

Filing nodded solemnly. “I would have to concur.”

Em nodded, too, but more slowly. “In general, I agree, but…” She met Jonas’s eye. “Mr. Coombe called yesterday. He wanted me to entrust him with the coins in the treasure—to appraise and sell them. He would have been quite insistent, I think, but I cut him off.”

Jonas snorted. He frowned at their linked hands, then said, “Be that as it may, unless he’s grown more desperate than we know, Silas is unlikely to resort to physical violence—it’s not his style. And I think whoever struck me was taller than he is. Bigger.”

“The truth is,” Lucifer said, “it’s unlikely to be a local—and much more likely to be Harold Potheridge.”

Em pulled a face. “He hasn’t been into the tap this morning—I asked Edgar.”

“Other than Potheridge,” Jonas said, “we’ve only Hadley as an outsider still about.” He glanced at Em. “Have any of the other inn guests stayed on?”

She shook her head. “All who stayed last night left this morning—except for Hadley, but he always intended to remain, even before we found the treasure.”

“I think,” Lucifer said, pushing away from the table, “that I might take a wander around the village. See who I can see.”

“I’ll come with you,” Filing said.

Jonas nodded, and winced.

Em exchanged a look with Phyllida, then rose. “And you,” she addressed Jonas, “should come upstairs to my parlor and rest.”

Jonas tried to say he was all right where he was, but Hilda weighed in and told him he was in her way. Evicted from the kitchen, he tried to deny he needed coddling, but between Phyllida and Em, they steered his footsteps up the back stairs and through Em’s quarters to her small front parlor.

She determinedly guided him to the sofa; she’d grabbed a pillow from her bed along the way. “You should stretch out here—it’s quiet and no one will bother you.”

Face paler than before, lips tight, Jonas slowly eased down, then, without further complaint, stretched out and laid his head gently on the pillow.

Em exchanged another, more worried glance with Phyllida.

Gathering her shawl about her, Phyllida sat in one of the armchairs. “I’ll stay for a little while.”

Em nodded. “I’ll go and fetch a jug of water and a glass, and bring up my account books—I can do them here as well as I can in my office.”

“Take your time,” Phyllida said. “I’ll stay until you get back.”

Both glanced at Jonas. One arm raised, shading his eyes, he simply lay there and didn’t respond. Didn’t tell them they were fussing unnecessarily.

Em turned and left the room. Closing the door softly behind her, she hurried down the main stairs.

L
ucifer looked in more than an hour later. Jonas was resting, but not asleep. He lifted his arm from his face, but didn’t move his head as his brother-in-law came into the parlor and quietly shut the door.

Noticing Jonas’s open eyes, Lucifer glanced at Em, sitting in an armchair, her account ledgers open in her lap.

“Phyllida had to get back to your boys,” Em said.

With a nod, Lucifer dropped into the other armchair so Jonas could focus more easily on his face. “I found Hadley sketching in the church. Filing said he’d been there earlier, in the same spot, when Filing went to tend the altar at nine o’clock. I strolled up and asked if I could look at his sketch. Hadley permitted it without a qualm. He was using charcoal, and the work—the strokes—looked fresh and consistent, and he’d done quite a bit. I don’t know how fast he can work, but it was a reasonable body of work for a good artist for an entire morning. In short, when I asked and he said he’d been there since before nine, I had and still have no reason to disbelieve him. So Hadley doesn’t look to be a suspect.”

“What about Potheridge?” Jonas asked.

“He’s another story entirely.” Lucifer looked grim. “He left Miss Hellebore’s at around nine, stepped into the lane, and hasn’t been sighted by anyone since. He could have gone for a long walk, of course, but…”

Em snorted softly. “He’s not one for bracing rambles through the countryside—he’d be more likely to ride.”

Lucifer shook his head. “I checked with John Ostler—Potheridge hasn’t hired a horse.”

“So as we all thought”—Jonas let his head sink into the pillow—“the most likely suspect is Harold Potheridge.”

“The most likely, yes.” Lucifer met his eyes. “However, I couldn’t find Silas, couldn’t locate anyone who’s seen him this morning, not after nine o’clock—so he, too, must remain on our suspect list. At least for now.”

E
m found it difficult if not impossible to concentrate on anything else while Jonas lay prostrate on her sofa.

Hale and whole he was distracting beyond belief; ill…all her senses, all her being, seemed to focus on him.

She’d never considered herself an obsessive worrier, but even though she knew—and he’d assured her—that he wasn’t seriously injured, until he was well again, himself again, she couldn’t seem to, knew she wouldn’t be able to, damp down her flaring concern.

By a consensus of opinion, including his, Jonas remained on Em’s sofa until his senses cleared and the throbbing in his head dimmed to a dull ache. Although he would much rather have been laid out on his own bed, or at least somewhere long enough to properly accommodate his frame, while he was incapacitated he wanted to keep Em near; he needed to know she was safe. And the easiest way to achieve that in his less-than-robust state was to permit her to fuss over him as she wished.

Through the remainder of the morning, and over luncheon and into the afternoon, she was constantly in and out of her parlor, looking in on him, bringing him some broth to eat and, when he requested it, a roast beef sandwich especially prepared by Hilda herself.

By three o’clock in the afternoon, he was feeling considerably improved, although he still found it difficult to concentrate enough to think.

When Em next popped her head around the door, he was sitting in an armchair, waiting to smile reassuringly her way.

She frowned and came in. “Shouldn’t you still be resting?”

He let his smile brighten several degrees. “I’m much better. I’m going to go home.” Using the chair’s arms for leverage he slowly got to his feet, pleased to find he was perfectly steady and the room didn’t threaten to spin.

Her frown darkened, her lips thinned.

Before she could protest, he tapped her nose. “You can’t argue. I can’t remain here, in your private apartments, not in such circumstances.”

She considered, then humphed. “At least let me fetch my shawl, and I’ll come with you.” She headed for her bedroom.

He wasn’t at all reluctant to have her company, but…when she emerged, swinging a knitted shawl about her shoulders, he said, “I think we should take John Ostler with us, just in case I stumble along the way.”

Her curt nod suggested she’d thought of the same thing. “We can pick him up on our way—I think he’s in the kitchen.”

He let her guide him down the back stairs. His insistence on John’s company was more for her benefit than his; he didn’t want her returning to the inn alone, not with his attacker potentially still lurking.

John was in the kitchen. Dodswell had just dropped in; he offered to keep an eye on the inn’s stables while John accompanied them to the Grange.

“I still haven’t laid eyes on Potheridge.” Dodswell said the name as if Em’s uncle were already a convicted felon. “Miss Sweet says he’s not been back to Miss Hellebore’s. Thompson glimpsed him making his way up the lane toward Ballyclose about eleven o’clock, but Sir Cedric was in just before, and he hasn’t set eyes on him.”

Jonas went to nod, remembered just in time how painful that might be. “Let me know when Potheridge gets back—I’ll be at the Grange.”

“Right you are.” Dodswell saluted, then followed them out and headed for the stables while the three of them—Em, Jonas, and John—set off along the minor path that joined the main path through the wood.

By the time they reached the Grange, Jonas was clenching his jaw against the pain. Em saw the telltale tension, but bit her tongue against any protest—what help would that be? If she’d been coshed, she’d want to lie down on her own bed, too.

But in order to gain his bed, Jonas had first to run the gauntlet of Gladys’s concern and subsequent ministrations, egged on by Cook, who ran a close second to the housekeeper in the fussing stakes.

Em viewed their insistence—and Jonas’s abject if reluctant surrender—with relief. If he had to be out of her sight, then him being under Gladys’s stern and watchful eye was the next best thing.

Standing a little way from the bed, she watched while Gladys carefully removed Hilda’s bandage, clucked over the injury, then gently applied some salve.

Hands clasped tightly—to stop herself from grabbing and gripping one of his—Em tried to remain detached while noting every little flinch, every tightening of his lips, the line that seemed etched between his brows.

She still felt…exercised. Alert, poised to react, with her senses still fixed on him. If she’d learned anything that day, it was how much he now meant to her—how incredibly precious to her he now was.

All of which had come as something of a shock. It was a novel experience, an emotional upheaval she’d not previously had to weather, never before having had another adult—someone not connected to her by blood—to whom she was so attached.

While being concerned was hardly surprising, the part that shocked was the depth of her feelings, the breadth, the life-shaking intensity of her response; even in her relative inexperience she knew well enough that that intensity was a direct reflection of her attachment, of how much she now cared for him.

How much she loved him.

While her Colyton soul reveled in new experiences, this was one she could have done without. Seeing him in pain, knowing there was little she could do to ease it, tied her in tense, tight knots.

Finally Gladys was satisfied. She stood back and surveyed her patient. “You just rest there quietly now, and sip that lemon and barley water if you’re thirsty. I’ll come up and check on you before we prepare dinner.”

Stretched out on his bed, Jonas smiled weakly. “Thank you, dearest Gladys. I promise to do exactly as ordered.”

With a skeptical humph, Gladys nodded deferentially to Em, then left; the door snicked closed behind her.

Jonas looked at the door, let his brows quirk; clearly Gladys knew more than she was—thankfully—letting on.

Transferring his gaze to Em’s rather pale face, he let his features relax into a smile. He held out his hand, fingers beckoning. “Come and sit with me.”

She came, sliding her fingers into his hand, hitching a hip up onto the bed. He looked up at her, smiled, and slowly, deliberately, drew her down until their lips met in an easy, gentle, soulful kiss.

It ended on a sigh, one she gave, one he felt.

Rather than let her sit up again, he closed his arms around her and settled her across him, let her wriggle, then lay her head on his chest.

Simply held her.

Drew comfort and warmth from her nearness, from the closeness that was more than merely physical. Felt soothing calm seep into his limbs, wend its way inexorably through his body, simply from having her warm and alive in his arms, from feeling her soft feminine form against him.

Holding him, wanting him in ways that had nothing to do with the physical, needing him, accepting him as he was.

In that long-drawn, silent moment of peace, he sensed and learned more about the power of love, of the strengths that went hand in hand with its weaknesses. Of the comfort and support that were the other side of the coin to love’s inherent vulnerability.

And felt blessed.

Em lay in his arms and listened to his heart beat steadily, strongly, beneath her ear. An infinitely calming, pounding thud, it anchored her, reassured and wiped away the tension of the past hours, of her discombobulating day.

She didn’t close her eyes, but her mind wandered along paths she hadn’t before trod. Seeing, sensing, knowing, reaching through the quiet closeness that held them, cradled them, to a place, a state, where the world seemed golden.

Quiet calm, the beat of a heart not her own, yet one to which all her senses were attuned. And a presence, physical flesh and blood and more, a pervasive sense of shared strength, of mutual, communal peace.

How long she lay in his arms, cocooned against the world, how long that aura of peace transfused her she didn’t know, but eventually she stirred; lifting her head, she looked into his face, and felt restored, renewed.

His features were so relaxed, so pain-free, she thought he’d fallen asleep. She studied his face, then leaned in, and dropped a featherlight kiss on his chin, hesitated, then repeated the caress on his lips.

They curved.

His lashes rose just a fraction, enough for her to see the dark glint of his eyes. “Are you going?” His voice was a deep, sleepy rumble.

She smiled. “I should.” She let her gaze rise to the bandage about his head. “You have to rest and get better.”

“I will, but I’ll be fine later.” Raising a hand, he tucked an errant curl behind her ear. “I’ll come and see you as usual tonight, although I might be late.”

She frowned, opened her lips on a protest—one he silenced with a finger across her lips. “No—don’t argue. You’re here with me now. By the same token, I’ll be with you tonight.”

She searched his eyes, understood what he was saying—that he understood how she felt, and felt the same in reverse. He was right; she couldn’t argue, not if she wanted to claim the same rights to care for and protect him as he’d been so insistent on claiming with her.

“Very well—but you have to promise you’ll take care. Especially coming through the wood at night.”

He smiled. “He won’t catch me twice. Last time I wasn’t watching, and anyway now he knows I don’t carry the key with me, he has no reason to search me again.”

She grimaced. “I suppose not.”

“Indeed not. But incidentally…” Opening his arms, letting her free, he turned his head to look at the bedside table; she slipped off the bed, brows rising. “Open the drawer,” he said. “The key’s in there.”

Sliding the drawer out, she saw the key sitting right at the front.

He slumped back on his pillows. “If ever you need it and I’m not around, that’s where it is.”

She looked at him, then closed the drawer. “It’s safe where it is.”

He’d closed his eyes again. She leaned over and kissed him one last time. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“Hmm.” His lips gently curved.

Infinitely more reassured than when she’d arrived, she slipped out of his room and quietly closed the door.