“Pack his things. Tell Kincaid to secure him a seat on the next stage to Dover, and make sure he’s on it.”
Mrs Boswell nodded. “Consider it done. Will you be dining in the formal room or your private chambers tonight?”
A vision came to him, an intimate supper, the food untouched, but a different hunger sated.
“Our private drawing room. But expect changes moving forward.” They’d discuss it properly once the swallows were found and the evidence handed to Daventry. “I don’t suppose you’ve had an epiphany since Rutland left? Recall seeing any birds?”
“No, but Lady Rothley did. Had an epiphany, I mean. She said to tell you she’s checking the upper floor in the west wing. What with swallows being birds, and the compass pointing in that direction.”
His heart softened. He knew her search amounted to more than a list of names. She hoped to find a note from her father.
“Then I had best join the search. As they say, more hands make light work.” And he planned to have his on her body within the next ten minutes.
He found her pulling a dust sheet from an old pianoforte, sneezing as the particles tickled her nose.
She didn’t hear him enter, and almost jumped out of her skin when he slipped his arms around her waist. “Gabriel. Good Lord. You scared me out of my wits.”
He drew her close, burying his face in her hair, breathing her in. “We’ve been home a few hours, and still you’re on the hunt.”
She turned in his arms, brushed hair from his brow, and wound her hands around his neck. “I’m eager to put this all behind us. To focus on our future, not the past.”
He touched his lips to hers, seeking the comfort only she could bring. But need overtook them, a chaste kiss turning into something hot and wild and hungry.
He crushed her to him, one hand fisting in her hair, hismouth claiming hers in fierce possession, the need to be inside her like the beat of a drum in his veins.
God help him, but he was a slave to this, to the burning mix of love and lust, to the ache she stirred in his blood.
“I can’t wait, Gabriel.” She was panting, against his lips, then against his jaw, her gaze flicking to the fall of his trousers. “I can’t wait until we’re alone in your chambers. I need you. I need this … I need us.”
“It will be quick,” he warned her, already freeing himself, the first bead of arousal glistening at the tip. “But I’ll spend the whole night making love to you.”
She glanced behind her, but decided there was no time to drag the dust sheets from the poster bed. She wrapped her fingers around his length and stroked him, kissed him open-mouthed, her tongue doing all the things he would do to her once he was buried inside her.
Somehow they ended up on the floor, him holding himself rigid, her hiking up her skirts and straddling his thighs.
“Merciful Lord,” he groaned as she sheathed him so slowly he thought he might die. “You’re so warm. So wet, love.” His eyes flickered shut. He’d never felt anything so exquisite.
He grasped her hips as she began to move, every roll of her body stoking the fire between them. Hell, this is what he’d waited a lifetime for—a love that knew no end.
He watched her, transfixed. The fall of her hair. The flush rising on her throat. The soft, bitten-back sounds that undid him more than anything she could say. Anything, exceptI love you.
He slid a hand between them, fingers finding the tender spot that made her gasp. Her rhythm faltered, then deepened,hips sinking onto him again and again, each motion more desperate than the last.
“You’re nearly there,” he murmured, his own climax building.
He stroked her gently, deliberately, watching the pleasure break across her face like sunlight through a storm. She clenched around him with a cry, her body shuddering in his arms, and he held her through it, breath ragged, heart hammering.
He was already there, right on the edge, holding himself still with the last of his strength. She must have felt the tension of his body, the falter in his rhythm.
She took his face in her hands, her thumbs brushing the stubble along his jaw. Her eyes held his, steady and sure.
“You don’t need to withdraw,” she whispered. “Not unless you want to. I have faith in the future. Faith in us. But if it’s too soon, if it’s not what you want, then just?—”
“It is,” he said, voice hoarse. “It is what I want.”
And then he let go—a groan torn from him as he spent inside her, giving everything of himself. His forehead dropped to hers, the tension in him uncoiling all at once.
They sat together in silence, their bodies still joined, hers soft against his, their breaths gradually slowing. He brushed his hand along her spine, fingers drifting in idle, contented strokes.
