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Her breasts rasped against his chest, as he gripped her wrists and raised her arms above her head, pressing them into the pillow.

Dizzy with the pleasure of it, she opened her eyes and stared into his. “Make me fly, Cyrus. Make me fly. And come with me...”

“I will...”

And he did.

*~~*~~*

It wasn’t easy tearing himself away from the woman lying languorously in his bed.

Mae looked right there.

Cyrus had never given much thought to the serious matter of marrying, since he’d made the decision to remain single some years ago. It had all seemed too much fuss and bother, and many of the couples he knew hadn’t lasted past the fifth anniversary of their marriage.

He’d told himself he probably lacked the emotional depth necessary for a lifetime commitment to one woman. And he’d believed that wholeheartedly—until Mae had come into his arms and his heart. The thought of anyone else ever seeing her the way he saw her right now? Well, his skin burned with unusual fury.

No, it wouldn’t happen. Because she was his. Now, next month, next year, forever.

Which conclusion set him back on his heels.

“Cyrus? Are you all right? You’re looking quite flushed.”

He blinked and recalled himself. “Can you blame me? I’m staring at a beautiful naked witch who has bespelled me with her silver eyes.”

He ducked and laughed as Mae threw a pillow at him.

“Speaking of witches,” she said, wrapping herself in a sheet and making him sigh, “where is the Conclave to be held? Is it in one particular Velvet House, or do they have a sort of hall or something?”

“It’s in the House of the Nine Veils,” he answered, walking to his enormous clothing cupboard and touching one panel.

Part of the wall folded up on itself, making Mae gasp. “Great coggles, Cyrus.” She moved to his side and stared. “Well, I’m pretty sure you’ll be able to find an appropriate outfit for tonight in there.” She tipped her head to one side. “Of course the fact that just about everything’s black or grey makes it easier, I suppose.” Her lips twitched as she glanced at him.

“Imp,” he said, running his hands over her bare back. “I like the shadows, as you well know. And I’m happy to leave the peacock colours to those who enjoy them.”

A tap on the door sent Mae scurrying into the small bathroom, so Cyrus went to the door.

“Lady Theryn’s garments have arrived,” announced Gerald with a supercilious sniff.

“Who brought them, Gerald?”

“A member of her Ladyship’s household, I would assume.”

“Man? Woman? Tickerkin? Describe.” Cyrus stared at his tickerkin.

Gerald stared back, and for a moment his eyes sparked. “A woman. Late forties, at a guess. Neatly dressed, dark jacket and skirt, pale blue lacy collared shirt, small plain hat. No purse, but probably pockets in both jacket and skirt. Nothing to distinguish her from a hundred other women in Caelemar at this moment.” His eyes returned to normal and he glanced at the packet of clothing. “There’s a note attached for Lady Theryn.”

“All right.” Cyrus nodded. “Good lad, Gerald. Good lad.”

“Trouble, sir?” Gerald paused in the doorway.

“I hope not, but it pays to be prepared. As we both know.” He paused. “Your instructions stand.”

“Yes sir.”

Gerald left as Cyrus closed the door.

“Oh good.” Maelin emerged from the bathroom. “I washed up, so why don’t I dress now? Unless it’s too early...”