With a long, low moan, her spine gave way, and she slumped forward, but she crossed her arms on his chest, caught herself on them, met his eyes from bare inches away, fleetingly studied them-then she smiled like a very well satisfied cat, leaned closer, and covered his lips with hers.

The kiss shattered, scattered to the four winds, the control he’d fought to retain. His grip on her hips tightened even more, holding her immobile. He started to move within her again, but no longer with any restraint; with deep powerful surging thrusts, he buried himself in her slick softness.

Her hands rose to frame his face; she matched him kiss for kiss, then pulled back enough to gasp against his lips, “The other way.”

She tried to shift sideways in his arms. He realized she wanted him to roll, to bring her beneath him.

“Why?” Why was he asking? Every muscle in his body had cinched tight at the prospect.

Penny closed her eyes. Because I like feeling you above me, surrounding me. Taking me. Because I enjoy the strength of you moving against me, into me, around me.

Opening her eyes, she met his. “Because I like it that way.”

He didn’t argue, but rolled, taking her with him; his weight pressed her into the soft mattress. He settled his hips between her thighs, and thrust deeply home again. She wrapped her arms about him, lifted her legs and draped them over his, gripping his flanks with her thighs, angling her hips beneath him. The reins snapped. All of them.

He groaned, found her lips with his, and plunged into her. Rode her harder, faster, deeper than he ever had-even thirteen years ago.

This time she was with him, urging him on, flagrantly taking as much as he would give. Glorying in his wildness. Meeting it with her own.

She didn’t realize how far she’d gone until he sank one hand into her hair, drew her head back, changed the angle of the kiss to one even more plundering, and drove her straight into the fire.

They burned. The dance consumed them, took every last gasp from their bodies, cindered every last sense.

Until they were deaf, blind, far beyond thought.

Until all that was left to them was a holocaust of feeling that burned every vestige of resistance away, that melded and forged them in the fires of passion unrestrained, and at the last gasp left them, wrung out yet replete, sunk, heart to heart, in each other’s arms.

CHAPTER 13

PENNY REACHED THE BREAKFAST PARLOR BEFORE CHARLES the next morning, rather surprised to find him so tardy.

In the mornings, Ellie never came until she rang; she had rung eventually, once Charles had left, which had been after he’d demonstrated yet another way of reaching heaven. Heaven. For her money, it was still the sun; heaven was too mild and peaceful a concept to describe the reality of where they’d gone. Let alone how.

She felt buoyed, wonderful, on top of her world. She’d never felt so physically glorious in her life. On the emotional front, she’d kept a close guard on her heart; she was managing perfectly well there. As in trusting Charles with her family’s secrets, she’d been right in letting him be her lover again; she could go forward without reservations.

Sweeping into the parlor, she exchanged a nod and a good morning with Nicholas, already seated at the table’s head. Crossing to the sideboard, she made her selections; returning to the table, she sat, and from beneath her lashes considered Nicholas. He seemed less distressed, more focused today. Had he, perhaps, gone out last night?

No. She and Charles would almost certainly have heard any hoofbeats on the gravel drive. Had someone called on him privately in the night?

She pondered the possibility while attacking her ham and toast.

“Ah-there you are, my dear.”

She turned as Charles entered, met his eyes, and wondered what the message in them meant.

Strolling toward her, he cocked his head. “I wondered if you’d care to ride this morning? I have business in Fowey.”

He was now close enough for her to see the exasperated expression in his eyes. She realized. “Oh, yes! Good morning. Indeed-a wonderful idea.” She glanced at the sideboard. “I daresay you’ve breakfasted, but would you care for something more?”

Looking back at him, she caught her breath at the unholy light dancing in his eyes; she replayed her words, didn’t dare breathe…but he merely smiled and inclined his head. “Thank you.”

She exhaled and returned to her toast.

Casting a surreptitious glance at Nicholas, she saw him not quite scowling at Charles’s back. Nicholas’s guarded greetings when Charles came to the table and took the chair beside hers suggested Nicholas had finally realized how consistently Charles was about.

Although Nicholas shot her a disapproving glance, good manners prevailed, and he made no comment.

Charles, apparently blissfully unaware, mentioned meeting Albert Carmichael at Lostwithiel market the day before.

Nicholas professed never to have met Carmichael.

Penny explained the Cranfields’ interest, then had to remind Nicholas who the Cranfields were.

“Ah, I see.” Nicholas took a long sip of coffee, then shifted his gaze to Charles. “Has there been any advance in your investigation, Lostwithiel? Any suggestion over who is responsible for that luckless young fisherman’s death?”

She had to hand it to Charles; he didn’t so much as bat an eyelid or pause in cutting his roast beef.

“Yes, and no.” His tone was cheery, as if discussing the latest price for fish. “For various reasons, it seems unlikely the killer was anyone normally resident in the area.”

Nicholas blinked. “Why is that?”

Charles sat back, reached for his coffee cup. “Gimby wasn’t killed-he was interrogated, then executed. It was a professional piece of work.”

Nicholas looked like he was going to turn green again. Looking down, he picked up his fork and pushed a small mound of kedgeree across the porcelain. “So…no one local…”

“No. Which is why I’ve been assessing all visitors to the area.”

“Vagabonds?” Nicholas’s brows rose. “Could it be just…no, you said professional.”

“True, but there’s no reason a professional might not have appeared as a vagabond, but if killing Gimby was his only purpose, he’ll be long gone by now. Still”-Charles shrugged-“I might draw a bead on him.”

Penny kept her head down and her tongue still, for which he was grateful. He didn’t want Nicholas distracted.

After a long moment, Nicholas asked, still not meeting his eyes, “Only purpose…what other purpose do you imagine this villain might have?”

Gallic shrugs were so useful. “Who knows? But it could, for instance, be someone who didn’t want me to be able to question Gimby, not, as one might suppose, to protect whoever Gimby might have betrayed, but because he, this professional, is on the same quest as I am, and he doesn’t want me getting to the Holy Grail first.”

He was feeling his way, gauging how best to pressure Nicholas. Despite their antipathy, he was starting to get a feel for the man; he wasn’t a coward, but was possessed of an extremely cautious nature. Probably a good thing for someone high in the Foreign Office; equally a good thing in a traitor.

Nicholas had blanched at his words, but, this time, had himself well in hand. Lips thinning, he nodded, effectively ending the discussion; Charles got the impression that he’d been fishing for confirmation, having already followed much the same line of thinking.

Penny finished her breakfast; he quickly downed the last pieces of his roast beef, stood, and drew back her chair.

Rising, she glanced at her gown. “I’ll have to change.” Her back to Nicholas, she looked up and raised her brows. “I’ll meet you in the hall.”

“In the forecourt-I’ll have the horses saddled and brought there. I need to be in Fowey by half past ten.”

Her eyes asked Why? and Why didn’t you tell me earlier? but she nodded, threw a quick farewell Nicholas’s way, and left.

Nicholas rose as he turned to make his own farewell, joining him as he left the parlor. “Do you conduct a lot of business in the area personally?”

Charles glanced at him, wondering. “No. My steward and agent handle almost everything.”

“Ah, I see. I thought the trip to Fowey…”

“That’s part of the investigation.” Halting, he faced Nicholas. “It’s Gimby’s funeral. There’s an old saw that murderers often turn up to watch their victims go into the ground-to witness their final end, so to speak. I’m hoping our professional might not be so professional and turn up.”

Nicholas drew a not-quite-steady breath, tightly said, “In that case, I wish it might be so. Anything that removes such a cold-blooded murderer from among the innocent is greatly to be desired.”

With a nod, he headed for the library.

Charles watched him go, intrigued; of all the words Nicholas had uttered in his hearing, those last had been unquestionably the most sincere.

He was waiting with their horses in the forecourt when Penny came hurrying out. She came down the front steps; a smile of anticipation lighting her face, she walked quickly to him.

She halted before him, waiting to be lifted to her saddle.

He took a moment to slap down his demons; kissing her witless in the forecourt in full view of the library windows wouldn’t be a clever thing to do.

Reaching for her, he lifted her up. He informed her of their reason for hying to Fowey as he held her stirrup for her.

He was mounting Domino when the thud of approaching hooves reached them. They both shortened their reins; holding their horses steady, they watched a dusty rider come galloping in along the drive.

The rider saw them, drew rein, and trotted the last way.