Her hair cascaded down her back, long strands curling on her shoulders. He kissed her long and hard, then drew back.

She tried to lean closer, to follow his lips with hers, but he closed his hands about her shoulders. "No." Even though he couldn't see, could only feel with his senses at full stretch, he knew she was dazed, wanting but not yet frantic, her wits disengaged but her senses still aware. "Not yet."

They'd only just begun.

"Sit still, and concentrate on what you feel."

She shuddered lightly, but did as he asked. He hadn't expected an argument-she was far beyond that-yet he went slowly; he had no intention of overwhelming her-not yet.

Curving his hands about her shoulders, he trailed his fingers lightly down, over the long sweeps of her arms, over her elbows and forearms, down to her wrists, then slid his fingertips along her palms, drawing them out across her fingers. Fingertip to fingertip, he held her arms out from her sides, then let them fall.

She was mesmerized; he knew that as he reached out again, and touched her breasts. They were already swollen, the peaks hard, begging for his attention. For long, heated moments he touched only with the pads of his fingers, listening as her breathing grew increasingly ragged. Then, leaning forward, he cupped one warm mound in his hand and took the peak into his mouth.

A cry died in her throat; her body arched convulsively. He suckled, one hand closing on her knee, the other lifting her flesh to his lips. When that nipple was aching and throbbing, he changed hands and tortured the other.

Her head fell back, her hair a gossamer curtain, its end brushing her hips, her bare bottom and his knees. Her spine bowed, every nerve drew taut; like the master he was, he let them tighten, and tighten, until she couldn't breathe, until she quivered, as fragile as spun glass, then he released her breast and leaned back.

He sensed the huge, shaky breath she drew in. Leaving his hand on her knee, more to reassure than to hold her, he gave her only a moment of surcease, then lifted his hand again.

To her ribs, tracing the fine skin over the smooth bones, then trailing his fingertips down to her waist. Releasing her knee, he closed both hands about her waist, circling her almost completely. Splaying his fingers over the supple muscles in her back, he touched, stroked, caressed.

She eased a little; his lips curving in a smile she couldn't see, he let his hands slide to caress her derriere, then sent them smoothly gliding over her flanks. And away.

For one instant, he left her there, posed on his knees in her naked glory. Then he reached out and touched her again.

He splayed his hand over her taut stomach. She shuddered, but her spine was so rigid she only swayed slightly, then tensed even more as he gently kneaded. She caught her breath on a sob. "I-"

"Don't talk." He waited a heartbeat, then added, "Just feel."

He waited until her senses refocused, then removed his hand. Clasping her knees, he slid his hands up, fingers gliding over the long, taut muscles of her outer thighs, his thumbs grazing the quivering inner faces. At the tops of her thighs, he ran his thumbs over and up, following the creases between thigh and torso outward. Then he removed his hands again.

Again he waited, leaving her quivering expectantly in the dark. Then, with one hand, he reached out again.

And touched her between her widespread thighs.

Her breath shook; she quaked.

"Shh."

He traced the swollen folds, exposed and open to him. He suspected she hadn't realized, modestly shrouded by the dark.

She realized now; she reached out-he felt her fingers brush his sleeve.

"No. Leave your hands at your sides."

She didn't immediately obey, but as he continued to caress her, the slow, steady stroking reassured her, and she let her arms fall.

Her breathing was shallow, racing with her heart. He didn't want to speak again, to risk breaking the spell. She was hot and wet, his fingers slick with her dew. He found the tight nubbin concealed between her folds and circled it, but that wasn't his target. He waited until she'd steadied, until she'd stabilized on a narrow ledge one step away from the peak, then zeroed in.

The long slide of his finger entering her, spearing in, inexorably penetrating and filling her softness, sent her into spasm. Every muscle locked, so tight she was shivering, every fragment of awareness focused, waiting for the final touch that would shatter her.

He didn't administer it; the time was not yet. His finger buried in her sheath he held still, blocking all awareness of the heated softness that gripped him, the supple strength of her inner muscles, the hot honey that dampened his hand, the evocative scent that wreathed his brain.

Then she stabilized again, and the peak had moved away, one step further on. He knew, but doubted she did. He started to caress her again.

How long he prolonged the delicious torture, how many times he brought her almost to the peak, then let it shift away, he didn't know, but she was wild, sobbing in her need, her fingers clenched on his arms, her lips burning his, when he finally thrust deep and let her fly.

She came apart in his arms.

Cursing the darkness that stopped him from seeing it, from reaping the reward of his expertise, he gathered her to him, letting her cling, then cradling her as she collapsed completely.

He drew her closer, sensing her heartbeat, feeling it thunder, then slow. Then she stirred.

"I want you."

His lips curved against her hair. "I know."

Her breath was a soft huff against his neck as she shifted, and reached, and found him. "How?"

Her fist closed, and he shook. "Ah…"

Fingers as quick as his slipped the buttons on his waistband, brushed aside his shirt. Slim digits dipped, then stroked, caressed…

Words were superfluous. He drew her hips nearer, sliding his own to the edge of the seat. They met-it was she who sank down, a long-drawn sigh shattering in her throat. It was all he could do to stifle his groan as she closed hotly about him. After that, he lost touch with the world as she became his reality, the hot, wet, generous woman who loved him in the dark.

She was everything he craved, mysterious, giving, intensely feminine; in some sensual way, she held a mirror to his soul. She filled his senses until he recalled no other, until he knew nothing beyond her luscious heat and the primal need that gripped him.

He sank into her and she wrapped herself about him; at his urging, she shifted her legs, awkward for a moment as she repositioned them, locking them around his hips. When she sank fully onto him again, she gasped. Gripping her hips, he lifted her, thrusting upward as he lowered her.

She sobbed, then found his lips. They clung, and loved, gave and took and gave again. The horses plodded slowly on.

The gloom inside the carriage became a heated cave, filled with lust, desire, and so much more. Hunger, greed, joy, and delirium ail spun, a kaleidoscope in the dark. Then she flew high and he followed, soaring beyond the stars. The end left them shattered, broken and destroyed, reborn in each other's arms.

The gentle swaying of the carriage slowly drew them back to earth, yet they lay still, letting the long, achingly sweet moments wash over them, neither ready to lose the soul-deep communion.

His lips at her temple, her hair silk against his cheek, Gabriel dragged in a breath. His chest swelled, shifting her warm weight. He locked his arms around her; he didn't want to let go. Didn't want to lose the peace she'd brought him-she and she alone.

Never had he reached this state, this depth of feeling. Beyond sensation, beyond the world, a sea of unnameable emotion still lapped him. He wanted to deny it, shrug it aside. It frightened him. But it was a drug-he feared he was already addicted.

She stirred, first again. Sitting up, she sighed and shook back her hair. "I meant to tell you…"

He got the distinct impression she'd intended to say, "before you started this," and, what's more, in a censorious tone. He was too sated to do more than smirk in the dark. He was still buried to the hilt inside her. "What?" Reaching for her, he drew her back into his arms.

She acquiesced, then relaxed; despite her resolution, she was still dazed. "My stepson… he overheard a conversation at White's-between a Captain Something and another man. The captain was dismissing the Central East Africa Gold Company."

He frowned, "I thought your stepson was too young for White's."

"Oh, he is. This was on the steps-he was walking in St. James Street."

"Who was the captain talking to?"

"Charles didn't know."

"Hmm." It was difficult to think with her warm weight snuggled against him, with her body intimately clasping his. That last, and his resurging vigor, prompted him to say, "A captain recently returned from Africa shouldn't be impossible to trace. The shipping lists, the Port Authority, the major merchant lines. He'll be known somewhere."

"If we have a witness like that, we'd be able to petition the court immediately."

But then there'd be no reason for them to meet, and he'd yet to learn her name. He frowned, grateful for the dark. "Perhaps. It depends on how much he knows." Turning his head, he squinted down at her, but still could see nothing. "I'll look into it."

"Have you heard anything else?"

"I have contacts in Whitehall sounding out the African authorities over the company's mining claims, and there are others I'm hunting up who might know of the company's presence in those particular towns." Shuffling higher on the seat, he glanced upward. "Now-tell your coachman to roll back, slowly, to Brook Street."