Given what she and all that lay between them now meant to him, given how important acknowledging that had become, grabbing a few rushed minutes with servants and family distractingly hovering to make such a vital declaration was, to him, unthinkable.

When he finally confessed to the ultimate surrender, he at least wanted to be sure she was paying attention — and would remember it later.

Impatience gnawed; frustration gnashed. He stared out at the valley. His jaw set.

Once the thief was caught, he would insist she refocus every last shred of her attention back on him.

And then he would tell her the simple truth.

Three little words.

/ love you.

Chapter 21

"A word of advice, ma petite."

Amelia glanced up from the lists scattered across her desk. Helena stood in the doorway, smiling fondly.

She quickly reorganized her lists. "On what…?"

"Ah, no. My advice does not concern any of our arrangements" — Helena dismissed the lists with a wave—"but a subject much more dear to your heart."

"Oh?" Amelia stared.

Helena nodded. "Luc. I believe he wishes to tell you something, but… there are times when even men such as he are uncertain. My advice is that a little encouragement would not be out of order, and may gain you more than you think."

Amelia blinked. "Encouragement?"

"Oui." Helena gestured, supremely Gallic. "The type of encouragement likely to weaken a husband's irrational resistance." Her glorious smile dawned; her eyes twinkled as she turned away. "I'm sure I can leave the details to you."

Her lists forgotten, Amelia stared at the empty doorway. Now Helena mentioned it, Luc had been… hovering for the past few days. They'd both been so busy with their visitors and their plans to catch the thief, their private lives, what lay between them, had necessarily been set to one side, in temporary abeyance while they tackled the threat to their family.

Yet…

Sudden impatience seared her. Stacking her lists, she closed the desk, rose, and headed upstairs.

Luc entered their bedroom that night to discover Amelia not in bed as she usually was, but standing by the windows looking out over the moonlit lawns. She'd already snuffed the candles; in her peach silk robe with her hair tumbling over her shoulders, she stood silent and still, absorbed with her thoughts.

She hadn't heard him enter; he grasped the moment to study her, to wonder in which direction her thoughts lay. Throughout the evening, he'd caught her studying him, as if seeking to read his mind. He assumed she was keyed up, increasingly tense as they all were. By this time tomorrow, they'd be watching for the thief who, intentionally or otherwise, was threatening the Ashfords. Expectation, anticipation, had already started to course through their veins.

He watched; she remained quiet, statuelike, limned by the silvery light slanting through the window.

Temptation whispered… but now, tonight, was not the time to speak. They had tomorrow, tomorrow night and whatever it revealed, to live through. After, later, once they had that business settled and could devote themselves once more to their own lives, to their future…

Impatience welled; he subdued it, stirred and walked toward her.

She sensed him, turned — smiled and walked into his arms.

Slid her arms about his neck, stepped close, lifted her face, met his lips as he bent his head and set them to hers.

He closed his hands about her waist, anchoring her before him as he savored her mouth, took his time in the claiming, blatantly taking all she offered, all she freely yielded, her breasts warm mounds pressed to his chest, her slender limbs a silk-clad promise whispering against him.

Releasing her waist, he slid his hands down, around, tracing, then cradling the globes of her bottom, kneading, then lifting her to him so the ridge of his erection rode against her.

She murmured, drew back from the kiss, not away but so their lips were just touching, brushing, caressing — teasing their senses, breaths mingling as desire rose between them. Drawing one arm down, she slid her hand beneath the edge of his robe, splaying her palm on his chest, hungry, greedy, eager to touch. She lowered her other arm, braced that palm against him, easing back, not out of his embrace but to create a gap between them.

That she wanted to follow a different route to the one he'd intended he understood; it nevertheless took a few heated moments before he could force his hands to obey and ease their grip, let her stand again. He didn't let her move away but that wasn't what she wished — the instant she could, she slid her hands down, searching… for the tie of his robe.

He felt the tug, then release — felt, between them, her hand shift again, felt the shimmer of her robe under his hands, over her skin.

From beneath his lashes, he watched her smile — gloried in the open, uninhibited expectation in her face as she sent both hands sliding up to his shoulders, pushing the halves of his robe wide. She didn't immediately push the robe off but instead paused to admire, to look, to savor all she'd uncovered.

He knew better than to move — knew he was supposed to let her have her way. That had never been easy — he usually cut short her play — yet tonight, bathed in moonlight, he mentally — sensually — girded his loins, held back the urge to distract her, forced his hands not to tighten and haul her against him.

Let her touch, caress, then kiss as she would.

He had to close his eyes, felt tension coil about his spine as she licked, then grazed one tight nipple. Felt her hands, small, eager and wanton, slide greedily over his chest, over his abdomen, skating inexorably lower. Her lips, her hot, wet, open mouth, followed, trailing fire down his body.

His fingers had turned nerveless when she slid from his hold.

When her hands, then her avid mouth traced the line of his hips, then moved inward.

His mouth was bone dry, his eyes tight shut when she finally closed her hand about him. His fingers slid into her hair, tangling in her curls, as she lovingly traced, then closed her hand again, played and tantalized as he himself had taught her, until he thought he'd die.

When she went to her knees, bent her head, and took him into her mouth, he was sure he would.

The thunder of his heart filled his ears as she ministered to his wildest fancy. He'd never let her before, not as she was, not in this position — he'd thought he hadn't even given her the idea — dimly wondered how she'd guessed.

Instinct seemed a dangerous, possibly threatening, conclusion. Especially when she angled her head and took him deep, and his fingers spasmed on her skull in reaction. He felt, rather than heard, her soft, victorious exhalation when next she paused for breath.

Before he could react her hands and mouth recaptured him — his awareness, his senses. She held him captive, tortured him lovingly, pressed ever more flagrantly evocative caresses on him.

Chest laboring, he opened his lids enough to look down through the screen of his lashes, enough to watch her, bathed in moonlight, the skirts of her robe a shimmering pool in which she knelt, her golden curls softly lustrous, shifting against him as she loved him.

He'd taught her how; she'd learned well. Every too-knowing touch, every scrape of her nails, every long, liquid stroke of her tongue, wound him tighter, and tighter, until his spine quivered with tension, until his awareness was hard-edged, crystal sharp. Yet still she pushed him further.

Until his fingers gripped hard on her skull, until he closed his eyes, head lifting, chest seizing…

Until he had to wonder what had changed.

Something had.

She'd always been physically willing, even eager, yet tonight, she was assured.

Confident.

He could feel it in her touch.

Could see it when she finally—finally—released him and lifted her head. He hauled in a tight breath and looked down as she sat back on her heels and, hands braced on his thighs, with calm deliberation considered the outcome of her efforts; her serene smile declared that outcome met with her satisfaction.

He groaned and reached for her — she put out her hands and caught his wrists, rocked to her feet and smoothly stood. Then she released his hands, grasped the sides of her loosened robe and spread them wide — and stepped into him.

Deliberately, with a calm intent that strangled his breath, set her body skin to skin with his. Sinuously shifted, her skin like burning silk as she used her whole body to caress his. Reached between them and adjusted his throbbing erection so she could better shift and slide against it. Draping one arm about his shoulders, she hooked one knee about his thigh, then evocatively — like some eastern houri pandering to her master — undulated against him.

Her hips, her breasts — her spread thighs, the curls between — all contributed. All added to the call, the primitive invocation that reached deep within him, harrying instincts buried under centuries of sophistication until they rose with a roar and poured through him.

Shattering every last vestige of control, drowning every glimmer of civilized man.

Left him revealed — him and his needs — laid bare, exposed. Before her, and him.

Left him reeling, but she was there — calming, urging, reassuring…

He dragged in a huge breath, bent his head, and set his lips to hers as she offered them. It required no thought for him to push back the sides of her robe, reach under and slide his hands over her back, down, over her bottom, possessively gripping, then releasing to lower and grip the backs of her thighs, and lift her.