Fingers clenched in his hair, eyes closed, glory exploding, a golden haze on the inside of her lids, Patience shuddered and surrendered-to the welling heat, to the beckoning culmination.

With one last, lingering lick, savoring the tart taste of her, the indescribably erotic tang of her sinking to his bones, Vane drew back. One hand beneath the full swell of her bottom, and her convulsive grasp on his hair kept Patience upright. His gaze roaming her flushed face, he flicked the two buttons that closed his trousers undone.

She was already high, floating, pleasured to her toes; he had every intention of pleasuring her more.

It was the work of an experienced minute to ready himself, then he elapsed her thighs and urged her knees onto the chair, sliding along on either side of his hips. The chair was an old one, low, deep and comfortable-made for just this.

Dazed, she followed his unspoken instructions, clearly unsure but eager to learn. He knew her body was ready-achingly empty, yearning for him to fill her. As her thighs slid past his hips, he grasped hers and drew her to him, then drew her down.

He sank into her-and saw her eyes close, lids falling as her breath expelled in a soft, long-drawn sigh. Her body stretched, her softness accommodating his hardness. Then she shifted, pressing deeper, to take more of him, to impale herself more completely.

For one fractured instant, he thought he'd lose his mind.

Certainly all control. He didn't, but it was a grim fight he waged with his demons, slavering to have her, to ravish her utterly. He beat them back, held them back-and set himself to giving her… everything he could.

He lifted her, then lowered her; she quickly caught the rhythm, quickly realized she could move herself. He eased his hold on her hips, let her have the illusion of setting the pace; in reality, he never let go, but counted every stroke, gauged the depth of every easy penetration.

It was a magical ride, timeless, without restraint. Using every ounce of his expertise, he created a sensual landscape for her, conjuring it out of her needs, her senses, so that all she felt, all she experienced was part of the staggering whole. His own needs he held back, his demons' cravings, allowing them only the sensations he felt as, rigid, engorged, giddy with passion, drunk on the lingering taste of her, he sank into her cloying heat, and felt her welcoming embrace.

He gave her that-unalloyed sensual joy, pleasured delight beyond description; under his subtle guidance, she gasped, swayed and panted as he filled her, thrilled her, pleasured her to oblivion. He gave her all, and more-he gave her himself.

Only when she started up the last stair, the last flight to heaven, did he loosen his reins and follow in her wake. He'd done everything he could to bind her to him with passion. At the end, as they gasped and clung and the beauty swept over them, through them, and between them, he let go and savored, in his marrow, in the deepest recesses of his heart, in the farthest corners of his being, the glory he intended to capture for all time.

Chapter 14

A deep, regular vibration woke Vane in the eerie hour before dawn. Blinking his eyes wide, struggling to make out shapes in the dim light, it was a full minute before he realized the vibration was emanating from the warm weight in the center of his chest.

Myst lay curled in the hollow just below his breastbone, looking at his face through unblinking blue eyes.

And purring fit to wake the dead.

Another source of warmth, the soft female body curled against his side, registered. Vane glanced sideways. Patience was clearly accustomed to Myst's roar of a purr-she remained dead to the world.

He couldn't stop the grin that curved his lips. Just as well she was asleep. Despite the ups and downs of yesterday, especially the downs, the ups, particularly the last up, dominated his mind.

Coming straight back and making passionate love to her had been the right tack to take. Masterful, yet not forceful. If he pushed too hard, she would dig in her heels and resist-and he'd never learn what it was that was holding her back from marriage.

This way, he could indulge his senses, slake his demons' urges, and wrap her in a sensual web that, regardless of what she might imagine, was quite as strong as the web she'd dready woven, albeit unwittingly, about him. And in between tying knot after knot in the net that would bind her to him, he would, gently, carefully, win her confidence, her trust, and she would, in the end, confide in him.

Then it would simply be a matter of slaying her particular dragon, and carrying her off. Simple.

Vane's grin turned wry. He struggled to subdue his cynical laugh. Myst did not appreciate his quaking chest; she dug in her claws, which abruptly cut off his laughter. He frowned at her, but, given her sterling assistance in the night, did not push her from her comfortable perch.

Aside from anything else, he was feeling decidedly comfortable-sunk in a warm bed with the lady he wanted as his wife softly sleeping beside him. At this precise moment, he couldn't think of anything else he wanted in the world; this haven was complete. Last night he'd confirmed, beyond all shadow of doubt, that Patience loved him. She might not know it-or she might, but be unwilling to admit it, even to herself. He didn't know which, but he knew the truth.

A lady like her could not give herself to him, take him into her body and love him as she had, if she didn't, truly, in her heart care for him. It needed more than curiosity, more than lust, or even trust, for a woman to give herself completely, utterly, as Patience did every time she gave herself to him.

That degree of selfless giving sprang from love and nothing else.

He'd had too many women not to know the difference, not to sense it and value it as a gift beyond price. How much Patience understood of it he didn't know, but the longer their association persisted, the more accustomed to it she would become.

Which seemed eminently desirable to him.

Vane smiled, devilishly, at Myst.

Who yawned and flexed her claws.

Vane hissed. Myst stood, stretched, then regally stepped off him and padded to the end of the bed. Pausing, she turned and stared back at him.

Frowning, Vane stared back-but the cat's action raised the question of "what next?" in his mind.

His body replied instantly, with an entirely predictable suggestion; he considered it, but rejected it. Henceforth, as far as he was concerned, Patience was his-his to care for, his to protect. At this juncture, protecting her meant preserving appearances. It would never do for some maid to stumble in and discover them, limbs entwined.

Grimacing, Vane edged to his side. Patience lay sunk in down, deeply asleep. He stared at her face, drank in her beauty, breathed in her warmth; he raised a hand to brush aside a curl-and stopped. If he touched her, she might wake-and he might not be able to leave. He stifled a sigh.

Silently, he slipped from her bed.

Before going down to breakfast, Vane detoured by Minnie's rooms. Her surprise at seeing him was written all over her face. Speculation filled her eyes. Before she could start in on him, he nonchalantly stated: "Halfway down, I realized that my London appointment was of far less moment than my obligations here. So I came back."

Minnie opened her old eyes wide. "Indeed?"

"Indeed." Vane saw Minnie exchange a laden glance with Timms-who'd clearly been informed of his departure. Knowing from experience the tortures they could put him to, he nodded curtly to them both. "So I'll leave you to your breakfasts, and go and find mine."

He got himself out of Minnie's room before they could recover and start to tease him.

He entered the breakfast parlor to the usual nods and greetings. The gentlemen of the household were all present; Patience was not. Suppressing a smug grin, Vane helped himself from the sideboard, then took his seat.

The glow that had suffused him since the early hours had yet to leave him; he responded to Edmond's variation on his latest scene with an easy smile and a few perfectly serious suggestions, which caused Edmond to depart in a rush, revived and eager to serve his demanding muse.

Vane turned to Gerrard. Who grinned.

"I'm determined to start a new sketch today. There's a particular view of the ruins, taking in the remains of the abbot's lodge, that I've always wanted to draw. The light's rarely good in that quarter, but it will be this morning." He drained his coffee cup. "I should get the essentials down by lunchtime. How about a ride this afternoon?"

"By all means." Vane returned Gerrard's grin. "You shouldn't spend all your days squinting at rocks."

"What I've always told him," humphed the General as he stumped out.

Gerrard pushed back his chair and followed the General. Which left Vane gazing at Edgar's mild profile.

"Which Bellamy are you currently researching?" Vane inquired.

Whitticombe's contemptuous sniff was clearly audible. He pushed aside his plate and rose. Vane's smile deepened. He raised his brows encouragingly at Edgar.

Edgar slid a careful glance at Whitticombe. Only when his archrival had passed through the door did he turn back to Vane. "Actually," Edgar confessed, "I've started on the last bishop. He was one of the family, you know."

"Indeed?"

Henry looked up. "I say-was this place-the abbey, I mean-as important as Colby makes out?"

"Well…" Edgar proceeded to give them a neat picture of Coldchurch Abbey in the years immediately preceding the Dissolution. His dissertation was refreshingly short and succinct; both Vane and Henry were sincerely impressed.