“It isn’t often.” Draping her arms over his shoulders, she slid her hands into his hair, fingers riffling as beneath the covers she fitted herself to him, her curves cradling his heavier bones and harder frame. “But after India, this is doubtless a shock to your system.”

His system was heating up quite nicely.

He looked into her eyes. For a long moment he drank in the assurance in the mossy hazel, the quiet confidence, the calm anticipation with which she regarded him.

Her lips were lightly, gently, curved.

Slowly he lowered his head and covered them with his.

The flames rose at their calling, steady and sure. More experienced now, there was less urgency, less immediate desperation-more time to savor each moment, to string out each inexorable step on the path to completion.

Knowing they would reach it, knowing that passion, satisfaction, and the ultimate satiation would be theirs, that ecstasy was assured no matter what route they took to reach it.

No matter how long, how tortuous, and drawn out that route might be.

This time, they took a longer road. He kept the pace slow, deliberate, intent.

Focused.

Emily surrendered to the insistent drumbeat, the measured tattoo driving each heavy caress. Wonder bloomed as, from beneath the fringe of her lashes, she watched his face as he paid homage to her breasts. Glancing up, he saw her watching, briefly met her eyes, then, still moving so slowly her nerves tightened, taut with anticipation, he lowered his head, and possessed.

Thoroughly, with a devotion to detail that ripped her wits away, that sent her senses spinning.

Every little touch seared like a brand. Fingers, mouth, lips, teeth, and tongue, he used them all in concert, playing, orchestrating, until her body sang, until passion and desire rose up in sweet symphony and buoyed her on their tide.

And swept her away into the heated moment, flooded her veins, flushed her skin.

She was eager and aching, filled with fiery longing when he finally parted her thighs, settled heavily between, and filled her.

Head back, she caught her breath, then sighed. Reached with her whole body, with her arms, her legs, her all, reached for him and wrapped him in her welcome.

Held him there as, head bowed, his ragged breath a song by her ear, he moved on her and in her, the long planes of his back flexing powerfully as he thrust repeatedly, giving them both what they wanted.

What they needed.

Even as his body strove for release, strove to pleasure hers and claim the ultimate prize, some part of Gareth’s mind watched and wondered-was filled with wonder, with a form of silent awe.

Things had changed since they’d left Marseilles, since at her insistence they’d begun sharing a bed every night.

Every night, the pleasure, the assurance, the wonder, grew. Intensified. Became measurably stronger, infinitely more addictive.

The simple act that before had always seemed so straightforward, so momentary and unaffecting, was now so much more. This…was heady, intoxicating. As he thrust deeper into her heated body and felt her clutch, felt her clamp and hold him, felt her arms tight about him, her legs clasping his flanks, her body cradling his…it felt as if she were feeding a part of his soul he hadn’t even known existed, let alone was hungry.

Yet he was hungry for this-not just the physical pleasure and the aftermath of bliss, but the connection, the togetherness, the blessed release of having someone that close, of having someone…who was his.

The reins slithered from his grasp. As they both, he and she, spiraled out of control, as the demands of their striving bodies overwhelmed their minds and took control of their senses, he raised his head, found her lips and kissed her-claimed her, honored her, thanked her.

And let go.

Gave himself to her and took her in return.

And no longer knew where one ended and the other began.

The storm took them, wracked them, shattered their senses, left their bodies boneless, floating on passion’s sea.

Left them melded, fused, joined at the heart.

Welded at the soul.

No longer alone. No longer separate.

The notions circled his mind as he drifted back to earth, to the warmth of their bed, to the haven of her arms.

Dreams made real.

She was that to him, and he would never let her go.


They left Abbeville in the dark before dawn. The cold was intense; frost lay heavy on the ground. Their breaths plumed as they bustled in the stable yard, rushing in organized chaos through the flickering shadows cast by the inn’s flares.

They were away before even a glimmer lightened the eastern horizon. Heading north at a cracking pace, they remained alert, on guard, yet Gareth felt certain they would meet with no resistance.

Sure enough, they reached Boulogne-sur-Mer without incident or delay. Courtesy of their early start, it was mid-afternoon when they rattled into the streets of the bustling town. This time, however, they did not stop in the town center.

As they passed the town hall and headed on down a hill, Emily looked inquiringly at Gareth.

“We need an inn close to the docks.” He leaned forward and looked out of the window. “The Juneaux say they know the area around there.”

The further they went, the more traffic there was. The carriages slowed to a crawl as they negotiated the streets around the marketplace, then continued along a fair-sized street until they reached yet another square. The Juneau cousins halted the carriages along one side.

The instant he opened the carriage door, then stepped down to the cobbles, the sights, sounds, and smells of the sea assaulted Gareth’s senses. It hadn’t been particularly windy above, but here the wind gusted, salty and tangy, damp with sea spray, slapping his face and tugging his hair.

Emily paused in the carriage doorway, looking out. “That’s the Channel out there, isn’t it?”

Gareth nodded. Beyond the quays and the harbor basin Napoleon had excavated in prepartion for the invasion of England that he never launched, out beyond the protective arms of the breakwaters and their lighthouses, lay a seething mass of water, waves churning a bilious gray green beneath a leaden sky.

A few gulls bravely wheeled below slate-colored clouds scudding before the wind. Behind them hung the denser, darker roiling mass of an oncoming storm.

That louring, threatening mass assured Gareth that his worst fears had come true; they’d be trapped for days. Looking at the cauldron the Channel had become, he confirmed that not a single ship had ventured out.

One glance at Emily’s face as she stepped down to the ground told him he didn’t need to explain the situation to her.

He turned as Gustav Juneau clambered down from his perch to join them.

“There is an auberge we know-this way.” Gustav pointed with his whip to a narrow street leading away from the square. “It is close to the quay, and the people who run it know us.” He glanced at Gareth. “But come and see.”

Gathering Watson, and with Emily on his arm, leaving the others with Pierre Juneau to watch over the carriages, Gareth walked beside Gustav deeper into the dockside quarter.

The auberge Gustav led them to proved perfect for their needs, not least because its guestrooms were all presently empty. Gareth immediately negotiated to hire the whole of the upper floor. In addition, the auberge was within easy reach of the docks, with a direct route to the main quay, and, situated as it was, its common room was always full of sailors.

The owner and his wife, the Perrots, were delighted to accommodate them. “This weather!” Monsieur Perrot gesticulated. “It is very bad for business.”

“True,” Gareth said, “but before you welcome us, there’s something you should know.”

At his insistence, the Perrots sat down with him, Emily, and Gustav at a table in one corner of the common room As he had in Marseilles, he commenced their tale. And as had happened in Marseilles, Emily-this time aided by Gustav-took over.

The Perrots were understandably horrified, but Emily won their sympathy, while Gustav whipped up their nationalistic fervor, until Perrot slapped the table and declared, “You and your party must come to us. We will aid you in this-and our company”-he gestured to the crowded room-“will be happy to assist in foiling this villain.”

Madame Perrot nodded, a martial light in her eye. “He and his heathens will not be able to set this inn alight-it is built of good sound stone.”

Another of its many attributes. Despite his ongoing concern, Gareth knew a moment’s relief. He couldn’t have wished for a better billet, especially given they would, it seemed, be spending several days there.

Emily and Madame went upstairs to survey the rooms. Gustav, after a word with Perrot, stumped out to look at the stables. Gareth and Perrot reached agreement on the charge. Gareth paid half then and there, the other half to be paid on the morning of their departure. As to when that might be…

Appealed to, Perrot pursed his lips, shook his head. “Three days? It may be more. If you go down to the quay later this afternoon, I can tell you who to ask.”

Smothering his frustration, Gareth inclined his head. “Thank you.” He looked across the common room as Emily returned down the stairs. “We’ll go and fetch the rest of our party.”


They used the rest of the afternoon to settle in. At Gareth’s suggestion and Emily’s insistence, Pierre and Gustav would remain with them for the night, then start back on their long journey home in the morning.

After checking with Perrot, apparently a connection of a connection of the Juneaux, after lunch, Pierre and Gustav headed for the warehouses to see if there was any merchant with goods he wanted to send south.