Each to be forever a part of the other.
As the engagement spun on and the beat intensified, he touched her, caressed her, and drove her wild with desire, with passion and hunger and wanting. His lips traced her curves, leaving damp trails on her overheated skin, then he parted her thighs and touched her most private flesh and found it swollen, soft and slick. Then he dipped his head and set his mouth to that slick softness, and for several heated moments, she was quite sure she would lose her mind.
But then he disengaged, drew back and away.
Panting, she sprawled on the coverlet, naked and heated, and waited and watched as he shed his breeches and stockings and, finally naked himself, joined her on the bed.
Their control held, even then. Even as he lowered his hips between her widespread thighs and, with the moonlight gilding his tensed and straining muscles and her sleek curves, they discovered just how well they fitted, how perfectly, despite her momentary discomfort, they matched in this way, too, the beat thundered and pounded through their blood, through their hearts, and bound them.
And into the dance they plunged, with that beat still driving them, still constraining and compelling them. Not in her wildest dreams had she imagined the sensations could be so acute, so intense; never had she guessed at the indescribable impact of feeling the hard, heavy weight of his erection buried so snugly, so deeply, inside her.
The intimacy of the moment—the closeness, the shattering togetherness—flooded her mind.
And with every long, slow thrust, her gasps of wonder, of delight and burgeoning pleasure, filled the soft shadows engulfing them.
The power of his body, repetitively driving into hers, pleasuring her senses to her very fingertips in so very many ways and taking her soaring beyond this world, thrilled and fulfilled her. The physical reality of the act was so much more compelling, so much more consuming than she’d ever dreamed.
She clung and rode with him, her body instinctively matching his—partnering his. Yielding and taking, absorbing and clutching.
This, she dazedly realized, was what she’d been born for. Not just being all she could be in her daytime life, but forging this connection, participating in this communion—this completed her.
This, surely, was the greatest adventure that would ever come her way.
She was gasping, clutching, striving with him to reach some peak of pleasure she only vaguely perceived when, finally, they lost their guiding beat. The forces they’d harnessed to that point snapped their fraying leashes and broke free—and overwhelmed them.
Both of them, for he was with her, as he’d promised, every step of the way; she heard it in his tortured breathing, in his guttural groan—he was as swept away as she.
They had no choice. They clung and surrendered and gave themselves up to the fury of the moment—and together, they raced.
Flat out for that beckoning peak.
On that non-corporeal plane, she reached through the driving, pounding desperation and put her hand in his, and when they reached the pinnacle, together they leapt—
They soared.
And reality shattered.
A supernova of sensation burst across her mind, searing through her awareness, crystal clear and sharp, an eruption of her senses etched in golden glory as he drove into her one last time, then held still, quivering as his own release ripped through him and emptied him…then ecstasy, powerful and unstoppable, rose and flooded them.
Delighted to her toes, still floating on that plane far removed from the world, she turned this way and that, bathing in that sea of coruscating glory.
Gradually, the sensation faded.
She sighed and let go, and he slumped upon her, and something inside her eased; she reached as far around him as she could and held him, claimed him, too, and let oblivion’s tide float them into slumber.
* * *
Michael woke, he had no idea how much later. The moon had sailed on across the sky, and the room now lay in darkness. Nevertheless, as he cautiously levered himself up and looked down at the woman sprawled boneless beneath him, quietly sleeping, he could see well enough to appreciate the sight.
To see and rejoice.
To remember and feel compelled to bend his head and brush a feather-light kiss to her forehead.
Carefully, he lifted from her. She seemed dead to the world and didn’t stir even when he slumped beside her, then, unable to resist, gathered her to him, settling her against his side, within the circle of his arms.
His.
He closed his eyes and felt that truth resonate through him.
He’d been dubbed “the huntsman” for many years, but now, his hunting days were over. His new role was as a protector—her protector, hers and any children they were blessed with—and that role suited him to the ground. More, such a role would satisfy and fulfill him in ways the hunter’s role never had and never could.
The woman sleeping within his arms was his new future personified. The future he’d been unconsciously searching for, at least for the past decade. The future he’d now claimed.
She was now his, and he was hers, and no power on earth would ever put them asunder.
Such was the magic, such was the power—the power that now linked them.
Chapter 16
Michael was still sunk in sleep when the sound of a brief tap at the door penetrated the pleasurable fog shrouding his mind.
His senses immediately informed him that Cleo still lay snuggled, safe and warm, by his side.
He raised his lids; squinting over the tousled red-gold mass of Cleo’s curls, he saw the bedroom door open.
Even as Michael tensed, Drake swanned in, his gaze downcast as he settled the sleeves of the coat he’d apparently just shrugged on. “Get up, you lazy beggar. If I’m awake, so should you be, and”—Drake halted and raised his gaze—“I understand you have something urgent—”
Drake’s gaze collided with Michael’s—over the top of the rounded, coverlet-covered lump that was Cleo, now shaking as, having woken and realized what was happening, she tried to control her laughter. Sensibly, she kept her head down.
“Ah.” Drake blinked rather owlishly. Then he swung on his heel and headed for the door. “Obviously, I didn’t see what I just saw.” He reached for the doorknob. “When you’re ready to emerge, I’ll be downstairs.”
He walked out and closed the door—gently—behind him.
Cleo raised her head and looked at Michael, hilarity bright in her eyes.
He met her gaze—and started to laugh.
So did she.
They rolled onto their backs and laughed uncontrollably, in Cleo’s case, until tears slid from the corners of her eyes. “Oh,” she eventually gasped. “What a way to meet the man. And we’ve not even been properly introduced.”
Michael was still struggling to rein in his laughter. “You didn’t see his face.” The memory temporarily robbed him of speech. When he regained control, he managed to get out, “I’ve never in all my life seen him so blank-faced with astonishment. If we’d taken a club to his head, he couldn’t have looked more stunned.”
Gradually, although amusement lingered, the impulse to laugh faded. Her lips still curved, Cleo met his eyes. “I suppose we’d better get up and face the day.”
Michael searched her eyes and saw her understanding that, for them, today would not simply be a continuation of their yesterdays. Today would be the first day of their future, the day that would usher in their tomorrows.
Through the events of the night, both in Southwark and there in Grosvenor Square, they’d acknowledged the power that now linked them by word and by deed, yet neither of them had uttered the critical word; they hadn’t put a name to that power.
He found her hand amid the rumpled sheets; he raised it to his lips and, holding her gaze, pressed a lingering kiss to her fingers. “I haven’t yet stated this, but regardless of whatever today and our tomorrows bring, I love you. And I always will.”
Cleo hadn’t neede
d to hear the words, but was grateful nonetheless. She smiled with all the joy welling in her heart and replied, “And I love you—now and forever.”
After a second during which they gazed besottedly at each other, she inwardly sighed, forced herself to glance briefly at the door, then returned her gaze to his eyes. “And given we routed Winchelsea, clearly, together, we’ll be able to handle anything life throws our way.”
Michael chuckled, kissed her soundly, then rose from the bed. “Come on—we shouldn’t keep the man waiting.”
Cleo grinned. She lay relaxed for a moment, cataloging the odd twinges and savoring the strange sense of contentment that permeated her body all the way to her bones. Until the past few days, she hadn’t understood the attraction of physical intimacy—had never understood why other ladies seemed to lose their heads over the activity. Now, however, she had to own to being completely won over—to the extent of wondering why she’d taken so long… Her gaze had fixed on Michael as, untroubled by his nakedness as men usually were, he’d walked across to the washstand. And there lay her answer. She hadn’t, until the past few days, met him—the critical factor. For her, intimacy wouldn’t be the glory it was without him.
She spent a moment reflecting on that, then, smiling still, rolled to her side of the bed. After sliding from beneath the covers, she hunted for and found her chemise.
They used yesterday’s chilly water to wash, which, aside from anything else, had the benefit of rendering them fully awake.
She needed his help with her corset; his nimble fingers made short work of her laces, testifying to his experience in that arena, which only left her feeling even more smug at the thought that she—Cleo Hendon, the unmarriageable businesswoman—had succeeded where all those other ladies had failed.
Of course, her gold satin lady-of-the-night gown wasn’t what she would have chosen to make her first appearance as Michael’s fiancée, but when she mentioned it, he pointed out that once Drake or anyone else learned the purpose of her disguise, they would appreciate and, indeed, approve of her appearance.
Once they were dressed and she’d reanchored her curls in a passable knot, he offered her his arm. His gaze captured hers as she laid her hand on his sleeve. “Are you ready to face whatever comes?”
She smiled. “As long as you’re by my side.”
He raised her hand to his lips, kissed her fingers, set her hand on his sleeve, and together, they walked to the door.
As they left the room, Cleo recalled her thought of the small hours—that the act of intimacy was the greatest adventure that would ever come her way.
But that wasn’t and wouldn’t be so; what lay before them would trump even that.
Marriage, with all its many facets, would be the greatest, most consuming, most rewarding adventure of their lives.
With her head high and her gaze firmly fixed on their joint future, on Michael’s arm, she descended the stairs.
* * *
Hamilton came into the front hall just as they reached the bottom of the stairs; he led them to the breakfast parlor.
Drake, seated at the head of the table, rose. His gaze on Cleo, he bowed. “Miss Hendon, I believe?”
Her hand on Michael’s arm, Cleo curtsied. “Lord Winchelsea.”
Drake met her gaze as she straightened and smiled wryly. “Please, just Drake. After our earlier encounter, that seems more appropriate.”
Calmly, Michael stated, “Cleo has done me the honor of agreeing to be my wife.”
Drake’s smile was genuine, if faintly amused. “Congratulations to you both.” He shook hands with Michael, then claimed Cleo’s hand and bowed elegantly over it. Releasing her, he glanced at Michael. “So another Cynster falls courtesy of this mission. Your parents should be pleased with me.”
Michael grinned. “I’m sure Mama will be in touch with your mother to convey her appreciation.”
Drake sent him a mock-sour look, then waved them to the well-stocked sideboard. “I daresay you both have an appetite. Do join me.”
Michael couldn’t stop grinning. He glanced at Cleo and, at her nod, led her to the sideboard. Once they’d served themselves from the array of chafing dishes, Hamilton seated them beside each other on Drake’s right, then inquired whether they wished tea and coffee. On being informed they did, he departed to fetch fresh pots.
Drake looked up from his plate, fixed an inquiring gaze on them both, and arched his brows.
Michael sobered and opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, the front doorbell cut him off. The peal was followed by voices in the hall. Seconds later, Sebastian ushered Antonia into the room.
Michael and Drake rose, as did Cleo.
Drake murmured, “I sent for them. I thought they’d want to hear all we’ve discovered.”
Smoothly, Michael introduced Cleo to Antonia and then Sebastian.
Sebastian clapped Michael on the shoulder and smiled welcomingly at Cleo. “I understand you’ve been Michael’s partner in this mission.”
Cleo inclined her head and cast a glance at Michael.
The moment was too good to pass up; he took her hand and faced his brother. “As I’ve just told Drake, Cleo and I have decided to extend our partnership into wider fields, including marriage. You three are the first to know.” He looked pointedly at Sebastian and Antonia. “And that also means you two had better hurry things along, because we”—he glanced at Cleo and smiled with prideful intent—“are prepared to wait only so long before fronting the altar ourselves.”
“Wonderful!” Antonia stepped forward and hugged Cleo with transparent warmth and undeniable delight. “It will be a relief to have someone with whom to share the inevitable ton limelight.”
Despite her smile, Cleo managed to pull a face. “I’m not sure about the limelight. I rather fancy dodging it as much as possible.”
“That’s a dream unlikely to come true.” As Antonia turned to Michael, Drake met Cleo’s eyes and smiled warmly. “Again, my very real felicitations, Miss Hendon.”
She smiled back. “Please, just Cleo.”
Still smiling, Drake inclined his head. His gaze shifted to Michael, currently accepting Sebastian’s and Antonia’s wishes, along with what appeared to be a ribbing; lowering his voice, Drake said, “He’s a good man.”
“He is.” Cleo waited until Drake’s strangely penetrating—almost piercing—golden gaze returned to her face to state, “And a warning for the future—he and I will always be a team.”
Drake’s smile faded. “Antonia informed me of much the same thing. I’m unsure if that means my list of agents has expanded or contracted.”
Cleo arched her brows. “I suspect that will depend on the missions—and on you.”
“Hmm.” Drake moved aside as Sebastian came to congratulate Cleo.
Grinning delightedly, Sebastian squeezed her fingers, then bent his head and kissed her cheek. “I can’t begin to tell you how pleased I am.” He released her and glanced at Michael. “At least now someone else will be there to keep him in line.”
Michael made a scoffing sound, but as his gaze returned to Cleo’s face, he smiled and didn’t disagree.
Drake had returned to the head of the table. “Perhaps,” he said, pulling out his chair, “we should get back to the business that brings us all here.”
Cleo and Michael returned to their places, while Sebastian seated Antonia opposite Cleo, then took the next chair along, the one opposite Michael.
Hamilton arrived with a large pot of coffee and another of tea. After pouring cups of tea for the ladies and setting a rack of fresh toast between them, he poured cups of coffee for the three men, then glanced at Drake.
Drake nodded. “Thank you, Hamilton. That will be all for the moment.”
Hamilton bowed and withdrew. The door quietly shut behind him.
“Right then.” Drake set down his coffee cup. He looked at Michael and Cleo. “What have you two learned?”
They shared the honors, allowing one of them to e
at while the other spoke. Michael started, reminding everyone that his task had been to find the missing gunpowder. After he’d related how that had led him to Cleo, she took over, explaining the existence of the Worshipful Company of Carmen and the register of carters and carts. Between them, they described their pursuit of the fourteen carters registered to move gunpowder, culminating in the discovery that a carter named Terry Doolan and his apprentice had fetched the barrels from Kent, delivered them to a warehouse in Morgan’s Lane, and then disappeared.
Michael explained how he’d exploited family connections at Scotland Yard and, through them, confirmed that the bodies of Doolan and his apprentice had been pulled from the river, and that they’d been murdered, most likely soon after delivering the barrels to the warehouse.
“Doolan,” Drake murmured. “I assume he was Irish. Did he have any connection to the Young Irelanders?”
“Possibly a sympathizer,” Michael replied. “But no one knew him to be actively involved.”
Michael outlined the situation they found in Morgan’s Lane, with the three warehouses that might have taken in the barrels, and went on to describe the cordon of men he’d subsequently placed around the area to guard against the barrels being moved.
Cleo stepped in before he mentioned her appearance as a lad and leapt ahead to give a condensed version of how they had called at the three warehouses. “When we walked into the third warehouse, the one midway down the lane, we discovered the office in chaos because the foreman hadn’t been sighted since Wednesday—the day on which the barrels were brought into London and, as we later confirmed, stored at that warehouse.”
Michael flicked a glance at Drake, then looked across the table at Sebastian. “The dead bodies are piling up. I’m sure we’ll discover O’Toole, the foreman, among their number. Along with a few more besides. O’Toole was an Irishman, but again, not known to be actively involved with the Young Irelanders. In his case, he’s left a young family to which it seemed he was devoted.”