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 already 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.
“And now I’d better get back to it.” With a smile, Edgar left the table.
Leaving Vane and Henry. By the time Patience arrived, in a frantic froth of skirts, Vane’s mellow mood had stretched to granting Henry his long-sought return match over the billiard table. Happy as a lark, Henry stood, and smiled at Patience. “Best go look in on Mama.” With a nod to Vane, he ambled off.
Thoroughly enamored—softened by his mood and this unexpected consequence—Vane subsided into his chair, angling it so he could gaze unimpeded at Patience as she helped herself from the sideboard, then came to the table. She took her usual seat, separated from his by Gerrard’s vacant place. With a brief smile and a warning look, she applied herself to her breakfast. To the large mound she’d heaped on her plate.
Vane eyed it, straightfaced, then lifted his gaze to her face. “Something must have agreed with you—your appetite’s certainly improved.”
Patience’s fork froze in midair; she glanced down at her plate. Then she shrugged, ate the portion on her fork, then calmly looked at him. “I vaguely remember being excessively hot.” She raised her brows, then looked back at her plate. “Quite feverish, in fact. I do hope it isn’t catching.” She forked up another mouthful, then slanted him a glance. “Did you pass a quiet night?”
Masters and his minions were hovering—well within earshot—waiting to clear the table.
“Actually, no.” Vane met Patience’s gaze. Memory had him shifting in his chair. “Whatever had you in its grip must have disturbed me, too—I suspect the malady might last for some time.”
“How . . . distracting,” Patience managed.
“Indeed,” Vane returned, warming to his theme. “There were moments when I felt enclosed in damp hotness.”
A blush spread over Patience’s cheeks; Vane knew it extended to the tips of her breasts.
“How odd,” she countered. She picked up her teacup and sipped. “To me, it felt like heat exploding inside.”
Vane stiffened—further; he fought to avoid a telltale shuffle in his seat.
Setting down her cup, Patience pushed aside her plate. “Luckily, the affliction had vanished by morning.”
They stood. Patience strolled to the door; Vane sauntered beside her. “Perhaps,” he murmured as they passed into the front hall, his voice low, for her ears alone. “But I suspect you’ll find your affliction will return tonight.” She cast a half-wary, half-scandalized glance at his face; he smiled, all teeth. “Who knows? You might find yourself even more heated.”
For one instant, she looked . . . intrigued. Then haughty dignity came to her aid. Coolly, she inclined her head. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll go and practice my scales.”
Pausing at the foot of the stairs, Vane watched as she glided across the hall—watched her hips sway with their usual unrestrained license; he couldn’t quite stifle his wolfish grin. He was contemplating following—and trying his hand at disrupting her scales—when a footman came hurrying down the stairs.
“Mr. Cynster, sir. Her Ladyship’s asking after you. Urgent, she says—quite in a tizz. She’s in her parlor.”
Vane shed his wolf’s fur in the blink of an eye. With a curt nod for the footman, he started up the stairs. He took the second flight two at a time. Frowning, he strode rapidly for Minnie’s rooms.
The instant he opened the door, he saw the footman hadn’t lied; Minnie was huddled in her chair, shawls fluffed, looking like nothing so much as an ill owl—except for the tears streaming down her lined cheeks. Closing the door, Vane swiftly crossed the room and went down on one knee beside the chair. He clasped one of her frail hands in his. “What’s happened?”
Minnie’s eyes were swimming in tears. “My pearls,” she whispered, her voice quavering. “They’re gone.”
Vane glanced at Timms, hovering protectively. Grim-faced, she nodded. “She wore them last night, as usual. I put them on the dresser myself, after we—Ada and I—helped Min to bed.” She reached back, lifting a small brocade box from the side table behind her. “They were always kept in this, not locked away. Min wore them every night, so there never seemed much point. And with the thief delighting in tawdry glitter, there didn’t seem much threat to the pearls.”
Two long, matched strands, with matching drop earrings. Vane had seen them on Minnie for as long as he could remember.
“They were my bride gift from Humphrey.” Minnie sniffed tearfully. “They were the one thing—the one piece of all he gave me—that was the most personal.”
Vane swallowed the oath that sprang to this lips, swallowed the wave of anger that one of Minnie’s charity cases should repay her in this way. He squeezed her hand, imparting sympathy and strength. “If they were here last night, when did they disappear?”
“It had to be this morning, when we went for our constitutional. Otherwise, there wasn’t any time someone wasn’t in the room.” Timms looked angry enough to swear. “We’re in the habit of going for a short amble around the walled garden whenever the weather permits. These mornings, we usually go as soon as the fog lifts. Ada tidies in here while we’re away, but she’s always gone before we return.”
“Today”—Minnie had to gulp before continuing—“as soon as we got through the door, I saw the box wasn’t in its usual place. Ada always leaves everything just so, but the box was askew.”
“It was empty.” Timms’s jaw locked. “This time, the thief has gone well and truly too far.”
“Indeed.” Grim-faced, Vane stood. He squeezed Minnie’s hand, then released it. “We’ll get back your pearls—I swear on my honor. Until then, try not to worry.” He glanced at Timms. “Why not go down to the music room? You can tell Patience while I set a few matters in train.”
Timms nodded. “An excellent idea.”
Minnie frowned. “But it’s Patience’s practice time—I wouldn’t want to intrude.”
“I think you’ll find,” Vane said, helping Minnie to her feet, “that Patience won’t forgive you if you don’t intrude on her practice.” Over Minnie’s head, he exchanged a glance with Timms. “She won’t want to be left out.”
After seeing Minnie and Timms to the music room, and leaving his godmother in Patience’s capable hands, Vane met with Masters, Mrs. Henderson, Ada, and Grisham, Minnie’s senior servants.
Their shock, and their instant anger against whoever had dared hurt their generous mistress, was palpable. After assuring them that none of them was suspected, and receiving assurances that all the current staff was utterly reliable, Vane did what he could to bolt the stable door.
“The theft has only just occurred.” He looked at Grisham. “Has anyone requested a horse or the gig?”
“No, sir.” Grisham shook his head. “They’re not much for getting out an’ about, this lot.”
“That should make our task easier. If anyone asks for transportation—or even for a groom to deliver something—put them off and get word to me immediately.”
“Aye, sir.” Grisham’s face was grim. “I’ll do that, right enough.”
“As for indoors . . .” Vane swung to face Masters, Mrs. Henderson, and Ada. “I can’t see any reason the staff can’t be informed—the outdoor staff, too. We need everyone to keep their eyes peeled. I want to hear of anything that strikes anyone as odd, no matter how inconsequential.”
Mrs. Henderson fleetingly grimaced. Vane raised his brows. “Has anything odd been reported recently?”
“Odd enough.” Mrs. Henderson shrugged. “But I can’t see as it could mean anything—not to do with the thief or the pearls.”
“Nevertheless . . .” Vane gestured for her to speak.
“The maids have reported it again and again—it’s making terrible scratches on the floor.”
>
Vane frowned. “What’s making terrible scratches?”
“Sand!” Mrs. Henderson heaved a put-upon sigh. “We can’t make out where she gets it from, but we’re constantly sweeping it up—just a trickle, every day—in Miss Colby’s room. Scattered on and around the hearth rug, mostly.” She wrinkled her nose. “She has this garish tin elephant—heathenish thing—she told one of the maids it was a memento left her by her father. He was a missionary in India, seemingly. The sand’s usually not far from the elephant, but that doesn’t seem to be the source. The maids have had a good go dusting it, but it seems perfectly clean. Yet still the sand is there—every day.”
Vane’s brows rose high, visions of Alice Colby sneaking out in the dead of night to bury pilfered items floating through his mind. “Perhaps she tracks the sand in from outside?”
Mrs. Henderson shook her head; her double chins wobbled vehemently. “Sea sand. I should have said—it’s that that makes the whole so strange. Nice and silver-white, the grains are. And where, near here, could you find sand like that?”
Vane frowned, and let his fanciful images fade. He met Mrs. Henderson’s eye. “I agree the matter’s odd, but, like you, I can’t see that it could mean anything. But that’s precisely the sort of odd occurrence I want reported, whether it’s obviously connected with the thief or not.”
“Indeed, sir.” Masters drew himself up. “We’ll speak to the staff immediately. You may rely on us.”
Who else could he rely on?
That question revolved in Vane’s brain as, leaving Mrs. Henderson’s parlor, he wandered into the front hall. In his estimation, Patience, Minnie, and Timms—and Gerrard—had always been beyond suspicion. There was an element of openness, of candor, in both Patience and Gerrard that reminded Vane of Minnie herself; he knew, soul-deep, that neither they, nor Timms, were involved.
That left a host of others—others he felt far less sure of.
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