Grace listened, recognizing the part of his composition she had played the other night and the variations he had invented on that theme. There was more, pieces of music she had never heard before. She closed her eyes, and as she listened to him work, she remembered how it felt whenever he touched her, the hot, wild joy he evoked with each caress, each kiss.

She tried to talk herself into being sensible. He had gone to a courtesan. Though he was sorry Isabel had seen him there, he wasn't at all sorry he'd gone. That should have put some sense in Grace's head, but it didn't.

She tried to remind herself that women were playthings to him, trifles to be enjoyed for a time, then set aside. What would it be like to be his plaything, just for a little while?

Grace groaned and pulled the sheet over her head. She wanted to be respectable and virtuous, she reminded herself, but that wasn't any fun. She tried to remember Etienne, but he was a dim memory in her heart now, vanquished by a man to whom second place did not exist.

Dylan Moore made being a respectable widow seem as satisfying as... well... porridge. She had fought against this for weeks now, but no woman could be expected to hold out longer than that against a man like him. He was over six feet and fourteen stone of pure dessert.

But he was a man of much deeper character than that, complex, mercurial, and a better father than he had ever given himself credit for. She thought of the infinite tenderness with which he treated his child, showing a patience with Isabel that Grace would not have thought he possessed. Though he had not wanted the responsibilities of fatherhood, when they had hit him in the face, he had taken them on completely. More than that, he had come to love his daughter. And that, Grace knew, was the thing that was sending her over the edge of that cliff.

Grace was afraid of it, she had not wanted it, she had fought so hard against it, but she could not stop it. She was falling in love with him.

The music stopped. She waited, but when she heard no more music, and she did not hear him coming up the stairs to go to his bedchamber, she pushed back the counterpane, put on her dressing robe, and went downstairs.

She found him staring at the opened folio on the music stand, his arms folded. Across the closed lid of the piano were more sheets of music, along with quills, ink, and a jar of blotting powder.

"Awake again, I see," she murmured.

He stirred and glanced at her. "I'm afraid so."

Grace walked over to the stand beside him and put a hand on his shoulder. "Why do you not sleep well?" she asked. When he did not answer, she ventured a teasing guess. "Guilty conscience?"

That got a hint of a smile. "No."

He did not elaborate, and Grace glanced at the sheet music in the folio. "How is the music coming?"

"Right now it is not making me happy. This third movement is supposed to be a minuet, but I keep writing it like a scherzo. It wants to be a scherzo, and I am fighting it."

"Shall I leave you two alone?"

That made him chuckle. "No, don't, I beg you. If you do, it will continue to torture me." He closed the folio and looked up. "Tea in the rotunda, ma'am?" he suggested.

"No, I think-" She hesitated, then she jumped off the cliff. "I want to see my cottage."

"What, right now?"

"Do you have something else to do?" Her voice quavered a little.

He noticed it. He turned toward her, tilting his head back, and looked at her thoughtfully. "You truly want to see it tonight?"

"Yes." She ran her hand along his shoulder, the silk of his dressing gown slick beneath her palm. Her hand curled at the side of his neck. "I want to see it right now."

He leaned forward and looked down at her toes, then looked up at her again and smiled a little. "You had best put shoes on. It's about a half-mile walk."

She went upstairs, slipped into stockings and her short black boots, then wrapped her shawl around her shoulders. When she came back down, she saw that he had put on boots as well, the stirrups of his black-and-tan striped Cossacks tucked beneath.

He took her out into the garden, where he turned down a side path. He reached back for her hand and led her down a sloping, narrow dirt path through the trees and shrubbery. When they came out of the trees, he pointed down the hill, where she saw the shadowy lines of hedgerows and silvery patches of meadow in the moonlight. Nestled amid them, she saw the line of a roof and the whitewashed stone walls of a cottage.

They walked down the hill, and as they approached the front door, she could see that it looked like thousands of others all over the West Country, with the thatched roof and fat dormers she had always envisioned, but it was different in one very important way. It was going to be hers.

"It has gla.s.s windows," she said, and looked at him, a wave of joy bubbling up inside her. She began to laugh under her breath.

"Do you like it?" he asked.

In the moonlight, the red dragons on his dressing gown were barely visible, but she knew they were there, and she thought of the stories brought to Stillmouth by the sailors who declared they had been to the edge of the earth.

Beyond this place, there be dragons.

She wasn't afraid of dragons, not tonight. Grace knew that right now, there was nothing to either hope or fear. She had only the hungry need to be with him. She could bear another night alone, but she did not want to, and she did not have to. However many nights she had with him, she would enjoy them all. Grace had no illusions about the aftermath. She would crash somewhere, sometime, but oh, the sweetness on the way down.

"Do you like it?" he repeated.

"It is perfect." She grabbed his hand. "Let's go in."

They went inside the cottage, where there was a front parlor to her right and a dining room to her left. Each room had its share of castoffs-old chairs, stacks of wooden crates filled with bric-a-brac, and a few rickety tables. Dylan went into the parlor, making his way through the maze of stuff on the floor. He walked to one of the windows that flanked the stone fireplace, and Grace followed him.

"Out there is the cottage garden," he told her over his shoulder as he pointed out the window. "And yes," he added, looking out, "it has roses in it."

Grace walked over to him. She glanced past him and saw an arbor with pale, half-opened rosebuds that gleamed in the moonlight. She put her hands on his shoulders. The silk of his dressing gown was smooth and warm from his skin, the muscles beneath her hands taut and powerful. She would look at the roses tomorrow.

At her touch, he turned around, and she lifted her hand to his face. The strands of his hair tickled the back of her hand as she curved her palm across the nape of his neck. "Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you for this."

She leaned closer, rising up on her toes. "I wanted to come out here for another reason," she said and used her free hand to tug at the sash of his dressing robe.

"What reason is that?" He was rigidly still as her fingertips caressed the tight tendons at the back of his neck.

"There is something I need to say to you." She touched her lips to his. Against his mouth, she whispered, "Yes."

Chapter Seventeen.

rYes. To Dylan's ears, the whispered word reverberated through the room like a shout. When she'd told him she wanted to come down here, he had hoped this was what she had meant, but he was not going to a.s.sume anything. He let her lips touch his, but he did not move.

He remembered in vivid detail that night two weeks ago, and this time he wasn't taking anything for granted. Last time, it had been agony to walk away with his body in anarchy. He wasn't going to let that happen again. If she wanted him, she had to prove it.

Grace's lips were brushing his as lightly as that flower he'd caressed her with earlier. He parted his lips just enough to encourage, but he did not return her kiss. He closed his eyes, balled his hands into fists, and waited.

She lowered her heels to the floor, her hand pressed against the back of his neck, and she expected him to follow her move. He did not.

She shifted her weight a bit, doubtful now. "Dylan, is something wrong?"

"Wrong?" He tilted back his head and laughed a little. "G.o.d, no."

"Then..." Her voice trailed away, the question hanging in the air.

"Are you sure you want this?"

She nodded. She seemed sure. Perhaps she meant it. Desire flickered dangerously in his groin. He lowered his chin and looked at her. "You're not going to change your mind in the midst of everything?"

She shook her head and slid her fingers beneath the edges of his dressing gown, fanning her hands across his chest. "I'm not going to change my mind."

Triumph flooded through him, and he wanted to shout it, but Dylan merely allowed a smile to play across his lips. "Then go ahead," he murmured, daring the virtuous woman to be a bad girl. "Take what you want."

He watched her bite her lip and slant a thoughtful look at him, tilting her head. Moon glow spread across her cheek and jaw. She smiled, liking the idea.

Quick as that, with just a smile, she made him thick and excited, rock hard. He wanted to have her right now on the floor and take thorough, debauched pleasure in it.

Grace pulled the edges of his dressing gown apart and leaned forward to press a kiss to the flat, brown circle of his nipple. He tilted back his head, inhaling sharply, shudders of pleasure rippling through his body. She laved his nipple and the flat, brown circle around it lightly with her tongue, a provocative tease. Dylan groaned, felt his loins tighten. When she slid her hand down to his belly, she almost annihilated his control. Almost. Grace kissed his other nipple, caressing him just above the waistband of his trousers. "I want to undress you."

This agony was going to kill him. He set his jaw. "Do it, then."

She lifted her hands to slide the dressing gown back off his shoulders and down his arms. It fell to the floor, a heavy whoosh of silk in the quiet room. She touched him, exploring his shoulders, his back, his torso. She rippled her fingers down over his abdomen. He endured it all in silent, exquisite agony.

He felt the flap b.u.t.tons at the top of his Cossacks come undone. Then Grace knelt in front of him, and the sight of her in this submissive pose, with the tip of his jutting erection beneath her jaw and that knowing, feminine smile on her upturned face was a combination so erotic that he unclenched his fist and spread his hand over her hair, but that wasn't what he wanted. He let his hand fall away, and he thanked fate he hadn't been wearing a full suit of clothes when she'd begun. That would have been too much torture for any man.

Without moving her gaze from his face, she lifted his heel to pull back the trouser stirrup and remove his shoe. First the left one, then the right.

She had undressed her husband. She must have, with the sureness of her hands. Jealousy hit him like tiny stabs from the point of a knife, an unexpected emotion, one he almost never experienced. But it was gone as quickly as it had come, for she was pulling his trousers down his legs. Dylan stepped out of the Cossacks and kicked them sideways with his foot.

She stood up, her gaze looking him as if he were a brandy snap. He liked that look. He liked it a great deal.

Dylan reached for her, pulling her hard against him in a sudden movement that made her give a startled gasp. This time, he did kiss her, a full, open contact against her soft, full lips that tasted her mouth and stole away all her control. He savored that kiss. He let his arms fall to his sides, loving it when she wrapped her own around his naked body, pulling him closer, but he knew this couldn't go on much longer.

He broke the contact with her lips and turned his head to kiss her ear the way she liked. "Grace," he groaned low, his lower lip brushing against her ear, "take off your nightclothes."

She gave a shaky laugh and slipped the dressing robe from her shoulders. "Who are you to be giving orders? I thought I was in charge of this."

"You take too long." He reached for the top b.u.t.ton of her nightgown. He slid each of the five b.u.t.tons through their holes, then lowered his hands to her hips, bunched linen folds in his fists and dragged her nightdress upward. "I want you naked, and I want it now."

"Patience is a virtue," she said, even as she raised her arms over her head.

"Virtue is the last thing on my mind. Remember who you are talking to."

"We are supposed to do what I want," she went on, her voice m.u.f.fled by the linen he was pulling over her head.

He tossed the nightgown aside. He took a moment to step back and look at her, at her sweet, pretty b.r.e.a.s.t.s, fuller now than before. Her skin was pale and translucent in the moonlight, and the sight of the dark blond curls between her thighs made everything in him tighten and pull with the effort of holding back.

He pressed his lips to her ear as he cupped her breast in his hand. Yes, it was fuller now, but still exquisitely shaped. His thumb rubbed across the hard, plump swell of her nipple and the puckered, velvety aureole. "Don't you want this?"

She made a sound of accord, but it hushed and caught in her throat. He smiled, a loose tendril of her soft hair tickling his cheek.

Bending his head, he parted his lips over her nipple, pulling it into his mouth. It was his turn to tease this time, and he took full advantage of it, his tongue gently drawing the tip of her breast against his teeth over and over. He cupped her other breast, embracing its shape in the palm of his hand.

She grasped his shoulders and her hips twitched instinctively against him, the curve of her hip barely brushing his erection, like a flutter of silk. He laughed against her skin and slid his hand down her ribs and over her navel. His fingertips grazed the soft triangle of hair, the tip of his middle finger creasing the seam of her s.e.x. "You don't want this?"

She moaned his name, her knees sagged, and she wrapped her arms around his neck. Her thighs tightened convulsively around his hand.

"Or this?" He eased the tip of his finger inside her, and she cried out. She was wet, and so soft. He pulled back and she arched toward his hand, wanting more and ready to receive it. He bit his lip, feeling the painful bruise of his teeth as he fought to keep himself in check just a bit longer.

"This is what you want, isn't it?" He dipped into her and out again, stroking the folds of her opening, spreading moisture with the mere flex of his hand.

"Yes," she gasped, frantic, her face buried against his shoulder, her panting breaths hot on his skin. "Yes, yes. Oh, yes. Ohhh."

Her hips jerked, and she climaxed with a long, low moan of feminine ecstacy, her thighs clenching around his hand again and again as she said his name.

He moved his hand again, caressing her inner thigh. "It's time, I think."

"Yes," she agreed on a groan. "Is there a bed in here anywhere?"

"No." He put his hands on her shoulders and took her with him as he turned around. His back faced the corner, each shoulder supported by a wall, giving him leverage. He cupped her b.u.t.tocks. "Do we need a bed?"

Before she could answer, he tightened his grip. "Part your legs," he ordered as he lifted her. "Wrap them around me."

She complied, making a smothered, ardent sound as the head of his p.e.n.i.s grazed her and he inhaled deeply of pear fragrance and womanly scent. He paused, pressing himself to the soft, wet folds of her opening without entering her. His breathing was ragged. "This, too, Grace?" he rasped. "This, too?"

Her legs tightened around his torso. "Yes," she gasped.

Dylan pushed his c.o.c.k into her, just a little way. "Are you sure?"

His voice sounded rough, brutal. He could hear it himself. No time left to be gentle.

"Do it," she panted against his neck, giving orders now. "Yes, oh, please, yes. Do it."

His hands tightened their grip and he pulled, impaling her on his shaft. Driving out the ghost of the man she had known before. Mine, he claimed her. Mine.

Arms and legs wrapped around him, she followed his rhythm, crying out at her peak, tightening around him again and again as he held her b.u.t.tocks in his hands and thrust deep within her, all his own pa.s.sion finally unleashed in a rough, frantic cadence. With the hoa.r.s.e cry of full possession, he came in a rush, his body jerking with the unbearable pleasure of his own release.

He leaned his head back in the corner, and she rested her forehead against his shoulder. He held her suspended, keeping himself inside her, and both of them were still. The whine in his head was a far distant hum, overpowered for now by his savage breathing and hers, and by the sweet warmth of her body enveloped around him.

After a few moments, he withdrew from her and set her on her feet again. "Do you want a tour of the place?" he asked, and kissed her mouth. He kissed her cheeks, her bare shoulders, her chin, her hair.

All she wanted right now was for him to hold her, caress her, move in her again. She shook her head and kissed his chin, snuggling up closer.

"No sense of adventure in you now, hmm?" He was smiling against her hair, she knew it from his voice. Suddenly, he lifted his head and took a look around. "I have an idea," he said. "Don't move. I shall be back in a minute or two."

He walked away, and Grace turned, leaning back against the wall as she watched him walk across the moonlit room, weaving his way amid the various odds and ends scattered about.

His body was magnificent, strong and solid. Beautiful in that utterly masculine way. She smiled, feeling as tipsy and delighted as if she'd had a bit too much wine, caught up in a blissful sort of euphoria that made her want to laugh and weep and do it all again.

She could hear him rummaging about in another room, and she wondered what he was doing. She didn't have to wonder long. When he returned, he was carrying a long, rolled-up tube on his shoulder, and as he drew closer, she could see in the dim light that it was a carpet.

"I thought there might still be one or two in here," he said and shrugged, rolling it off his shoulder and onto the floor. He bent and held the fringed edge with one hand as he pushed the carpet away from him with the other. It unfurled, and when it was fully open, the edge at her feet immediately began to curl up again.