“So your ship will sail on the evening tide?”
He nodded. “If we don’t get out then, we’ll have to wait until the next day, and time is of the essence.”
“I see.” A moment ticked by, then she said, “I once went sailing on a yacht in the Solent and saw some of the larger ships pass by. Is it possible for a ship like yours to sail out into the Solent and then wait for people to be ferried from the port before going further?”
“If we weren’t in a hurry, yes. But we need to catch the tide to get out of the Solent itself, and once we’re in the Channel, there’s no turning back—not until the tide turns again.”
She fell silent as if digesting that, then she leaned closer, her head resting against his shoulder, and gently squeezed his hand. “Tell me about your ship. Does Frobisher and Sons have a particular wharf at Southampton? You have that in London, don’t you?”
He returned the pressure of her fingers. “We have two wharves in London—one in St. Katherine’s Docks, the other in London Docks. The office is more or less between them. But in Southampton, all our ships come into one section of the main wharf.”
“What about The Cormorant itself? Describe it.”
He did. As they rattled along the night-shrouded streets, he painted a picture drawn from fond memories, his words colored by emotion, by the joy he always felt on the waves, with the creak of the sails, ropes, and spars above his head, the slap and shush of the waves caressing the hull, and the pitch and roll of the deck beneath his feet. He opened his heart and shared it all with her.
When the carriage drew up outside their town house and he helped her from the carriage and escorted her up the steps, he realized he wanted this evening—this last night they would have together for weeks—to be perfect. For the pleasure they’d rediscovered in each other to remain unmarred by any discord, by any jarring note.
She seemed to have the same agenda. They climbed the stairs to their bedroom, closed the door on the world, and gave themselves up to each other.
Somewhat to his surprise, she took the lead—demanded it. He ceded the reins readily, intrigued as to what she had in mind, only to discover that she’d decided that he should remember this night…vividly.
Her small hands were everywhere, stroking his skin, caressing, then clutching, nails sinking in evocatively when he struck back and ravaged her mouth. But she drew breath and came back at him; with lips and tongue, with her curves clothed in silken, heated skin, with her breathing ragged and her lids at half mast, she seized the tiller of their passions and orchestrated a wave of need, greed, and delirious wanting that all but overwhelmed him.
Then she took him into her mouth and drove him to madness. Her tongue artfully stroked, then she suckled, and he thought he would lose his mind.
Blue eyes bright beneath passion-weighted lids, she played, joyous and bold—more confidently assured in this sphere than he’d ever seen her. Than he’d ever imagined she might be; the sight sent a lustful wave of sheer, prideful possessiveness surging through him.
That she was his had never been in question—not here, like this, with them naked and writhing in their bed. But tonight, she went a step further. Tonight, she lavished a devotion to his pleasure upon him—a commitment so intense, so deep and absolute, it left him giddy.
Giddy and glorying that he had found her, that she had accepted him and consented to be his.
When she finally rose above him and took him into her body, that appreciation, that bone-deep thankfulness thudded in his blood.
Joined, their senses fused, their fingers linking, they set off on their journey, on the long, rocking ride up and over the pinnacle of their desire, straight into the molten heat of their passion.
They raced on through the flames, gasped and clung and shuddered through the intensity, then as one, they surrendered to the final conflagration that cindered their senses and propelled them headlong into ecstasy.
Up, through, and on, ultimately to fall into the oblivion beyond.
Wrapped together, their hearts thudding in unison, they sank back to reality, back to the earthy pleasure of each other’s naked embrace, back to the tangled sheets of their bed, the quiet rasp of their breathing, and the shadows of the night.
She had collapsed on top of him. When she finally stirred and rolled to his side, he drew her closer, tucking her against him. Blindly, he searched, found the sheets, wrestled, and drew the silk over their cooling bodies.
Then he lay back, surrendered, and let satiation have him.
Despite his looming departure, all was well between them. He was, he felt, an extremely lucky man. And if she’d intended to bind him to her with her unrestrained passion, she’d succeeded beyond her wildest dreams. For this, for her, he would walk through fire. No sea, no storm, no danger on earth would keep him from returning to her side.
Tucked against her husband’s solid heat, somewhat to her surprise, Edwina discovered her mind crystal clear and her decision made—definitive, final, and resolute. The events of the evening had only underscored the value of what they already had, what they already shared. Contrary to her assumption on embarking on their lovemaking, she hadn’t been driven by the thought of fresh insights and new explorations; instead, her actions had been a recommitment—something that had welled from deep inside her, an instinctive and powerful response to their current situation.
To their current need.
She’d recommitted to protecting what they already had and to moving ahead and securing the marriage she wanted them to have—the marriage that would best benefit them both.
She now knew what she had to do—the essential elements were clear in her mind. Courtesy of the past day, she had a vague notion of how she might accomplish the crucial first step.
Tomorrow, she would act. Tomorrow, she would take the first step in forging the marriage she—and he—needed to have.
Regardless of all else the evening had wrought, she sensed—felt, could all but touch—a solid certainty that now dwelled at her core. She was not giving up—she never would give up—on her dreams.
Declan dallied at the breakfast table the next morning until Edwina breezed into the parlor.
They exchanged comfortable, knowing, richly private smiles, then she turned to the sideboard. He seized the moments while she filled her plate to drink in the sight of her, her trim figure displayed in a day gown of blue-and-white-striped cambric. Her pale golden hair was drawn up into a knot at the top of her head, from where it cascaded in a glory of bouncing curls that framed her face and brushed her nape.
Then she turned, and he rose and drew out the chair to the right of his. Once she’d sat, he resumed his seat at the table’s head.
Her gaze had gone to the various letters and notes piled beside his plate. “Have you had news?”
“Yes.” He flicked a finger at the missives. “Most of the reports I was waiting for have come in. I’ll need to go to the office for the last of them, but other than that…” He caught her gaze. “It appears I’ll be leaving immediately after luncheon.”
She stared at him blankly for half a minute, then she grimaced. “Damn.” She threw him an apologetic glance. “I have a luncheon, followed by an event, and I simply cannot cry off from either.” Her expression turned downhearted. “I’m so sorry. I had wanted to be here to wave you away, but…” She gestured, signifying resignation, then she shrugged and returned her attention to her plate, to the slice of toast she was slathering with jam. “Still, given the urgency of your trip, you must leave, and that’s that. I can’t even be sure exactly when I’ll get back—the event is on the outskirts of town. In Essex.”