“Let’s not talk of Ferguson,” he curtly interrupted, turning to the window. As he opened the shutters, the light of the full moon flooded the chambers, lending an ethereal glow to their boudoir. “Perfect,” he said, with forced satisfaction. “Can you see the moon from the bed?”

She could see nearly the whole face of the moon through the open window. For modesty’s sake, she thought it better to keep the room in darkness. Clearly, her groom thought otherwise. “ ’Tis lovely,” she relented.

He turned and looked at her, and his expression transformed from brooding to awestruck. “Nay, ’tis you who are lovely,” he corrected her. His gaze fell to her bosom, outlined in a gown so sheer it might have been woven by spiders. She had a feeling he could see straight through it.

Her recent fright was forgotten. Tomorrow’s tourney seemed eons away. There was only the two of them now and a night that promised so much. His admiring gaze made her feel alluring, a siren beckoning him into the seas of bliss. Suddenly she was happy to let the moon reveal her best-kept secrets.

His hands went to the buckle on his belt. The thick strap dropped to the mat with a soft chink. He put one boot on the chest, unbuckled it and cast it off. The other boot followed. With his gaze still intently on her person, he unwound the leather strips that crisscrossed the length of his legs. The tunic he yanked over his head followed by his undershirt. In a single movement, he pushed his chausses over his hips, drawing them off, drawers and all.

Clarise could scarcely breathe by the end of his undressing. She reeled to find him suddenly naked, muscles oiled in moonlight. The size of the weapon jutting from the thatch of dark hair at his groin had her sinking weakly onto the bed.

Her gaze traveled wondrously over his naked form. Every muscle stood in stark relief, enticing the light to gleam on the upraised surfaces and the shadows to linger in the valleys. The closer he sauntered, the more details sprang into view. She felt herself growing dizzy.

“Are you afraid?” he asked, sitting smoothly beside her.

She marveled at the breadth of his chest, dark hair gleaming on it like a shield. “Nay,” she admitted, surprised by her own realization. She remembered the tenderness of his kisses. He would be gentle with her, she was certain.

He let out a long breath. “I am,” he admitted gruffly.

She looked abruptly at his face. “You are?” She would never have thought he would admit to such masculine insecurity.

“Afraid I’ll hurt you,” he told her, raking a hand through his savage hair. “You’re an untried maiden, and I am not a small man. I want to give you pleasure tonight, not pain.”

“Afraid of my sister’s threat?” she teased, glancing down at his upright member. “ ’Twould be a shame for it to wither and fall off.”

Despite the seriousness of the moment, she managed to make him laugh, a rusty sound that made her want to reach for him and kiss him soundly. “You won’t hurt me, my lord,” she added, smoothing a hand over the muscles of his upper arm. So much latent power! “I promise, ’twill be all right.”

He leaned slowly toward her. With aching tenderness, he kissed her mouth, gaining entrance so painstakingly that she looped her arms around him and pulled him harder to her. The feel of his bare skin was intoxicating. Both times he’d had her in his bed, he’d been fully dressed. Now, she could not get enough of his warm, densely muscled body. His skin felt like silk over steel. It smelled of manliness and juniper-scented soap.

He pressed her down onto the pillows, then rolled abruptly onto his back, taking her with him. “You set the pace,” he said, his hands searing through the fabric of her gown. She lay sprawled across his hard body, one leg between his. He waited.

“I . . . I have no idea what to do,” she said, flushing self-consciously.

“Aye, you do,” he replied. “Just kiss me.”

She shyly complied, putting her mouth to his, her hair falling in a silken curtain around them. He responded with retrained savagery, and she found it exhilarating to control how long, how deep. She drove him to hungry desperation, then pulled away, placing petal-soft kisses at the corner of his mouth, along his jaw. She nibbled daintily on his earlobe, drawing a groan from him.

His reaction mounted her excitement. She squirmed against him, seeking his hardness instinctively, not knowing where or how to focus the growing hunger inside of her, the ache in her breasts.

“Put your knees here,” he instructed, patting the mattress on either side of him.

He helped her, lifting the silk of her gown so it wouldn’t tear. Its hem rode the tops of her thighs, giving him a glimpse of her bright woman’s hair. Christian closed his eyes in pleasure as she settled down on him, not penetrating but touching thigh to thigh.

Stunned by their closeness, Clarise tensed, half fearful of the thick column pressed against her tender flesh. “Get used to me,” he said. “Touch me as you please.”

She obeyed, her hands trembling with awe as she spread them on his raised chest muscles. Her fingers tangled in the crisp mat of his chest hairs. She caressed the tiny male nipples that grew erect at her touch. She drew her fingers lower, across the armor of his rib cage to the flat plane of his belly, where a line of hair tapered to his loins. His indrawn breath made her ask in deight, “Are you ticklish, my lord?”

He grabbed her wrists before she could tickle him. “Don’t,” he warned.

She longed to make him laugh again, but then he released her to caress her thighs, and she forgot her intent. He caressed her, using the silk of her gown to enhance his touch. The cool glide of the material ignited a shimmering heat in her belly. She rocked her hips instinctively, encountering his hardness.

Very gently Christian rolled her over. It fulfilled an instinctive need in her to feel his weight pressing against her. She’d touched and explored him; she was ready to join with him if the time was right. He pressed a kiss to her temple, to her cheek, her jaw. He nuzzled her neck, making her giggle as the bristles on his chin tickled her.

“Are you ticklish, my lady?” he countered. Laughter became a gasp as he nipped the crowns of her breasts through the fabric of the nightdress. He slid the capped sleeves over her shoulders, baring her breasts one at a time to his view. The firm orbs glowed in the moonlight. He took them deep in the heat of his mouth, sucking as he’d done before. Clarise’s gasp became a moan. Pleasure arrowed downward, summoning warmth and wetness between her thighs.

Feeling his knee between her legs, she parted them, tensed for the thick invasion that was to come. But then he moved clear down the length of her body, pinning her thighs wide open with his hands. He kissed the insides of her legs where her skin was the most sensitive. She leaped and squirmed to keep the rasp of his jaw from scraping her.

All at once his mouth landed on the curls between her legs, and she froze in astonishment. She could scarcely breathe. Then Christian delved deeper, tasting her.

She lurched to her elbows. “What are you doing?” she gasped.

The firm, moist ridge of his tongue slid into the folds of her flesh. She tried to twist free, but he held her fast and repeated the scandalous caress. “My lord!” she cried, amazed by the searing pleasure washing over her. “Oh, heavens!”

“Relax,” he said. “Feel me.”

She fell back with a cry of surrender. How could she do anything but feel him? He caressed her intimately, acquainting his tongue with every one of her secrets. Driving her relentlessly to a place she’d never been before. Sensations built one on top of the other, threatening to wash over her.

He slipped a finger inside of her. She bit her lip to keep from screaming. He stretched her gently, never ceasing his scandalous caresses. Her muscles tightened. A scalding flush brought perspiration to her skin. She felt fevered, a little frightened by the intensity of her pleasure. Surely, if she let herself go, these feelings would consume her.

Without warning, he covered her again. His mouth sought hers, and he kissed her deeply, hungrily. Tasting her woman’s musk on his lips, she became a creature of instinct. Her hips rose to greet his tumescence, needing, longing for him to ease the sudden emptiness.

She expected some measure of pain, but it would be far worse a plight to be deprived of the sensations she’d just felt. He continued to kiss her as the tip of his manhood nudged her opening. Then with a sudden surge, he tore through her resistance, and sank himself to the hilt. The sting of pain was so intense, she failed to swallow her cry. She tried desperately to back away from it, but she could not. She was impaled by him.

Just as suddenly the pain receded. She let out a sigh of relief. And then she became aware of a gratifying, overwhelming fullness.

“Clarise?” he whispered, his voice strained by some private torment. “Are you all right?” He lifted his head and looked at her, his eyes glazed with passion.

“Fine,” she reassured him, though her own voice was thin and high. “The pain is gone.”

He pulled out of her slowly, leaving a trail of fire along her woman’s passage. Clarise hissed at the scalding heat, yet at the same time she felt a sudden deprivation.

He sank back into her softness, making her sigh. There was no pain this time, only a warm rush of fullness. “Again,” she cried, as the pleasure she’d felt before gathered unexpectedly.

“By God, I don’t deserve this,” he murmured, breathing heavily. “You are so lovely, so sweet.” He raised her legs higher, so that on his next thrust, he sank even deeper. Clarise moaned at the sweet satisfying sensation of his claim.

Their shadowed gazes merged. Buttered in the moonlight, he looked somehow familiar to her, his body ridged with passion. Had she dreamed him? Their lips gently touched. Their bodies came together, sweaty now, taut and straining. She arched her hips, craving more. He set a tempo that nudged her higher with every thrust. She fisted the bedsheets in one hand and clutched him with the other.

He began to whisper as he’d done before, scalding words that made her shiver and pant. She clung to his broad shoulders. I am one with the Slayer, she marveled. He is part of me forever. She opened herself to be ravished. Gently, but inexorably, he slid inside of her, again and again, deeper and deeper. He told her how she made him feel—how sleek, how wet, how tightly she held him.

His words pushed her over the top. With a soft cry, she came undone. Her pulsing muscles beckoned him to follow. He groaned against her mouth, thrusting three more times. Then he stilled, his heart thudding hard against her breasts.

After a moment he took his weight on one elbow and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. Then he traced the graceful arch of her eyebrow, the full sweep of her lower lip. “You make me forget,” he whispered on a note of wonder.

“Forget what, my lord?” She could barely think, let alone remember anything.

“Christian,” he said, reminding her to say his name.

She smiled, cherishing the intimacy. “Forget what, Christian?”

He looked down at her breasts, pressed to his chest. “Who I am,” he said at last. His lashes swept up again. He gave her his semi-smile and kissed her, lingering with such tenderness it made her eyes sting.

She didn’t know what to say to his confession. She savored the closeness of their bodies, of their mind and spirits. “What will we be when tomorrow is over?” In the unguarded moment the question slipped out of her.

He held her more firmly. “What do you mean?” he asked, sounding as worried as she felt.

She smiled ruefully and looked away. “Never mind.”

“Nay, tell me what you meant,” he insisted.

How to put it in words? “Will I ever be more to you than a mother for Simon?”

Her question visibly startled him. He took a deep breath and pressed himself deeper. She fancied she could feel him swelling inside of her again. “You are already more,” he growled.

The answer pleased her, as did the echoing tingle at her core. He caught her mouth in a kiss that was frankly ravenous. His sudden hunger sparked her own. She met his thrusts with a deep, answering need.

A long time later they lay among the twisted sheets, a sheen of sweat on their skin. She asked him another question that was nagging her. “How will you kill Ferguson tomorrow and make it look like an accident?”

She felt him tense against her. “I don’t want to talk about the morrow,” he replied, his tone suddenly dangerous.