He dominated everything. He crawled onto her bed, near her feet, and skimmed his fingers up her legs, along her hips, her sides, easing up until he was looking down on her.

“What sort of spell have you cast over me?” he whispered before lowering his mouth to hers.

It was marvelous, having him so near, having the weight of his body resting on hers. The scent of brandy and oranges wafted around her. Wrapping her legs around him, she raked her fingers up his strong broad back, feeling the uneven flesh. Her husband wouldn’t be marred like this. He would have lived a leisurely existence fraught with few dangers. Would he stir her to life like this? Would he have her writhing and panting beneath him?

Or was this wild abandonment limited to the wicked?

“You’re beautiful, so beautiful,” he rasped, worshipping her body with his mouth, hands, and words.

How quickly she’d grown accustomed to the manner in which they waltzed in bed. Holding her gaze, he rose above her. “Be sure, Anne.”

“I am.”

He plunged into her. She cried out with the pleasure of it, the rightness of it. It felt so good to have him pounding into her, as though each thrust was a return home. She met his movements with a determination and fierceness that astounded her. She wanted to claim him, possess him, own him. She’d never felt this way. She hadn’t liked watching him dance with Lady Hermione. She’d wanted to tell the girl that she couldn’t have Tristan because he belonged to Anne. Only he didn’t.

He belonged to the sea.

And she knew that she would have to give him back to his demanding mistress. Anne was only for now. Tonight. Maybe one more. Already she was contemplating one more.

But each night would only add to the weight of sorrow when he finally parted from England’s shores. She knew he would leave. The sea would call to him and he would answer.

Yet at this moment, it was her cries that he responded to. It was his answering grunts that echoed around her. His eyes held hers. He measured her pleasure, increased it with deeper, more forceful thrusts. She dug her fingers into his buttocks, anchored herself to him as a deluge of sensations rocketed through her.

As she cried out, he covered her mouth, swallowing her screams, giving her his grunts just before he arched back and shuddered above her in a magnificent display of pure masculinity. As replete as she was, she still managed to find the strength to trail her fingers over his glistening chest.

He cursed soundly before rolling off her onto his back and drawing her up against his side. Staring at the canopy, in between harsh breaths, he muttered, “I didn’t think to protect you. Damnation.”

After the first time they’d made love, he’d begun withdrawing, spilling his seed on the sheets rather than in her. She understood the precautions that were needed, but it always left her wanting. While she didn’t want to find herself with child, a distant part of her thrilled with the possibility. But it would be such a disaster. She should remind him to leave her, but when he was inside her, her only thought was that she wanted him to stay.

She cradled his taut jaw. “It doesn’t always happen immediately. It took my friend Sarah six months to get with child.”

He chuckled low. “I gave no thought to anything except the wonder of being inside you again.”

She felt the heat suffusing her entire body at the crudity of his words. One didn’t talk so pointedly about such things.

He shifted his gaze to her and a corner of his mouth quirked up. “After what we’ve shared how can you still be embarrassed?”

“The words are so . . . raw.”

“Shall I tell you how scaldingly hot you are inside?”

She furrowed her brow. “Does it burn you?”

“No, it feels bloody marvelous. Hence my inability to remain focused on what I should do as a gentleman. Rather, I become lost in being a scoundrel.”

“Are you complimenting me?”

Turning onto his side he tangled together their legs and threaded his fingers into her hair. “Never doubt for a moment that any woman can compare to you.”

“As you unravel the mystery of me, perhaps you’ll become quite un-enthralled.”

“Impossible. I suspect there is always a new mystery to discover.”

“I’m not comprised of as many secrets as you. Tell me of your boyhood, of why you ran away. What did your uncle do that made you believe he would kill you?”

The teasing left his eyes as he sighed. “It was long—”

“Yes, I know, long ago,” she said impatiently. “But it made you the man you are. You can’t deny that. It was one thing when I thought you were a ship captain, but now that I know you’re a lord . . . Tristan, I don’t know what to make of you.”

“I’m the same man that I was on the ship.”

She flattened her hand against his chest. “But there are so many layers to you. Please reveal this one so that I might understand why you didn’t tell me who you were sooner.”

He studied her for a moment before releasing a gust of air. “Pembrook. The family estate. More castle than manor. Built before the days of Henry VIII, but used as a stronghold and a prison for that king. It had a dungeon for tormenting those who did not support Henry and a tower for housing prisoners. For adventuresome boys, it was a wonderful place steeped in history. Sebastian and I used to go down to the dungeon and try to scare the other by saying that we heard ghosts. I loved it there. I think he did, too. It was home.”