Every sensation was magnified in the silence. She was acutely aware of the air against her bare legs, the coolness of the linen sheets and knitted cotton bedding beneath her. The hairiness of Ethan’s arm across her, the resinous spice of shaving soap, the faint, salty traces of intimacy.

Her eyes closed as she felt the throb of his shaft far up inside her. He was buried to the hilt now, filling her so thickly that she could feel every twitch and pulse of him. They were both outwardly still, while deep inside her flesh was shaping around him, eagerly caressing his hard length, enticing him to stay. She clamped against the swollen invasion, and pleasure washed down to her toes and up to the top of her skull, and the stiff length inside her throbbed and jerked in response, and that made her inner muscles clench again. Over and over again, their joined flesh squeezing, swelling, throbbing, the deep and secret movements as uncontrollable as her heartbeat. Exquisite heat suffused her until she couldn’t stand it any longer.

His name broke from her lips in a dry sob. “Éatán.”

His hand slid down over her front to the place where she clasped him, and he massaged her sex tenderly, steadily. She arched, her hips locking tight to his, and she convulsed and shuddered within his cradling embrace, the release surging out of control, draining her until she collapsed in his arms like a handful of wilted meadow flowers.

Ethan felt her tremble as she realized he was still erect. He ran a soothing hand over her hip and thigh, wishing she were fully naked. She was exquisite, so slim and finely made, her flesh tender and yet filled with tensile strength. They reclined together amid swaths of yellow silk, with her legs and chest bared. He loved the colors of her, pink and mauve and ivory, all washed in light. The glistening tumble of her hair held the colors of autumn: chestnut, maple, russet, umber. He could see her toes curling and relaxing . . . clean, pink little toes, the nails gleaming and filed.

Her flesh was snug and lively in the aftermath of her climax, gripping repeatedly to keep hold of him. It was bliss to be inside the hollows and heat and vibrant life of her. She would bend to no man’s will—not even his—but she would yield to him out of trust and desire. Only him. Carefully he pulled up her top leg and hooked it back over his, spreading her wider. She made a feeble protest, something about overexerting himself, and he hushed her and kissed behind her ear.

“Trust me,” he whispered. “I’ll thrive none the worse for loving you, I promise. Now, let me have a little more of you.”

Now that she was relaxed and accustomed to him, he was able to slide farther inside. She gasped in surprise and caught at his wrist. Concerned that he might be hurting her, he withdrew slightly, but her hips promptly followed the movement, taking him deep again.

A grin crossed his lips. “Hot little wench,” he said near her ear. “You’ll have your fill of me, if that’s what you want.” Closing his hand on her hip, he began to move her languidly on his hard, wet shaft, controlling the rhythm, keeping it slow and steady. Her breathing hastened, and she melted against him, letting him guide her easily. Every awareness converged as he went deeper and deeper into the mysterious soft depths of her, and there was no world but her, no breath, no language, no sun, no stars, nothing that didn’t begin and end with her.

He felt her pleasure take flight again, the slender body arched and taut in the steep ascent, the unfolding rapture. He was with her, inside her, caressing her with every part of himself. The culmination, as it approached, was severe and blinding, searing through him with unimaginable force. He withdrew and slid his shaft against the sweet groove of her firm pale buttocks, and let himself be immolated in the scorching white fire, feeling purified by it, lust and love and pleasure mingling until there was nothing but ecstasy within and without. He felt her quiver at the hot spill of his release against the small of her back. Gently he rolled her to her stomach, and used her discarded drawers to wipe away the residue.

Gathering her back in his arms, he let out a long, shivering sigh of contentment, a chuckle stirring in his chest. He moved to catch the lobe of her ear with his teeth, and touched it with his tongue. “If that didn’t kill me,” he couldn’t resist murmuring, “nothing will.”

Chapter 21

The next day, after Garrett left for her afternoon walk, Ethan ventured downstairs to the first floor by himself. He knew what she would have said about his excursion, and she would have been right, but it was necessary. He was a sitting duck at Eversby Priory, and by extension so were Garrett, West Ravenel, and every other member of the household. He damned well couldn’t make an accurate assessment of the situation from his bedroom.

From his visits to the upstairs terrace, and a few brief meanderings around the second floor, Ethan had a good sense of his limitations. Overall, he was still weak and prone to tiring easily. He hadn’t yet recovered his strength, balance, or mobility. For a man accustomed to functioning at the highest level of physical fitness, it was infuriating to have trouble walking down a flight of stairs. The bullet wound and the surrounding tissue still ached, and there were stabs and zings of pain when he moved his arm or shoulder in certain ways. Garrett had decided it was better not to immobilize the limb, to keep it from weakening and turning stiff.

Ethan gripped the balustrade to keep himself steady as he made his painstaking way down the grand staircase. When he was at the halfway point, a footman passing through the entrance hall below caught sight of him and stopped abruptly.

“Sir?” The footman, a young, big-shouldered fellow with the soft brown eyes of a puppy dog, stared up at him with unease. “Is there . . . do you . . . may I help?”

“No,” Ethan replied pleasantly, “I’m stretching my legs a bit, that’s all.”

“Yes, sir. But the stairs . . .” The footman began to ascend the staircase hesitantly, as if fearing Ethan would topple right in front of him.

Ethan didn’t know how much the servants had been told about who he was, or about the specifics of his condition, but clearly this footman knew he shouldn’t be going anywhere on his own.

Which was irritating.

It also reminded him of how precarious his situation was. All it would take was a whispered confidence between one of these servants and someone in the nearby village, or a casual comment from a deliveryman or workman, to start rumors spreading.

“All servants talk,” Jenkyn had once told him. “They notice every deviation from the household’s normal pattern, and they draw conclusions. They know what secrets the master and his wife are keeping from each other. They know where the valuables are, how money has been spent, and who’s been fucking whom. Never believe a servant who claims not to know something. They know everything.”

“If I may, Mr. Smith,” the footman said, continuing up toward him, “I’ll accompany you the rest of the way.”

Mr. Smith? That was the alias they’d come up with?

“Holy hell,” Ethan said under his breath. Out loud, he murmured. “No, there’s no need.” Perceiving there was no way the footman was going to leave him alone, he added dryly, “But suit yourself.”

The footman came to his step and descended at the same pace, ready to spring into action should Ethan require assistance. As if he were a small child or old man.

“What’s your name?” Ethan asked.

“Peter, sir.”

“Peter, what’s the belowstairs talk about my presence at the estate?”

The footman hesitated. “We were told that you’re a friend of Mr. Ravenel’s, and you were involved in a shooting accident. We’re to keep it private, as we do all our guests’ business.”

“And that’s all? No rumors or speculation?”

Another, longer hesitation. “There are rumors,” Peter said quietly.

“Tell me what’s being said.” They reached the bottom of the stairs.

“I . . .” The footman dropped his gaze and fidgeted uncomfortably. “I shouldn’t, sir. But if I may show you something . . .”

Intrigued, Ethan went with him down a long hallway that opened into a narrow rectangular gallery. The walls were covered from floor to ceiling with framed paintings. The footman led him slowly past a row of portraits, all of Ravenel ancestors in the dress of their time. Some of them were as large as life, in heavy gold frames up to seven feet high.

They stopped in front of a stunning full-length painting of a dark-haired, blue-eyed man in a commanding posture. Strikingly, he was dressed in a full-length blue brocade robe with a gold rope belt. Power and arrogance radiated from the canvas. There was a disconcerting hint of sensuality in the long-fingered hand braced on a lean hip, and in the coolly appraising, secretive stare. And there was something cruel about the mouth.

Riveted and repelled, Ethan instinctively backed away from the portrait. He saw the likeness to himself, and his soul revolted. Managing to drag his gaze away, he focused on the worn Persian rug.

“That’s Master Edmund,” he heard the footman say. “I came to Eversby Priory after his lordship had passed on, so I never met him. But some of the older servants saw you when you were brought in and . . . they knew. They knew exactly who you were. They were very moved, sir, and said we must all do our best for you. Because you’re the last living man in the true bloodline, you see.”

At Ethan’s silence, the footman continued helpfully, “Your blood goes all the way back to Branoc Ravenel, who was one of Charlemagne’s twelve paladins. He was a great warrior, the first Ravenel. Even if he was French.”

Ethan’s mouth twitched, despite his inner turmoil. “Thank you, Peter. I’d like to be alone for a few minutes.”

“Yes, sir.”

After the footman had left, Ethan went to set his back against the opposite wall. He leveled a brooding stare at the portrait, his thoughts in a welter.

Why had Edmund chosen to be portrayed for posterity in such unconventional attire? It seemed like a gesture of disdain, as if he couldn’t be bothered to dress for his own portrait. The robe was thickly embroidered and luxurious, something a Renaissance prince might have worn. It conveyed the rather spectacular self-assurance of a man who didn’t doubt his own superiority, no matter what he wore.

Memories jolted loose as Ethan stared at the resplendent figure in the portrait. “Ah, Mam,” he whispered unsteadily. “You shouldn’t have had a damned thing to do with him.”

How could his mother have thought any good would come of it? She must have been awestruck. Intoxicated by the idea of being desired by a man of high position. And some corner of her heart had always been kept for him, this man who had treated her like an object to be used and discarded.

Ethan closed his eyes. They turned hot and liquid beneath his lids.

A casual masculine voice broke the silence.

“Up and about, I see. I’m glad they managed to find clothes to fit you.”

Ethan froze, horrified to be caught in a vulnerable moment by West Ravenel. He darted a blurred glance at him and forced his mind to focus on the conversation. Something about clothes. West’s butler and valet had brought an assortment of garments in varying sizes from his closet and trunks for him to make use of. Some of the clothes had been costly, with perfect tailoring and buttons made of gold or ornamental stones such as agate or jasper, but they had been too roomy for Ethan to wear.