Captives of the Night (Scoundrels 2)

He watched the dress slip down over her shoulders, then her hips. "Like him, you want to understand fully before you judge. Like him, you will change your mind if facts warrant it. Like him, you have a wisdom distinct from intellectual quickness. Fortunately, yours is also a woman's wisdom."

While he spoke, the dress had dropped to the floor, followed by the chemise.

"And it inhabits a woman's body," he murmured. Swiftly, he rid himself of his own few garments and bent to unlace her corset.

"You like the body very much, I know," she said.

The corset fell away, revealing creamy curves. Swallowing a groan, he untied the petticoat and eased it down.

"Ah, well, I am almost human," he said hoarsely.

"Yes. You were born strange."

He drew the silk drawers down over her lush hips. They slid down her shapely legs and sank with a rustling whisper to the floor. He unfastened the garters, tossed them aside, and drew the black stockings off.

She slid back to the center of the bed. He crept toward her and knelt between her legs. "I was born for you," he said.

He bent and kissed her, deeply and lingeringly, while slowly driving her down onto the pillows. She wrapped her arms tightly about him.

"Yes, hold me," he said. "Keep me, Leila. You are the night. All my nights. And all my days. All my happiness. You know this." He stroked longingly, lovingly, down her silken skin. "Je t'aime."

"I know," she said. "But tell me. Again. And again."

He told her in all his twelve languages, and with his hands, his mouth. He told her freely, and happily, for his heart was light. There were no secrets left between them. This night, he could love her fully, give of himself entirely, as she had given of herself to him. And that, he found, as she welcomed him inside her, was the way to paradise.

Later, as Ismal held her in his arms, and their hearts slowed to quiet contentment, he told her what paradise was to him.

"I loved my homeland," he said softly. "I have dreamed of it as good men dream of heaven."

"In Paris, I told Fiona you were like Lucifer," she said.

"Cast out from Paradise. You sensed this."

"I wasn't aware of that at the time. I simply suspected you were a devil with the face of an angel. But I always did have a soft spot in my heart for Lucifer. I should have given him another chance. I'm sure there were extenuating circumstances."

"Only you would look for them." He smiled. "Only you could see what I truly was. If I had been Lucifer, you would have knocked me about, and dragged me hither and yon doing good deeds. And then you should have pounded on heaven's gate and demanded I be let back in."

"I should do my best." She trailed her fingers through his hair. "I should like to go there with you."

"To heaven?"

"To Albania. To share it with you."

"Perhaps, one day. But it is not necessary. I only wanted to explain, to you and to myself, that this was all I knew of love—to love my homeland. I think this is why I had so much dread of love. I grieved ten years for what I had lost."

"I love you," she said. "I wish I could give everything back."

"You have," he said. "It is in your soul, I think. Perhaps the Almighty put it there, that you might keep it safe for me until I was ready. I hear it, see it, smell it when I am with you: the Ionian wind singing in the fir trees, the rushing rivers, the sea, the mountains, the soaring eagles. I see my homeland, my people in you, in the way you move, in your nature. Proud and fierce and brave. I think you were Albanian in another life, and my soul sensed this when I met you in Paris. I looked into your burning eyes, and my soul called to yours. Shpirti im, it call

ed."

"Shpirti im," she repeated.

He drew her closer. "How easily it falls from your lips. Surely it is your soul's own language."

"It must be. Teach me more."

"In our tongue—"

"Ours. Yes."

"It is not Albania, but Shqiperi. And I, your husband-to-be, am a Shqiptar."

"Shqiperi. Shqiptar. And I, your wife-to-be—"

"You are Madame," he said. "My lady. Always. So it is written."

"Kismet," she whispered.

"Yes. Kismet." He brought his mouth to hers. "My lady. My Leila. My beautiful Fate."

THE END