On a Wicked Dawn (Cynster 9)

She laughed. Let him bend his head and take her lips, take her mouth.

Let him lift her in his arms and carry her to their bed.

Let him love her. Loved him back.

With all her heart, as unreserved as he.

They needed no words — they spoke a language that required no words to communicate, to touch, to give, to open their hearts and share — yet at the last, as the silvery radiance of dawn poured through their windows and bathed their bed, as she lay beneath him, overburdened with sensual bliss, watched him above her, watched the sheer pleasure that washed through him as he savored her and all she gave him, and all he gave her, she reached up, drew his head down, lifted her own to whisper against his lips, "I love you."

His eyes flashed; he took her lips, her mouth hungrily, drank deep as he took her. Released her lips only when she arched, her body rising, clenching, senses flying high over the edge of the world as his words, deep, guttural, reached through the glory, "And I'll always love you. Yesterday, tonight, tomorrow—always."

"You'll never escape."

As if to illustrate that point, Luc wrapped his long fingers in the strand of pearls interrupted by diamonds that he'd draped an hour before around Amelia's neck, and drew her to him for a long kiss.

She obliged most readily, sighed happily when he released her, sank deeper into the comfort of their bed.

It was midafternoon; outside their drawn curtains, the sleepy hum of a hot summer's day held sway. She'd retired after lunch to rest; he'd followed not long after, ostensibly to check on her. In reality to join her, but not to rest.

They were now completely naked, slumped on the rumpled bed, both at peace. One hand lazily ruffling Luc's hair, with the other, Amelia toyed with the fabulous necklace he'd had made for her before they'd wed — and then had to hide until he'd confessed and could give it to her. It matched her "betrothal" ring, and the earrings he'd left on her dressing table yesterday, after Kirby had been taken away and Martin and Amanda, as well as Lucifer and Phyllida, had left.

She smiled. "In case you haven't noticed, I'm not running."

He glanced at her. "I had noticed, but I'd thought I'd make the situation quite plain."

His situation was as plain as she would ever need it to be. She couldn't stop her smile deepening, couldn't hold back the happiness that welled and overflowed her heart.

Before any family members had left, they'd announced their impending good fortune, adding their own hope for the future to Amanda and Martin's. Everyone was delighted; Helena had nodded wisely, her eyes filled with something more profound than mere joy.

As for Kirby and poor Fiona, all had been revealed, and all, as far as possible, put right.

Amelia sighed. "Poor Fiona. I still can't believe Edward could be so unfeeling as to exploit her in such a way. He delivered her into Kirby's hands, and he must have known what Kirby was like."

"We'll never understand Edward." Luc stroked her cheek. "He saw and encouraged Fiona's infatuation purely for his own selfish ends. When we banished him, she became a ready tool for revenge. That's all he would have cared about — not her."

Amelia shivered. "I can barely believe he's your brother."

"Nor can I. But he is. Don't hold it against me."

She grinned and hugged him — all of him she could reach. "I don't."

Given Kirby had stashed almost all Fiona had stolen in his lodgings in London, allowing the items to be retrieved and returned to their owners, and given that it was summer and the ton were not gathered in sufficient numbers to make sensationalizing worthwhile, the combined resources of the Ashfords, the Fulbridges, and the Cynsters had been sufficient to smooth the entire episode over. The tale had been cast as merely an endnote to Edward's earlier, already weathered disgrace; the story had quickly acquired the patina of "old news."

Kirby, however, hadn't been allowed to escape.

Any leniency they might have shown was slain when, the morning after his capture, they'd seen the bruising around Anne's throat. Anne had been right; Kirby had intended to kill, as he thought, Fiona.

It had taken careful management on the assembled ladies' parts to keep Kirby alive long enough to be carted away from the Chase, but he had been, and their evidence had been heard by one of the circuit judges; Kirby was now in London awaiting his trial.

Now the house had settled into peaceful harmony, driven by the subtle heartbeat of country house life. The best of the summer stretched before them, and after that, the rest of their lives.

"The Kirkpatricks will be here tomorrow." Luc glanced at her. "Does Emily want us to host a ball?"

"From what I gather, Emily will be quite content if we simply leave her and Kirkpatrick alone." Amelia grinned. "They'll be here for a week — we can talk to his parents when they arrive and see what they think."

Luc accepted her wisdom and lay back, his long body alongside hers, one hand splayed across her stomach.

They both simply lay there, quiet but not sleepy, content, sated — at peace.