Patience was beyond understanding-all she knew was the peace, the calm, the profound pleasure that welled and washed through her. Content, she flowed with the tide, letting her senses stretch. The whirling that had disorientated her slowed; her mind steadied.
Full consciousness, when it came, was no shock; the continuing touch of Vane's hands, the artful caress of his lips, his tongue, were familiar-no threat.
Then she remembered where they were.
She tried to open her eyes, but her lids were too heavy. Finding breath enough to whisper was just possible. "What if someone comes in?"
Her words ended on a sigh as Vane lifted his head, lifted his lips from her breast. His voice rumbled softly through her. "The door's locked-remember?"
Remember? With his lips brushing hers, with his fingers caressing her breast, Patience was hard-pressed to remember her own name. The peace holding her stretched, her senses slowly sank. Every muscle gradually relaxed.
Vane had noticed the dark rings under her large eyes. He wasn't surprised to find her drifting close to sleep. Gradually, he slowed his caresses, then stopped. Carefully, he drew back, and smiled-at the soft smile that curved her kiss-bruised lips, the soft glow that lit her face.
He left her sleeping.
Patience wasn't sure when she realized he was gone-she sleepily cracked open her lids-and saw the windows rather than him. The warm peace that pervaded her was too deep to leave; she smiled and closed her eyes again.
When she finally awoke, the morning had gone. Blinking her eyes wide, she wriggled higher on the pillows. And frowned.
Someone had left her embroidery on the table beside the daybed; dredging through her foggy memories, she vaguely recalled Timms dropping by, remembered a hand gently stroking her hair.
Remembered a hand gently stroking her breasts. Patience blinked. Other memories, other sensations, crowded into her mind. Her eyes widened. "No-that must have been a dream." Frowning, she shook her head-but couldn't dull the sharpness of the sensual images, rising one after another in her mind. To dispell the nagging uncertainty, she glanced down-uncertainty crystallized to fact.
Her bodice was undone.
Horrified, Patience muttered an imprecation, and rapidly did it up. "Rakes!" Frowning direfully, she glanced about. Her gaze collided with Myst's. The small grey cat was settled comfortably on a side table, sitting on her brisket, front paws neatly tucked in.
"Have you been there all this time?"
Myst blinked her wide blue eyes-and stared steadily back.
Patience felt color rise in her cheeks-and wondered if it was possible to feel shy of a cat. Because of what a cat might have seen.
Before she could make up her mind, the door opened-Vane strolled in. The smile on his face, curving those fascinating lips, was more than enough to make Patience inwardly swear that she would not, not for anything, give him the pleasure of knowing how flustered she felt. "What's the time?" Nonchalance laced her tones.
"Lunchtime," replied the wolf.
Feeling very like Red Riding Hood, Patience smothered a feigned yawn, then held up her arms and waved him closer. "You may carry me down then."
Vane's smile deepened. With elegant ease, he lifted her into his arms.
Their entry into the dining room was noted by all. The rest of the household was already assembled about the table, with one notable exception. Gerrard's chair was empty.
Minnie and Timms both smiled benignly as Vane settled Patience into her chair. Mrs. Chadwick inquired after her injury with matronly politeness. Patience responded to the ladies with smiles and gentle words-and totally ignored all t
he men.
Except Vane-she couldn't ignore him. Even if her senses would have allowed it, he didn't-he insisted on instituting a general conversation on mild and unprovoca-tive topics. When, encouraged by the prevailing sense of calm, Henry, under the pretext of helping her to more ham, tried to engage her with a smile and a gentle query about her knee, Patience froze him with a reply couched in sheet ice, and felt, beneath the table, Vane's knee jog hers. She turned and fixed him with an innocent look-he met her gaze, his eyes a flat grey, then ruthlessly drew her into the conversation.
When he lifted her into his arms at the end of the meal, Patience was in no very good mood. Not only had the undercurrents at the table abraded her nerves, but Gerrard had not appeared.
Vane carried her up to her private parlor and settled her back on the daybed.
"Thank you." Patience wriggled and prodded at her pillows, then sank back and reached for her embroidery. She threw Vane a quick, somewhat darkling glance, then shook out the linen cloth.
Stepping back, Vane watched her pull colored silks from her bag, then turned and strolled to the window. The day had started clear, but now clouds were rolling in, greying the sky.
Glancing back, he studied Patience. She sat amid the pillows and cushions, her work in her hands, bright silks strewn about her. But her hands were still; an absentminded frown had settled on her face.