Whatever he needed she gave, whatever she craved, he delivered. Mouth to mouth, breasts to chest, urgent softness gripping his hardness.

On a groan, Vane straightened his arms, and managed to find support enough in the hay to lift from her. He drove himself into her, savoring every hot inch that closed about him, pausing for an instant to feel her throb about him, before withdrawing, only to thrust deeply again. And again.

Sating himself-and her.

She writhed, heated and urgent beneath him. He'd never seen anything so beautiful as her, locked in passion's snare. She lifted and twisted, her head turning blindly from side to side as, inside, she sought release. He sank deep and pushed her higher, but still held her back from the edge-she could go higher yet. So could he.

And he wanted to watch her-so splendidly wanton, so gloriously abandoned-as she took him in and held him, as she gave herself to him for the first time. The sight stole his breath-and more. He would have her again, many times, but none would be the same as this, as vested with emotion as this moment was.

He knew when the end was upon her, felt the keen edge of tension ready to explode-and felt the hot flowering within her. He drove into it, and let go-let his body do what came naturally and sent them both over the edge. And, at the last, he watched as the explosion took her, as desire coalesced and turned her womb molten, a hot, fertile pocket for his seed.

Gritting his teeth, he hung on for the last second, and saw her ease. Saw the lines of her face, drawn tight with passion, soften; felt, deep inside her, the strong ripples of her release. On a silent sigh, her body softened beneath him. The expression that washed over her face was that of an angel in the presence of the divine.

Vane felt the shudders rack him. Closing his eyes, he let them-let her-take him.

It had been more-much more-than he'd expected.

Lying on his back in the hay, Patience curled into his side, her skirts and petticoats flipped over her to keep her warm as she slept, Vane tried to come to grips with that reality. He couldn't begin to explain it, all he knew was that no other had ever been like this.

It therefore came as no surprise to discover, as his sated senses cleared, that he was once more possessed of an urgent desire.

Not the same urgent desire that had driven him for the past days, and which she'd so recently and so remarkably thoroughly sated, but a related desire-the compulsive need to secure her as his own.

As his wife.

The four-letter word had always made him flinch. In a reflexive manner, it still did. But he was not about to run counter to his fate-to what he knew, in his bones, was right.

She was the only one for him. If he was ever to marry, it had to be to her. And he wanted children-heirs. The thought of her, his son in her arms, had an instant effect on him. Uunder his breath, he swore.

He glanced sideways, at Patience's topmost curls, and willed her to wake. Gaining her formal agreement to their marriage had just become his top priority. His most urgent priority. In accepting him as her lover, she'd already agreed informally. Once he'd made his offer and she'd said yes, they could indulge their senses as they willed. As often as they willed.

The thought intensified his growing discomfort. Gritting his teeth, he tried to think of something else.

Sometime later, Patience drifted back to consciousness. She came awake as she never had before, her body floating on a sea of golden pleasure, her mind hazed with a deep sense of golden peace. Her limbs were heavy, weighted with warm langor; her body felt buoyed, sated, replete. At peace. For long moments, no thought could pierce the glow, then, gradually, her surroundings impinged.

She was lying on her side, cocooned in warmth. Beside her, Vane lay stretched on his back, his body a hard rock to which she clung. Outside, the rain had ceased, but drips still fell from the eaves. Inside, the glow they'd created lingered, enclosing them within a heavenly world.

He had given her this-shown her the way to this state of grace. The delicious pleasure still lapped about her. Patience smiled. One hand rested on his chest; under her palm, beneath the curly brown hair, she could feel his heart beating, steady and sure. Her own heart swelled.

The emotion that poured through her was stronger than before, glowing golden and silver, so beautiful it made her heart ache, so piercingly sweet it brought tears to her eyes.

Patience closed her eyes tight. She'd been right-right to press for the knowledge, right to take this road. No matter what happened, she would treasure this moment-and all that had brought her here. No regrets. Not ever.

The intense emotion faded, sinking from her conscious mind. Lips gently curving, she shifted, and planted a warm kiss on Vane's chest.

He looked down. Looking up, Patience smiled more deeply and, eyes closing, sank against him. "Hmm-nice."

Nice? Looking down at her face, at the smile on her lips, Vane felt something in his chest shift. Then lock. The feeling, and the emotions that coursed, tumbled and jumbled, in its wake, were not nice at all. They shook him, and left him feeling vulnerable. Lifting one hand, he brushed back Patience's honey gold hair; the tangled mass caught in his fingers. He started releasing the strands, gathering her pins as he went. "Once we're married, you can feel nice every morning. And every night."

Concentrating on her hair, he didn't see the shock flare in Patience's eyes as, stunned, she looked up at him. Didn't see the shock fade into blankness. When he glanced down, she was staring at him, her expression closed, unreadable.

Vane frowned. "What is it?"

Patience drew a shuddering breath, and desperately tried to find her mental feet. She licked her lips, then focused on Vane's face. "Marriage." She had to pause before she could go on. "I don't recall discussing that." Her voice was flat, expressionless.

Vane's frown deepened. "We're discussing it now. I'd meant to speak earlier, but, as you well know, our attempts at rational discussion haven't met with any great success." He drew the last of her hair free and, raking it back with his fingers, laid it across the hay. "So." Finding her eyes once more, he raised a cool brow. "When's it to be?"

Patience simply stared. She was lying here, naked in his arms, her body so sated she couldn't move, and he, suddenly, entirely without warning, wanted to discuss marriage? No, not even discuss it, but simply decide when it was to be.

The golden glow had vanished, replaced with an arctic chill. A chill colder than the grey misery outside the hay doors, colder than the breeze that had sprung up. Icy panic sent gooseflesh rippling over her limbs, then sank to her marrow. She felt the touch of cold steel-the jaws of the trap that was slowly, steadily, closing on her.

"No." Summoning every ounce of her strength, she pressed against Vane's chest; closing her eyes to its bare state, she struggled to sit up. She would never have made it except that he deigned to help her.

He stared-as if he couldn't credit his hearing. "No?" He searched her face, then the shutters came down over his grey eyes. His expression leached. "No what?"

His steely accents made Patience shiver. Turning away from him, keeping her skirts over her lap, she reached for her chemise. She pulled it over her head. "I have never intended to marry. Not at all."

A white lie, perhaps, but a position more easily defended than the unvarnished truth. Marriage had never been high on her agenda-marriage to an elegant gentleman had never figured in her plans. Marriage to Vane was simply impossible-even more so after the last hour.

His voice, coolly precise, came from behind her. "Be that as it may, I would have thought itfe activities of the last hour would suggest that a rearrangement of your intentions was in order."

Tying the ribbons of her chemise, Patience pressed her lips together and shook her head. "I don't want to marry."

The sound he made as he sat up was derisive. "All young ladies want to marry."

"Not me. And I'm not that young." Patience finished pulling on her stockings. Swinging about, she grabbed her petticoats.

She heard Vane sigh. "Patience-"

"We'd better hurry-we've been out all morning." Standing, she hiked up her petticoats and cinched them at her waist. Behind her, she heard the hay rustle as he rose. "They'll worry if we don't return for lunch." Under cover of swiping up her skirt, she turned. Not daring to look directly at him-he was, after all, still naked-she could nevertheless see him from the corner of her eye, and prevent him from touching her. From catching hold of her.

If he did, her shaky, somewhat confused resolution might disintegrate-and the trap might slam shut on her. She could still feel his hands on her skin, sense the imprint of his body on hers. Feel the heat of him inside her.

She yanked her skirts up. "We can't afford to dally." In a state bordering on the frenzied, she scanned the floor for her jacket. It was lying beside his breeches. She hurried over.

Aware that he was standing, naked, hands on hips, frowning at her, she picked up her jacket, and flung his breeches at his head.

He caught them before they hit. His eyes narrowed even further.

"Do come on," she implored. "I'll get the horses." With that, she rushed to the ladder.

"Patience!"

That particular tone had been known to snap unruly, half-drunk soldiers to immediate attention; to Vane's disgust, it had no discernible affect on Patience. She disappeared down the ladder as if he hadn't spoken.

Leaving him disgusted-thoroughly and absolutely-with himself.

He'd muffed it. Completely and utterly. She was annoyed with him-piqued to her toes-and she had every right to feel so. His offer-well, he hadn't even made it; he'd tried instead to slide around it, to arrogantly push her into agreeing without having to ask.