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This moment had been the one to bring it all ’round to clarity: She understood her mother. She understood what it was to want and need a man so desperately that in a moment of passion, there’d not been a fraction of a thought spared for principles such as honor or respectability or virtue.

She’d known only that she needed to know Malcom in this way. That were she to part from him, and never have lain in his arms, it would be a regret far greater than any she’d ever carry over words like “respectability” and “honor.”

Smoothing her palms over the curls matting his chest, she threaded her fingers through that light tuft.

She loved him.

And mayhap she was her mother’s daughter after all, because there was none of the deserved panic that realization should elicit. There was just a contented peace. An absolute sense of rightness in them. For however long that was.

And this time, a pang of regret did strike ... for that reason alone.

Thrusting back those bleak musings, refusing to relinquish the time she did have to regret, Verity propped her chin up on his chest. “Are you sleeping?” she whispered.

“Am I even alive?” he asked, his voice still hoarse and weak, and she found herself smiling.

She pinched his side, and his eyes flew open. “Bloody hell. What in blazes—”

“Alive.”She beamed. “I was just confirming for you.”

Muttering, he rolled her lightly under him. “Minx,” he breathed against her lips, and then mindful of her bruise, he drew back and lightly probed the tender area around her lump.

She anticipated the question that had formed on his lips. “I’m fine.”

“I shouldn’t have made love to you.” Where there had been desire before, and then sleepiness after, now there was remorse. And she’d have none of that.

Verity jammed a finger into his chest, earning a grunt. “First, I made love to you, Malcom. Second, I assure you, I’m fine. Just a little ache,” she promised.

He smoothed a palm over one of her thighs in soft circles that elicited a moan.

“Now that, however, feels delicious.”

Malcom shifted so she was once more atop him, and proceeded to glide his hands lower to the curve of her back, and she sighed. “And that feels even more wonderful.” He palmed her buttocks, pressing her lightly against his erect shaft.

She giggled. “Behave.”

“Am I to take it that doesn’t feel wonderful?” he murmured teasingly, thrusting lightly against her, and a sharp ache settled at her core.

She bit her lip. “Oh, no.” She was faintly breathless. “It does. You do.” He rotated his hips, and even as he moved, Verity’s eyes closed and words failed.

“What was that, love?” Malcom took her mouth in a slow, deliberate kiss. A teasing one that he broke too soon, dragging a regretful moan from her.

Through the haze of desire, she caught the self-satisfaction in his gaze, and she pinched him again.

“Ouch.”

“Don’t be smug,” she chided. “That isn’t why I’ve awakened you, though we can certainly do more of that after.”

He barked with laughter, his frame shaking under her, and she joined in. This side of Malcom, that clear, honest expression of his amusement, absent of the rage that had been such a part of him, proved contagious. After their mirth had abated, Verity slid off his chest and scooted to the nightstand at the side of her bed.

Leaning over, she pulled the drawer open, and fished out the notebook resting there. Head lowered, she stared at it for a moment, and then pushed the drawer back into place and joined Malcom.

“Here.”

“What is this?” he asked, already taking it from her fingers.

“It’s the story.”

He went still, his gaze locked on the first page, the title there.