The rain came down hard.

It dampened the sails and cut through the wind. It slashed them in the face like soft darts.

Worse, it brought an end to confidences.

Gwendolyn had been on water before in a storm. She knew the dangers of being in the open. She took the rudder, pulling it

toward her. “To the shore,” she said. “We must reach the shore.”

The rain came down harder. It was all around them. “Is there an oar?” she asked. The current was growing stronger, rocking

the boat as she steered against it. An oar would be useful.

Beckett crawl-walked along the edges of the boat, looking for one. He came back. “I couldn’t find one.” He placed his hand

over hers on the rudder. “I’m a good swimmer. Don’t be afraid. I’ll take care of you.”

His face was white in the dark, and his hair was plastered against his skin. She didn’t look any better. “I swim, too,” she said, and noticed his surprise. “Father made us learn. But he said I already knew from being in the Indies.”

“Cards and swimming,” Beckett said. “An unusual upbringing.”

“But practical for right now.” She gave a worried sigh. “I wonder how far the shore is.”

“We will manage,” he assured her, and she nodded. He took over the rudder, his superior strength needed to keep the boat on

track, while she peered ahead of them as if she could see where they were going.

The lugger literally bumped into the shore. The boat shook with the force of hitting land. They were thrown forward, but Beckett

didn’t wait a beat. He jumped into the water, found his footing, and held his arms out. “Come, Gwendolyn. Jump,” he commanded.

She leaned over the side. Beckett’s arms grasped hers. He half swung and half dragged her toward him, even as wind and waves

lifted the boat, freeing it from what little land was beneath.

He carried her the few steps toward shore while the current bore the boat away.

In spite of the rain pouring down on them, Gwendolyn wanted to collapse. Beckett refused to let her. He picked her up in his

arms and held her until they reached the shelter of trees. He dropped to his knees, and the two of them fell to the ground

side by side.

For a several long moments, all Gwendolyn could do was catch her breath. The spot where they had sought shelter was relatively dry. A canopy of leaves protected them somewhat from the rain.

She listened to it, wanting it to stop. The air smelled of the shore, of rotting wood and fish mingled with grass and leaves.

Her heart slowed from its frantic beating.

Beckett sat up on the wet earth. She joined him.

“Now what?” Her legs stretched in front of her. Her kid slippers were soaked, but at least she still had them. She could have

lost them.

She sensed rather than saw him smile in the darkness. “We find someplace safe while we decide our next actions.” He paused,

then added drolly, “You wanted adventure.” He was right. Had she not longed for anything other than the endless balls and

social calls? Hadn’t she longed for him?

And now she had both.

Suddenly Gwendolyn started laughing. He laughed with her, until a sob escaped her. She clapped a hand over her mouth, embarrassed,

but that is when the tears started.

Beck didn’t chastise her. He pulled her into his arms. He said, “You have been brave, Gwendolyn. So brave.”

“I’m not afraid,” she answered, but that wasn’t true. Now that she was safe, what could have happened overwhelmed her.

He didn’t press her to stop her show of emotion. He held her, her face against his shirt and her hand gripping the wet lapels of his jacket, and eventually she began to recover herself—but she didn’t move. She stayed there in the haven of his arms, savoring his quiet composure. “You are safe,” he whispered to her. “We’re safe.”

She didn’t move but released the breath she’d been holding. “When do you think Lady Middlebury will know we escaped?”

“Who will tell her?” he asked. “The men she paid for a job that will not be done? Or the coachmen driving north, thinking

their part is finished?”

“So, what are we going to do?”

“Find someplace safe for the night. Think over our next steps,” he said. “And find dinner. I’m famished.”

Gwendolyn realized she was as well. “Isn’t it late?”

“Perhaps nine? Possibly ten?” He rose to his feet. She immediately felt the loss of his warmth. “The rain is tapering off.

Let’s discover where we are.” He held out a hand. It touched her shoulder and she took it, letting him help her up.

He offered his jacket to her. She shook her head.

“Take it,” he ordered. “The dress you are wearing wasn’t made for the rain.”

Only then did she realize how the damp muslin clung to her figure. She slipped on his jacket. The wool sleeves reached below her fingertips. The hem was heavy and wet from their adventure. She wrapped it around her. Her hair was a bedraggled mess down her back. She thought some of the pins still held out, but she didn’t bother trying to find out. She couldn’t waste energy on vanity.

In truth, he didn’t look much better. The sleeves of his shirt seemed to be adhered to his arms. His waistcoat was intact

but ruined. His boots squished as he walked. Hand in hand, they set off in search of help.

It wasn’t easy, even when the rain stopped. There were branches that thwacked them in the face and vines across the ground

that tripped them. She hated the thorns. They were feeling their way through the woods, but Gwendolyn refused to complain,

even when she almost twisted her ankle. At another point, a rock in her shoe made her hobble a few steps. Her wet stockings

had come untied and gathered at her ankles. She didn’t try to pull them up because they would just fall again. Her kid slippers

were not made for a trek through a wood. She longed for her walking shoes, and while she was making wishes, she would appreciate

a warm fire and a roasted chicken.

They trudged along until Beckett noticed a light. They made their way toward it and came across a village of whitewashed cottages.

Their walls stood out in the darkness. Beyond them was what appeared to be a small posting inn.

Beckett and Gwendolyn hurried toward it. Two men sat out on a bench under the torchlight of the inn’s front door. Gwendolyn

held back.

“What is it?” he asked.

“My hair.” She reached up and felt a pin. She pulled it and two more out before quickly braiding the wet mess as best she could. “You might need your jacket.” She shrugged out of it and handed it to him. “We don’t wish to appear completely disreputable.” She shook out her skirts. The muslin had dried a bit so it didn’t cling to her legs.

“Or like what we are, two people who were caught in a storm.” He pushed the jacket back to her. “Come, Gwendolyn. Don’t worry.

We’ll be fine.” However, he did comb his hair back with his fingers.

The arguing between the two men outside the inn came to an abrupt halt as they moved into the ring of torchlight. They watched

with curiosity as Beckett opened the door and motioned her forward. She stepped into a low-ceilinged room with several long

tables. The room smelled of cider and ale. A group of men were playing cards. Whist, she noticed.

All conversation stopped at the sight of her. The two men from outside followed them in.

Beckett put a protective arm around her. He appeared even taller than he was under the room’s low ceiling. “Where is the barkeep?”

One of the men from the card game stood. “What may I do for you?”

“We need food and a room for the night. Our vehicle broke down.”

“Where did that happen?” The barkeep had brown hair and a few days’ growth of beard. The others in the room didn’t appear

any more respectable.

“Down the road,” Beckett said easily.

“And your horses?”

“With a farmer. Do you have a room?”

“Aye. Two tuppence. Four if you want food.”

“I’ll take the four.”

Gwendolyn was looking around. In spite of the innkeeper’s appearance, the place appeared clean. There was also the lingering

scent of baking bread in the air as if it had just been made that day. Beckett took coins from a pocket in his breeches and

pressed them into the man’s hand.

She was certain it was far more than four tuppence by the smile that spread across the innkeeper’s face. “This way, sir.”

Beckett took Gwendolyn by the elbow, and they followed the man out of the main room. He introduced himself as Mr. Stimson.

They went down a narrow hall and walked through a half-open door. It was the kitchen. An old man was half-asleep in front

of the fire.

“Charles,” Mr. Stimson said, “wake up.”

The older man frowned as if annoyed to be bothered. Then he sat up. “I am awake.”

“Anything for them to eat?”

Charles eyed Gwendolyn and Beckett. “Eggs. That is what I have.”

Beckett spoke up. “Eggs are fine. And ale?”

“Always have ale,” Mr. Stimson said. “I’m putting them in the back, Charles. They broke down and need a room for the night.”

“And ended up here?” Charles didn’t hide his doubt. “Looks like you were caught in the storm.”

“We were,” Beckett answered in a voice that seemed to settle the matter. And then he added, “But we are lost. Where are we?”

“The Hare’s Foot,” the innkeeper said.

“And the village name?” Beckett answered.

“Sandston. Where were you heading?”

“Portsmouth.”

“If you want to go there, you’d best take a boat.”

“We thought about it,” Beckett said dryly.

“You’re not far from Gravesend,” Charles broke in to offer helpfully. “You may have passed it depending on which direction

you took.”

Gravesend. That was where the boatmen and their kidnappers were to meet. Gwendolyn made a note to give Beckett that information.

Charles rose from the chair, stretched, and scratched his belly before walking over to a table to begin slicing bread. Gwendolyn’s

mouth watered. Eggs and bread sounded delicious. She also wouldn’t mind an ale.

“This way,” Mr. Stimson said. He lit a stub of a candle off the kitchen fire as he led them out into a hall. He opened a side

door. “This is the room.”

Gwendolyn braced herself, not knowing what to expect when she looked in. To her surprise, the room was lovely in its simplicity.

The four-poster bed was made of dark wood that looked sharp and inviting against white walls and a white counterpane.

“You take your meals in the main room or in the kitchen. Whichever you want.”

“Thank you,” Beckett said.

The room was not large. The bed filled it with perhaps a foot or two between it and the wall on two sides. There was just enough room for the ta ble at the foot of the bed. Mr. Stimson lit a candle on the table.

“Privy is outside. Wash bowl and water in the kitchen. Give a shout if you need anything.” He gave a curt bow of his head

and left them alone.

However, a beat later, there was a knock. It was Charles to let them know their food was ready. They ate in the kitchen.

The meal was delicious. Of course, anything hot was to be greatly appreciated, and she was starving. Saving themselves from

wickedness was hard work. The ale helped wash everything down.

“I’ll stand guard while you use the privy,” Beckett offered.

Gwendolyn didn’t even blush over the familiarity.

She and Beckett were alive. They were safe... and that was all that mattered.

It did not take her long to see to her business. Charles had left the kitchen when they’d started eating, but he’d shown her

where the pitcher of water and a bucket alongside a bar of soap were located. She was alone. She washed her face and hands

and removed her stockings that had been annoying her. She tucked them in the pocket of his jacket and put on her wet shoes.

The plait of her braid was coming undone. She didn’t bother to fix it. Her hair dried faster when it was down.

Beckett came in from outside while she was still in the kitchen. Their gazes met. His broke away first, and yet they were

here together, and alone.

She stood and moved to the bedroom, giving him a moment to wash. Giving herself a moment to escape this heavy awareness between them.

What had seemed easy earlier become awkward. She wasn’t certain how to act. She knew what she wanted, and she also knew there

would be no turning back, no matter what each of them wished.

Gwendolyn touched the bedpost. Her earlier exhaustion had vanished. Instead, her every sense seemed to hum with anticipation.

She shouldn’t feel this way. She shouldn’t be eager.

A step sounded behind her.

She turned. Beck filled the doorway. The tail of his shirt was loose, and he held his boots. Apparently he’d taken them and

his wet stockings off in the kitchen. Her gaze dropped to his bare feet. Like the rest of him, they were strong and masculine...

the sight of them intimate. He whispered her name. She looked up. His eyes had never seemed bluer or more intense. They stood

a mere foot from each other in the small space dominated by a bed.

The drawback was the grim line of his mouth. She knew what he was about to say. He was going to offer the bed to her while

he slept out in the main room or in front of the kitchen fire... the way he had in decades past as the scullery boy.

Instead of disappointment, her heart filled with love and understanding. Beckett would always think of her needs first. That

was the sort of man he was—a protector... in spite of all life had handed him.

And she must take matters into her own hands, or else he might slip away again, convinced he didn’t need anyone—no, that wasn’t it. He didn’t believe he was worthy of anyone. Nothing could have been further from the truth.

“You may have the bed. I’ll sleep on the floor—” he started. Before he could finish his statement, Gwendolyn took a step forward,

threw her arms around his neck, and kissed him, holding nothing back. She kissed him fully. Deeply. Hungrily. Begging him to kiss her back. To believe in them.

He’d gone very still. Then, just when she feared she was going to have to do all the work—his arm came around her. His lips

met hers with a passion of their own, and he brought her close as if he could wrap his body around hers.

She felt his desire for her.

He could not hide that, any more than she could resist pressing herself against him.

Beckett broke the kiss. He looked down at her. She tightened her hold around his neck.

“I’m not going away,” she said, her voice both husky and defiant. “No matter how many times you swear I must.”

He looked into her eyes and then said the words she had longed to hear, speaking as a man who could hold back no longer. “I’ll

never tell you to go away. I love you, Gwendolyn Lanscarr. I’ve loved you since that night in Dublin.”

She was loved. She loved in return.

Beckett started to turn. She tightened her hold, fearful he was going to leave. Instead, he closed the bedroom door.

She smiled against his neck. He brushed a kiss against her hair and lifted her as if she weighed less than a feather. He carried her to the mattress.

The bed ropes gave under her weight. She expected him to join her. Instead, he pulled his shirt over his head. She kicked

her shoes off, letting them hit the wood floor.

Candlelight turned the hard planes of his torso to gold. He had a long, lean waist. His arms and chest were well muscled.

Desire, sharp and needy, spun deep inside her.

And then she noticed the scar along one shoulder. Another was on his right side, an incision no longer than an inch, the skin

around it puckered.

He started to lean down to her, but she came up on her knees in alarm. She placed her fingers on that scar on his side. “So

close to death,” she whispered. “And here.” She brushed his shoulder with her fingertips.

He caught her hand, raised it to his lips. His breath was warm against her skin. She kissed the scar on his shoulder, letting

her lips linger. He was so precious to her.

Beckett drew her arms around his neck. She pressed herself against his bare skin. Her dress was still slightly damp. He kissed

the sensitive place right where her collarbone met her shoulder. She felt his fingers unlacing the back of her dress.

Tears welled in her eyes.

“Gwendolyn?” he whispered, alarmed.

She looked up at him, her hair a dark curtain over her shoulders and down her back. “I love you,” she said fiercely. She laid a hand against his jaw and felt the gentle scratch of his day-old whiskers. “Never doubt that.”

“I love you, Gwendolyn,” he answered, his gaze intent and solemn. “And we shouldn’t do this—”

“No.” She wrapped her arms around his neck, lest his conscience forced him to pull away. “You are the man I want. And besides,

the damage to my reputation is done, even if we were kidnapped. No one would believe I didn’t seduce you. You are stuck with

me, Mr. Steele. I’m yours whether you want me or not.”

She spoke the last with defiance and a hint of humor, although all of it was the truth.

He responded solemnly. “I want you, Gwendolyn. You are mine. I shall love you all the days of my life.”

These were vows, she realized. Vows more holy than could be said before a cleric because they came from his heart.

And she could have wept from the beauty of it. Instead, she kissed him, breathing him in and thinking how blessed she was.

Then she shifted so that her gown fell to the bed around her knees, leaving her in the thinnest of chemises over tight breasts.

She slid her arms out of the thin lace ties and let that fall over her petticoats still tied at her waist.

“Gwendolyn.” She’d never tire of hearing him speak her name, especially when he said it with such hushed, reverent delight.

“I warn you, Beckett. A Lanscarr will keep you busy.”

“I’m up for the challenge,” he assured her, and then he found her mouth and kissed her deeply. Their tongues met as Gwendolyn wrapped her arms around his ribs and his back before her hands drifted lower. She stroked the curve of his buttocks before her fingers slipped under the material of his breeches. She followed his waist until she discovered the first button, the back of her hand against the hard flatness of his abdomen.

She twisted the button free.

As she reached for another, Beckett sat on the edge of the bed and swung her into his lap, where he kissed her neck, her shoulders.

Her dress and chemise fell to the floor. He began untying the tapes of her petticoats and sliding them down her legs until

she was gloriously naked in his lap. The heat of his mouth covered her breast. She gasped his name. She buried her fingers

in his thick hair.

When his lips found hers again, she kissed him with all the growing passion in her being. She held nothing back. She drank

in all she could of him, his taste, his scent, his warmth... his strength.

He eased her back onto the mattress and then started to stand.

“No,” Gwendolyn said. They couldn’t stop now. She had no desire to ever let him go.

“Let me undress.” He hooked his hands in his waistband and pushed his breeches down.

Men didn’t wear smallclothes.

And his body was beautiful in its strength.

A fierce pride fell over her. This was her lover. He desired her . Gwendolyn was not one for missish airs. She yearned for his touch, his heat.

She reached for his hand and drew him down to the bed alongside her. The candle cast their bodies in a thin golden light.

She settled against him in the crook of his arm. His hand with its long, tapered, masculine fingers smoothed over her belly.

Her hand ran over his hip, and she marveled how where she was soft, he was hard. It was the way the world was meant to be.

He kissed her neck, whispered in her ear, telling her she was lovely, she was priceless. She couldn’t speak. She was too overwhelmed

with happiness, too lost in his touch.

Gwendolyn turned into his shoulder, inhaling the spiciness of his soap, the horses, the water, and the rain. He threaded his

fingers through her hair and then rolled her on top of him.

She had imagined that for this “act” between a man and a woman, it would be just rote and done in a blink. She’d grown up

in the country. She’d not been sheltered... but what was happening between her and Beckett was something beyond the limited

scope of her understanding. This wasn’t just mating. They were lovers.

She liked being this free with him. She sat up, her legs bent to cradle his hips. His arousal, his desire for her, was not hidden. She leaned to nuzzle his neck and kissed the rough texture of his chin. She wanted to be closer to him. She wanted all of him. His sex surprised her. It was hard and demanding and yet as feathery soft as the finest velvet. Her body wanted to move against him—

He caught her hands and rolled again, this time placing himself over her. They were notched together, her legs opening to

accommodate him.

Their kisses grew slower and sweeter... and deeper. He braced himself as if saving her from his full weight. He didn’t

understand. She adored having his warm, naked skin against hers.

He nipped her earlobe. She laughed and did the same to him. Their movements took on more heat. He made her almost weep with

wanting.

His hands lifted her hips. She liked feeling him cup her buttocks. She pressed a kiss on his shoulder, on the scar, on his

chest—

Beckett entered her.

She felt him slide inside. Her body stretched to take him, but it was not uncomfortable. If anything, she reveled in being

this close to him. It was what she’d wanted without being aware of the next step—

And then he thrust deep, even as his mouth covered hers.

A cry caught in the back of Gwendolyn’s throat at the sharp pain in her deepest recesses. She hadn’t expected it. Everything

had been lovely until he did this. She would have bolted from under him if he had not held her.

He ended the kiss, sucking lightly on her bottom lip. He found her ear. “Easy, Gwendolyn. Easy. That was the worst,” he promised.

He held himself still.

The worst. Was it every time? Moments ago she’d been wrapped in the joy of sensation, until this. It soured her. Although slowly the pain subsided. Gwendolyn felt wetness. Her whole being centered on where they were joined. Beckett began to move slowly, carefully. He whispered soothing words. He told her he was sorry she was hurt. He promised that the hurt would never happen again, and there would only be pleasure.

The strangeness of having him inside her began to ebb, as did the pain.

His movements became more directed. The thrusts deeper.

Raw sensation took hold of her. She found herself moving to meet him. She seemed to search for something she didn’t understand

and yet needed.

He lifted himself higher above her. He seemed lost in her, as if he had a need only she could fulfill.

And she liked that very much.

Heat built between them.

Beckett kissed her neck, her shoulders. He moved harder, faster. His breathing grew as labored as her own, because Gwendolyn

was no passive partner. She wanted to be bonded to him forever—

A sensation so piercing, so intense, swept her up. It spiraled inside her, higher and higher until an instant so perfect turned

her senses inside out, even as the joy of wonder burst through her. Now she understood.

“Beckett.” His name was both benediction and praise. She clasped him hard to her and would have held on—but then he rolled abruptly off of her with a guttural response.

His defection confused her. She wanted to follow him, and then she felt his seed, the life force, against her thigh. He had

released his seed, but not in her.

And she felt robbed.

Cold air caused her skin to prickle. “Beckett?”

“A moment.” He sat up, his back to her. He stayed there, breathing heavily.

She dared not move. He’d told her to wait. Was something wrong?

He turned to look down at her. Confused, she had come up on her elbows.

Then he said, “You are beautiful.”

Gwendolyn felt herself relax. “ You are beautiful,” she countered, and he was. No artist could ever capture the perfection of his lean body in the candle’s light.

“Stay here.” Beckett rose from the bed and went out the door, naked.

Gwendolyn wondered what would happen if Charles was there. Apparently he wasn’t. She didn’t hear voices.

A minute later, Beckett returned with a basin and a rough cotton cloth. He held up the material. “This is all I could find.

It is clean.” He shut the door and crossed to the bed.

She didn’t understand what he wanted it for, until he sat on the bed and dipped the cloth into the water. He wrung it out,

placed the basin on the floor, and then used the cloth to gently clean her thighs and her body where they had joined.

At first she was shy. She wanted to take the cloth from him. He kissed her into submission. “Let me do this for you.”

She nodded, trusting him enough to turn herself over to his intimate touch. With great care, he washed the stains of their

lovemaking, of her virginity and her passion, from her thighs.

His expression was so committed to her well-being, she didn’t believe she could love him more.

Beckett rinsed the cloth out in the basin and set it aside on the floor. He blew out the candle and climbed into bed bedside

her. He gathered her into the haven of his body, her back against his chest.

Their legs were intertwined. She adored having him all around her.

“Go ahead and say it, Gwendolyn,” his deep voice murmured in the darkness. There was a smile in it. “I can hear the questions

humming in your mind.” His arm brought her closer to him. She could feel his spent desire against her buttocks.

“I thought I would feel differently,” she said.

“In what way?” He ran his hand over her hip as if tracing the curve of it.

If she wished, she could pretend they were the only two people in the world. There wasn’t a sound except for the beat of their

hearts. “I thought that I would still be me.”

“And?”

She rolled to face him, the cotton counterpane around them. “Now, there is us.”

His hand had gone still. For a swift moment, she feared she had said something wrong... and then he spoke. “I love you,

Gwendolyn Lanscarr.”

Then he kissed her, so deeply, so sweetly, it sent her senses swimming.

He loved her. There was no better music in the world than those words.

And she realized that this act of intimacy, of trust they had shared, was the bond that forged them together. She’d noticed

it at work between her sisters and the men they loved. It was what created a haven for a relationship to blossom and then

deepen.

Especially as a woman, she was putting her being, her very health, into his hands. That was why he hadn’t wanted to spill

his seed in her. He was protecting her... because he loved her.

She moved closer, at ease with his body, knowing she was safe. She dared to touch him. He was hard. He wanted her.

“May we do it again?” she asked.

“Over and over again,” he assured her. His lips curved into a lazy smile. He pulled a lock of her hair through his fingers

as if enjoying the silky touch of it. “However, not tonight. You need time to heal,” he said.

“That sharp pain goes away?” she wondered.

“Oh, yes.”

Gwendolyn placed her palm against his chest, coming up on one arm to meet his gaze. “I love you , Beckett Steele. Forever and always. That is my promise.” Could he see her expression in the dark? Did he know how happy

she was? He loved her. Not just that he’d made love to her. He loved her .

It was all she’d ever wanted. He’d captured her imagination from the moment he’d rescued her in Dublin.

“Please, Beckett. Let us make love again.” She needed to be joined with him once more. To know that it was the two of them against the world, forever and always. “I will not complain.”

“Well,” he said thoughtfully, “there are many paths to pleasure that would not cause you pain.”

That was an enticing statement. “Other ways than what we just did?” She was intrigued. Apparently there were many things her

country life had not taught her. She smiled. “Are you going to show me?”

His answer was to rain a line of kisses along her neck, across breasts that were now very sensitive to his touch, and down her abdomen. His head dipped lower still.

At first she was startled. She tried to move away.

“Trust me, Gwendolyn.” His quiet, deep voice calmed her. This was Mr. Steele, the man who had never failed her. Her man. Her one, true desire.

And in the end, she was very glad she let him have his way... because this, too, she liked.