Thank you for your continued support. I appreciate it more than I could say.
Technically, this is the last chapter, only the epilogue to come.
Once again, sincere thanks for taking this little journey with me. I look forward to 'travelling' with you guys again.
For those of you who have been reading/reviewing/following 'Love and Happiness' I have the next update almost finished. It should be up in a few days...fingers crossed.
Standard disclaimer.
Despite her fear and worry, the residual effects of the ether, caused Gwen to sleep, as she sat with her head resting against the side of the velvet-upholstered wall of the carriage.
The eventual cessation of movement, caused her to awaken.
Her back hurt, and her feet were cold and numb. Rubbing her sore eyes, she wondered if she had been dreaming.
She willed herself to awaken, in the quiet little bedroom at Stony Cross Park...or better yet, the spacious bed she had shared with Arthur, the night before.
Opening her eyes, she saw instead, the interior of Lord Gwaine's carriage, and her heart plummeted.
Her fingers shook, as she reached out to lift the window curtain, with a clumsy motion.
It was early evening, the dying sun casting a last harsh glitter, through a scant grove of oak trees.
The carriage had stopped in front of a coaching inn, with a sign...a bull and mouth...hanging beside the front entrance.
It was a large inn, capable of stabling perhaps, a hundred horses, with three conjoined buildings to house the many travelers who made use of the main turnpike road.
Aware of a movement on the seat beside her, Gwen began to turn, and stiffened, as she felt both her wrists being caught neatly behind her back.
"What...?" she asked, at the same time, cold metal rings were snapped smoothly around her wrists.
She tugged her arms, but they were fastened securely.
'Handcuffs,' she realized.
"You bastard," she said, her voice trembling with fury. "You coward. You bloody..."
Her voice was muffled, as a wad of fabric was shoved into her mouth, and a rag was gently cinched over it.
"Sorry," Lord Gwaine murmured in her ear, not sounding at all penitent. "You shouldn't tug at your wrists, pet. You'll bruise them needlessly."
His warm fingers closed over her icy fists, as he said,
"An interesting toy, this." His fingertip slipped beneath the metal cuff, to stroke her wrist. "Some women of my acquaintance, have a great fondness for it."
Gwen's body turned rigid in his arms, and watched him smiled, as he saw the angry bewilderment in her expression.
"My innocent...it will be a great pleasure to tutor you," he said,
Pushing at the gag with her dry tongue, Gwen could not help reflecting, on how beautiful and treacherous a creature he was.
A villain should be dark-haired and wart-covered and as monstrous on the outside, as he was on the inside.
It was vastly unjust, that a soulless beast like Lord Gwaine, should be graced with such handsomeness.
"I'll return momentarily," he told her. "Be still...and try not to cause trouble."
'The smug ass,' Gwen thought bitterly, while the rising pressure of panic, caused her throat to tighten.
She watched without blinking, as Lord Gwaine opened the door and swung down from the carriage.
A gathering semidarkness enclosed her, as evening fell.
Forcing herself to breathe regularly, she tried to think above her fear. Surely there would come a moment...an opening...when she would have a chance to escape.
All she had to do was wait.
Her absence at Stony Cross Park, would have been noticed many hours ago.
They would be searching for her...wasting time worrying...and all the while, the countess would be waiting in silent complacency, satisfied in the knowledge, that she had handily dispatched, of at least one troublesome Sweetly.
What was Arthur thinking at this moment?
What was he...no, she couldn't allow herself to dwell on the thought, for it had caused her eyes to sting, and she would not let herself cry.
Lord Gwaine would not have the satisfaction, of seeing any evidence of weakness.
Twisting her hands in the cuffs, Gwen tried to figure out, what kind of locking mechanism fastened them, but in her current position, it was useless.
Relaxing back against the seat, she glared at the door, until it opened once more.
Lord Gwaine climbed back into the carriage and signaled the driver.
The vehicle jolted slightly, as it was drawn to the yard behind the coaching inn.
"In a moment, I will take you upstairs to a room, where you can see to your private needs. Regrettably, we haven't time for a meal, but I can promise you a decent breakfast on the morrow," he said.
When the carriage stopped once more, he grasped her waist and pulled her towards him.
His brown eyes glittered appreciatively, at the glimpse of her breasts, through the thin chemise, while the front of her dress gaped.
Covering her with his coat, to conceal the sight of the handcuffs and gag, he slung her over his shoulder.
"Don't even think of struggling or kicking," Gwen heard him say, the sound of his voice muffled, by the layer of broadcloth. "Or I may decide to delay our journey, while I demonstrate precisely, what my paramours find so delightful about handcuffs."
Held in check by the credible threat of rape, Gwen held still, as Lord Gwaine carried her outside the carriage, crossing through the back courtyard of the inn, to an outside staircase.
Someone he passed, must have asked a question, about the prone woman slung over his shoulder, because, he said, with a rueful laugh,
"My light-o'-love is a bit tap-hackled, I'm afraid. A weakness for gin. Turns her nose up at good French brandy and goes for blue ruin, the little pea wit."
The comments elicited a hearty masculine guffaw, and Gwen simmered in mounting fury.
She counted the number of steps the rascal Lord ascended, there were twenty-eight, with one landing between the flights.
Nearly smothering beneath the coat, she tried to guess how many doors they might have passed, as he proceeded along the hallway.
Then, they entered a room, and he closed the door with his foot.
Carrying Gwen to the bed, Lord Gwaine carefully unloaded her, removed the coat, and pushed back the wild locks of hair, that had fallen over her flushed face.
"I want to make certain, they're hitching up a decent team," he murmured, his eyes as brilliantly faceted as gemstones, and just as cold. "I'll return soon."
Right at that moment, Gwen wondered if he ever felt a genuine emotion about anyone or anything, or if he simply moved through life, like an actor on a stage, manufacturing whatever expressions served his purposes.
Something in her searching gaze caused his slight smile to fade, and his manner turned businesslike, as he withdrew something from the inside of his coat.
A key, she saw, with a rush of sudden excitement in her chest.
Pushing her to her side, Lord Gwaine unlocked the handcuffs. And she couldn't prevent the sigh of relief, as her arms were freed.
Her emancipation was short-lived, however, as he gripped her wrists, and controlled her arms with maddening ease, lifting them to the iron rods of the bed's headboard, to refasten them.
Although Gwen tried to make the task, as difficult as possible for him, she had not yet regained her strength.
Stretched before him on the bed, with her arms over her head, she watched him warily, her mouth working beneath the gag.
Lord Gwaine raked her prone body, with an insolent glance, making it clear to both of them, that she was completely at his mercy.
'Please, God, don't let him...' Gwen thought.
She did not look away from him, nor did she shrink, sensing somehow, that part of what had kept her safe from him so far, was her lack of visible fear.
A painful knot gathered in her throat, as Lord Gwaine lifted a practiced hand, to the exposed the skin of her upper chest, and stroked the edge of her chemise.
"If only we had time to play," he said lightly.
Watching her face, he slid his fingers to the curve of her breast and fondled with it, until he felt the nipple harden at his touch.
Shamed and enraged, Gwen breathed rapidly through her nostrils, as tears stung the backs of her eyes.
Slowly, he removed his hand and stood back from the bed.
"Soon," he murmured, though it was unclear, whether he meant his return from the inn's stable yard, or his intention to sleep with her.
Gwen closed her eyes and listened to the sound of his footsteps across the floor.
The door opened and closed, followed by the click of the lock, being turned from outside.
Shifting on the mattress, she craned her neck, to squint at the handcuffs, which had her secured to the bed.
They were made of steel, welded with a chain in the middle, and engraved with the words Higby-Dumfries #30, Warranted Wrought/British Made.
Each cuff was fastened with a hinge and separate lock, affixed to the chain with hooks, that had been bent through the locking bolt ends and welded to the bodies of the cuffs.
Squirming higher on the bed, Gwen managed to grasp one of the pins, that had remained in her tumbled coiffure, and pulled it from her hair.
She straightened the pin, curved one end of it with a twist of her fingers, and inserted it into the lock, prying for a tiny lever inside.
The end of the hairpin kept slipping off the lever, which turned out to be quite difficult to trick.
Swearing, as the hairpin bent from the pressure, Gwen extracted it, straightened it, and tried once more, while steadily exerting pressure, with the back of one wrist, against the inner rim of the cuff.
All at once, she heard a sharp click, and the cuff fell open.
She sprang from the bed, as if it were on fire, and scrambled for the door, with the handcuffs dangling from one wrist.
Ripping off the gag and spitting the sodden wad of cloth from her mouth, she tossed the articles aside and set to work on the door.
With the aid of another hairpin, she picked the lock with practiced skill.
"Thank God," she whispered, as the door opened.
Hearing voices and sounds from the tavern below, she calculated, that her chances of finding a sympathetic stranger to help her, were far better inside the inn, rather than in the stable yard, where footmen and drivers milled.
She took a quick glimpse of the hallway, to ascertain that no one was coming, and then she darted over the threshold.
Conscious of her disheveled gown and open bodice, Gwen yanked the edges of her gown together, as she hurried to the building's interior staircase.
Her heart hammered painfully, and her head filled with noise. She was suffused with a mad desperation, that made her feel capable of anything.
It seemed that her body obeyed some force outside her own will, causing her feet to fly along the stairs, with reckless momentum.
Reaching the bottom, she rushed into the main room of the inn.
People halted in mid-conversation, turning towards her, with mildly startled expressions.
Spying a large desk and a grouping of chairs in one corner, with four or five well-dressed gentlemen, standing in a half circle nearby, Gwen approached them hurriedly.
"I need to speak to the innkeeper," she said without preamble. "Or a manager. Anyone who can help me. I need..."
She broke off abruptly, as she heard her name being called, and glanced over her shoulder, fearing that Lord Gwaine had discovered her escape.
Her entire body stiffened in battle readiness. But there was no sign of him...no betraying gleam of golden-amber hair.
She heard the voice again, a deep sound that penetrated her soul.
"Guinevere!"
Her legs quivered beneath her, as she saw a lean, blonde-haired man coming from the front entryway.
'Only one person calls me that. It can't be,' she thought, blinking hard to clear her vision, which must surely have been playing tricks on her.
She stumbled a little, as she turned to face him.
"Arthur?" she whispered, and took a few hesitant steps forward.
The rest of the room seemed to vanish.
Arthur's face was pale beneath its tan, as he stared at Gwen with searing intensity...as if he feared she might disappear.
His stride quickened, and as he reached her, he seized and caught her in a biting grip. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her hard against him.
"My God," he muttered, and buried his face in her hair.
"You came," Gwen gasped, trembling all over. "You found me."
She couldn't conceive how it was possible.
He smelled of horses and sweat, and his clothes were chilled from the outside air.
Feeling her shiver, Arthur drew her tightly inside his coat, murmuring endearments against her hair.
"Arthur," Gwen said thickly. "Have I gone mad? Oh, please be real. Please don't go away..."
"I'm here." His voice was low and shaken. "I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere."
He drew back slightly, his blue gaze scouring her from head to toe, his hands searching urgently over her body.
"My love...have you been hurt?"
As his fingers slid along her arm, he encountered the locked manacle. Lifting her wrist, he stared at the handcuffs blankly.
He inhaled sharply, and his body began to shake with primitive fury.
"Goddamn it, I'll send him to hell..."
"I'm fine," Gwen said hastily. "I haven't been hurt."
Bringing her hand to his mouth, he kissed it roughly, and kept her fingers against his cheek, while his breath struck her wrist in swift repetitions.
"Guinevere, did he...?"
Reading the question in his haunted gaze, the words he couldn't yet bring himself to voice, Gwen whispered scratchily,
"No, nothing happened. There wasn't time."
"I'm still going to kill him." There was a deadly note in his voice, that made the back of her neck crawl.
Seeing the open bodice of her gown, Arthur released her long enough, to pull off his coat and place it over her shoulders.
Arthur suddenly went still.
"That smell...what is it?"
Realizing that her skin and clothes still retained the noxious scent, Gwen hesitated, before replying.
"Ether," she finally said, trying to form her trembling lips into a reassuring smile, as she saw his eyes dilate into pools of black. "It wasn't bad, actually. I've slept through most of the day. Other than a touch of queasiness, I'm..."
An animal growl came from his throat, and he pulled her against him once more.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Guinevere, my sweet love...you're safe now. I'll never let anything happen to you again. I swear it on my life. You're safe."
He took her head in his hands, and his mouth slid over hers, in a kiss that was brief, soft, and yet so shockingly intense, that she swayed dizzily.
Closing her eyes, she let herself rest against him, still fearing that none of this was real, that she would awaken, to find herself with Lord Gwaine once more.
Arthur whispered comforting words against Gwen's parted lips and cheeks, and held her with a grip, that seemed gentle, but could not have been broken by the combined efforts of ten men.
Glancing out from the secure depths of his embrace, she saw the tall form of Percy Hunt approaching.
"Mr. Hunt," she said in surprise, while Arthur's lips drifted over her temple.
Hunt slid a concerned glance over her.
"Are you all right, Miss Sweetly?"
She had to twist a little to avoid Arthur's exploring mouth, as she replied breathlessly.
"Oh yes. Yes. As you can see, I am unharmed."
"That is a great relief," Hunt returned with a smile. "Your family and friends, have all been quite distraught over your absence."
"The countess..." Gwen began, and stopped short, wondering how to explain the magnitude of the betrayal to Arthur.
However, as she looked into his eyes, she saw the infinite concern in their gleaming azure depths, and she wondered how she could ever have thought him unfeeling.
"I know what happened," Arthur said softly, smoothing the wild mane of her hair. "You won't ever have to see her again. She'll be gone for good, by the time we return to Stony Cross Park."
Even with the questions and worries that flooded her, Gwen was overcome with sudden exhaustion.
The waking nightmare, had come to a precipitate end, and it seemed that for now, there was nothing more she could do.
She waited docilely, her cheek resting against the steady support of Arthur's chest, only half hearing the conversation that ensued.
"...have to find Gwaine" Arthur was saying.
"No," Percy Hunt said emphatically, "I'll find Gwaine. You take care of Miss Sweetly."
"We need privacy."
"I believe there is a small room nearby...more of a vestibule, actually..." Percy started.
But his voice trailed away, and Gwen became aware of a new, ferocious tension, in Arthur's body.
With a lethal shift of his muscles, Arthur turned to glance in the direction of the staircase.
Lord Gwaine was descending, having entered the rented room from the other side of the inn and found it empty.
Stopping midway down the stairs, he took in the curious tableau before him...the cluster of bewildered onlookers, the affronted innkeeper...and the Earl of Westcliff, who stared at him with avid blood-lust.
The entire inn fell silent, during that chilling moment, so much so, Arthur's quiet snarl was clearly audible.
"By God, I'm going to butcher you."
Dazedly, Gwen murmured,
"Arthur, wait..."
She was shoved unceremoniously at Percy Hunt, who caught her reflexively, as Arthur ran full-bore towards the stairs.
Instead of skirting around the banister, he vaulted the railings and landed on the steps like a cat.
There was a blur of movement, as Lord Gwaine attempted a strategic retreat, but Arthur flung himself upward, catching his legs and dragging him down.
They grappled, cursed, and exchanged punishing blows, until Lord Gwaine aimed a kick at Arthur's head.
Rolling to avoid the blow of his heavy boot, Arthur was forced to release him temporarily.
At that, Lord Gwaine lurched up the stairs, and Arthur sprang after him.
Soon they were both out of sight.
A crowd of enthusiastic men followed, shouting advice, exchanging odds, and exclaiming in excitement, over the spectacle of a pair of noblemen, fighting like spurred roosters.
Pale faced, Gwen glanced at Percy Hunt, who wore a faint smile.
"Aren't you going to help him?" she demanded.
"Oh no. Arthur would never forgive me for interrupting. It's his first tavern brawl."
Hunt's gaze flickered over her in friendly assessment.
She swayed a little, and he placed a large hand on the center of her back and guided her to the nearby grouping of chairs.
A cacophony of noise drifted from upstairs. There were heavy thudding sounds, that caused the entire building to shake, followed by the noises of furniture breaking and glass shattering.
"Now," Hunt said, ignoring the tumult, "If I may have a look at that remaining handcuff, I may be able to do something about it."
"You can't," Gwen said with weary certainty. "The key is in Lord Gwaine's pocket, and I've run out of hairpins."
Sitting beside her, Hunt took her manacled wrist, regarded it thoughtfully, and said with what she thought was rather inappropriate satisfaction,
"How fortunate. A pair of Higby-Dumfries number thirty."
She gave him a sardonic glance.
"I take it you are a handcuff enthusiast?"
His lips twitched.
"No, but I do have a friend or two in law enforcement. And these were once given, as standard issue to the New Police, until a design flaw was discovered. Now one may find a dozen pair of Higby-Dumfries in any London pawnshop."
"What design flaw?"
For answer, Hunt adjusted the locked cuff on her wrist, with the hinge and lock facing downward.
He paused at the sound of more furniture breaking from upstairs, and grinned at Gwen's gathering scowl.
"I'll go," he said mildly. "But first..."
He withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket with one hand, inserting it between her wrist and the steel cuff, as a makeshift inner padding.
"...There. That may help to cushion the force of the blow."
"Blow? What blow?"
"Hold still."
Gwen squeaked in dismay, as she felt him lift her manacled wrist high over the desk and bring it down sharply on the bottom of the hinge.
The whack served to jar the lever mechanism inside the lock, and the cuff snapped open, as if by magic.
Stunned, she regarded Hunt with a half smile, as she rubbed her bare wrist.
"Thank you. I..."
There was another crashing sound, this time coming from directly overhead, and a chorus of excited bellows from the onlookers, caused the walls to tremble.
Above it all, the innkeeper could be heard complaining shrilly, that his building would soon be reduced to matchsticks.
"Mr. Hunt," Gwen exclaimed, "I do wish, that you would try to be of some use, to the Earl of Westcliff!"
Hunt's brows lifted into mocking crescents.
"You don't actually fear that Gwaine is getting the better of him, do you?"
"The question is not whether I have sufficient confidence in the Earl of Westcliff's fighting ability," Gwen replied impatiently. "The fact is, I have too much confidence in it. And I would rather, not have to bear witness at a murder trial, on top of everything else."
"You have a point."
Standing, Hunt refolded his handkerchief and placed it in his coat pocket. Then headed to the stairs with a short sigh, grumbling,
"I've spent most of the day trying to stop him from killing people."
Gwen never fully remembered the rest of that evening, only half conscious, as she stood against Arthur, who kept his hard arm locked firmly around her back, to support her drooping weight.
Although he was disheveled and a bit bruised, he radiated the primal energy of a healthy male, who had come fresh from a fight.
She gathered, that he was making a great many demands, and that everyone seemed eager to please him.
It was agreed that they would lodge at The Bull and Mouth for the night, with Hunt departing for Stony Cross Park at first light.
In the meanwhile, Hunt went to load Lord Gwaine, or what was left of him, into his carriage and send him to his London residence.
It seemed that he would not be prosecuted for his misdeeds, as that would only serve to inflate the episode, into a massive scandal.
With all the arrangements made, Arthur carried Gwen to the largest guest room in the building, where a bath and food were sent up, as quickly as possible.
It was sparsely furnished, but very clean, with an ample bed, covered in pressed linen and soft, faded quilts.
An old copperplate slipper tub, was set before the hearth and filled by two chambermaids, carrying steaming kettles of water.
And as Gwen waited for the bathwater to cool sufficiently, Arthur bullied her into eating a bowl of soup, which was quite tolerable, though its ingredients were impossible to identify.
"What are those little brown chunks?" she asked suspiciously, opening her mouth reluctantly, as he spooned more in.
"It doesn't matter. Swallow."
"Is it mutton? Beef? Did it originally have horns? Hooves? Feathers? Scales? I don't like to eat something, when I don't know what..."
"More," he said inexorably, pushing the spoon into her mouth again.
"You're a tyrant."
"I know. Drink some water."
Resigning herself to his domineering ways...just for one night...Gwen finished the light meal.
Surprisingly, the food gave her a new surge of strength, and she felt invigorated, as Arthur pulled her into his lap.
"Now," he said, cuddling her against his chest, "Tell me what happened, from the beginning."
Before long Gwen found herself talking animatedly, almost chattering, as she described her encounter with the countess of Westcliff, at Butterfly Court, and the events that occurred afterwards.
She must have sounded overwrought, for Arthur occasionally interrupted the stream of rapid words, with soothing murmurs, his manner interested and infinitely gentle.
His mouth brushed over her hair, his warm breath filtering down to her scalp and gradually, she relaxed against him, her limbs feeling heavy and loose.
"How did you persuade the countess to confess so quickly?" Gwen asked. "I would have thought, she would have held out for days. I would have thought, she would rather die than admit anything..."
"I'm afraid that was the choice I gave her."
Her eyes widened.
"Oh," she whispered. "I'm sorry, Arthur. She is your mother, after all..."
"Only in the most technical sense of the word," he said dryly. "I felt no filial attachment to her before now, but if I had, it would surely have been extinguished, after today. She's done enough harm for one lifetime, I think. We'll try keeping her in Scotland from now on, or perhaps somewhere abroad."
"Did the countess tell you what was said between her and me?" Gwen asked tentatively.
Arthur shook his head, his mouth twisting.
"She told me that you had decided to elope with Lord Gwaine."
"Elope?" Gwen repeated in shock. "As if I deliberately...as if I had chosen him over..."
She stopped, aghast, as she imagined how he must have felt.
Although she had not shed a single tear during the entire day, the thought that Arthur might have wondered for a split second, if yet another woman had left him for Gwaine...it was too much to bear.
She burst into noisy sobs, startling herself as well as Arthur.
"You didn't believe it, did you? My God, please say you didn't!"
"Of course I didn't." He stared at her in astonishment, and hastily reached for a table napkin, to wipe at the stream of tears on her face. "No, no, don't cry..."
"I love you, Arthur."
Taking the napkin from him, she blew her nose noisily and continued to weep, as she spoke.
"I love you. I don't mind if I'm the first one to say it, or even if I'm the only one to say. I just want you to know how very much..."
"I love you too," he said huskily. "I love you too. Guinevere...please don't cry. It's killing me. Don't."
She nodded and blew into the linen folds again, her complexion turning mottled, her eyes swelling, and her nose running freely.
It appeared, however, that there was something wrong with Arthur's vision.
Grasping her head in his hands, he pressed a hard kiss to her mouth and said hoarsely,
"You're so beautiful."
The statement, though undoubtedly sincere, caused her to giggle, through her last hic-cupping sobs.
Wrapping his arms around Gwen, in an embrace that was just short of crushing, Arthur asked in a muffled voice,
"My love, hasn't anyone ever told you, that it's bad form to laugh at a man, when he's declaring himself?"
She blew her nose with a last inelegant snort.
"I'm a hopeless case, I'm afraid. Do you still want to marry me?"
"Yes. Now."
The statement shocked her out of her tears.
"What?"
"I don't want to return with you to Hampshire. I want to take you to Gretna Green. The inn has its own coach service...I'll hire one in the morning, and we'll reach Scotland the day after tomorrow."
"But...but everyone will expect a respectable church wedding..."
"I can't wait for you. I don't give a damn about respectability."
A wobbly grin spread across Gwen's face, as she thought of how many people would be astonished, to hear such a statement from him.
"It smacks of scandal, you know. The Earl of Westcliff, rushing off for an anvil wedding in Gretna Green..."
"Let's begin with a scandal, then."
He kissed her, and she responded with a low moan, clinging and arching against him, until he pushed his tongue deeper, molding his lips tighter over hers, feasting on the warm, open silkiness of her mouth.
Breathing heavily, he dragged his lips to her quivering throat.
"Say, 'Yes, Arthur," he prompted.
"Yes, Arthur," she replied.
His eyes were dark and incandescent, as he stared at her, and she sensed that there was a multitude of things he wanted to tell her.
However, all he said was,
"It's time for your bath."
Gwen could have done it herself, but Arthur insisted on undressing her, and bathing her, as if she were a child.
Relaxing in his care, she watched his handsome face, through the soft veil of mist, that rose from the bath.
His movements were deliberately slow, as he soaped and rinsed her body, until she was glowing.
Lifting her from the slipper tub, he dried her with a length of toweling.
"Raise your arms," he murmured.
She glanced askance, at the worn-looking garment in his hand.
"What is that?"
"A nightgown from the innkeeper's wife," he replied, pulling it over her head.
She pushed her arms through the sleeves and sighed at the scent of clean flannel, settling around her.
The gown was an indistinguishable color, and it was far too large for her, but she felt comforted by its worn, soft folds.
Curling up in the bed, Gwen watched, as Arthur bathed and dried himself, the muscles in his back rippling, his superbly fit body, a pleasure to behold.
An irresistible smile curved her lips, as she reflected, that this extraordinary man belonged to her...and she would never be quite certain, how she had won his well-guarded heart.
Arthur extinguished the lamp and came to bed, and immediately, Gwen cuddled against him eagerly, as he slid beneath the covers.
His scent rushed over her...fresh, edged with the crispness of soap and the faintest hints of sun and salt.
She wanted to drown in the wonderful smell of him...wanted to kiss and touch every inch of his body.
"Make love to me, Arthur," she whispered.
His shadowy form loomed over her, while his hand played in her hair.
"My love," he said, a note of tender amusement in his voice, "Since this morning, you've been threatened, drugged, abducted, handcuffed, and carried halfway across England. Haven't you had enough for one day?"
She shook her head.
"I was a bit tired before, but now I've gotten my second wind. I couldn't possibly sleep."
For some reason that made him laugh.
His body lifted away from hers and at first, she thought he meant to move to the other side of the bed, but then, she felt the hem of her nightgown being raised.
Gwen's bare legs tingled, as the cool air brushed over her skin and her breath quickened.
The thick cotton nightie, was drawn higher and higher, until her breasts were exposed, the tips hardening instantly.
Arthur's mouth was soft and hot, as it descended to her skin, searching and nuzzling, finding places of unexpected sensation...like the ticklish place at the side of her ribs, the velvet under-curve of her breasts and the delicate rim of her navel.
When she tried to caress him, her hands were gently pushed to her sides, until she understood, that he meant her to lie completely still.
At that, her breaths turned even and deep, the muscles in her stomach and legs quivering, as pleasure chased like drops of quicksilver over her body.
Arthur nibbled and kissed his way, to the secret dampness between Gwen's thighs, and her legs spread easily at his touch.
She was open and utterly vulnerable, every nerve ending sizzling with aching excitement.
A high, faint sound escaped her throat, as his mouth descended into the dark triangle. And bolts of delight ran through her, with each stroke of his tongue, along the silky, slippery-soft skin.
His tongue danced and tickled and opened her, and then he settled in for minutes of sweet rhythmic teasing, until the sensation weighted her limbs and her breath came in weak cries.
Finally, he slipped his fingers deeply inside her, and she groaned. Within seconds of that intrusion, her body was shuddering, as if she might come apart from pleasure.
Dazed, she felt him kiss her inner thighs and pull down her nightgown.
"Your turn now," she mumbled, her head settling on his shoulder, as he gathered her against him. "You haven't..."
"Sleep," he whispered. "I'll have my turn tomorrow."
"I'm still not tired," she insisted.
"Close your eyes," Arthur said, his hand moving to her bottom in a circling caress.
He brushed his lips over her forehead and her fragile eyelids.
"Rest. You'll need to regain your strength...because, once we're married, I won't be able to leave you alone. I'll want to love you every hour, every minute of the day."
He nestled her more closely against him.
"There is nothing on earth more beautiful to me, than your smile...no sound sweeter than your laughter...no pleasure greater, than holding you in my arms. I realized today, that I could never live without you, stubborn little hellion that you are. In this life and the next, you're my only hope of happiness. Tell me, Guinevere, dearest love...how can you have reached so far inside my heart?"
He paused to kiss her damp silken skin and smiled, as the wisp of a feminine snore, broke the peaceful silence.
Stay safe!