He watched her face. "I used to come here, too."

  She only looked at him, love and understanding in her eyes. Then, still grasping her hand, he moved ahead of her, carefully tramping a path through the thigh-high thistles and poppies so she would not tear her dress.

  Deep within the waving field of brilliant flowers, he paused and looked over his shoulder at her.

  "Is this a good spot, my dear?"

  "It is lovely, Damon."

  His skin tingled with excitement. What he had planned was far more than a picnic.

  He carefully stamped out an area among the tall, waving stalks, and together they spread the blanket over the little clearing. Damon set the lunch basket on its edge and sat down, tugging Gwyneth down alongside him. She pulled off her hat and tossed it aside, and together they lay back on the blanket, hand in hand and side by side, the forest of poppies and thistles nodding in the wind several feet above their heads and enclosing them in walls of privacy and beauty.

  Gwyneth smiled up at the milky blue sky. How blissfully happy she felt to be out here with the man she loved, amid such tranquil beauty. She turned her head and looked into his eyes.

  "Is this your surprise?" she asked.

  "Part of it."

  Turning on his side, he propped his head on the heel of his hand and gazed lazily at her. Gwyneth's blood ignited. God help her, every cell in her body melted when he looked at her like that.

  "Let me guess the other part. You're going to ravish me."

  "I don't think that either of us would consider that a surprise."

  "I suppose not. We both know it's going to happen . . ."

  "But it need not happen now, if you do not wish it."

  "Of course I wish it." She blushed and tried to smooth a lump in the blanket. "Besides, if you do not ravish me today, when will you?"

  "Difficult as it would be, I could wait until after we are wed."

  Gwyneth froze, unsure she'd heard him correctly. Yet the charming, rakish smile was still there, brighter now if anything, and one wicked eyebrow was lifted in query.

  "Well?"

  "Is that — a proposal?"

  "It is trying to be a proposal. I can rephrase it, if you wish."

  She could only stare at him. "Oh, Damon!"

  "Shall I rephrase it? I can bow over your hand like a rakish young buck and say, 'My dear Lady Simms, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?' That is the dandy's approach. Or — "

  She gave a little laugh, drinking him up with her eyes, loving every inch of him.

  " — I can do it as a pirate might, by sweeping you off your feet and carrying you straight to the nearest clergyman without giving you a chance to deny me —"

  She laughed, and reached out to playfully swat at his shoulder. "And how might the Black Wolf do it?"

  He stared at her, momentarily taken aback. Then, swiftly recovering, he smiled and murmured, "I suppose he would kidnap you and wrap you in his black cape, and adopt much the same method as would our pirate."

  "And how do you know he has a black cape?"

  "Well, if I were the Black Wolf, I'd certainly wear a black cape."

  "Oh, Damon. I do so wish you'd ravish me!"

  "Consent to be my marchioness, and I shall consider it."

  "What of your naval career?"

  "To hell with it. If they have not already thrown me out of the service, then I'll hand in my resignation. I don't belong there and never did."

  "What of the prisoner, young Toby?"

  "I will . . . buy his freedom."

  "Buy it?"

  "Why not? The guards who serve the prison hulk are easily bribed. How do you think the Black Wolf managed so many rescues?"

  "My dear Lord Morninghall, you are not only a very wicked man but a powerful one."

  "I am nothing without a marchioness. Marry me."

  She laughed and, plucking a blade of grass, tickled his nose with its end. But he misinterpreted her teasing as reluctance to accept his offer, and she saw a flash of naked fear in his eyes as his confidence, and patience, began to fade. She tossed the grass aside and leaned toward him, her eyes sparkling. "Very well then, Damon. I will marry you."

  With a triumphant laugh, he tumbled her back down to the blanket, and her giggles were abruptly silenced as his mouth came down hard atop hers. Her eyes fell shut and she made a soft moan of contentment as his tongue slipped out and slowly caressed her lip, moving back and forth with sensual languor before pressing gently against her teeth. She opened her mouth to admit his entrance, her head sliding on the waves of her own silken hair as she moved beneath him. His tongue delved deeply into her mouth and she tasted his hunger for her, his need. It awoke a similar craving in her, and moaning softly, she reached up to embrace him, mindful of the still-tender wound in his back, his shoulders so wide she could barely link her hands together atop them. The wind sighed through the forest of poppies and thistles around them, and she heard the cry of a kestrel somewhere in the hazy sky above.

  At last he broke the kiss, and as her eyes drifted open, she saw him gazing down at her, the little sunbursts of gold in his eyes seeming to draw her up into their very depths.

  "My dearest, cherished, Gwyneth." Leaning his weight on one forearm, he reached out and tenderly cupped her cheek. His gaze roved over her face as though he were looking at an incomparable treasure. "You have shown me things I did not know existed, you have purged my heart of rage and ugliness, you have made me whole again, defended me, and saved my life. I love you with all my heart, and I want nothing more than to prove it to you with my body, with my soul, with every means at my disposal, but . . ."

  "But what, Damon?"

  His thumb gently caressed the side of her face. "But I must know something. The last time we were about to make love, you told me you had never known a man before."

  "That is so."

  "But — I am confused. You were married . . ."

  She reached up and traced the curve of his brow with her fingers. "Lord Simms wed me only to rescue me from an unfortunate situation," she said, and briefly outlined the life she and her sisters had led at the inn. "He was an old man, far past the call of passion, who was content to worship a wife from afar. We were the fastest of friends, Damon — but we were never lovers."

  He stared down at her, slowly shaking his head. "How can any man look upon you and not want to possess you, wholly and fully?"

  "You're looking upon me," she said softly, invitingly, "and I have yet to see you begin the task of possessing me wholly and fully."

  Lowering his head until his brow touched hers, he gazed fiercely into her eyes. "I know I've been a brute in the past, but I swear to you, Gwyneth, I shall be as gentle, as considerate as you deserve to have me be."

  "I know you will." She stared into his eyes and very slowly said, "Now, get on with the ravishing, will you, Damon? I have waited long enough for this moment."

  He kissed her once more, and she felt his fingers working at the embroidered white bow that tied beneath her waist, slowly, gently pulling until the bow fell apart and the ribbons lay trailing across her ribs and stomach.

  "Aaah, that's better," he murmured, and she sighed in delight as he bent his head to nuzzle the warm valley between her breasts. Liquid warmth pulsed through her, thick and viscous. Her breasts tingled with need and want, eager for the touch of those masterful hands, the branding heat of that searing, sensual mouth.

  She drove her hands upward, exploring the warm, hard slabs of his chest through the loose shirt. "My turn," she said huskily, and helped him pull the shirt off over his head. Then she lay back, staring up at his splendidly proportioned torso, his powerful chest and shoulders, with admiring eyes.

  "That's better," she echoed, slyly.

  He laughed. She answered him with a shy little giggle. Then he drew her up and slowly unbuttoned her dress all the way down the back, his hands warm against her flesh. She shivered as he dragged the fabric from one shoulder and pulled it slowly, enticingly, down her arm. By the time he got to the other shoulder, she was on fire. Moments later, the gown was a discarded pile of color beside the picnic basket, and she wore nothing but her chemise, petticoats and garters.

  A light breeze drove through the forest of poppies and thistles, making her chemise flutter against her skin and setting afire every inch of flesh against which it whispered. She knew the gauzy fabric did little to shield her taut nipples from his eyes, and she secretly gloried in the fact. Sure enough, his gaze was drawn helplessly to her bosom, and she could see that beneath his breeches, he had grown large and hard. The thought of being ravished by such a man filled her with dizzy heat.

  He lifted his gaze and let it burn into hers.

  He pulled off his boots, his stockings. She smiled at the sight of his bare toes against the blanket, finding them as beautiful as the rest of him. Then she moved close to him and slowly let her palm rove down his chest and hard, flat stomach, down over the dark arrow of hair that led to the closure of his breeches. Her heart hammered in her chest. Her womanly regions burned and ached. And still he watched her, his eyes shimmeringly iridescent with shifting shadows, colors, and nuances of controlled desire. She looked down once more at the hard bulge in his breeches, and murmured, shyly, "May I touch?"

  He took her hand and gently placed it atop the hard swelling. "If you do not, my dear fiancée, I shall think you don't want me, after all."

  "How could I not want you? You are the most magnificent man I have ever met."

  He smiled, and had she been looking at his face, she might have seen the faint color that touched his cheeks, for he was not used to receiving such compliments. But she was looking at her hand, and what lay beneath it, fascinated and eager to explore him. She felt him growing even harder, stiffer, larger, beneath the fabric that lay between him and her gently questing touch. Her fingers strayed toward the buttons that held the drop-front closed, and suddenly her thumbs grew clumsy. It was all she could do to undo each button, but somehow she managed, finally rising up on her knees as she undid the last one. He sprang free, rising high and proud, and, holding him gently, she bent forward to drop kisses against the warm skin of his chest. His arm circled her back like a wreath of steel, holding her tight against him.

  "Don't be afraid," he murmured huskily into her hair.

  The huge hardness of him filled her hand. "I'm not afraid, Damon. A little shy, but not afraid. How could I be, when I have wanted this for so long?"

  "Wanted this? Forgive me, Gwyneth . . . my guilt knows no bounds . . . my memories of how I threatened and bullied you still plague me, terribly."

  "Stop torturing yourself," she said. "That is behind us."

  She let her fingers slide into the warm bed of hair from which his erection rose, and then, still exploring, rested them, light as a butterfly, atop the velvety head of his shaft. He groaned softly, and as she raised her head to look at him, she saw that his eyes — diabolical? How had she ever thought them diabolical, they were fascinating and beautiful — had darkened with desire. She gently stroked him, learning the shape of him, the texture, the size. The knowledge that he would soon fill her made her inner regions tingle and ache with longing.

  Her thumb roved over the soft tip until a small drop of moisture wept from it. With gentle fingers, she smeared it over the velvety knob, hearing him catch his breath through gritted teeth. "By God, Gwyneth, you're going to finish this before it's even started if you keep this up."

  "Are you not enjoying it?" she asked, reaching lower to cup and handle his testicles.

  "You seem to know exactly what you're about . . . and here I thought you were an innocent virgin!"

  "Innocence and virginity are two different things." She dragged her fingers back up and traced little circles atop the velvety tip of him until he began to shudder with the effort of holding himself back. "Besides, I have married friends, and they do talk, you know."

  He made a helpless noise, and she positioned herself so that she was crouched down before him, the summer sunlight bathing them both in its warmth, the poppies, thousands of them, blowing in the gentle wind. She rained kisses down his chest, past the faint bruises that still colored his ribs, and down into the wiry soft hair from which his erection sprang. She felt his hands in her hair, gripping it almost savagely, heard the strained inhalations of his breath as he fought to draw air through clenched teeth.

  She held him between her palms and slowly brushed her cheek against each side of him.

  "Gwyneth, that's not a good idea —"

  Smiling, she did it again, and with this pass, used her lips.

  "Gwyneth —"

  She gripped him a third time, and slowly closed her mouth over him.

  He filled her mouth, and she worked him with her tongue, circling the head, first hesitantly, then with increasing boldness. He groaned, and she tasted him, a precursor of all that he was straining to hold back. But she didn't want him to hold back. She pulled him deep into her mouth until the sweat was standing out on his brow and his breathing came harshly through his lungs; he stood this torture for a few more agonizing moments, then, grasping her by the shoulders, he pushed her backward until she lay on the blanket once more, his mouth branding hers and his erection huge and swollen and pressing almost painfully against her belly. His kisses burned her face, her throat, her breasts through the gauzy chemise. Relentlessly, his mouth moved downward, his hands shaping the contour of her ribs, her hips, her thighs, her legs. They settled on her ankles and, skimming her calves and thighs, dragged the hem of the petticoats all the way up to her waist and over her head. Through the light veil of fabric, she saw diffused white sunlight … felt his mouth against the inside of her ankles . . . felt the touch of his tongue, licking, tasting its way back up her leg, warm upon contact, cool and shivery when the air hit each damp spot.

  "Oh, Damon," she said, trembling in delight.

  She reached up to pull the gauzy skirts off of her face so that she could see him, but he caught her hand. "Leave them," he said, his voice low and husky. "It will heighten your pleasure if you can feel, but not see, what I am doing."

  He spoke the truth. She gasped as his mouth grazed her knees now, his tongue swirling around each kneecap, his hand smoothing its way up her thigh and preparing a trail for his mouth. His mouth. She knew what he was going to do to her. She knew, and her body knew, and already it was hot and wet and beginning to tremble violently.

  Biting her lip, her fingers clenching a fold of the blanket, she stared up into nothing through the light material covering her face, feeling his hand moving toward her pelvis, his mouth not far behind it. His lips, teeth, tongue were nibbling the inside of her knee now, the sensitive skin inside her right thigh. Oh. . . She felt his fingers pushing slowly upward, toward the pool of liquid fire that ached for his touch. Oh, God . . . Then he put his hands between her thighs and pushed them gently apart, fully exposing her damp flesh to the cool summer breezes, to his hungry gaze. Her body tensed and she moaned softly, crushing the fold of the blanket in her fist.

  "Damon. . . ." she murmured, aching with need, "must you make me wait so long?"

  "I fear I must, my dear," he murmured. She heard a light snapping noise, and a moment later something ticklish and soft was grazing her feet, ankles, and calves. She tried to clamp her legs shut, but his ruthless hand and one knee held them open.

  "That tickles!"

  "Yes. Again . . . it will heighten the pleasure."

  The feathery tickle was against her kneecap, now.

  Moving higher up her leg.

  "What are you doing?" she gasped, staring up at the sunny whiteness through the veil of fabric.

  "Teasing you."

  "With what?"

  "A poppy," he said, and dragged the fragile blossom along the sensitive inside of her right thigh, over the top of her mound, then down along the inside of her left thigh. Gwyneth made a hitching sob deep in her throat, and her head lashed from side to side beneath the veil of muslin as waves of passion built within her. She felt Damon's hard knee and hand bracing her thighs open, and strained against both. She felt him dragging the poppy back up the inside of her thigh . . . parting the folds of her womanhood with his fingers . . . and flicking the poppy over her own damp flesh, back and forth, side to side, until noises of keening anguish burst from her throat.

  Just when she thought she could stand no more, she felt his big, warm hands sliding beneath her bottom, lifting it, and then the roughness of his jaw against her tender inner thighs as he buried his face between her open legs. His mouth found and fastened upon the swollen bud of her passion, and she bucked upward on a cry of raw ecstasy, her back arched nearly double, the veil of fabric still obscuring him from her view. He drew the hard bud deeply into his mouth, sucking her hard and stroking it roughly, incessantly, with his tongue, until the first violent waves of climax rushed over Gwyneth and she cried out in surprise and pleasure.

  "Oh!" she moaned, but he did not end the sweet torture, only licking harder, holding her wide with his thumbs, and she began to sob as another violent wave of pleasure roared through her, crashing over her with such force that she blacked out for a moment. When she came to, limp and stunned, he was gently pulling the veil of skirts down from her face, gazing down at her with love, hunger, and a look of charming, little-boy devilry.

  "Do forgive me, my dear," he said, innocently. "I could not help myself . . ."

  And as she gazed, panting, up into his shimmering, beautiful eyes, he grinned, and she felt his erection pressing against her belly, heavy with unspent passion.

  "Three times lucky?" he asked, wickedly.

  "I dare you."

  "You should know better," he murmured, raising both brows and gently lowering himself down atop her, supporting his weight with his forearms so as not to crush her. Everything between her legs was still throbbing, and she doubted there was anything left in her. But he proved her wrong. As his mouth, sweet and musky with the scent of her, grazed her jaw, her chin, and finally fastened on her lips, as his hands cupped her breast and pushed it upward so that he might suckle the thrusting, peaked nipple, she felt the fire building inside her once again.