"I love you, my dearest Gwyneth," he murmured against the soft flesh of her breast, against her madly thudding heart. "You have made me a very happy man."

  She felt him probing her entrance, but she was so slick with moisture that, despite his size and her own tightness, she felt no pain, only firm, delicious, stretching pressure as he entered her. He paused just inside her and cradled her face within his hands, kissing her brow, her eyelids, her cheekbones.

  "I promised to be gentle," he said hoarsely, searching her gaze, "but there is one pain from which I cannot spare you."

  "Do it," she gasped, swept up in a fire of her own.

  He lowered his head, claimed her mouth, and thrust himself inside her. She felt a brief pain, a sharp tearing of virginity, then it was over, gone, behind her, and he was surging fully into her, filling her passage, expanding it to almost unbearable exquisiteness as he moved deeper and deeper inside of her.

  This was heaven. This, with the blue sky above, the wind coasting over their hot bodies, the sunlight warming their skin, and the forest of poppies and thistles whispering and nodding all around, this, with Damon making love to her — this, this was heaven at last.

  He partially withdrew, eased himself gently back into her, once, twice, over and over again . . . and began to pick up the pace. Her breathing grew heavy. His mouth grew harder, more demanding on her own. Her legs came up to wind around his driving hips and her own passion built as she matched his quickening rhythm, harder, faster, until finally he raised his head on a guttural cry and with a deep shudder, found his own release. As his hot seed filled her, a third, crashing explosion rocked through her, and she cried out and clung to him, sobbing with the sweet anguish of it all.

  It was a long time before their shudders quieted and she once again heard the distant birds, the wind through the poppies. They lay together for a long time, skin to skin, just holding each other. To Gwyneth, it felt as though she were home at last, and this wonderful, windswept place was the one that had waited for her forever.

  Eventually, the marquess raised his head and looked down at her, his iridescent eyes burning with a love so fierce it pierced right through to her heart.

  "That surprise I have for you," he murmured, and stretching, reached for the lunch basket.

  Still clinging to him, she turned her head on the blanket and watched as he withdrew a small, silk-wrapped bundle. And as the wrappings fell away, he held up a magnificent ring, a ruby framed in diamonds which winked in the sun and shot prisms of fire into her eyes.

  "For you," he said simply. "The future Marchioness of Morninghall."

  Chapter 25

  Damon was not a patient man. He obtained a special license from the archbishop, and two weeks later, in a small, private ceremony within the splendor of Morninghall's own chapel, married the love of his life. It was a beautiful, almost divine affair, with morning light shining through the chapel's ancient panes of stained glass, and only Rhiannon, Sophie, the loyal Britwell, and the great house's staff witnessed the solemn event.

  For Gwyneth, the day passed in a blur. Great tables laid with food were set up on the lawns outside, the neighboring villagers were invited, and the dancing and feasting lasted far into the night. If she did not notice that the staff at Morninghall were gradually warming to their long-absent master, she could not be faulted for it. If she did not notice her sister's cat-in-the-cream smile, it was only because she was wearing one herself. Indeed, the day passed too quickly to recall much of it afterward, but her proud new husband made sure the wedding night that followed was one she would never forget. When at last Gwyneth fell into an exhausted slumber some time in the wee hours of the morning, she felt as though he had left no inch of her body unloved.

  The following day dawned dull and wet. They awoke late and lay long abed, snuggled together beneath the covers and listening to the rain falling outside until at last their growling stomachs demanded attention. Breakfast was brought to them by a blushing maid — a tray of tea, toast, and marmalade which they ate while sitting together on the window seat, the misty, rolling countryside spread before them. Afterward, when the pot of tea was empty and nothing but crumbs lay on the silver plate, Gwyneth lay back against Damon's chest and luxuriated in the feel of his arms wrapped securely around her, his chin resting atop her head. Together they watched the rain streaming down the pane just outside.

  Their first day of marital bliss, however, was destined for interruption. As Gwyneth nestled snugly in her husband's embrace, she became aware of distant hoofbeats. She didn't think much of it until the sound grew louder and a horse and rider burst through the long alley of trees, moving steadily toward the house.

  The rider wore a naval uniform.

  "Bloody hell," Damon swore, tightening his arms around Gwyneth.

  "Shall we go downstairs?"

  "We'll go down when we're damn good and ready," he growled and, kissing the skin just behind her ear, gently pushed her down on the velvet cushions.

  ~~~~

  Dressed in a loose, white shirt tucked into snug-fitting breeches, the Marquess of Morninghall met Britwell at the foot of the stairs and strode into the library just over an hour later. His features were schooled to chilling calm, his manner aloof and relaxed, but inside, he was fuming. How dare they interrupt only a day after his wedding! How dare they trouble him in a place where he finally had found peace and refuge! Damn their eyes, every last bloody one of them!

  The messenger was sitting in a chair near the fire, trying to dry his clothing and staring up in awe at the magnificent paintings that looked down at him from their lordly heights. By the look on his face, it was obvious he'd never seen such wealth and opulence and was more than a little overwhelmed by it all. As Damon entered the room, he lunged to his feet, saluted, and offered a missive. Impatiently, Damon snatched it from his hand.

  "I understand congratulations are in order, my lord," the lad gushed, as Damon ripped the seal open, his brow darkening as he read. "And I trust you're recovering well from your recent injuries —"

  Damon's withering glare instantly quieted him and he fell silent, hands clasped behind his back and eyes downcast.

  The contents were as Damon expected.

  We are given to understand that you have sufficiently recovered from your recent injuries; therefore, we have deemed you fit to command and order you to return to Portsmouth immediately.

  It was signed simply, "Bolton."

  That was it then. Nothing about the Admiralty's decision regarding his competency to command a prison hulk, nothing about the state of affairs on board Surrey, nothing but a cold order to return to Portsmouth, now. Damon clenched his jaw, his fists, his muscles. A familiar coil of rage started to build within his chest, but then Gwyneth was there, her hand on his shoulder, and instantly, the rage went away.

  "As bad as you thought?" she asked, gently.

  "Worse."

  He shouldn't have expected they'd let him stay up here forever — away from the prisoners of war, away from the petty hatreds and jealousies of his superiors, away from the navy he so detested. He shouldn't have expected they would have relieved him of his duties. After all, he was a marquess — they wouldn't dare. How he hated the irony of it! Well, it was about time to pull rank. He'd just return to Portsmouth and tender his resignation. After all, there was no reason he couldn't stay up here forever — the decision was his, really.

  His eyes resolute, he went to his desk. There he penned a quick note to Bolton, folded, and sealed it. The waiting messenger looked at him, fearfully. "Stay and warm yourself by the fire," Damon said, handing the note to the lad, "and I'll have Britwell bring you some lunch to sustain you before you go."

  He took Gwyneth's arm and led her from the library, never hearing the messenger's words of gratitude.

  "Let me guess," she said, looking up at his face as they walked down the long corridor. "You have to go back to Portsmouth."

  "Yes. I should've known they weren't through with me yet."

  "Will you be long?"

  "No. I'll hand in my resignation as I ought to have done years ago, tie up some loose ends, and return to you just as soon as I am able."

  "Why Damon! You speak as though you plan to go alone."

  "Of course."

  She playfully swatted his shoulder. "Think again, dearest husband. I'm going with you."

  ~~~~

  The journey seemed to take forever. With the Marquess and Marchioness of Morninghall traveling in the long-unused but freshly polished family coach and Rhiannon, Sophie, and Mattie in another that followed behind, they made the slow trip south to the coast. The rain that had started the morning after the wedding continued for several days, and the roads were rutted and muddy all the way to Portsmouth. Certainly the rain did nothing to lift spirits that were already low, and try as she might, Gwyneth could not coax her new lord out of his brooding, melancholy mood.

  She couldn't tell whether he was furious about having his honeymoon interrupted, annoyed about having to return to an environment he plainly hated, or was just wrestling with something private and deep — indeed, she suspected it was a combination of all three, with heavy emphasis on the latter. She could not help but notice the preoccupied, faraway look in his eyes, the lines of tension around his mouth, and last night, as they'd crawled into their bed at a roadside coaching inn, she'd gently asked him what was troubling him so.

  "The Black Wolf," was all he'd said, and all he would say, surprising Gwyneth with the admission. Why on earth was he thinking about the mysterious rescuer, of all things? Perhaps it was due to their growing proximity to Portsmouth. He was probably not looking forward to being reminded of the embarrassment the Black Wolf had caused him. Obviously, it was a sore subject with him, and out of respect for his feelings, Gwyneth decided to say no more about the Black Wolf.

  She could not, of course, know that her husband was wrestling with his own conscience, and wanted nothing more than to talk to her about it.

  The time just wasn't right.

  ~~~~

  They arrived in Portsmouth on a dismal, rainy afternoon which hung a ragged cloak of fog and mist over the old city. Damon had the coach brought round to Gwyneth's rented house, where he saw the women safely inside, and then, promising to return to them that evening, he made his way back toward the harborfront to start taking care of those "loose ends."

  He stopped at Bolton's office first, and found the admiral out for the afternoon. But there was a sealed envelope for him, and in it were Bolton's orders forbidding him to take any prisoner away from the prison hulk — not even the thirteen-year-old American lad, whom he'd heard all about from "certain parties." Fuming, Damon climbed back into the coach and ordered the driver to take him to the docks. Shortly afterward he was in a boat and on his way out to HMS Surrey.

  Wrapped in a cloak against the weather, he sat on the damp seat, quietly watching the old ship rearing up out of the fog like a long-forgotten ghost. He wasn't sure what he had expected to feel at his first sight of it after all that had come to pass. Surprisingly he felt no tension or fear, despite that last memory of the prisoners charging into his cabin and bringing him down with their blows. Certainly there was no nostalgia, and the only emotion that stirred his breast was a heavy sense of despair, for he knew that no matter what he did, no matter how he had tried to help the poor unfortunates aboard the hulk, it would never be enough. The suffering would end only when the war did. It was a sad and simple truth.

  Radley met him on deck, his eyes full of contempt and dislike. He did not inquire after Damon's health and Damon, acknowledging him with a cold nod, did not volunteer any information. He merely strode past the assembled marines and crew to his cabin and shut the door.

  He stood there in the quiet room, the rain trickling down the windows. There was his bed, neatly made up as though he had left it just this morning. There was the window through which Gwyneth had hurled the oar, now repaired and spattered with rain. And there was the spot on the deck where the prisoners had brought him down, the little knothole in the wood against which his face had been pressed as they'd beat him, kicked him, slammed his skull over and over until all had gone hazy, then gray, then mercifully black.

  He sat down in his swivel chair and looked pensively at the spot. He looked at it and felt no fear, none at all. Nothing, in fact, but a strange, restless emptiness.

  I don't belong here. I never did. I just want to finish what I must and go home.

  And home was with Gwyneth.

  There was a rap on the door. "Damon?"

  "Ah, Peter! Come in."

  The door swung open, and the chaplain stood there. He looked at Damon for a long moment, his eyes strangely moist. "She did it, then," he murmured, looking Damon up and down as though he were Lazarus raised from the grave. Then he broke into a wide, uncontainable grin. "As God is my witness, she did it!"

  Damon grinned sheepishly. "Don't tell me you're actually as surprised as you sound?"

  "My friend, if you could've seen yourself as I did, as others did . . . you were not expected to survive. The fact that you're standing here before me is nothing short of a miracle. But, as grave as your condition was, both the admiral and I knew that if anyone could save you, it was Lady Simms." He shut the door, shaking his head. "I do hope you've shown her suitable gratitude for her efforts!"

  "If making her my marchioness displays suitable gratitude, then yes, I have paid my debts."

  "You didn't!"

  "I damn well did," Damon said, proudly as Peter's jaw fell open in stunned disbelief. "In fact, Lady Morninghall is here in Portsmouth with me, and you may even ask her yourself."

  "Tell me you did it for love," Peter said, frowning, "or I shall never forgive you, Damon!"

  "What sort of man do you think I am? Of course I did it for love. Surely, you don't think I did it merely out of a sense of gratitude for saving my worthless life, do you? The way I'd been feeling, I would've thanked her more if she'd simply stuck a knife in my heart and expedited my end!"

  Such a declaration did much to set Peter's mind at rest. Shaking his head, he folded his arms and fell grinning into a chair. "Forgive me, Damon. This is all a bit of a shock, you must realize. Though I must say marriage agrees with you. You seem remarkably changed. Calm. Happy. Relaxed."

  "I feel it," Damon said, moving to the wine cupboard and retrieving a bottle of port. He uncorked the bottle and poured them each a glass, handing the first to the chaplain. "I know it sounds addled, but she's changed my life, Peter. I've been separated from her for only an hour and already I miss her."

  The chaplain regarded his glass, a little smirk playing about his mouth. "Ah, but do you miss your Peterson's as well?"

  "Sorry?"

  "Your Peterson's. It's still on the table there. You mean you haven't been lost without it?"

  Damon turned to stare at the big book, which he had once consulted as regularly as Peter did his Bible. "Actually, come to think about it, I haven't. Perhaps being so close to death robs you of the fear of it. Especially when you realize that such fear is wasted when you're as healthy as I suspect I've probably been all along. Though I did wonder about those heart attacks . . ."

  "Nerves, Damon. Nerves. How many times do I have to tell you that?"

  "Yes." He gave a cryptic smile. "I suppose you were right."

  A long moment passed between them. From beyond the door and bulkheads came the sounds of the prison ship, the "all's well" of the guards, the cry of a gull outside.

  At length, Peter said, "I have some news too." He took another sip of port and stretched his feet out before him, a little smile playing across his mouth as he studied his shoes. "You're not the only one to, uh, deserve congratulations. I asked Orla O'Shaughnessy to become my wife."

  "Orla O'Shaughnessy? A former pirate?" Damon laughed and reached over to refill Peter's glass. "Well, what did she say, man?"

  The chaplain slanted him a sideways grin. "She agreed."

  "Congratulations," Damon said, warmly, and shook Peter's hand. "She'll make you a wonderful bride, though your gain will certainly be Connor's loss!"

  Peter sobered. "That reminds me, Damon. About our . . . activities. I think they should stop. Radley has become suspicious, and I fear he may have planted spies among the guards on this ship."

  "Radley has always been suspicious." Damon lifted his glass and studied the depths of his wine. "And I agree with you wholeheartedly, Peter, the activities must stop, but there is still young Toby Ashton to consider. I assume he's still aboard?"

  "Yes, but his health is fragile, Damon. Connor tried to get him off, but . . ."

  "But what?"

  "He failed. Foyle spotted the airhole we'd cut in the barrel for Toby to breathe through as it was being lifted off the ship. Connor barely escaped with his life."

  Damon, alarmed, put his glass down. "Is the boy all right?"

  "For the moment. He's developed a cough and cannot maintain a decent weight. I'm worried about him, Damon. Clayton's been keeping him out of the way, but if Radley or Foyle finds out the boy's getting special treatment, they'll not go easy on either of them."

  "Then they must not find out." Damon got to his feet and moved silently to the windows. For a long moment he stood looking out over the gray harbor, watching the swells parade beneath the rudder, the mists drifting over the water. At last, he turned and met Peter's gaze. "That does it, then. We will take young Toby off tonight. Send word to Connor."

  "I beg of you, Damon, don't. It's too dangerous —"

  "It has always been dangerous, Peter. If there are spies, I dare not bribe the guards, and there is no other way. Besides, I've had enough of this ship, enough of this navy, and enough of trying to make my way in a system I was never meant to inhabit. Tomorrow I hand in my resignation to Bolton. By teatime I shall be on my way back home. Therefore, it must be done tonight."