Chapter Four

W estley offered Celandine his hand, and she took it. She would follow him anywhere. Do anything he asked of her.

She allowed him to lead her as he had not long before.

Through the entry hall, up the staircase. This time, he took her to a different bedchamber. It was larger, the bed within dominating one wall. She knew without asking what would happen here. He was going to make her his.

He cupped her face in his hands, looking at her with such love and tenderness that fresh tears rose to her eyes. Not tears of sorrow or mourning, as she had wept so many times before. But tears of true happiness. Tears of joy.

"Don't cry," he said softly. "We're together now, and no one will tear us apart."

"No one," she repeated. "I'm yours, Westley. Always."

"Forever," he vowed.

And then he kissed her again, with every bit as much passionate intensity as the last time. His hands were on her then, gentle and tender, soothing and caressing. Tapes came undone. Her riding habit fell to the floor. She returned the favor, acting instinctively, for she hadn't disrobed a man before. Her fingers found buttons and plucked them free. His waistcoat dropped. He tore his mouth from hers long enough to haul his shirt over his head, and for a moment her eyes feasted on the solid strength of his bare chest before his lips were back on hers.

The rest of their garments fell away. They kissed in a flurry of lips and tongues, their mouths never parting as they moved toward the bed. And then Westley guided her down onto the softness of the mattress and bedclothes. He followed her, his lips chasing hers with another string of deep, intoxicating kisses. With his hands, he worshipped her. Loving passes over her hip, along her waist, over her breasts. It was as if he couldn't touch her enough, as if he needed to feel her everywhere.

And she understood, because she felt the same way, her own hands traveling over the broad plane of his muscled chest, along his shoulders, over his back. She found the queue holding his golden hair away from his face and pulled it free, running her fingers through the thick, silky strands. It was longer than it had been when he left, but she liked the roguish effect—too long for fashion, as if he were some sort of pillaging pirate determined to make her his.

She gasped into his mouth, arching into his touch as his thumb stroked over her nipple, teasing it into a tight, achy point. His lips left hers to trail down her throat, then lower. He nuzzled the curve of her breast and then took the sensitive bud into his mouth, sucking.

"Oh," she gasped out, the sensation so strange, so new.

So wondrous.

He released her nipple, then flicked it with his tongue. "My sweet Celandine. You have no idea how many nights I dreamt of you in my bed. How I ached and burned with longing, knowing you were far from me."

She understood what he meant—the burning, the aching. Because inside her, there was a fire brighter and hotter than any she'd ever known. She brushed a rakish tendril of hair from his brow, her love for him so magnificent and all-consuming that she could scarcely speak.

"Please," was all she managed.

A plea for him to continue. To take her. To unite them in body and soul.

He kissed his way back to her mouth, and then sealed their lips, giving her the sinuous glide of his tongue. Molten heat poured through her, settling between her thighs, where she burned hotter still.

He had settled between her parted legs, but he had not fully pressed his naked body to hers. He did so now, and she knew the glide of his thickness over her most tender intimate flesh. He groaned into her mouth, rocking his body into hers. His erection was stiff and insistent against her, sliding through the wetness between her legs that seemed to somehow be caused by everything Westley was doing to her. It was as if her body had been fashioned for his, for this moment, this joining.

He reached between them, leveraging himself on one forearm as his lips moved over hers, his fingers dipping to unerringly find the hidden knot of pleasure within her folds. Bliss streaked through her, so sudden and shocking that she cried out, bowing from the bed, seeking more.

Westley kissed her harder, giving her what she wanted, more pressure, faster strokes, his tongue inside her mouth, the weight of his body, welcomed and strong and so very alive. She was still reeling from the realization her Westley wasn't lost to her forever, the press of his masculine flesh against hers a miracle that her mind couldn't seem to make sense of, even as the rest of her knew. Instinct took over. Instead of thinking, she felt.

Felt everything inside her lighting up at his knowing touch. Felt his fingers working her, stimulating her, driving her to an exquisite edge of something wicked. She flew apart with a gasp he swallowed with his kiss. Pleasure burst over her, sharp and delicious, wave after wave, beginning in her core and radiating outward. Celandine clutched him to her, reveling in the heated strength of his arms, his broad shoulders.

Her beautiful Westley, alive.

Here with her.

His lips left hers, and he dusted worshipful kisses over her cheekbone, to her ear. "I need you, my love."

She ran her fingers through his hair, down his back. "Yes. I need you, too."

A new sensation then. His fingers left her aching bud, and the thick, rigid length of him passed up and down her folds. Once, twice. The intimacy of the act might have embarrassed her were she not so desperate for more of the sensations he'd already visited upon her. What a wanton she was, her hips chasing his touch, an aching hollow deep inside her that could only be filled in one way. But she didn't care. Her body was his just as her heart was. She'd been his when she had thought him gone, and she was his now that he had returned to her.

He guided himself to her entrance, lifting his head to stare down at her with a pained expression, the cords in his neck taut and pronounced.

"It was my intention to wait until we were wed, but I can't wait another second," he rasped.

"I don't want you to wait." She took his face in her hands, letting him see all the unfettered love burning inside her, buried for so many agonizing months by grief. "Make me yours, Westley."

He smiled tenderly. "If it pleases my lady."

Those words, always his for her. Once, they had been teasing. Flirtatious. Now, they held so much more meaning. They were the words that had brought him back to her.

"Nothing would please your lady more," she murmured.

He lowered his mouth, covering hers in a kiss that was passionate and deep. And as he kissed her, he shifted, the movement increasing the pressure at her entrance. Her body tensed at the unfamiliar invasion, expected and yet wholly unlike anything she'd ever felt before.

"Let me in," he whispered against her lips.

She took a slow breath, filling her lungs with his beloved scent as she twined her arms around his neck. He kissed her again, rocking against her, and the sensation grew as he slowly, slowly sank inside her. Another gasp stole from her, and he claimed it as he claimed her, mouth feasting on hers, his rigid length fitting somehow deeper, finding a place that was acutely sensitive. A place where he alone belonged. She clung to him, a feverish need taking over her.

She felt exquisitely aware of everything—his breathing, his movements, the rhythmic thrusting taking her away from the initial pain and into the dizzying heights of pleasure again. It was too much, a myriad of sensations more profound than she could have imagined, and at the center of it all was the man she loved, his body atop hers, inside her, until finally his cock was moving swiftly in and out of her, sped by the wetness between her legs, by her frenzied need and the ever-tightening knot of pleasure threatening to break again.

Celandine felt the moment that he lost control, surrendering himself to the same desire that had her hips pumping in rhythmic time to his thrusts as she chased more of the pleasure he'd given her. He moved faster, the muscles in his back tensing under her questing fingertips. One more stroke of his shaft inside her, and she shattered again.

With a groan, he moved inside her. Faster, faster, and she was mindless now, her body aflame. There was no Westley and no Celandine. They were joined, hearts beating frantically as one, skin slick with perspiration. Her inner walls tightened around him, clinging to him, wringing every last drop of pleasure she could. He stiffened, thrusting into her one last time as he tore his mouth from hers and buried his face against her throat. A rush of warm wetness pulsed within her.

Celandine held him tightly, her breathing ragged, her body worn and weary and yet deliciously sated. The day had begun in misery, but now she had a reason to hope.

Her beloved Westley had returned from the dead. This time, she wouldn't let him go.