Gabrielle grinned reluctantly and held up her hands. "Kick it for me. will you?"
He pulled her up, laughing. "I might stub my toe if it's as vicious as you say."
"Such chivalry!" She held him at arm's length, examining him with her crooked smile. "I suppose I'll become accustomed to the beard, and the silver hair is tres distingue."
"It's only temporary." He subjected her to his own assessing scrutiny. "You look well. But thinner."
"Pining will do that," she said, still smiling.
"Have you been?"
"Pining? Oh, yes."
"So have I."
They stood for a minute in silence, still holding themselves away from each other, almost as if they wereafraid to move closer, as if the other would prove to be only the dream phantom of the long, lonely nights of the past two months.
Then Nathaniel said softly, "Come here." He pulled her in toward him and she came with playful reluctance. He pushed off the hood of her cloak and ran his hands through the silky dark red mane, drawing it forward over her shoulders.
"Whenever I've tried to remember the color of your hair, I haven't been able to," he mused, frowning as he stroked it. "It changes color according to the light. Here, for instance, under the moonlight, it's like a charcoal brazier, all glowing embers. But when we go under the trees, it'll be almost as dark as the night. And in the sunlight it flames so that sometimes it looks too hot to touch."
Gabrielle chuckled. "It goes with my temper, I'm afraid."
"So they say." He traced her mouth with his finger. "But yours is no worse than mine, and I've no hint of the devil's color in my hair."
"Nathaniel, I don't mean to be importunate, but how long must we continue this conversation," she said, the mock-plaintive tone doing little to disguise the husky throb in her voice. "We started something earlier, and I'd dearly like to finish it."
"Postponing gratification is good for the soul, they say," he murmured mischievously, trailing his finger along the curve of her cheek.
"To the devil with my soul," Gabrielle declared. "My body is already on fire, so my soul might as well join it."
"In that case…" Taking her hand, he led her through the veiling fronds of the willow tree. "My parlor, madame. I trust you find it to your satisfaction."
"Quite frankly, I'd find the open road to my satisfaction at this point," she said, flinging off her cloak before slipping her arms around his neck, reaching against him.
"I am possessed with the most violent need, my love," she whispered, all teasing abruptly vanished beneath the urgency of her demand. Her hands ran over his back, remembering every curve, every muscular ripple, every knob of his spine. Her eyes closed and the scent of his skin and hair filled the air around her. She inhaled greedily, her lips parting as he kissed her, gently at first, as if he wanted to rediscover her taste and the wonderful feel of her mouth.
Her breasts pressed against his chest, and his hands moved to cup her bottom. The firm, rounded flesh was warm against his hands, and he realized with a shock of amusement and delight that she wore no underclothes beneath the fine muslin gown.
He drew back, taking a deep, steadying breath. "Wanton brigand," he said with soft satisfaction. Obeying the peremptory hand on her shoulder, she sank down on the cloak he'd spread earlier, her hands reaching for him impatiently.
He dropped to his knees beside her, and without preliminary drew her skirt up to her waist. Her tongue touched her lips as the cool night air laved her bared belly and thighs.
Her thighs parted for him as he unfastened his britches and pushed them off his hips. Her hips lifted to meet him as he lowered himself upon her. He entered her, penetrating to her very self in one deep thrust. It was the culmination of their passion on the terrace and the long, tantalizing hours of anticipation ever since. A rich liquid fullness spread through her loins, her inner muscles contracted around him, and she was instantly lost in an explosion of joy that sent her spinning into the star-filled night.
The piercing descant of a nightingale brought them back to an awareness of their surroundings. Nathaniel hitched himself on one elbow and smiled down at her transported countenance.
"I do believe I've just made love n my boots." he said with an exhausted chuckle. "I've never done that before."
Gabrielle was too spent to do more than stroke his face with a languid hand, brushing back the lock of hair that flopped damply onto his forehead.
Slowly, he caressed the length of her exposed thighs, his fingers playing in the curly tangle at the base of her belly, moving over the mound beneath, taking his time now that the desperate urgency of lust had been slaked.
"Don't do this," she pleaded weakly. "I am already dissolved."
"But I want to," he said simply. He placed his hand over the moist, pulsing warmth of her core and bent to kiss her belly, tickling his tongue into her navel. His breath whispered over the taut skin of her abdomen and his hand seared her.
"Please," she whispered, uncertain what she was asking for as, despite dissolution, she lifted and twisted on the cloak beneath the devastating power of his touch. And when his mouth replaced his hand, her little sobbing cries filled the dim green grotto beneath the willow as the rapturous tide swept her yet again into momentary oblivion.
"Cruel," she gasped when she could find breath. "When you knew I couldn't bear any more."
"But you did," he said, kneeling astride her again. "It's what happens to wanton brigands who roam the countryside at night without any underclothes."
Gabrielle's chuckle was more of a groan. "I thought they might get in the way."
"Such a hurry you were in," he reproved, tracing the curve of one breast beneath the muslin.
"That was your fault for starting something on the terrace and not finishing it," she retorted.
"I suppose I have an irrational desire to keep my head on my shoulders," he responded, flicking the dark smudge of her nipple until it rose against the bodice of her dress. "Even under the influence of near ungovernable lust."
"What are you doing with the Russians anyway? It seems madness." She tried to marshal her thoughts for a coherent conversation but sensed that the reprieve was going to be short-lived.
"Someone needs to eavesdrop on these negotiations," he told her blandly, transferring his attentions to the other breast. "And I have the best cover of anyone. It took a lot of work developing it, so whenever there's a particularly delicate job to be done among the Russians, I usually do it myself."
"But it's so dangerous." Her hand clasped his wrist, whether to stop his caresses or to encourage them, she didn't know. It didn't much matter anyway, since Nathaniel shook off her hold and continued regardless.
"Spying generally is," he reminded her evenly. "And what are you doing here?"
"Acting as my godfather's hostess," she said.
"And what else?" His hand ceased its delicate maneuvers and he grasped both her wrists strongly, his eyes seeming to run her through as he knelt over her.
"Let's have it in the open, Gabrielle. If you're involved in espionage, then we can have nothing more to do with each other after tonight. It should never have happened. I swore it never would again, but I seem to be in the grip of some madness when I'm with you."
His hold on her wrists tightened almost painfully and the glitter in his dark eyes intensified. "It won't happen again, Gabrielle. It can't. We say good-bye now."
"I'm not involved in anything," she said. "Talleyrand needs a hostess and I'm better at it than his wife."
"And Fouche?"