Keane sprinted after Poppy, jumping over the stray articles of clothing that she’d dropped in his path. A slipper at one bend, a stocking in another, till he reached a puddle of her cast-off clothes on the beach.
She was standing in the surf, waist-deep in the gently lapping waves, her long auburn curls fluttering around her shoulders as if she’d walked straight out of a Botticelli painting. Moonlight limned the curves of her face and body, giving her an angelic glow completely at odds with the devilish gleam in her eyes. “I thought you’d never arrive,” she teased.
He almost tripped over his own legs in his haste to pull off his boots. While he dispensed with his trousers and shirt, he kept his gaze fixed on her, fearing that if he looked away, she’d vanish like an apparition.
But she floated on her back as she waited for him. Her sultry laughter carried in the evening breeze, guiding him to her like a siren’s call. He waded into the water, dove beneath a breaking wave, and surfaced right in front of her.
She gasped in surprise, then stood and placed her palms flat on his chest. “Your time on the beach has changed you,” she mused. “You’re practically a merman. Indeed, all you’re missing is a trident.”
“I have changed since I came here, and in more ways than you think.” He slid his hands around her waist, pulling her close. “I’m going to prove it to you, Poppy.”
“You realize this is madness,” she rasped.
He shook his head, sending droplets flying. “Madness would be letting you slip away.”
They collided in a kiss that was primal and fierce, timeless and true. The seawater swirling around them had felt cool only moments before; now, their passion burned hot enough to warm the entire ocean.
She wrapped her lithe legs around his hips and pressed her full breasts to his torso. He grasped her bottom, rocking against her till they were both breathless with desire. Till they both writhed with need.
“I want you, Keane,” she said. “Before you go, I want all of you.”
“I want you, too,” he murmured against her salty skin. “And not just for tonight.”
She froze briefly, then relaxed. “Let’s treasure this—however long or short it may be.” There was a thread of doubt in her voice that niggled at the back of his brain, but now didn’t seem the proper time to dwell on it.
So he scooped her into his arms, spun her around, and carried her toward the shore. She playfully kicked, spraying an arc of water droplets over their heads. Her laughter seeped beneath his skin, making him hopeful. Making him whole.
Once they were back on the beach, he carefully deposited her on a smooth rock, and she wrapped her arms around her body, shivering. “Here,” he said, handing her the shirt he’d discarded in the sand. “Put this on.”
She shot him a grateful smile as she stuffed her arms into the sleeves.
“Do you want to go back to the shelter?” he asked.
“I think we should stay here.” She tipped her face to the starlit sky. “In our cove.”
Maybe it was the way she’d said our, or the way she looked wearing nothing but his shirt, or both, but his chest felt like it could burst. “I’ll run back to the shelter to fetch some towels and a quilt. Will you be all right here for a couple of minutes?”
“I shall be fine,” she assured him with a saucy smile. “I don’t anticipate any more strange men will be washing ashore.”
“If one does, I doubt he’ll be as handsome as me.” He held his arms akimbo and made a slow turn, giving her one last eyeful before he strode toward the path.
“Perhaps not,” she called after him. “But there’s every likelihood he’ll be more humble.”
True to his word, Keane returned to the beach a few minutes later wearing a towel around his waist and carrying a heap of supplies: another towel, two thick quilts, a lantern, the basket she’d brought filled with his dinner, and a bottle of wine. While Poppy dried off, he spread one of the quilts on the sand, wisely choosing a nook near the base of the cliffs that would protect them from the wind and afford them privacy.
They sank onto the quilt, and he pulled her close, planting a kiss on her shoulder. “Have I mentioned how much I adore the sight of you wearing my shirt?”
“I don’t recall you mentioning it,” she said, a bit breathless.
“Allow me to rectify the situation.” He cleared his throat, indicating the import of what he was about to say. “Imagine a gown made by the most sought-after modiste in all of Paris.”
“Very well,” she said, indulging him.
“This gown is her greatest masterpiece,” he continued dramatically. “Her finest creation.”
Poppy smiled. “It sounds quite lovely.”
“No doubt about it,” he agreed. “What color do you think it is?”
She shrugged. “How should I know?”
“I asked you to imagine it.” He clucked his tongue, feigning disappointment. “I did not think this would prove so difficult.”
“Blue,” she said, playing along. “The gown is blue.”
He nodded approvingly. “The modiste has decided that you are the only woman in England who is beautiful enough to wear the gown, and she gives it to you.”
“I am honored,” Poppy said. “Will she mind if I wear it to the beach?”
“Not in the least,” he said. “In fact, she requests that you pose for a portrait in the dress. Right here. With the sea behind you and moonlight shining on your hair.”
“I suppose it’s the least I can do.”
“She hires the most talented artist in all of Europe to paint you in that gown, and when he finally sets down his brush, he hurls himself into the sea.”
“Seems a bit dramatic.”
“Not at all,” Keane said soberly. “You see, he knows he shall never create anything so lovely ever again.”
She scooted closer to him, touching the tip of her nose to his. “What does this have to do with your shirt?”
“I’m glad you asked,” he said smugly. “The modiste offers me the portrait, and I, of course, am very keen to have it. It’s worth thousands of pounds, after all. But there is a catch.”
“Oh?”
“If I want to keep the portrait, I must agree to allow a witch to erase a memory from my mind.”
She arched a sardonic brow. “The story has taken quite the turn.”
“Mmm,” he murmured dramatically. “Indeed. Because the memory the witch intends to erase is the one we’re making right now. The vision of you, with your hair loose around your shoulders, wearing my shirt.”
“I begin to understand your dilemma,” she quipped, though it was difficult to follow the thread of the story when he was sitting so close and wearing nothing more than a towel. “It seems you have a difficult decision to make.”
“It’s the easiest choice I shall ever make,” he said solemnly. “I choose this moment. I’d choose it over a hundred portraits, over a thousand other happy memories. I choose now … with you.”
“I choose you, too,” she breathed. “I choose this night. To be the memory I keep with me always.”
His forehead creased so briefly she might have imagined it. “We’re going to make plenty more memories, Poppy.”
“Perhaps.” She wished that she could be as confident as Keane, that she held the same unshakable conviction that their connection was strong enough to withstand the forces conspiring to pull them apart. But those forces had ravaged her family, devastating them at their most vulnerable moment.
“How can I make you believe?” he rasped.
“Give me time.” She brushed her lips across his. “But first, give me tonight.”
“That, I can do.” He cradled her head in his palm and slanted his mouth across hers.
She closed her eyes and forgot about everything but the way Keane made her feel. The steady pressure of his fingers on her skin. The subtle warmth of his breath on her cheek. The deep timbre of his voice thrumming through her limbs.
This was a slice of paradise, a taste of happiness. And she intended to savor every moment.
She ran her hands over the chiseled contours of his face and torso, reveling in the contrasts—from the abrasive stubble on his jaw to the peach-like fuzz below his navel. His body, so different from her own, seemed to have been made just for her.
His hand slipped beneath the hem of the shirt she wore, then cruised over her hip and up her side, lightly stroking her rib cage. The tips of her breasts tightened, and when she leaned into his open palms, he growled approvingly.
They stretched out on the quilt and removed the last remaining barriers between them—her shirt, his towel. And they set about the infinitely pleasurable task of exploring each other.
He traced a fingertip around the pale birthmark on her belly; she brushed her lips across a pink scar on his chest. He nibbled on her earlobe; she gave the taut muscles of his backside a playful smack.
So much of this was new to her, and yet, she was not nervous in the slightest. She trusted Keane to respect her. Knew he’d be a generous lover—and she was right. He ran his hands over her body, lingering in the most sensitive areas: the crook of her neck, the base of her spine, the arches of her feet.
And he kissed her everywhere. She loved the rasp of his tongue and the way his damp hair tickled her skin. She loved the moans that escaped his throat as she stroked the hard, thick length of his arousal. But most of all, she loved having him all to herself.
He rolled on top of her, ravaging her mouth and rocking his hips against hers until they were both gasping with longing. Aching for more.
She reached between them, guiding him to her entrance, and he touched his forehead to hers. “You’re everything I want, Poppy.”
She wrapped her legs around his thighs and arched toward him. “I’m yours,” she breathed. “For tonight, I’m yours.”
He gazed into her eyes as he eased inside her, searching her face for any sign of pain. “Are you all right?”
“Yes.” She speared her fingers through his hair. “This feels like…”
He froze mid-thrust and shot her a knee-melting grin. “What does it feel like?”
Honestly, it felt like a promise. A sacred, solemn promise. But she couldn’t say the words aloud in case it proved to be a promise that she couldn’t keep.
So she told him a slightly different version of the truth. “This feels like it was meant to be.” Even if it can’t be forever.
They moved together, faster, harder, till she could think of nothing but the insistent pulsing between her legs and the potent desire spiraling inside her.
“You’re right,” he murmured in her ear without breaking stride. “This is meant to be. Don’t fight it anymore. Come with me, Poppy … now.”
Before the plea had even left his lips, her body began to unfurl. Pleasure beckoned, and Keane pushed her along, nudging her closer and closer to release—until her body surrendered to the bliss. Her cries mingled with the roar of the ocean and her climax rolled through her like thunder. Distant at first, then turning powerful, almost deafening in its intensity. It overtook her, lighting up every nerve, from the roots of her hair to the tips of her toes, before slowly, sweetly receding.
But Keane was still with her, and just as she started to catch her breath, he closed his eyes and groaned—reigniting the embers of pleasure still glowing inside her. This time, they found their release together, and hers was all the sweeter for it.
But at the last minute, he pulled back and rolled over, panting as he spent himself on the sand. She placed a palm on his back and felt his muscles tense for several seconds before they relaxed. When he faced her again, his gaze was soft and sated.
“I thought it best,” he said, gesturing over his shoulder.
“Yes.” She nodded, emphatic. “We probably should have discussed that beforehand.”
“There could still be a babe,” he said slowly.
She lay back, gazed up at the stars, and allowed herself to ponder the possibility for approximately six seconds. A baby. With Keane. Her heart broke into an unexpected, joyful dance.
Which she promptly interrupted by shaking her head. “No, the timing works in our favor.”
With a winsome smile, he leaned forward, kissed her on the nose, and pulled the spare quilt on top of them. She nestled her head against his chest and listened to the waves crashing on the shore while he trailed his fingers up and down her back.
Her eyelids were growing heavy when she heard him whisper in her ear. “I know our deal is officially over. You’ve met your obligations and I’ve met mine.”
She frowned and lifted her chin. “Why do you mention it now?”
“Because I have a favor to ask,” he said soberly. “Even though you owe me nothing, I was hoping that you would grant me one last question tonight.”
“Oh,” she said with a smile. “I suppose that is the least I could do. What would you like to ask, Your Grace?”
“It’s a simple question.” He brushed the pad of his thumb over her lower lip. “Could you ever love someone like me?”
She swallowed hard. “If you’d asked me a month ago, I would have said no, without hesitation. Now … I’m not so certain.”
He stroked his chin, thoughtful. “So your answer is maybe?”
“I won’t deny you’ve changed me, Keane. I’d hazard to guess that I’ve changed you, too. But we’re each still the same at our core. I don’t know if small changes around the edges will be enough. That’s why I can’t give you a resounding yes, and it’s why my answer is maybe.”
He sighed contentedly. “It’s not precisely what I wanted to hear, but even you must admit that this is progress.”
“Infinitesimal perhaps, but I suppose it is.” She sniffled and surreptitiously swiped away a tear.
“Never underestimate the power of incremental change.” He propped himself on an elbow, glanced around, and reached for something in the sand behind him. “Do you know where this came from?”
“It’s a bit of sea glass.” She ran the pad of her thumb over the smooth frosted green stone, remarkably similar to the color of his eyes. “Probably from an old whiskey bottle. Pieces like this wash up on shore all the time.”
“Mmm,” he mused. “That whiskey bottle might have been thrown overboard by a drunken sailor. Or maybe it was aboard a ship that wrecked off the coast. And it broke into a dozen rough, jagged shards.”
“Not a very auspicious beginning,” she said.
“Beginnings rarely are,” he said sagely. “But it launched that broken piece of glass on its journey. Decades—maybe even a century—of tumbling in the ocean, grinding against rocks, and rolling across the sand took away the sharp edges and smoothed out the imperfections. All before fate brought it to us and placed it in your hand.”
She turned the pristine stone over in her palm, trying to imagine how it had looked at the start. Maybe Keane was right. Sometimes things had to break before they could become what they were meant to be. There was only one problem.
“I don’t have a century to try to make this work.”
He chuckled softly. “Our transformation doesn’t have to be finished. We’ll just tumble through the ocean, together.”
She set the sea glass on the quilt and gazed into his eyes. “I like the sound of that, but I cannot make any promises.”
“I understand.” He cradled her face in his hands and kissed her softly. “I can live with maybe. Actually, I’m pretty damned ecstatic about maybe.”
“You’re an insufferable romantic,” she teased.
“If I am,” he said with a yawn, “it’s entirely your fault.”
She nestled against his chest and let the sounds of his heartbeat and the ocean fill her head until she drifted off to sleep.
When she woke in the middle of the night, her back was flush against the wall of his torso and his arm was wrapped around her waist as if he feared she’d slip away while he slept. She gazed up at the diamond-filled sky and blinked as a comet shot across the black velvet curtain of night.
“Keane,” she whispered loudly. “Are you awake?”
“I am now,” he grumbled.
“I saw a shooting star.”
He pressed his lips to her shoulder. “I know your feelings regarding shooting stars. Did you bother to make a wish?”
“Yes.” She’d wished that Keane would be safe when he came out of hiding. And that the horrible, no-good cretin who’d tried to kill him would pay dearly for his crime.
“Don’t tell me,” he said, “or it won’t come to pass.”
“You should make one, too.”
“I didn’t see the shooting star. But it doesn’t matter.” He slid his palm up her belly and cupped her breast, gently pinching the taut peak. “My wish is already coming true.”
Before long, she was arching her back, pressing her bottom against his hard length. His fingers were sliding up the insides of her thighs, touching the folds at her entrance, finding her most sensitive spot.
They made love again, and this time it was so slow, so sweet, that it could have been a dream. And after they found their release together, Poppy dozed off once more, sated and secure in his arms.
The next time she stirred, pale gold beams were peeking over the cliffs; Keane snored softly beside her. She slid out from beneath the quilt, hastily gathered her clothes, and dressed.
If he hadn’t looked so peaceful, she might have woken him, but perhaps it was better this way. Last night, under the stars, they’d had their perfect goodbye, and there was nothing left to say. So, she knelt beside him and dropped a kiss on his forehead before heading back to the cottage.
An hour later, when Keane awoke, he stretched contentedly and reached for Poppy. Only, she wasn’t there. He called for her, just in case she was still close, but he sensed in his gut that she was gone.
All that was left on the quilt beside him was a piece of smooth, green sea glass, glowing in the morning sun.