“It’s a matter of gravity and the weight of the water held underneath. If I turn this crank”—he demonstrated—“the water turns to a mere dribble.”

“I would love to sit, but I’m afraid the spray has dampened the stone,” Kate said ruefully, “and I mustn’t crease my dress.”

She turned and looked up at him, but he had no words. He was afraid that nothing would come from his mouth but the most rudimentary words, the panting, thrusting gasps that men and women share in deepest intimacy.

Instead of speech, he reached out and ran a hand down the curve of her cheek. He felt the smoothness of her skin, the very edge of her curving smile. He replaced his fingers with his mouth.

“Gabriel,” she said, turning her face from his.

His heart jolted. “I must.”

“You may not.”

“Kate!” It was pain to his heart even to say her name. At the same time, it was like honey in his mouth, sweet and familiar, like a lullaby singing in his heart.

“Oh, Gabriel,” she whispered.

“Give me one last time,” he begged. “Please, please. I beg you.”

“I—” She stopped and started again. “I’m afraid, Gabriel. You’ll break my heart.”

“Mine is already broken.”

There, the truth of it was out, between them. Her eyes glistened with something wetter than moonlight.

He kissed her in an act of possession. There was no other way to describe it, the way they fell together into some nameless darkness, some impudent fairy-tale space where he was no prince, and she no lady.

Just two bodies, aroused, warm, mad for each other.

“My gown,” she murmured, some time later. Her eyes glowed with a wicked kind of glee. “This is so wrong .”

He reached out, wrenched the crank, and the gurgle of water entirely stopped. Then he showed her how to put her hands on the head of a wet, laughing mer-horse. Carefully, carefully, he raised layer after layer of fabric, throwing them over her back until her beautiful bottom lay beneath his hands, clad only in a pair of drawers so delicate that he could see her skin through them.

He hesitated, as if what lay before him was too beautiful for human hands. Then he bared her to the moonlight, leaned over, pressing against her, his hands curving naturally to her breasts.

She hadn’t said a word, but the moment his fingers brushed a nipple she let out a cry and pushed back against him. It was like being caught in a snowstorm and temporarily losing his sight; it felt as if all sensation came from his hands, his body only.

The sweetness of her breast, the tight bud of her nipple, the ragged pant that shook her body, the deep curve of buttock against him, the heaven that lay below.

He caressed her again and she cried again. He let his fingers drift down into her sweet valley and she sobbed and arched back.

His hand shook as he covered himself with a French letter. And then . . . they slid together as if they had made love like this a hundred times, as if their bodies were designed for this moment. He thrust deep; she arched with a cry that flew into the night sky.

It was almost too much. Gabriel clenched his teeth and concentrated on breaching her body without losing himself, letting her delicate perfume, the sweet honey of her skin, the ragged sound of her breathing come into his memory so that he could keep it—keep her—forever.

For a time there was nothing but the sound of their bodies meeting in silken, near violent pleasure, a sob from Kate, a groan from Gabriel . . .

But it was too deep, too greedy to last. He started pumping faster, and she was crying now, arching hard against him, and then they broke, together, shattering time and silence and any molecule of space between them, molding their bodies into one flesh, one heart.

He stayed like that, bent over her like any animal with its mate, until she made a small noise and straightened against him.

At that moment, a hissing noise sounded in the distance and, as they both turned to watch, an explosion was followed by a rain of emerald-green sparks, falling back to earth.

Kate was shaking her skirts down but she stopped, her eyes meeting his. His heart thumped in his chest. “I’m so glad,” she said, “that those fireworks didn’t happen a minute or two ago. It would have been absurd.”

Another explosion . . . Ruby sparks melted, turned to pink, and died.

He couldn’t bring himself to answer her, to say a word. Instead he helped her put up her hair, his fingers lingering in its thick gold, stealing a last touch. Then he took her hand and led her from the center of the maze.

She raised her face to his as they turned the last corner. He didn’t move, so she had to find his mouth with her own. She took—or was it a gift?—that last kiss with cool deliberation, as if she were giving him a message that he could not interpret.

In the last patch of darkness, he knelt again at her feet, genuflecting as would any medieval knight to his lady.

Her small foot rested trustingly in his hand as he slipped her shoe over the arch of her foot. Then the other, and he had to stand up. He couldn’t stay there in the darkness forever.

“Kate,” he said, once standing. He reached out for her again, his grip tightening on her arms.

The orchestra began playing . . . they had moved down beside the lake, and the notes of a waltz swept into the quiet night like a joyful wind. He shifted his grip, one hand dropping to her waist.

“You said,” she whispered, “anyone who saw us waltzing would know that we were lovers.”

“No,” he said fiercely. “They will know only that I am in love with you. Please, dance with me, Kate.”

She put her hand in his, smiled, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. Without saying a word, he held her hand high and swept her into a slow waltz. She didn’t follow perfectly, so he pulled her tight, showed her silently how to feel by the press of his body which way he was about to turn.

Sure enough . . . she learned, she learned. By a moment later they danced together as if the air had decided to embrace the wind, as if they were two blossoms caught on a warm draft.

The music came to an end. Gabriel had not taken his eyes from her face, never glanced over his shoulder to see whether they had an audience. He didn’t care.

She curtsied, held out her hand to be kissed.

Gabriel stayed in the shadow of the hedge, watching Kate pick her way across the grass toward Henry, who turned toward her and gave her a swift kiss.

The evening seemed endless. Finally they were summoned back to the drawing room by Wick, who had footmen circulating with hot drinks for those who were chilled, and tiny, delectable pastries for those who were hungry. Gabriel stayed at Tatiana’s side. He felt like an automaton, but there he stayed, escorting her from place to place, laughing when she giggled, smiling when she smiled.

Dragging his eyes away from the bright flame that was Kate.

Suddenly he realized that Tatiana was addressing him. “Your Highness,” she repeated.

“Forgive me,” he said, turning back. Ormskirk was standing beside Kate next to the fireplace; he was leaning over Kate . . . It looked as if Kate was saying goodbye to Henry and Leo, but that couldn’t be. She couldn’t be leaving . . . he had to see her tomorrow morning, see her one more time.

Tatiana looked up at him. She was a tiny thing, but there was a firmness to her chin and a strength in her eyes. “Would you be so kind as to escort me to my chamber?”