Dancing in the Shadows

Ayiana

Chapter 22

An envelope, her name scrawled across it in elegant script, lay on the balcony when Diana stepped out to check the weather the next morning. She was a light sleeper, alert to the smallest sound, yet she hadn't heard a thing. Puzzled, she tore off the end of the envelope and drew out the single folded sheet of heavy paper.

Diana -

This is all we have to point us to Gabriel. It may be our son's only hope. We give it to you with our trust. ~ Vincent

We. Our. She shook her head. It was going to take her a while to get used to the idea that Catherine was alive. Would she ever meet the woman who had such a hold on Vincent's heart? Diana turned the paper over in her hand, examining its texture while she considered its implications. When she'd seen him last, he'd been adamant that she stay away. What had changed his mind?

There was something else inside the envelope. She tilted it up, squeezing the corners to force it open.

A heavy gold ring dropped into her hand.

 

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He walks alone in a land of shadows. Fog swirls around his feet, dampening the hem of his cloak. A thick canopy of leaves interrupts his view of the sky, and water drips heavily onto his head and shoulders. He's in a hurry. He pushes through the underbrush, ignoring the brambles that catch and tear at his clothes as he passes, breathing deeply of the heavy, rain-scented air. There's somewhere he needs to be. Something he must do.

A flash of color catches his eye. He's almost missed it in his rapid passage through the trees. He turns. Looks back. A scarlet flower glows in a stray moonbeam. He stares at it for a moment, puzzled by its incongruous brilliance in this dreary place.

He hears thunder and looks up to see thick, angry clouds building in the sky. Jagged lightning flashes at their edges, and all at once his throat feels dry and parched. Water trickles down a rock wall in front of him, pools for a moment, and then spills to the ground. He scoops handfuls of it to his mouth. Feels it slide, icy cold, down his throat.

In the distance, an infant cries out. He snaps his head up, listening, and then he's rushing toward the sound with long, frantic strides, his hands raised to thrust the grasping branches aside. Just ahead he sees an outline.

A human form, cloaked and faceless, watches him in silence.

"Vincent?"

Catherine's voice called him back to himself, and he shook his head, scattering the images like droplets of water. Above them, the orchestra played the final haunting notes of a Chopin nocturne.

"What is it?" she asked. She'd been curled up against him with her head resting on his shoulder while they listened, but now she had her head up, and there was concern in her gaze.

"Images. Sounds. A . . . feeling." He dropped his eyes, unwilling to let her see the fear the images had sparked. "I heard him crying."

Her grip tightened on his arm, and he looked down at her hand, only now recognizing her touch. He covered her fingers with his own.

"The baby?" There was eagerness in her voice, and a desperate need for reassurance.

"Yes."

He dropped his head back against the wall and closed his eyes as the orchestra started its next piece, but it was several long seconds before he felt Catherine relax against him.

"At least we know he's still alive," she said.

He nodded, but he didn't tell her that their son's cry had seemed weak.

Something was terribly wrong.

 

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Diana knew nothing about fine jewelry, but she did know New York City, and it didn't take her long to find somebody who could tell her about the ring. It was a small shop, a family-owned business well on its way to a century of service. The owner was an elderly gentleman, but it was his son who stood before Diana now, the ring in his hands, a jeweler's loupe attached to his glasses like a third eye.

"Can you tell me anything about it?" Diana itched to grab it back. It was their only clue to the man who had Vincent and Catherine's son, and if anything should happen to it . . .

"Where'd you get this ring?" The jeweler's touch was delicate and reverent; a fact which, by itself, told Diana the ring was probably quite valuable.

"From a friend."

"Hmm . . ." He set it gently on a piece of velvet. "Let me get my father."

The man who came out to meet her had gray hair and a receding hairline. He wore dark suspenders, gray dress slacks, and a white shirt with a conservative blue tie. Jeweler's loupe in place, he picked up the ring, examining it carefully.

"What is it you want to know about this ring?" he asked. His voice was more authoritative than his son's, but his touch on the ring was no less gentle.

"Anything you can tell me."

He turned it between his fingers as he talked. "This ring is very old."

"How old?"

"Five hundred, maybe six hundred years. The metal is twenty-four carat gold. Stone is a black opal." He put it down and reached up to flip the loupe out of his way. "The craftsmanship is rare."

"Why?"

"Why?" He smiled slightly. "Because it has lasted for five centuries. What've you made today that will last for five centuries?"

"That's a very good point," she admitted, a little embarrassed. "What does the inscription say?"

Pulling the loupe back down, he examined the ring again. He shook his head. "I could read it fifty years ago maybe. Today . . . no." He glanced back up at her. "If you'd like to leave it with me—"

"No, I don't think so." She took it back. "But if you could recommend somebody that I could go to, I'd appreciate it."

He turned to his son, who'd been waiting at his side. "Mike Cullen's card. Get one for the lady." The younger man nodded respectfully and disappeared into the office. His father turned back to Diana. "Are you considering selling the ring?"

"No, I'm not." She took the card, giving it a cursory glance before tucking it in her pocket. "Thank you."

"If you do," the jeweler said, "give me a call."

Diana nodded, already halfway to the door. She knew little more now than she had before, which shouldn't have surprised her as much as it did. Why had she thought the ring was the key, the clue that would finally crack this case wide open? Only Tolkein could give a ring that much power.

 

******************

 

The next time the vision came, Vincent was alone. Anxiety, formless and sinister, had made sleep impossible, so he'd resorted to reading, looking for solace in the familiar words of a favorite poet.

But then the words faded from his sight, replaced by another waking dream.

He recognizes the shadows and the fog, remembers the dampness on his cloak and face. But the place is different somehow. He looks around. The leaves are gone. Nothing green survives. And it's darker, the moonlight completely hidden behind towering clouds that flash with jagged lightning. Thunder cracks and roars over his head, and then there's another brilliant flash, the thunder following so closely it's as if the lightning itself is speaking to him. Warning him. Once again, he pushes through the underbrush, through the branches that tear at his cloak.

Urgency lends speed to his steps, and he hurries forward until once again he sees the wall. Hears the trickle of water. Feels the desperate thirst. He bends to drink, cupping his hands, but before the water reaches his lips he stops, staring in horror as the stream turns red. The color of blood.

A child cries out in the darkness—a piteous, desolate sound in the storm-tossed night. A lost sound. Vincent turns toward it, searching for its source. He's running now, the cries growing louder and more desperate with each stride. Something catches his eye, and he turns to see a shadowy figure with a crossbow. Before he can react, he feels a searing heat as an arrow pierces his chest. He yanks it out and throws it aside. Pain engulfs him, and he groans, staring at his attacker.

The archer disappears in a sweep of fabric, and the child's cries grow louder still. He searches desperately as the wails mingle with the thunder, the lightning flashes, and blood seeps from the wound in his chest. A lean figure watches him through a gap in the bushes, faceless and impassive. As he approaches, it turns, walks away. He tries to force his way through the brambles after it, but the way is blocked, and the child is crying, and the lightning flashes again . . .

Thunder explodes over his head, and he roars his frustration to the sky . . .

And found himself alone in his chamber as the single candle flickered and went out.

 

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Diana was asleep when they came for her. She’d been up late studying the ring, trying to decipher its inscription. Careful examination in good light had finally revealed one of the words. Veritas. She’d looked it up in her old paperback dictionary. It meant truth.

She'd fallen asleep with the word repeating itself in her mind. Veritas. Veritas. Veritas …

When she awoke, it was dark in the room, and she lay still, wondering what had pulled her from her dreams. When something heavy clattered against the roof, she was instantly alert, and she grabbed her gun before slipping to the floor. Adrenalin rushed through her veins. Fight or flight?

She heard them come in. There were at least three of them, men who talked to each other in low voices as they searched for her. Too many to take on alone. Flight, then. Crouched in the kitchen now, shielded from them by the cabinets, she listened to their movements. There wasn’t much time. The loft wasn't very big. They’d find her in seconds. She eased the window open, thankful when it didn't squeal a protest, and climbed out onto the roof.

Keeping low, she hurried across the roof, crossed its peak and edged down the other side. In the street below, she heard voices calling out to each other. She dropped to her stomach and peered over the edge in time to see a car drive by at the end of the alley. It moved slowly. Get-away vehicle? Innocent passerby?

Or someone else looking for her.

To her left, a grappling hook clung to the edge of the building, rope dangling from it like the tail of an abandoned kite. She tucked the gun in her waistband and gathered it up, holding it in her arms while she searched for a safe place to climb down. She settled on the edge of the roof that bordered the narrow alley. It was the least exposed location.

She set the hook against the wall and risked a quick check below. All clear. She dropped the rope and slipped over the side, starting down hand over hand, the rough fibers tearing at her skin. Halfway down, she heard the low purr of a car engine. She froze, holding desperately to the rope, shoulder muscles burning with the strain. Voices called to each other from below, and above her she heard the sounds of people searching her apartment, looking for her. Who were they? What did they want?

Instinct told her they were Gabriel’s men, though she had no idea what had led them to her. None of that mattered now though, as she prayed her arms wouldn’t give way completely and drop her, broken and bleeding, to the unforgiving pavement below.

Finally, the voices moved away, the car turned the corner, and she was alone again. She slid down the rope, ignoring the pain, intent only on making it down in one piece. She hit the ground and broke into a run as voices called the alarm over her head. She’d been spotted. At the end of the alley, a cab paused under a street lamp. She sprinted toward it, not daring to look back, ducking and weaving to avoid the gunshots that rang out behind her. Scrambling into the car, she slammed the door.

"Lady, what are you doing?" The cabbie jerked around to look at her, surprise and suspicion in his face.

"Go!" she yelled. "Get the hell out of here!"

Before he could react more shots rang out, and he slumped over in his seat, blood splattering the windshield. Diana cursed. Opening the door, she leaned out, using it as a barrier while she fired back at her pursuers. They hadn't known she had a gun, and she heard them shouting warnings to each other as she shoved the dead man aside and scrambled into the driver’s seat. Throwing the car into gear, she slammed her foot on the gas.

Her pursuers started firing again, and the car swerved out of control when one of the tires blew, slamming her against a car parked at the curb and bringing her to a sudden, jarring stop. She was out and running again almost at once. Brakes squealed behind her, but she didn’t take time to glance over her shoulder.

Dressed in sweats and a t-shirt, with only a thin pair of cotton socks to protect her feet, she sprinted through the night.

 

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Catherine sat on her bed, knees drawn up to her chest, deep in thought. Vincent had been distracted the night before, and she'd returned to her chamber early, knowing he was tired. But he'd still been distant at breakfast, and he'd left her shortly afterward to spend the day far below the community tunnels—though whether on legitimate business or to avoid her questions, she couldn't have guessed. Preoccupied with her concern for him, she'd been more of a hindrance than a help to Julia, who had finally accused her good-naturedly of wool-gathering and shooed her from the storeroom.

After that, she had wandered aimlessly until Rebecca had recruited her to help make candles. Catherine smiled to herself. Her clumsy attempt at hand-dipped candles had been the source of much merriment, but Rebecca had assured her that the oddly shaped results would burn just as well as any other candle, and to prove it, she'd pressed one into Catherine's hand as she'd left the chamber. Catherine glanced over at it where it flickered merrily on the night stand. Candle making was apparently a very forgiving craft.

There was a sound at the chamber entrance, and she looked over to see Vincent standing in the doorway, watching her. Her heart gave the familiar little leap it always did at the sight of him.

"You’re awake," he said, crossing the room to her side.

"I couldn’t sleep." She moved over so he could sit down.

He took her hand in his, examining it in the candlelight, his thumb brushing back and forth across her skin. His silence worried her more than his absence had.

"It happened again, didn’t it. The vision?"

His fingers stilled against hers. "Yes."

"Tell me."

"Something is very wrong," he said reluctantly. "I can feel it."

"Do you think he’s in danger?" It was bad enough that Gabriel had taken their son. If he hurt him . . .

Vincent squeezed her hand. "I don’t know."

The fear that filled her heart was reflected in Vincent’s eyes.

"We’re going to find him," she said, "I'm certain of it." She wasn't sure who she was trying to convince. She only knew that there was comfort in the familiar litany. "We'll bring him home."

He nodded, his gaze settling on the crooked little candle on the nightstand. "Catherine, after we find him . . ." He kept his eyes on the candle, but there was tension in the line of his jaw and the set of his shoulders. "What will you do then?"

Catherine took a deep breath in a futile attempt to calm a sudden attack of nerves. She'd wondered when they would have this conversation, and while she was certain of what she wanted, she was less sure of him.

She willed her voice not to tremble. "I’m not sure."

"Will you return Above?"

Why wouldn't he look at her? "Is that what you want?"

He stood and crossed to the dresser, where he picked up a small figurine. It was a dancer, a tiny ballerina in a dark blue tutu. He turned it over and over in his hands while she watched him and wondered what he was thinking.

"What I want," he said, as he set the porcelain figure back in its place, "all I’ve ever wanted, is your happiness."

Catherine pushed the covers off and crossed to his side. "I am happy, Vincent. As happy as I can be, without . . ." She let the thought trail off, but she knew he'd understood her unspoken words. Without our son.

"What happened between us in that cave . . ." His eyes were still on the little ballerina. He traced the edge of her skirt with his fingernail. "I could never regret the miracle that gave us our son, even though I have no memory of it." Dropping his hand back to his side, he turned to face her. "But I would never ask you to give up your life Above."

There was such conflict in his expression, and she knew he was waging a silent battle between what he wanted and what he thought she needed.

"Vincent, what happened between us that night was something I'd been wanting for a long time. You must know that." Their bond was too strong for him not to have known, even though he'd never mentioned it. "We loved, and our son came from that love, and I would give my life for either one of you." She reached for his hand. "But I wouldn't give up my life Above if I wasn't certain I was ready."

For two magical years, they'd lived the most fragile of dreams, a dream fraught with danger and excitement in equal measure. But now it was time to live a different dream. The city would always be there when the need for sunlight and color drew her from Vincent's side. She would always have friends there, people she loved and who loved her. But she was determined to make a life in this world, a life that included Vincent and their son and whatever triumphs and tragedies the future might bring. A life they would face together.

"Three years ago," she said, choosing her words carefully, "I was lost. I didn’t know who I was or what I wanted or where I fit in the world." She touched his leather pouch with its hidden rose, remembering the love and care that had gone into creating it for him. "And then I met you."

The mirror on the dresser reflected the flickering candlelight, magnifying it so that his hair glowed with golden fire. His eyes were locked on hers, his gaze intent as he listened to her, and she knew that every word she said carried the weight of their future on its shoulders.

"You helped me find myself," she continued, "and part of that, part of discovering who I was, meant living Above." She reached for his other hand and brought their joined fingers up between them as she stepped closer. "But I know who I am now. I know what gives my life meaning. And it isn't the opera, or my job with the D.A.'s office, or even the freedom to come and go as I please."

She gazed around the chamber—at Rebecca's handmade candles, Mary's patchwork quilts, and Cullen's meticulously restored furniture—and wondered if Vincent would ever truly understand what a rare and beautiful thing the tunnel community was.

"I belong here, now." Her voice was soft as she brought her eyes back to his. "With you, and our son, and all the people who make this place possible."

His fingers tightened around hers, and for an instant she thought she had convinced him.

"You were troubled before," he said. "You feared there was no place for you here."

She remembered her comment about wanting to be Catherine and not just Vincent's Catherine. "I'm starting to find my way." She thought of Julia, and the sewing circle, and her afternoon's adventure with the candles—bits and pieces that signified the beginning of a new life. Her work, simple as it was, was important to the community, and she took pride in that, and in the dawning conviction that she belonged among these people.

"Vincent . . . being a prisoner was horrible. It was lonely, and frightening, and humiliating. But as awful as it was, Gabriel did me a favor." It sounded outrageous, even to her. That something so devastating could simultaneously be a gift seemed impossible. And yet it was true.

"He took everything away from me. Everything. And at first I missed it terribly. I missed my friends and my job and my apartment—all the things that gave my life meaning. But after a while . . ." This was the important part, and she waited for him to meet her eyes before going on. "After a while, the only thing I missed, the only thing that made my heart ache, day in and day out . . ." she pressed a kiss against his fingers, "was you."

Vincent said nothing for a long time, and she waited quietly, knowing he needed to think it through. Finally, he took a deep breath and slid his fingers into her hair. "To have you near, always . . . it’s something I never dared hope for."

"I know." She tilted her head into his touch. "Do you remember telling me that I deserved a life without limits?"

He nodded, and a faint smile played at the corners of his mouth. "You argued that there is no life without limits."

"I also said that 'if this is my fate, I accept it, gratefully'." The thought of making a new life, with him and their son as the center of her world, filled her with joy. But there was one more thing he needed to know. "Vincent, I understand now what it's like to be afraid of being seen. I know how lonely it is to be invisible." If nobody noticed a cloaked figure standing in the shadows, did it really even exist? It was a question she'd considered often during those agonizing days when he'd been missing. "You don't have to be alone anymore."

Beyond her chamber, a subway train rumbled by, and Vincent lifted his head, looking toward the sound and then up at the unseen city above. "You deserve . . . so much more than I can give." There was a hint of sadness in his voice. Regret, perhaps, for all the wishes that would remain forever unfulfilled.

"Maybe." She almost smiled at the surprise in his eyes. He hadn't expected her to say that. "But there's no such thing as a perfect life, only a happy one." She freed her fingers from his and reached up to stroke her thumb across the fullness of his lower lip, watching his eyes darken in response. "And you," she murmured, pulling his head down to hers, "make me happy."

When she kissed him, his arms came around her, pulling her close, so that she felt his body come to life, sparking an answering hunger low in her belly. There was newfound confidence in the way his lips moved against hers, the way his hands slid over her back and hips, the sound of his voice when he pulled back just enough to whisper her name before taking her lips again.

She had intended to keep it light, but his effect on her was too potent, too overwhelming, her body's memory of his too vivid. And he must have shared her need, because his kisses took on an urgent intensity, drawing her in. Holding her. Loving her.

She buried her fingers in the rich luxury of his hair, and he responded with a low rumble of sound that made her pulse leap as their tongues met, teased, and danced away, only to return almost immediately for a sensual opening bid in a mating ritual both as old as time and as new as possibility. His breath was hot against her cheek, his leg firm between hers, and when he slid his hands under her sweater and up her back, she trembled, not with cold, but with an intense awareness of the brush of his skin against hers.

Abruptly, he swept her into his arms and carried her across the room, and in another heartbeat she was lying on the bed and he was bending over her. She pulled him down beside her, desperate to be closer, to feel him against her, with her, in her—the hunger consuming her until there was nothing else but Vincent, no other sound or smell or taste but his.

His mouth was at her ear, and she heard him say her name again, his voice hoarse with desire, and she knew his need was as urgent as hers and that this time there would be no doubts, no hesitation. He reached for her sweater and she tugged at the laces of his shirt and there was a confused instant when their hands got tangled up in their frantic struggle for freedom. And then it passed and there were no more obstacles, and she whispered her pleasure when his weight settled against her.

He reached for her, but she ducked under his arm, and in another instant she was straddling his hips and smiling down at his look of surprised pleasure. She wanted to explore the thick whorls of hair and taste the warmth of his skin, but later, much later. First there were more immediate needs, needs that demanded satisfaction. She braced herself against his chest, lifted her hips, and settled against him in a slow, delicious glide that joined her body to his. Her awareness narrowed to that single exquisite point of contact, and she closed her eyes, reveling in the sense of completion as she rested against him, feeling him fill her body the way his love filled her soul.

At his low growl, her eyes flew open to lock on his passion-darkened gaze. His fingers flexed convulsively at her waist, holding her against him, his nails exerting gentle pinpricks of pressure against her sensitized skin. He kept her there, enthralled, while his eyes dropped from hers to perform a slow, deliberate inspection of her body. His heated gaze burned across her shoulders and breasts, paused at the flare of her hips, and then slid lower—making it hard to breathe, harder still to think. She curled her hands around his forearms and held on, letting him look his fill, her own eyes caressing the strong shoulders and broad chest that were, to her eyes, perfect.

When at last he moved, it was only to trail the fingers of one hand across the sensitive skin of her stomach. She shivered in response, and he rested there, his fingers tracing slow, mesmerizing circles, the dark fur and sharp claws an erotic contrast to her pale skin. When she looked up, she found him watching her, a question in his fathomless blue gaze. Whatever it was, whatever he wanted, she would give—gladly.

Apparently he saw the answer he needed, because his hand moved again, the slow circles widening until she thought anticipation alone might send her over the edge. A soft, desperate whimper reached her ears, and it took her a moment to realize that the sound had come from her own throat. She looked into his eyes and knew that he recognized his power over her, her utter vulnerability. She knew also that his vulnerabilities, though less apparent, were equally exposed, his risks as great as hers.

"Please . . ."

He held her gaze then, held it as surely as he held her body locked against his, and slowly, deliberately, let his fingers follow the curve of her body.

She bucked against him, unable to control her reaction to his touch, barely aware of the way his head jerked back against the pillow, the way his fingers tightened at her waist as her muscles clenched around him. Panicked, she froze, her heart pounding as she fought for control. Too soon! Too fast! Wait! The words hovered between them, unspoken, but Vincent only shook his head and shifted beneath her, his hips rising against her once, twice, his fingers moving in maddening, rhythmic circles, and abruptly she was lost, the world dissolving in a wash of color and feeling.

Long seconds later, she returned to awareness to find herself sprawled across his chest, his heartbeat echoing the slowing rhythm of hers. His arms were wrapped around her now, holding her close while he rubbed soothing circles against the small of her back with one hand and brushed the hair out of her eyes with the other. They were still joined, and she felt him pulse deep within her, the movement sparking an answering response in muscles still eager for his touch.

"Vincent . . ." She'd been about to apologize, but he stopped her with a finger to her lips.

His eyes shone with love as he shifted his hands back to her waist. He lifted her easily, just a little, and then eased her back down, and she sucked in a breath as he slid deep inside her, filling her. He did it again, holding her captive with his eyes, refusing to let her look away while he did it again, and again, and she blessed his extraordinary strength as she began to move with him, giving herself over to the slow, rolling motion and her body's building response.

Without warning, he caught her to him and rolled, and an instant later she was looking up at him as his head came down to hers and he took her mouth in a searing kiss. When he raised his head, his eyes were filled with so much tenderness that Catherine had to swallow past a sudden lump in her throat.

He moved with slow, almost maddening precision, and she matched his pace in an intimate dance to unheard music, their bodies responding in unison to the sensual crescendo, their bond heightening every sensation, every emotion, so that Catherine felt they must eventually merge forever in a single shattering crash of cymbals and timpani. She reached out for that moment, wanting to claim it for him, for herself, but it stayed just out of reach, so she tried harder, moving faster, pulling at his hips and whispering his name as they rose together, climbing, spiraling higher and higher. And then at last it was within her reach, and she stretched out her arms toward it, arching against him as her soul shattered into a million pieces that sparkled like diamonds in the candlelight.

When it was over, they settled easily, gently, into each other's arms, the slowing tremors washing over them like the final diminishing notes of a great symphony, and as their breathing slowed and their heartbeats returned to normal, she curled close to his warmth.

It was several minutes before she felt his kiss against her hair.

"Catherine." She would never tire of the way he said her name, each syllable enunciated with tender precision. "I love you." His voice was barely more than a whisper at her ear. "So very much."

She looked up, only to sink into the warmth in his eyes. "And I love you." She drew a pattern in his fur, fascinated by the way it tickled her palm, simultaneously soft and wiry. "Vincent . . ."

He brushed a strand of hair away from her eyes, his touch achingly gentle. "Tell me."

She hesitated, uncertain how to voice her thoughts. She didn't want to frighten him, but they needed to talk before fate took the choice out of their hands.

"What is it, Catherine?" There was concern in his voice now, and she gathered her courage, unwilling to alarm him.

"Vincent, do you . . .?" She swallowed and tried again, determined to force the words out despite the ridiculous blush she felt creeping up her neck. Lowering her eyes to the rich fur beneath her fingers, she forced the words past nervous lips. "How do you feel about birth control?"

He was quiet for so long that she chanced a glance at his face, just to make sure he'd heard her.

His stunned expression confirmed that he had.

"Forgive me, Catherine. I should have thought—"

She shook her head with a gentle smile, feeling a little silly for being so nervous about bringing it up. They were adults, after all. And somewhere out there was living proof that they needed to have this conversation. "I think maybe I'm the one who should have considered it sooner, but that doesn't matter, now. Besides . . ." She settled back against his chest and rested her arm across his waist, thrilled by the intimate brush of his body against hers. "I can't think of anything that would make me happier than to have another child with you."

Vincent's arms tightened around her. "Perhaps," he said, and she heard a hint of wonder in the quiet words as he acknowledged the possibility. "But not now. Not yet. There is much to consider, first."

He was right, of course. How could she think about bringing another child into the world when their son was still missing?

"But maybe some day?" She couldn't quite keep the hopeful tone out of her voice.

"I think . . ." he took in a deep breath, his chest expanding beneath her head, "when the time is right . . . I would like that very much."

The words were cautious, with a barely there hint of unease, but the thought of carrying another child conceived of their love, this time with Vincent by her side, sent a shiver of eager anticipation through her. "Should I speak with Father about it?"

"No." There was an edge of humor in his voice as he smoothed his hand up her back and nuzzled the top of her head. "I think, perhaps, Peter."

Despite herself, a quiet giggle escaped Catherine's throat at the thought of Father's reaction to her request for birth control.

"Peter it is," she said. She stretched up for his kiss, amused and frustrated by her body's instantaneous response to his touch. They really shouldn't take any more chances until after she'd seen Peter. "Soon."