Clair came out of the water closet and glanced toward the balcony, where Ian stood in all his naked splendor. He was watching the last rays of the golden sunset give up the ghost and blend into shades of purplish gray, soon to be black. He wore a smug, satisfied leer on his handsome face.
"Thank you, God," she whispered. Thank you for listening to children's prayers, for creating the human heart and spirit which can survive against all odds. Which can love in spite of fear. Which can, despite loneliness and by your great grace, find love. And thank you most of all, God, for creating two people so right for each other and bringing us together.
Staring at her handsome husband, Clair was awed that he'd been able to create such a perfect person. "God," she said, "you've still got Uncle Victor beat in my book."
She walked past the lovely old four-poster bed and mussed linen sheets where she and Ian had made love earlier. Their joining had held a raw, primitive passion, each of them claiming the other in the ancient rites of love and lust, and Clair blushed at the memory. Reaching Ian, she tenderly wrapped her arms around his hard, muscular back, heated in spite of his nudity. He reached behind himself and pulled her into his arms, his chin coming to rest on the top of her head.
Clair sniffled, holding back her tears. In Ian's arms, she had found completion. It was a place so miraculous she would never leave it willingly. She hugged him more tightly, glancing out at the darkening sky.
"It will be a full moon tonight," she said and shivered.
Ian tucked his wife closer, his legs pressed to the outsides of hers. He leaned his head back and breathed deeply. He smelled sex, orange blossoms, and the scent of the coming evening. "I love the way the night smells and sounds," he said.
Clair tilted her head, leaning back to look at him.
He went on, "The night has its own music, the stars their own melody. The moon has a song which sings to me."
"So there is a poet buried inside you," she teased. "I thought that was only Asher."
"Hmph. Asher and his 'She walks in beauty,'" Ian sneered good-naturedly. "Poppycock."
"Poppycock? So, I'm not a beauty who walks in the night?" She loved teasing Ian.
He gently lifted her chin, pretending to study it with haughty thoroughness. "Some men might find you lovely. I find your jaw a bit too stubborn." That was for calling him Harold, he thought.
"Some men might find your gray eyes mesmerizing. I find them full of obstinate challenge." That was for bringing up the top-lofty Asher on their honeymoon. He didn't want to be haunted by a vampire's ghost.
"Some men might find your graceful manners most pleasing. I find them sadly lacking in decorum—a trifle hoydenish." That was for giggling in church at his first name.
"Some men might find you a handful." He grinned wolfishly, a predatory gleam to his eye as he cupped both breasts tenderly. "I find you… a handful."
So saying, he scooped her up and carried her inside, depositing her upon the rumpled sheets. He came down atop her, his nostrils flaring. "All in all, Clair Frankenstein Huntsley, I find you to be quite remarkable."
Lovingly, Clair gazed upon her husband's face. "And I find you to be more interesting than any supernatural species I have ever investigated. In point of fact, you are supernaturally magnificent all by yourself."
Ian grinned deviously and stripped off her robe. Clair was soon to be greatly surprised, he knew. He licked and nipped every inch of her flesh.
Squirming, Clair felt as if her skin were on fire. That area between her thighs began to tingle as Ian licked his way up her body. She looked down at his dark head buried between her legs and gasped. What was this? Did men and women really do this on their wedding nights? As Ian glanced up at her, a wicked grin on his face, Clair's thoughts all came tumbling out. "My, what big teeth you have."
The look he gave her would have melted a glacier.
"The better to eat you with, my dear." And he proceeded to do just that, nuzzling the honey-gold curls between her thighs. He sucked and bit, gently bringing on a climax that had Clair touching the stars. She screamed in delight.
Ian's grin was one of pure male arrogance in knowing that his mate was well satisfied, and soon he would be too. His erection was so stiff and heavy that he was afraid he would burst before he could savor her lush, tight warmth. Seconds later he was buried in her hot, pulsating heat.
Hungrily he attacked her mouth, feeding on its sweetness as he thrust into her with a savage rhythm. With indomitable spirit, Clair met him thrust for thrust, her body bucking wildly as he sucked on her generous white breasts. Again she screamed.
He was killing her with a pleasure so pure, Clair thought it must be tied to infinity and the creation of the cosmos. "I love you, I love you," she chanted over and over.
Ian could feel Clair's tremors beginning, and knowing she was about to climax he reared back and plunged deep one last time. She screamed again. He shouted, her loving words as well as her fulfillment bringing on his own. He found release in a hot burst, his seed flooding her warm dark depths.
Moments later he was supporting his weight on his elbows as he bowed his head to hers, his thick hair damp with sweat. "I love you, wife." He would never get tired of saying those words. He would never get tired of seeing her all pink and flushed with his lovemaking, her eyes glazed over with spent passion.
Rolling over, he pulled Clair to him, her tawny hair cascading over his chest. He kissed the top of her head. "I have two wedding gifts for you that you haven't yet received."
Clair's sleepy eyes lit up. "I love surprises," she said.
He grinned. "I know. You'll get one now and one later on tonight."
She sighed. "You know I want them both now. I'd argue about it, but I'm just too tired. So… how about that second surprise?" she coaxed seductively, running her fingers through the curly hair of his chest. Oh, how she loved the feel of her husband. Oh, how she loved this man. He was her miracle.
"Later," he promised. He hugged her tightly, savoring the feel of her naked body so close to him. "I know that bloody vampire Asher is always spouting poetry, so I decided on something special. On expressing myself in words the way you like but I haven't been able to do."
Clair propped herself on his chest, her eyes wide with surprise. "This is a gift indeed. I know poetry is not your forte."
"Hush, Clair, and let me get this said before I lose my blasted nerve." He pushed her head back onto his chest and began the poem, which eloquently told the feelings of his soul:
Clair's tears wet his chest, and Ian thought it a fitting end for that man who had once kept his heart encased in iron. "I will always love you, Harold Ian Huntsley," she said.
Then she was asleep, before he could scold her about using his first name. She looked so adorable in slumber, and he couldn't really blame her—after all, this was the third time they had made love in less than two hours. He always had such tremendous energy on nights of the full moon.
As Ian watched his wife sleeping in his bed, in his home in Wales, he felt his cup run over with love. Clair was his mate. She was in his territory. The two things gave him such a primitive sense of possession he wanted to howl with joy.
Tenderly, he lifted one of her long burnished golden curls that came nearly to her waist, and he inhaled the wintry scent of Clair. She was so beautiful, inside and out. She had awakened a hunger in him that only her companionship could sate.
In sleep, her remarkable curiosity and indomitable determination didn't show. Still, her smile held a hint of the minx. Yes, Ian knew, Clair Frankenstein Huntsley would always lead him a merry, merry chase.
Restless, he rose and prowled the room, then gave up and stepped out onto the balcony. He was so happy, he ached. Clair had broken the tower walls of his heart with her wit, compassion, energy, and humor. He loved her so much, and he wanted to make her happy. He knew she was forlorn about giving up her supernatural studies, but he had a big surprise for her. Though she wouldn't be able to publish these findings, she would be able to study deeply in private. And the deeper the investigation, the better. She wouldn't even have to leave home for her research. She could eye him here all she wanted.
Oh yes, he could hardly wait to see the look on Clair's face when she discovered his second surprise. He realized that she would be mad at first for his sin of omission. But he also knew her scientific curiosity would get the better of her bad temper—if she didn't kill him first.
He looked up into the night sky. The full moon had risen. Ian's body thrummed with energy and white-hot heat—the call of the wild. Ian laughed, the sound husky and deep as fur rippled out along his skin.
The transformation began. He threw back his head and howled.
Jerked awake from her sated slumber in the bedroom, Clair could swear that she'd just heard a wolf howl. On her wedding night, no less. Another spine-tingling howl convinced her that she wasn't having a delightful nightmare of werewolves and vampires. There was a wolf howling and, from the sounds, it was at the foot of her bed.
Peeking from under the covers, Clair gasped. Out on the balcony, her husband of less than a full day was transforming into a wolf before her very eyes. He was down on all fours, with fur covering every part of his body, with the exception of one part, which grew even longer and more rigid—if that was possible. Now that she'd expected on her wedding night. But not with all the fur.
Her eyes round, her fists clenched, Clair gasped, "I'm married to the Werewolf of London and he never told me!"
She turned to deal with him.