A/N: okay, so I for my 500-follower celebration on tumblr, I asked for prompts, and the overwhelming winner was a fic where Elizabeth met her true love, as she should have done. So here is the fix-it fic, in which Elizabeth meets Alistair McGregor, Gold's incarnation in that era.

Not even eleven in the morning, and the Duke was already visiting. Esther sighed as she prepared the tea tray, delicate china cups with a pattern of green leaves around the rims. The Duke was important, of course, and it honoured the family that he was trying to court Miss Elizabeth, but she couldn't bring herself to like the man. He was cold. Cold and hard, like the slate on the fells. He wasn't right for Miss Elizabeth, all the servants knew that. Miss Elizabeth was a free spirit, a young woman who laughed and loved and wanted to run in the fields when she should really be more decorous. A man like that would smother her, take the light that shone within her and snuff it out.

It didn't help that the entire household knew that she was in love with someone else, even if they had never seen the man, and didn't know his name. They had all seen the pictures she drew of him; Sarah had sneaked one down to the kitchens one day to show the others, and they had all tried to think of when she might have met him. He was not good-looking, in Esther's opinion. He looked far older than Miss Elizabeth, with lines near his eyes and mouth. She had to admit that there was character to his face, though. The light of mischief in his eyes. She wondered how good a likeness it was.

"You'd best take that through," said Sarah, nodding at the tray as she passed with an armful of Miss Elizabeth's muslin gowns, and Esther rolled her eyes.

"I'm going," she said shortly, and picked up the tray, making her way from the kitchen and up to the parlour where Lady Willoughby had received her guest. The Duke ignored her as she set down the tray, and she bobbed a curtsey and left, but something caused her to pause outside the door. She didn't often listen at keyholes, but anything that affected Miss Elizabeth would affect her; Sarah was Miss Elizabeth's maid, and Esther's sister. If Miss Elizabeth were to marry the Duke, as they all suspected she would, Sarah would leave with her. She pretended to be tugging at a loose thread at the bottom of her apron as she listened. They were talking of Miss Elizabeth's drawings, and her eyes widened curiously.

"I know the man," the Duke was saying, his voice scathing. "His name is Alistair McGregor. A man of no consequence, with no family, who would not be permitted in polite society had he not made his fortune in the war."

Esther's eyes widened further. He knew who the mystery man was! Alistair McGregor. Scottish, then. She had found something out! She knew something before Sarah did! Blushing at her own self-congratulation, she bent her head nearer to the door.

"I suspect that twenty years ago, he was nothing but a crofter," the Duke continued. "He's in trade, you know. A wool merchant, or some such. Come over from Boston with all the brashness of the Americans, and none of their more redeeming qualities. Little better than a sheep-farmer who's scraped together enough for a new suit. The man's an arrogant upstart with no respect for his betters."

There was a clink of china, and Esther assumed that the tea was being poured.

"I cannot imagine how she knows him," he went on. "Some chance meeting in town, I suppose. I certainly would not be surprised if he forgot himself enough to approach her."

Esther frowned, trying to remember the last time Miss Elizabeth had gone to town. Not since late December, she thought.

"He's Scottish, by birth and breeding, of course," added the Duke. "You know how wild they are beyond the borders. And he's twice Miss Willoughby's age, at least."

"Well, I'm certain that I don't wish to encourage my daughter's attentions in that direction," sniffed Lady Willoughby, and Esther scowled to herself. "The man is in London, I take it?"

"He was three weeks ago," nodded the Duke.

"We had of course intended to take Elizabeth there for her season," she said. "I think, on the whole, a Grand Tour may be more appropriate. I shall write to my sister in France. Thank you for telling me this, Lord Beresford."

There was a noise at the end of the corridor, one of the servants on their rounds, and Esther scurried back to the kitchens, her head whirling.

She told Sarah later that evening, when they were huddled in their bed in the attic.

"And it's him?" whispered Sarah, brows contracting. "Does Miss Elizabeth know? She can't know, she'd run off to London if she did."

"Perhaps we should tell her," suggested Esther tentatively, and Sarah frowned.

"I don't know," she mused. "I wouldn't want her to be in any trouble. She'd have to travel alone, and who would she stay with? Her Ladyship would have kittens if Miss Elizabeth just left one day and ran off to town without so much as a word."

"I still think we should tell her," said Esther stubbornly. "She deserves to know. She doesn't want to marry the Duke and no one should make her!"

Sarah sighed, stroking her little sister's head fondly.

"I don't want her to marry him either," she admitted. "But ladies rarely get what they want, love."

Esther turned out to be right. Elizabeth did not get what she wanted, and Sarah found herself rattling along in a carriage from Nice to the castle owned by Miss Elizabeth's uncle. The long sea crossing had made her ill, and most of the time had been spent below deck, sicking up. Sarah decided that if travel was supposed to be an adventure, you could keep it. She had felt like kissing the ground when they left the ship, and only Miss Elizabeth's small hand on her arm had stopped her from doing so.

Her mistress had been subdued since leaving England, and Sarah was desperately worried for her. The colour had gone from her cheeks, and she had cried frequently on the journey, soft sobbing in the night that made Sarah's heart ache. She had thought that Miss Elizabeth would soon forget the man in the pictures she drew, that it would be a passing fancy that would disappear, but if anything, her mistress appeared to sink further into melancholy as time passed. Now, sitting in front of the ornately-carved dresser in the elaborate bedchamber that she was to stay in for the duration of their visit, Miss Elizabeth kept her eyes on her hands. Sarah brushed out her hair, wondering how to broach the subject of her lost love.

"It's so pretty here, miss," she said, and Elizabeth smiled wanly.

"It is indeed," she said. "My uncle is very kind, and his castle is beautiful, but I wish I were back in England, Sarah."

She sighed, plucking at the skirts of her silk gown: blue tonight, which brought out the colour of her eyes and went well with her chestnut hair, but Sarah thought she was paler than usual, the colour gone from her cheeks. She decided to try to bring her mistress around to the subject of her lost love.

"The first footman's a handsome man," she said, which was no word of a lie, although he had a look in his eye that she didn't entirely trust. Elizabeth raised her head with a genuine smile.

"Well, you're pretty enough that he'll notice you, Sarah," she said warmly, and Sarah took a moment to feel gratified, before remembering that she was supposed to be getting her mistress to talk of her own heart.

"The Duke's a handsome man, too, miss," she offered, and Elizabeth rolled her eyes.

"He is," she sighed, pulling a face. "He's handsome, rich, titled… He's everything a well-bred young lady is supposed to want, is he not?"

Sarah twisted the length of hair in her hand in an elaborate knot, plucking a pin from her belt to hold the hair in place on top of Elizabeth's head.

"Do you think you could love him, miss?" she asked, and Elizabeth's mouth flattened.

"Never," she said shortly, and then her face softened. "That sounds cruel, Sarah, and I don't mean it to be, but I will never love the Duke."

"Because you love another," interrupted Sarah eagerly. "The man you draw."

Elizabeth looked surprised, but then her mouth spread in a wide smile.

"Yes," she whispered, her eyes suddenly bright with tears. "Yes, I love him. I've never loved anyone else, Sarah. But I do not know where he is."

"In London!" blurted Sarah, dropping the hairpins in her excitement. "His name is Alistair McGregor and the Duke said he's in London!"

A look of joy burst onto Elizabeth's face, and she turned in her chair, grasping for Sarah's hands.

"Are you sure?" she demanded, breathing hard. "You're certain?"

Sarah nodded emphatically. "Esther heard him tell her Ladyship. She didn't mean to listen, miss. I know we should have told you, but…"

"Oh, never mind all that!" interrupted Elizabeth, waving an impatient hand. She was frowning. "So he knew. The Duke knew who he was. I thought he looked - well, it matters not." She pushed herself up out of the chair and began pacing back and forth in agitation. "I must go to him. I must find him. He always finds me, but now it's my turn." She was chewing her lip, the colour coming back into her face as she paced, and Sarah rejoiced. Miss Elizabeth was coming back to her! Her mistress suddenly whirled to face her, breathing hard.

"I must get back," she said firmly, and Sarah wrinkled her brow.

"Would his Lordship..?" she began, but Elizabeth shook her head impatiently.

"No, no, I can tell no one. You, Sarah." She grasped Sarah's hands, a fervent expression in her eyes. "My uncle uses smugglers. I must get passage to England with them. Could you find them out for me? I'll give you some money. Perhaps your footman…"

"He's not my footman," said Sarah dryly, but couldn't help smiling at Miss Elizabeth's bright, hopeful face. If anyone would know anything, it would be his Lordship's servants. She certainly wouldn't object to kissing the handsome Lumiere if it meant making her mistress happy and reuniting her with her true love. Yes, she could make that sacrifice.

Monsieur Chapelier was certainly a flamboyant character, thought Elizabeth dryly, as she and Sarah rocked back and forth in the captain's cabin of a squat ship loaded down with brandy, silks and spices. The small room was the best on board, and Monsieur Chapelier had given it up to the two women with a bow, sweeping his hat from his head with a flourish. The dark-haired smuggler was a handsome fellow, whose loyalty to her uncle was only swayed by her tale of true love and (in no small part, she thought) her purse of gold.

"Could I refuse such a beautiful young lady?" he had asked in a heavy French accent, pressing a hand to his heart. "I will reunite you with your love!"

He had been gallant, certainly, she reflected, as she rubbed Sarah's back, even insisting on speaking English so that her maid could understand, although Elizabeth herself spoke perfect French. Sarah was sicking up in a wooden bucket again, her face even paler than usual, her freckles faded to nothing. Elizabeth pitied her; the rolling movement of the ship didn't bother her, but she knew how miserable Sarah had been on the journey over to France, and she was grateful that her maid had insisted on accompanying her, knowing how it would affect her.

"It won't be too much longer, Sarah," she said soothingly. "Monsieur Chapelier says we'll be in Kent tomorrow. He's insisting on travelling to London with us, so we'll take a carriage to town."

Sarah spat a couple of times, and straightened up a little. She looked a little better, but was still very pale. Elizabeth handed her a handkerchief to wipe her mouth.

"Where will we stay, miss?" she asked, her voice a little hoarse, and Elizabeth frowned.

"I'll send an express to my Aunt Ingrid as soon as I can," she said. "She'll write to Mama, of course, but I hope that I can find Ru - Mr McGregor - before Mama arrives."

She chewed her lip worriedly. She had left a letter for her parents, explaining what she had done and begging them not to worry. The smuggler's ship was fast, and she trusted Monsieur Chapelier to keep his word and get her to London by the fastest possible method, but she was praying that no letter of her mother's would reach her aunt in the next few days. She doubted it. Even if her flight was discovered immediately, it would take some time to organise a rescue party. Her uncle and father might travel alone, of course, but getting through France in the midst of war was not easy, and had needed the services of smugglers for her to reach England quickly and unmolested. She hoped that Monsieur Chapelier and his men would not get into trouble with her uncle, but had resolved to speak on their behalf, should it be necessary. With any luck, her explanation that she would be staying with Lady Winterborn, her aunt, would prevent too much panic on her parents' side.

They were tired when they finally reached London. Upon landing in Kent, Elizabeth had managed to send an express to her aunt, worded as though she had sent a letter much earlier and was assuming that her stay was known about and welcomed. She was nervous when she alighted from the carriage outside her aunt's house, and chewed her lip as servants busied themselves with her trunk, her hands twisting around one another.

"Bess!" Her cousin Anna cannoned into her, throwing her arms around her with a giggle before remembering herself a little and jumping back, clutching at her hands. "Oh, you came! We didn't know you'd be here until yesterday; Mama didn't get your first letter, you know, but then it arrived, and she said you'd be staying, and - oh! It's just wonderful!"

"Let her breathe, Anna!" smiled Elsa, blue eyes twinkling as her younger sister pulled back to let her hug Elizabeth.

"Mama will be so happy to see you, Bess. We thought perhaps Lady Willoughby might accompany you, but I see you're alone…" Her expression was filled with curiosity, and Elizabeth sighed. Everyone would be curious, of course, but with any luck she would accomplish what she had set out to in as short a time as possible.

"Well, she meant to come, but unfortunately she was taken ill," she lied, following her cousins into the house and taking off her blue spencer, tugging at the ribbons of her bonnet. "I must say that I'm pleased to be back, though. My uncle's house is delightful, but there is no society to speak of there, and I've been dying to go to a ball!"

Anna and Elsa exchanged looks, and Elizabeth realised that they were probably wondering who this person was that looked exactly like their cousin, but professed a love for society that the bookish Elizabeth Willoughby never had.

"We're going to a ball tonight, actually," announced Anna excitedly. "It would be the work of moments to get an invitation. Of course, we could just take you, I'm sure no one would mind…"

"Oh no!" said Elizabeth hastily. "Please, I wouldn't want to turn up unannounced. I'd like to make my presence known as soon as possible."

There was that look again, a quick, sidelong glance of ice-blue eyes that made her want to giggle. It was fun playing Elizabeth the social butterfly. She just hoped that it wasn't all for nothing. That he would be there.

"Well, Sir Albert Spencer's throwing a ball at his house in Berkeley Square," said Elsa. "I expect anyone who's anyone will be there. We'll get you settled in your bedchamber - unless you're too tired to attend tonight? Journeys are so tiresome."

"Not at all," said Elizabeth firmly. "I shall need to refresh myself, of course, but I should be delighted to accompany you, if Sir Albert doesn't object."

Elsa nodded, still looking curious, but she led Elizabeth up the wide stairs to her room, Anna chattering happily as they went.

Her Aunt Ingrid had been surprised to receive her letter, of course, but she took it in her stride with her usual detached, languid air, kissing Elizabeth's cheek and enquiring after her parents. Elizabeth excused herself after half an hour to lie down, but she couldn't sleep, thoughts running through her head of how the evening might go. Would he be there? Would he know her? What would she do if he did? What would she do if he didn't? The thought of having to act detached and uninterested, lest he be put off by her forward nature, terrified her.

After a light meal in the afternoon, the girls went to get ready, Elizabeth pulling out every one of her gowns for the others to admire and pass comment on, before deciding on her best, a beautiful gown in golden-yellow silk with beading around the neckline and on the tiny cap sleeves. Anna's maid did her hair, weaving tiny white flowers into it as she twisted Elizabeth's chestnut hair into an elegant knot, thin tendrils brushing the back of her neck. Once Elsa was dressed in her pale blue, and Anna in green, and long gloves and slippers were donned, the girls followed Lady Winterborn out to the carriage, and Elizabeth fidgeted with nervousness as it made the short journey to Berkeley Square, her belly writhing with anticipation. She barely noticed the opulence of the room she was shown into, not the curious looks when her name was announced. She had been too ill to attend London for what would have been her first season, the previous year, and so it was natural that people would be curious. Her eyes scanned the room, running over handsome young men and beautiful young women without interest.

"Shall we get a cup of punch?" suggested Elsa, making her jump, and Elizabeth followed her across the room, accepting a cup. She drank about half of it, the warmth of the liquor running through her and calming her nerves a little.

"So many of the ton here!" whispered Anna. "Sir Albert must have gambled less this year."

"Anna!" said Elsa severely, and her sister had the grace to blush.

"He'll try to push his eldest son on you," she added, as an aside to Elizabeth. "He's the elder of twins, and the youngest is much nicer. But the eldest is the apple of Sir Albert's eye, of course."

"Thus it ever was with elder sons," remarked Elizabeth dryly, still scanning the room. A large man, a colonel by the look of him, his red coat too tight, brayed with laughter and waddled after his younger, trimmer companion, out of her line of sight, and it was then that she saw him.

Her heart seemed to stop in her chest, and then all of a sudden it was pounding too hard, too fast, the blood rising in her face as she met his eyes. He had the same tiny grin on his face, that knowing smirk that he had worn in every life when he had known what they would mean to one another, before she even knew his name. This time was different. This time she knew him. This time she already loved him. She swallowed hard, tears of joy pricking her eyes, and tried to compose herself a little. He was looking very, very good, his long hair brushed back and tied with black silk, which was old-fashioned, but suited him. He wore a black coat with a dark blue sheen, black breeches and a gold brocade waistcoat over a white shirt and cravat. His stockings were white, stretched over his calves, and she ran her eyes over his legs, remembering exactly how he looked naked, how it felt to have him on top of her, inside her, his mouth on her. She flushed, her breath quickening, and his smile broadened, as though he knew what she was thinking. She bit her lip, the tide of emotions almost too strong, too overwhelming.

"Bess?" whispered Anna, putting a gentle hand on her arm, and she shook her head.

"I am well," she said softly. "That man…"

"Who? Oh…" Anna shrugged. "Mr McGregor. He's very rich, but not titled or anything. He always attends with this little old Professor from Cambridge. I've never spoken to him, though. He just turns up at balls and watches the room, as though he's looking for someone." She leant closer to Elizabeth, her eyes gleaming with mischief. "There's a dreadful rumour going around that he lends money, and buys people's debts when they can't pay their creditors," she whispered. "If you see Lord Beresford leave the room whenever he's around, I imagine it's true."

"Lord Beresford?" said Elizabeth, shocked. "He owes Mr McGregor money?"

"That's the rumour," nodded Anna. "Apparently he called in a loan two weeks ago, and His Lordship hasn't paid it yet. Told him to do his worst. I don't know how true it is, but he's not well-liked in town, that I can attest to. You know how the ton are with anyone they think is getting above themselves. He started in trade, you know. A wool merchant."

Elizabeth listened with half an ear, her eyes still fixed on McGregor. "Excuse me," she murmured.

She threaded her way through the crowd, Anna and Elsa hissing after her, and he watched her, eyes following her winding path. Her pulse was pounding high in her throat as she neared him, and her lips parted. He swept a bow as she approached, never losing his smirk as he waited for her to introduce herself.

"Rum!" she breathed, and the smile fell from his face, his eyes widening as he straightened up.

"Isabelle?" he whispered, and she wanted to cry. She bit her lip, blinking rapidly.

"Elizabeth," she said, tapping her palm against her chest. "It's Elizabeth, now."

His lower lip wobbled, his face crumpling, and she saw tears shining in his eyes. "Alistair," he managed, and she had to step closer, had to be near him, to breathe him in and touch him. She lifted a hand to caress his cheek, and he leant into her touch, a hand sliding over her waist and pulling her closer as a scandalised, collective intake of breath rippled around the room. She didn't care. She barely heard. She was in his arms and he was bending his head to her and then she tasted him and her heart soared. His kiss was tentative at first, reminding her of their first time, so long ago, when she had been scared and he had been so, so gentle. She didn't want gentle. She wanted to claim him, to own him, to be his and for him to be hers. She opened her mouth, her tongue sliding out to touch his, and he groaned a little into her, hands tightening on her waist. The scandalised muttering had risen to an off-putting clamour, and Elizabeth released his lips, pulling back and smiling up at him. Tears had leaked from his eyes, and she brushed them away with her thumbs.

"I'm afraid you'll have to marry me now, Mr McGregor," she whispered, and he let out a cross between a laugh and a sob.

"I can't wait, my darling," he breathed, and she took his hands, clutching them for a moment as she beamed up at him.

"Doc?" she asked, and he nodded.

"He's at the hotel," he said. "He'll join us later. I - I never hoped you'd be here. All these years we've been searching…"

She placed a finger on his lips, silencing him, and he smiled against her, falling into step as she turned and led him from the room, the ton watching them with wide eyes. Scanning left to right, she led him upstairs, a footman studiously avoiding eye contact as she rounded the corner and began opening doors. She found what she was looking for, and pulled him inside.

"I don't understand," he began, his voice almost breaking. "You know me! How?"

"The Seer," she said, locking the door behind them and looking around for something to light the lamps with, only a small candle on the dresser giving out any sort of illumination. He stepped forward, finding a taper and lighting the other candles, until the room was pleasantly lit. There were two padded chairs, a marble fireplace. And a bed, laid with thick, dark red blankets and a silk coverlet.

"The Seer?" he asked curiously, and she shook her head.

"Never mind that," she said. "She woke me. I found you. Gods, my love, how I've missed you!"

She almost fell into his arms, and his kiss, this time, was passionate and deep, his tongue exploring her mouth, searching out every part of her as his hands stroked up her sides. She clung to him, happiness brimming in her, but there was too much between them, too many layers. She needed their skin to touch, to feel every inch of him pressing down on her, to have him inside her. She tugged at his coat, and he shrugged it off, unbuttoning his waistcoat with deft fingers and sending it to join the coat. His shirt was next, and Elizabeth tried not to break the kiss as she pulled open the cravat and tugged his shirt out of his breeches. He pulled it over his head, and she let out a breath as his chest was revealed, running a small hand over its flat planes, feeling the warmth of his skin for the first time in centuries. Tears brimmed in her eyes, and he reached up to cup her face tenderly, kissing her deeply.

"Turn around, my Lady," he whispered, and she nodded, turning slowly so that her back was to him. He managed to unfasten the tiny pearl buttons down the back of her gown without incident, gently pushing the silk from her shoulders and down her arms, and leaving her in her chemise and petticoats. The chemise went first, lifted over her head with a raise of her pale arms, and then his hands were at her waist, unlacing the petticoat and letting it fall. She stood there, naked except for her silk stockings with the lace-trimmed garters, and he let out a rumble deep in his throat, a growl of approval.

"Face me, my love," he said softly, and she turned, trembling a little, standing very still as he ran his eyes over her, his gaze lingering on her small breasts with their hardened nipples and the dark curls between her pale thighs. He had already tugged off his shoes, and he slowly unfastened his breeches, his eyes fixed on hers. She watched hungrily as his clothes joined the growing pile on the floor, until he was fully naked, his skin warm in the candlelight. He pulled her to him, bending his head to kiss her gently, and then without warning he bent his knees, sweeping her up in his arms and making her squeal. He carried her to the bed, throwing her onto it so that she bounced and giggled a little breathlessly, and then he climbed on beside her, taking her in his arms and rolling so that she was beneath him. She could feel him, pressed hard against her thigh, and she wanted him so much it made her ache between her legs, where she needed him, where she wanted him to touch her. He shifted slightly, gazing down on her face, his eyes full of love for her.

"I missed you so much," he said, his voice almost breaking. "So much, my love. I thought I'd go mad with it. All these years, all these lives, and never finding you. i couldn't...I couldn't…"

She reached up to touch his cheek, hushing him gently.

"We're together," she whispered. "Together. Nothing will ever part us again, do you hear me? You are mine, and I am yours."

"I am," he breathed. "I'm yours, always."

He kissed her, his mouth warm and sweet, and she slid her hand around to the nape of his neck, pulling gently at the silk ribbon that held back his hair and letting it fall. His hair brushed her face, as it had so often, in every life when he lay above her and made her his. She touched his tongue with her own, and he groaned a little, rubbing himself against her leg as her fingers sank into his hair and her lips moved against his, growing slippery with the taste of him. His hands moved over her breasts, thumbs gently brushing against her nipples, and she pushed herself up into him with a tiny gasp at the sensation. He pulled his mouth free, gently kissing down her throat to run his tongue across her chest and fasten his mouth over one small, taut nipple. Elizabeth moaned, fingers tugging at his hair, and he gently slid a hand down her body, moving his lower body to the side so that it could slip between her legs.

She gasped as he touched her, his fingers stroking over the soft hair and in between her folds, seeking out the place where she wanted him, sliding through the soft flesh, wet with her juices.

"My beauty," he whispered. "You feel wonderful."

His fingertips began to dance across her flesh, circling, stroking, and she threw her head back as he touched the tiny nub that drove her wild, his fingers sliding up and down, ghosting over her entrance, his thumb circling. He kissed her neck as he worked, his lips sending shivers through her, and she felt the tip of a finger enter her, gently pressing inside, opening her up. She pushed up into his touch, letting him slide inside her, wrinkling her nose at the slight discomfort, but wanting more of him. She was close, so close, her breath coming in pants and perspiration making her skin damp. He kept up the rhythm, stroking and rubbing, and she could feel her entire body respond to him, to her lost love, reaching for him and pulling him to her, her arms twining around him and her hips moving against his hand. A second finger entered her, the added thickness exciting her, readying her, and stars filled her head as she broke with a cry, clinging to him, her hips bucking as bliss rolled over her in waves. He groaned into her ear, kissing her wetly, his fingers still working her, and she pressed kisses to the side of his face as she caught her breath and the stars fell from her eyes.

"Oh!" she breathed. "That was incredible, Rum - Alistair." He lifted his head, a wry smirk on his face, and she giggled.

"That will take a little practice, I think," she admitted, and swatted his shoulder. "Why can't you just keep your old name, like Doc does?"

He looked a little perturbed.

"It's never been an issue before," he protested. "What's wrong with my name?"

She giggled, nuzzling his nose with hers.

"Nothing," she whispered. "It's a perfect name, a beautiful name. I love you."

"I love you too." He gently withdrew his fingers from her, and she sighed contentedly, watching him as he slipped them into his mouth and tasted her pleasure, a rumbling noise low in his chest.

"I want to taste you properly, my love," he breathed, but she shook her head, stroking his hair back with her hands.

"Later. When we're married. I want you now, and I won't wait any longer."

He growled his approval, and then his mouth was on hers, his hot skin against hers, the comforting, familiar weight of his body pressing her into the mattress. She parted her legs to receive him, her silk stockings brushing against him with the softness of feathers, and she could feel him against her, the hardness of him, the burning need. He slipped his fingers inside her again, sliding in and out, taking the slippery fluids he found and spreading them on himself, on his cock, and she slipped a hand between them, gripping him, feeling him in her hand after so long, his rigid length in the palm of her hand, coated in her juices, his own fluid already leaking from the tip. He hissed something under his breath as she squeezed him, as she spread the bead of moisture at the tip with her thumb, and she lifted her hips to capture his head in her soft flesh, to guide him into her.

He pushed himself up on his elbows, gazing down at her, and his hands shook as he cupped her face, as his thumbs brushed over her cheeks. His lower lip was wobbling, and she gasped as a tear fell onto her, followed by another, a warm splash on her skin. She blinked, and there were tears in her own eyes as he slowly pushed into her. He bent his head to hers, his mouth hot and wet, and she moaned in pleasure at the feel of his tongue inside her, lifting her knees to let him press deeper. It was uncomfortable at first, and she winced, pulling her mouth from his, her brow wrinkling. He stilled, his breath coming hard, his gaze anxious.

"Are you alright, my love?" he whispered, and she nodded, setting her jaw and wrapping her legs around him, pulling him to her. She stiffened as he filled her, a brief discomfort eased by the feel of him inside her, where he should be, where he belonged. He groaned as he moved, slowly at first, his fingers still pushing through her hair as his mouth covered hers, cradling her head, brushing her cheeks. She let her hands slip down his back, feeling the play of muscles beneath his hot skin as he thrust into her, feeling his shoulders tighten, and his tears mixed with hers as they kissed, the taste of salt on their tongues. She knew that she was building towards another rush of pleasure, and she clung to him, pressing the whole of her body against his, sweat making his skin slide over hers as he moved, as he pushed into her. He was pulling almost all the way out, sinking back into her with a noise of contentment, and she rubbed her head against his like a cat, trying to cover herself in his scent, wanting to drown in him. Release called to her, and she lifted her hips, rubbing against him as he moved inside her, as he slipped and thrust, their mingled hair and fluids creating a delicious friction that made her want him desperately.

She could feel his muscles growing taut as he neared his peak, and she pushed up against him, tugging him to her, wanting all of him.

"Yes!" she whispered. "Yes, my love! Oh, I missed you! I love you!"

She moved against him, increasing the pace, her flesh tugging at him, and his body rubbed against hers in that sensitive place he knew so well, the place his tongue and fingers could bring her so much pleasure, and she felt herself lift, her body filled with light, as though it could break apart in a flood of heat and desire. Pleasure broke through her in waves, and she cried out, her fingers clutching at his shoulders, and he followed her, his cry low and ragged as she pumped against him, loving the feel of him as he pulsed inside her, emptying himself into her, heat flooding through her. His kisses were frantic, his lips soft and wet against hers, against her cheeks and her jaw as he kissed and nipped, a low sob escaping him.

Elizabeth tried to still herself, tried to catch her breath, and she reached up to touch his cheek as he lifted his head to look down on her. Her thumbs brushed tears from his eyes, slid across his lips, his tongue darting out to taste the salt on her.

"I love you," he whispered. "I'm so happy you found me, my love."

"It's forever, remember," she said softly. "I promised you forever."

"Yes." He bent his head to hers, and she opened her mouth to him, welcoming him, her legs tightening around him and pulling him to her, as though she would never be parted from him again. She had found him. He was hers.