“You went to my father’s house.”

Ash looked up from the ledger he’d been examining.

Emma.

She stood in front of his desk, staring down at him. Her eyes were red, as though she’d been crying. He set aside the ledger and rose to his feet.

“You went to my father’s house,” she repeated. “In Hertfordshire.”

There seemed little sense in denying it. “Yes.”

“In the dead of night.”

“Yes.”

“You broke into the vicarage.”

He rubbed a hand over his uneven hair. “I climbed in through his bedroom window, actually.”

“And then you told him you were a demon from Hell.”

“To be fair, he didn’t require a great deal of convincing.”

“You said you’d stop this. No more roaming about at night. You promised me.”

“I went to him before that. Weeks ago now, and . . . How do you know all this anyway?”

“He came to see me. At the modiste’s shop where I worked.”

Ash swore. The craven bastard.

“He apologized,” she went on. “Can you believe it? He knelt at my feet and begged for my forgiveness.”

“Well, I hope you didn’t grant it.”

“Why?” Her stare was direct and unnerving. “Why should you care? Why did you go to him at all?”

“Because he hurt you, Emma.” He thumped the desk for emphasis. “The man cast you out, without feeling or remorse. He left you to shiver and starve and fend for yourself. He made you frightened of the cold, and so afraid of your own heart you settled for marrying a bitter jackass. He treated you as though you were worthless, and for that, he deserves to rot in the ground. It was only for your sake that I did not put him there myself. He hurt you, and I would not stand for it. And I won’t apologize, either. Not now, not ever.”

“I see.”

Ash let quiet fill the room. It might be the last silence he’d enjoy for a while. Her demeanor was so restrained on the surface, he could only imagine her to be volcanically angry beneath. He drew a slow breath, steeling himself for the eruption.

She walked around the desk in brisk strides, and Ash turned to face her. He wasn’t going to hide.

Then she grabbed him by the lapels, pulled him down, and kissed him for all he was worth. No. She kissed him for a great deal more than he was worth, by a factor of thousands.

“Thank you,” she whispered between fervent kisses. “Thank you. I’ve never had anyone stand up for me like that.”

Any measure of chivalry that placed Ash at its pinnacle was a sorry scale indeed. But he would take her kisses, and gladly. Gratefully. He would take any part of her she offered him. Body, mind, heart, soul.

Bodies seemed to be the order of the moment, however. And as willing as he was to take hers, she seemed even more eager to get at his. As they kissed, she tugged at his coat sleeves, shaking them loose of his arms until the entire coat slipped to the floor. His waistcoat buttons were next.

Once she had him undressed down to only his shirt, she pushed him into the armchair and tugged at his shirt, pulling it up to lift over his head.

He kept his arms at his sides.

“Surely you’re not hesitating now?” she asked. “I thought we were past this.”

She was past it, perhaps, but it wasn’t so easy for him. He tried to explain it. “I couldn’t stand for you to look on me with pity. Or distaste.”

Emma gave him a soft look. “It’s not pity or distaste that worries you. You’re not afraid of rejection. You welcome it. But if you’re seen for everything you are—the strengths and the flaws, the beauty and the scars—you might have to believe you’re wanted. Loved. Really, truly, honestly, earnestly, properly.” She pressed her forehead to his. “And completely.”

Ash swallowed hard. She’d left him speechless. Entirely.

“I know you’re afraid,” she whispered. “I know it because I’m scared, too. Terrified, really. Make love to me. Be brave with me.” She grasped his shirt in both hands and pulled. “With nothing between us.”

“Emma, don’t.”

“Why not?”

He flailed for excuses. “It’s—It’s my favorite shirt.”

“Then I’ll mend it later.”

She found the bit of stitching where the shirt’s neckline converged, caught the fabric in her teeth, and tugged, biting a notch in the fabric. That accomplished, she took both sides in her hands and ripped the shirt straight down the center.

Ash was amazed. And, if he was honest, fiercely aroused.

She smiled. “A seamstress knows how to split fabric. And by now, you should know me. If you issue a command, I’ll only do the reverse.”

He started to compose a good scolding in his mind. But then he decided . . . perhaps he could make her rebellious nature work to his benefit.

“Very well,” he said. “Don’t lift your skirts and straddle me.”

Her eyes questioned him for a moment. Then understanding swept them, and a saucy smile curved her lips.

She gathered her striped muslin skirt and petticoats in fistfuls, hiking them high enough to allow him an erotic glimpse of her calves before climbing atop his lap, one knee on either side of his thighs, and letting that white, flouncy cloud of her petticoats fall around them both. He felt as though he’d been admitted to a temple of feminine secrets. Awed.

God. He was hard already, primed to take her without a moment’s delay. Slip loose the buttons of his trousers and thrust. That was all it would take. But he knew anticipation now would make the eventual satisfaction all the sweeter.

However, he intended to torture her every bit as much as she tortured him. Know every part of her, just as she knew him.

Love her. All of her. The way he yearned to be loved.

He slid a hand down her back, finding the edge of the ribbon that cinched her bodice tight. With a slow, teasing tug, he pulled until the knot gave way. Her bodice fell slack, and her breathing quickened.

“Don’t,” he said in a firm voice, “lower your bodice. And whatever you do, don’t you dare lift your breasts and offer them to me.”

A blush blossomed on her cheeks, in a red deep as roses. He inhaled a lungful of her intoxicating fragrance. She slipped her arms out from her sleeves and wriggled her bosom free of her bodice and stays. Out they tumbled in all their glory. Full and round and dark pink at the tips.

Biting her lip, she slid her hands beneath her breasts, lifting and plumping—and sweet heaven, rolling her nipples between her thumbs and forefingers until they were pert and begging for him.

She offered them each to his mouth in turn, and he kissed and licked and suckled with abandon, drawing on her nipples with rough suction and nuzzling under the soft orbs to lick the sensitive flesh beneath. Each sigh and moan that fell from her lips shot straight down his spine and gathered in his cock. His erection pulsed against his falls, desperate for contact.

He pulled away from her breasts. Gripping the armrests of the chair for control, he gave his next contrary command. “Don’t put your hands under your skirt.”

If she was shy or surprised, her expression didn’t reveal it.

She placed one hand on the back of the chair and leaned forward on it, pressing her breasts closer to his face. Then she reached between them and slid her other hand up her thigh, taunting him.

“Shall I touch myself?” she asked coyly.

God yes, he thought.

But he shook his head no.

She gave him a smile as she worked her hand in naughty circles. He couldn’t view her fingers like this, but just the suggestion of her pleasuring herself drove him wild.

He wanted to see.

He had to see.

He released his grip on the armrests and shoved her skirts to her waist, revealing a view of paradise. Her delicate fingers, parting those dark curls and stroking the pink petals hidden within.

His mouth went dry. Holding her skirts high with one hand, he grasped her tempting bottom in the other, tilting her hips to get a better view.

“Don’t push them inside,” he said hoarsely. “You intractable woman, don’t you dare.”

Two of her slender fingers disappeared inside her, buried in her soft heat to the first knuckle.

“No deeper,” he scraped out. “Not another inch.”

She purred with pleasure, disobeying him again, sinking down on her fingers as far as they would go.

He thought he would explode. “Don’t raise those fingers to my lips.”

At that, she hesitated.

“I forbid it,” he said, bringing forth his sternest, most aristocratic voice.

She raised her hand palm-up, offering it to him.

He gripped her wrist and drew her first and second fingers into his mouth, sucking them down to the webs between her fingers and lapping up every bit of her tart-sweet nectar. The rose-red blush on her cheeks became an erotic bloom of crimson across her throat and breasts.

“Ash,” she whispered. Her dark eyes were pleading.

Teasing her this way was sublime, but even he had his limits.

He reached between them, fumbling with the buttons of his trouser falls and freeing his cock. She moved closer, trapping his erection between his pelvis and hers, sliding over his shaft on the dewy sheen of her aroused sex. Grinding against him in tiny circles to heighten her bliss.

He could have wept with the beauty of it.

Bracing her hands on his shoulders, she wriggled until the tip of his cock fit just where it needed to be, sinking down on him with a breathy sigh. He grasped her by the hips, guiding her up and down his length. She removed his hands and pinned them to the armrests. She didn’t need his guidance, apparently. She rode him in a lazy yet relentless rhythm.

“Don’t stop,” he moaned.

She stopped.

He growled with frustration. “Don’t don’t stop.”

She began to move again, accelerating her pace.

“You are incorrigible.”

“And I’m yours. Entirely yours. You won’t be rid of me.”

God. The pleasure was keen, and he was tempted to surrender to it, arching his hips to pump her hard and fast until she came around him and he spent into her. But he forced himself to hold back.

Not yet. Not yet.

He wanted more than pleasure right now. She was giving so much of herself to him, freely and without reserve. In ways he’d never given himself to anyone—not before, not after. The courage within her small frame was profound, her generosity boundless. He felt like a coward in comparison.

Make love to me. Be brave with me.

“Don’t touch me,” he whispered. “Don’t touch me everywhere.”

One of her hands slipped beneath the shredded linen of his shirt, drawing the panels aside to expose his chest. Her fingers skimmed over his skin. And his scars. Her touch pained him in places, and he was dead numb in others. In moments, his blood sang with bliss. No matter what the sensation, each moment was exquisite. He closed his eyes, lost in her caress.

Emma. My love, my love.

“Don’t kiss me,” he choked out.

Without hesitation—as though she’d been waiting and hoping for the invitation—her lips were on his, softer than her touch. Warmer, too. Each brush of her lips was a blessing he didn’t deserve, but he was powerless to turn her away.

She kissed her way up the ruined side of his neck, tracing his misshapen ear with her tongue and running her fingers through his patchy hair. Then she blazed a path down the other side, from his jaw to his shoulder, dragging openmouthed kisses over his skin.

She lavished both sides of him with equal attention and sweet, sweet tenderness, until he felt his two halves knitting together in the center. Somewhere close to his heart.

Her brow pressed to his, and she held him tight.

It was time.

She braced her hands on the back of the chair. He framed her waist in his hands. Pulling her down, straining upward—not content any longer to let her take the lead. He wanted—needed—to battle out of himself, find refuge in her. Reach the place where they could be one.

“Don’t love me.”

The words came unbidden from his throat. Not a thought, but a plea.

“Too late,” she whispered in his ear.

“Don’t tell me so. Don’t say the words.”

“I love you.” She cupped his face in her hands and brushed a kiss to his lips. “I love you so much.”

There was nothing left for him to resist. He held her to him, and as they tumbled over the edge together, no joy could have been more complete.

He was complete.

He held her tightly in his arms, pressing kisses to her hair. “I love you. You will never know how much I love you. There aren’t words.”

She levered herself to a sitting position. Her drowsy eyes came into focus. She stared down at her hands where they lay against his red, twisted scars. All color drained from her face. The expression that overtook her face was no longer one of love or pleasure, but one of faint disgust.

“Emma?”

God, please. Not again. Not you.

Don’t leave me. Not now, not ever.

“I’m sorry,” said, slipping off his lap. “I’m so sorry, I . . . I have to—”

She fled the library in a rush, darting into the connecting room.

As he drew to his feet and pulled up his trousers, he heard it.

The wrenching, unmistakable sounds of his wife being sick.