Thirteen

“I came in here when I should be seeking my bed,” Emmie seethed at St. Just. “I thought to review your infernal list of prospective governesses, and I find this.” She waved a beribboned document at him, holding it between thumb and forefinger as if it dripped something malodorous. “I was not attempting to snoop, but good God, St. Just, you leave it in plain sight where anyone might see it.”

He crossed his arms, grabbed for some civility, and tried to keep his voice even.

“It’s merely an order of court, which, when signed, will give me the right to act as Winnie’s guardian and adopt her at a later time.” He was dead tired, and to make matters worse, it had been pouring rain for two days, meaning he hadn’t been able to ride at more than a cautious trot up and down the lanes. He felt ready to explode with unresolved tension and to collapse with the weight of back-to-back bad nights.

“You want to adopt her?” Emmie’s question bordered on the hysterical, and even through his irritation and exhaustion, St. Just felt a spike of alarm.

“At some point in the future,” he said slowly, “if Winnie will allow it.”

“If Winnie will allow it!?” Emmie glared at him through suspiciously shiny eyes. “I am her family! I am the only family she’s known, besides her dratted father, for at least the past two years, and I am the only family who has given her welfare a single thought in all that time. Yes, her aunt will be a duchess, but her aunt has been racketing about these two years, leaving Winnie to face a man Anna herself would not confront. And you think you should adopt her?”

For the first time in days, St. Just allowed himself to both look at and see Emmie Farnum. He’d tried to avoid her; he’d communicated through Val, Winnie, notes, and silence, so difficult had it become to be in the same room with her. She was everything he’d ever wanted and every dream he’d never see come true.

But the passage of time was being no kinder to her than it was to him.

Her eyes were shadowed, her features were honed and drawn, her pleasing feminine curves were fading beneath clothing gone loose and ill-fitting. And now she was finally looking at him, her eyes full of heartbreak and bewilderment.

“Emmie?” He dared not say more but risked putting a tentative hand on her shoulder. She closed her eyes and stiffened momentarily as if he were hurting her; then she was sobbing in his arms, trying to push words past her misery and failing.

“Oh, Emmie, hush.” He walked her over to the sofa, keeping an arm around her waist. “Just hush… It’ll be all right, it will, but please don’t take on so. Please…”

She bundled into his chest, keeping her arms locked around his neck, her breath hitching and catching around her futile attempts to gather her arguments and her wits.

“Let me hold you,” he murmured when she quieted momentarily. “I’ll wait all night if you like, Emmie. Take your time, and we will talk, but just give yourself a minute. Let me hold you…”

His hand moved over her back then settled at her nape, where his fingers made slow, easy circles. To give her something to focus on, and to give her anything, he offered her the sound of his voice. On and on he pattered, apologizing for upsetting her, telling her how each gelding was doing, how badly the rain was interfering with his training schedule, anything, to pull her back from the panic and hopelessness he’d seen in her eyes.

He didn’t know how long they sat on the sofa, how long he’d held her, how long she’d cried and cried, but eventually, she let out that huge telltale sigh, signaling the end of the storm.

“I’m all right now,” she said, her voice still husky with tears. She tried to pull away from him, but he held her gently, a hand cradled along her jaw, caressing the bones and textures of her face.

“You are not all right,” he said, any more than I am. “You are going to turn into a ghost, Emmie. What good will you be to Winnie then?”

“Winnie will get used to my absence,” she said in the tones of one informed of a date with a firing squad. “I apologize for all this… drama. I was just caught unawares.”

“Which is in part my fault.” His hands traced her features, though even as the tactile pleasure of her skin beneath his fingers filled his heart, so too did the knowledge that she was tolerating him in a weak moment… nothing more. “I have not wanted to raise the issue with you.”

“Nor have I been willing to broach it with you,” Emmie said, tucking her face against his collarbone. “Of course you should adopt Winnie, if you’re willing to take on that burden. I would like to be able to visit her someday.”

“So you’ve decided to move to Cumbria, then?” He turned his face to inhale the fragrance of her hair, wondering how a man could breathe through so much heartache, much less speak intelligibly.

“It isn’t Cumbria,” Emmie said, tears welling again. “I just need to know Winnie has taken root here, and she cannot do that if she thinks I am an option for her.”

“I do not,” St. Just said in low, intense tones, “and I never will, agree with your decision in this matter, but neither can I convince you to reconsider it.”

“Just hold me,” Emmie whispered. “Please, for the love of God, just hold me.”

“Let me build up the fire,” he suggested a few minutes later. He hoped simple activity and even a few feet of distance might allow rational thought to find him again. He eased away from her, added several heavy logs to the blaze on the hearth, and turned to face her where she sat on the sofa.

“St. Just?” She’d pulled her feet up and propped her chin on her knees.

He hunkered to meet her gaze at eye level. “Emmie?”

She drew in a deep, shuddery breath and let it out before meeting his eyes. “Lock the door.”

***

Don’t do it, his common sense screamed. You’ll regret it, she’ll hate you for it, this is stupid, stupid, stupid… Think, man!

“Why?” he asked. Not why lock the door—he didn’t even pretend to himself regarding that answer—but why allow such intimacies now? She smiled in response, a heartbreakingly tender, wistful smile.

“I am being selfish, St. Just.” She turned that smile on the crackling hearth. “I need you. I know it isn’t wise, not for either of us, but I am so…” He sat back on the raised hearth and mentally filled in the silence: Lonely, frightened, bewildered, cold…

“What of Bothwell, Emmie?” he pressed, his voice grave. “I will not trespass where there’s a betrothal. He doesn’t deserve that from either of us.”

“I have not given him an answer. There is no betrothal.”

Yet. The word hung between them, and St. Just felt a spike of wry self-pity. She wanted a little fling, perhaps, some comfort over her decision to abandon the child, some pleasure before she must accept the saint over the barbarian. She wanted the oblivion of passion and knew she could, at least, count on him for that.

“You are sure?” he asked, tossing one last meager bone to his conscience. “I would not become one of those fellows who used you ill, Emmie. Not for anything.”

“I will use you ill,” she said, that same sad smile flickering across her tired countenance. “If you will allow it.”

“And if you get a child?” he asked, closing his eyes against the part of him that would sell his soul to ignore the question.

“It’s not likely right now.” And for no reason he could fathom, this seemed to make her even more sad.

“You must not answer Bothwell until you know,” St. Just said, but he realized Emmie would have promised to dance naked through York at that moment, so desperate was she for the oblivion he could provide.

“I will wait.” She met his gaze. “And if I’ve conceived, I will refuse Bothwell.”

His best, most noble, and unselfish motivations, his self-discipline, his very reason went sailing right up the flue, but still—even having handed him a means of thwarting the vicar—Emmie held his gaze. She had not said she’d marry St. Just, either, and they both knew it.

He rose on a sigh, feeling both buoyant that she should turn to him and desolate that he was truly going to lose her. “I have not the strength nor the virtue to deny myself what you offer.”

Emmie closed her eyes and nodded, but he could almost hear her thinking: Thank God… He stood, gazing down at her. How to begin this unlooked-for feast of pleasure and heartache? How to give her the abandon she sought in such exquisite, overflowing measure she might even doubt her determination to leave?

Naked, he thought, the image of Emmie gilded by firelight igniting in his imagination.

“Come.” He tugged her to her feet. “You deserve a bed, and no one is about at this hour.” She silently complied and let him lead her through the darkened house, his arm about her waist, her head on his shoulder as if she could barely find the strength to move.

“Last chance to change your mind,” St. Just murmured as they neared his bedroom door. She shook her head and followed him into his room.

He locked the door behind them and saw his room through her eyes: It looked almost unlived in. A fire had been lit, but the covers were not turned down to warm the bed, the candles were not lit, the wash water had not been moved to the hearth for warming. Though the rest of the house was showing the benefits of additional maids and footmen, his own quarters were not.

“You wash first,” Emmie suggested. “I’ll see to my hair and the bed.”

He nodded and began to strip out of his clothes, as casually as if they’d done this for a thousand nights. Emmie turned down the bed, found his hairbrush, and sat on the end of his raised canopy bed to take down her hair. St. Just stayed near the warmth of the hearth, systematically removing his clothes. Naked as he came into the world, he turned to the side and propped a foot on the low brick hearth.

“That water has to be cold. Wouldn’t you like some hot from the kitchen?”

“It will serve,” he said, starting on his face, neck, and arms. He paused to pour a measure into the pot kept on the swing in the hearth and shifted it over the fire. “We can warm some up for you.” He turned his attention to his chest, his arms, his torso, each part methodically attended to before he shrugged into his dressing gown in exact repetition of his nightly routine. He did not get into clean sheets unless he’d washed.

“Care to borrow?” he said, smiling slightly as he held out his toothbrush. She nodded, accepting the loan. When she came out from behind the privacy screen, St. Just was holding his hairbrush.

“I’m more than willing to finish your hair for you. I think you were about ready to start on the second side?” She been on stroke number eighty-seven, but he didn’t feel a need to reveal just how closely he’d been watching her.

And she had been watching him, her gaze grave and her perusal silent and thorough. She didn’t answer him immediately but reached out and fingered his dressing gown—not his skin.

“Second thoughts?” he asked, trapping her fingers in his own.

“Not that.” She brought his hand to her lips and kissed his knuckles. “Will you be my lady’s maid?”

Good, he thought on a rush of relief and gratitude. He wanted hours and hours with her, he wanted every depth and manner of intimacy he could cadge from her, and being her lady’s maid suited him perfectly.

“Turn around, my lady.” He smiled down at her. “Though I cannot promise my services will be rendered with any particular speed.”

“We are in no hurry,” she said, giving him her back. “None at all.” He started at her nape, letting her feel his fingers on the hooks holding her dress closed. But, ah, then it wasn’t his fingers at all, but his mouth. For each hook undone, he brushed a kiss to her skin, down the length of her spine, one soft, sweet imprint of his lips at a time. He ended up kneeling behind her, his cheek pillowed on the soft swell of her derriere.

He rose, her dress hanging open down her back, and stood so the warm press of his erection would be starkly obvious against her lower spine.

“I want you,” he whispered, setting his lips against the turn of her neck. “I always will.”

She closed her eyes and let her head fall back against him as he slid one shoulder of her dress down her arm. She shivered, but his response was to brush the other shoulder of her gown down to trap her arms at the elbows. He held her, one arm around her waist, pinning her back against him while his free hand went plundering.

He inhaled deeply then exhaled slowly as he slid both hands up to turn her by the shoulders. He held her gaze while his hands went to the ties of her chemise, and when she would have raised her hands to hurry the task, he trapped them in his, kissed each palm in turn, then set her hands at her sides.

“Let me,” he murmured. His progress was slow, and all the while he looked at her. Looked at each inch of flesh he was exposing, watched the rise and fall of her breathing, noted the flush spreading across her features. Still, he would not hasten his hands. When she stood naked in the pool of her dress and chemise, he stepped back, and as if he were escorting her onto the dance floor, lifted her hand so she could step free.

Kiss me, her eyes silently begged. Kiss me, and for God’s sake let me touch you.

He scooped her up and laid her on the bed in one fluid motion, then stood beside the bed, gazing down at her.

“I want the night, Emmie. Not an hour, not the next little while. I want this night with you.” She nodded but said nothing as he laid his dressing gown across the foot of the bed and stretched out on his side near her but not touching.

“It’s trite”—he smiled faintly as his gaze traveled over her—“but you are so beautiful, Emmie Farnum. I could almost spend this time getting drunk on just the look of you here in my bed.”

“And you,” she said, reaching over to trail her fingers along his jaw. “I love looking at you, and not just naked in your bed. I love to watch you ride, to see you with Winnie, to watch you bantering with your brother. I’ve spied on you when you build your stone walls and work with your horses. You’re beautiful to me.”

He closed his eyes, his smile becoming a wistful quirk of his mouth. She raised herself up to press her lips to his.

“I am dying for the taste of you,” she murmured, settling back. “The feel of you, the scent of you.”

“Ah, Emmie.” He curled down to bury his face against her neck. He’d planned to take eternities just stroking and caressing and touching her all over, so her contours and hollows would all be his to recall. He saw then he wasn’t going to be able to hold to that course. She wasn’t going to allow it.

He shifted his body over hers and heard her sigh of pleasure.

“Better,” she murmured, swirling her tongue against his shoulder. “A little better.”

He held still while she tasted him, closed his eyes and focused on the soft eddy of her tongue against his flesh. She moved on to his neck, his throat, the underside of his chin, silently asking him for his mouth. Asking, not begging.

“Soon,” he whispered, “soon, my love.” He cruised his lips over her forehead and eyebrows, inhaling the fragrance of her hair, letting her have just enough of his weight so his erection throbbed against her mons.

He captured her mouth, teasing her lips with his own, tasting, pausing, and savoring, then giving her a little more. She opened for him immediately, pleasing him with the feel of her hands sweeping over his back, pulling him into her body. Her legs wrapped around his hips, hugging him so she could rock up into him in a slow, insistent rhythm.

“St. Just.” She drew back enough to evade his kiss. “Not slow, please. Not this time.”

“Not slow,” he assured her, “but not rushed, either. Trust me, Emmie. You’ll have your pleasures.” He drew a hand down her side. “I promise.”

She curled up to seek his kiss again and let one hand smooth over his chest, finding a nipple and feathering her fingertips over it. He tensed then bent his head to kiss her, this time giving her his tongue. She seized on that concession and built the kiss hotter and deeper.

“Managing,” he murmured, his voice redolent with affection. “Managing, demanding, passionate, beautiful, and… delicious.” He bent his head, escaping her kiss, and took her nipple in his mouth, feeling her instantly go still then arch up to him.

“St. Just… Devlin.” Her voice held wonder and such sweet longing, he felt a plundering, physical joy. “Devlin, you have to… oh, please.” She rolled her hips against him again, trying to take him inside of her. He ignored her pleading and switched to the second breast.

“Emmie.” He released her breast and raised his face to meet her eyes. “Emmie, look at me.” Her great blue eyes opened then focused on him. When they would have fluttered shut so she could chase him with her hips, he feathered his fingers over her forehead. “Love, look at me.”

Slowly, he brushed the head of his cock over her mons, once, twice, and Emmie met his gaze. He brushed lower, giving her the freedom to raise her hips to meet his caress. Oh, he’d wanted to put his hands on her, his mouth on her. He wanted to tease and taste and torment, but this would do just as well—better, as his own self-restraint was taxing him sorely.

“There,” she breathed as he fit himself to the opening of her body. “Oh, yes.”

He paused, memorizing the dreamy pleasure in her eyes, the languorous heat of her gaze. This much of him, he thought, she truly did hold dear.

“More, St. Just,” she urged as she almost had him where he could not tease and evade as effectively. “Now.”

He hitched his hips, settling all of his weight more closely around her, then eased just the tip of his erection into her damp heat. Still she met his gaze, reaching up and cradling his jaw with her hand, relaxing her body under his.

St. Just felt her focus shift, from her need and her pleasure to their needs and their pleasures. He sighed his relief and began to move his hips, advancing in slow, sure thrusts as Emmie’s hands drifted over his back. Without warning, her grip became urgent, and she pressed her face tightly against his neck.

“Devlin…”

“Don’t fight it,” he whispered, his pace still smooth and relaxed even as she spasmed around him. “Let it happen, love. Let me give you this.”

She clutched him to her as her body seized with pleasure, and still he kept his cadence almost soothing. The effect of his easy rocking thrusts was to drive her deeper into her pleasure more surely than if he’d tensed and thrust hard in response to her body’s pleading.

“St. Just…” She panted against his shoulder. “I can’t…” Her hands settled on his buttocks, asking him for a moment of stillness, and so he paused, kissing her gently. He nuzzled at her neck, then her jaw, then levered up to regard her.

“I’m all right.” She smiled up at him. “Or as nearly all right as I can be when you love me witless.”

“I do, you know.” He tried to keep the sadness from his voice, from his eyes, from his smile. “Love you.” He dipped his head to kiss her again, covering her mouth just as she inhaled on a gasp.

“You must not say such things.”

“I mustn’t keep it unsaid, but I won’t belabor the point.” He kissed her again but knew he’d blundered—she certainly hadn’t returned the sentiment, now had she? But she deserved the words, and it had been a relief to say them, even if only the once. It had been sheer relief to acknowledge he loved somebody, that he could love somebody other than the people he’d known since birth. She would always have his gratitude for that, if nothing else.

And he wanted to tell her that, too, but the time for words was quickly passing. Emmie again found his nipples, first with her fingertips, then with her mouth.

“Emmie,” he rumbled, “go easy.” She gentled her touch obligingly but did not desist.

“It’s your turn,” she murmured against his chest.

“Our turn,” he corrected her through gritted teeth. She was maneuvering her heavy artillery into place, experimenting with her inner muscles, closing her body around him every time he moved to withdraw and thrust again. She caught his rhythm, turned the slow, relentless push and drag of his thrusts against him by adding her own push and drag to the dance.

“Don’t fight it,” she whispered, a thread of humor in her voice. “We need it.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he growled, his movement becoming more urgent.

She laughed at that and held him closer. “You couldn’t,” she murmured. “Let go, Devlin. I’ll catch you.”

Let go… Something he hadn’t done in any way, shape, or form for years. He hadn’t let go of his temper, his physical conditioning, his grief, his loneliness, his terrible weariness of spirit. Hadn’t permitted himself uncontrolled laughter, a mean drunk, a howl of rage or indignation. Hadn’t… Let go.

Something in him broke free. He gathered Emmie closer, anchored one hand under her tailbone, shifted the angle of his penetration, and hilted himself inside her. His movements became not faster but more intense, more focused. He settled his free hand over her breast and closed his fingers around her nipple.

Emmie tightened her hold on him, and St. Just knew he was moving beyond reason. He would not hear her words, but he would hear her body. She strained to meet him, thrust for thrust, arched her breast into his hand, buried her fingers in his hair and held him to her with all her strength. He found her mouth with his, even as inarticulate sounds of need and arousal welled in her throat, and still he drove her on.

“Ah, God, Emmie love,” he murmured fiercely, and then, “Sweet Christ…”

She exploded beneath him, keening her pleasure into his kiss, writhing with mindless abandon in counterpoint to his thrusts. He chased her into a long, grinding wrestling match with satisfaction more pure, intense, and shattering than anything he’d known. And still, when they were reduced to shuddering in reaction and fighting for each breath, they held each other tightly.

“Ye gods, Em,” he whispered in disbelief, trying to raise himself even two inches off her boneless form. “I can’t ever…”

She placed two fingers over his lips without opening her eyes. “Hush, love.” With her hand on the back of his head, she urged him to lay his cheek against hers. “I just need a minute.”

He, on the other hand, thought he might need a lifetime to recover from what had just transpired. For a long moment in her arms, his awareness had expanded beyond his own body to encompass hers, her pleasure, her desire in addition to his own, and even beyond that. He had been formless and weightless and yet more real than he could ever recall being.

He struggled to his elbows, giving them both room to take deeper breaths, but kept his cheek next to hers. He waited, mind drifting, letting his erection subside, so when he disentangled from her, she would not be uncomfortable.

“You’ll be sore,” he whispered, contrite and concerned. “I’m sorry.”

“I will not be sore,” Emmie murmured without opening her eyes. “Though I might be moving a little slowly tomorrow.”

“Emmie, I am sorry. I never imagined I was capable of such a loss of self-restraint.” He tried to shift off her, but she caught him in a surprisingly strong grip.

“Don’t you dare be sorry,” she said, eyes finally open and glittering in the dim light. “You did not lose your self-restraint, Devlin St. Just. For just a few moments, you let go of the dead weight on your heart and your spirit. Maybe all that sorrow and regret won’t hold you so tightly after this.”

He buried his face against her neck, not knowing what to say. She was right: For a few moments, he’d felt alive and whole and glad to be that way. But those moments were over, she was still leaving him, and sorrow was crowding close once more.

St. Just extricated himself carefully from her body and lifted himself off the bed. Emmie watched while he used some of the warmed water to wring out a flannel cloth then wash off his genitals. He rinsed out the cloth again and brought it to the bed.

“Let me.” He sat at her hip and waited while she raised and spread her knees. “You are swollen,” he remarked, brushing the backs of two fingers over her engorged flesh. Even that light caress caused her to flinch, and he smiled wolfishly at her response. “Swollen and beautiful.” But he covered her gently with the warm cloth and held it against her sensitive skin until he felt her ease.

“Thank you,” she said when he draped the cloth on the edge of the basin. “Would you like me to return to my room now?”

“I do not ever want you to go back to your room or your cottage or your vicar, Emmie Farnum. I thought you agreed to give us this night.” She nodded, and he saw she was shy and uncertain rather than looking for a way to leave him so soon.

“So.” He put one knee on the bed. “You’ll hold me now?”

“Haven’t I been holding you?” Emmie looked hesitant but flipped the covers up so he could join her under the blankets.

“There’s holding”—he eased down beside her—“and there’s holding.” He pillowed his head on the slope of her breast and brought one arm and a leg across her body. “Tell me if I’m too heavy for you.”

Emmie slipped her arms around him, resting her cheek on the tangled mess she’d made of his hair. “You’re not too heavy.”

***

And that seemed to be all he wanted, just to cuddle up in her arms and share a warm, comfortable silence. Once she realized she wasn’t going to be evicted nor expected to make coherent conversation, Emmie let herself enjoy of the privilege of such a trusting embrace. How much more quickly might he have healed if he’d had a place of such pleasure and trust and caring to come to each night?

“What?” he asked, flicking his tongue over her nipple. “You had a thought, and it made your body frown.”

“It did not.” She brushed her fingers over the end of his nose in the gentlest parody of a reprimand. He’d been right, of course. The idea that she wasn’t going to share more such embraces with him, ever, made her frown mightily. He deserved this, he’d earned it, and she wanted to give it to him. Worse, she had a sneaking suspicion that once she left, he wouldn’t admit to such a need ever again, with anybody else.

He’d soldier on, riding his horses only to sell them, raising another man’s child, making a routine that wasn’t a life, two hundred miles from the people who loved him.

“Don’t cry, Em.” He leaned up and brushed a kiss to her cheek. “Whatever it is, we still have tonight.” She nodded, but in his words was the tacit admission tonight was all they had, and to her surprise, she was able to start to talk about what came next. Needed to, in fact.

“Winnie will want Gany and Io,” she said when he’d turned her on her side to rub her back. And they tiptoed through more that needed to be said.

“Have you any miniatures of your aunt or yourself that Winnie can keep?” That he could keep for Winnie.

“There’s a portrait up in the playroom of Winnie’s father on a pony,” Emmie recalled. “She might like it in her room.”

“Was Winnie’s mother or father musical? Will you write to her?”

“Will you encourage her to write to me? Will you at least let me know how she goes on if she’s too upset to write to me?” And she did not ask: will you let me know how you go on?

Then conversation would drift off to the meaningless intimacies of lovers.

“Is this a bruise?” He traced a finger over a slight discoloration on her shoulder.

“Winnie’s birthday is at the end of February, and she will be seven.”

“The age of reason,” St. Just murmured. “And when is your birthday?”

But as those painful questions and thoughts slipped out between other less painful exchanges, it became apparent to St. Just that Emmie was not truly thinking through the upcoming separation. She would not—or more likely, could not—organize the practicalities while she suffered under the weight of the emotions.

He’d been so angry with Emmie and so confused by her insistence on leaving, he had not measured her heartache against his or Winnie’s. Holding her, listening to her dance around a wound too painful for her to even clearly admit to herself, he realized, of the three of them, Emmie was the most unlikely to recover from her decision to leave.

The least he could do was manage the transition for her. His years in the army prepared him to do that, much as elderly relations understood the practicalities of organizing a funeral.

But first he would complete the gift of this one night, he thought, spooning his body around hers. He entered her gently and let her drift easily from one peak to the next before withdrawing and rolling her to her back. Throughout the night, he let her alternate between dozing in his arms and being treasured with his loving. He used his mouth, his hands, his cock, his every resource to give her pleasure upon pleasure.

This should have been our wedding night, he thought as he gazed at her in sleep. A clock chimed three times downstairs, and Emmie’s eyes fluttered open.

“Go back to sleep.” He kissed her forehead. “You are forbidden to set foot in the kitchen this day. It’s your turn to have a cold.”

Lying on her side facing him, she met his gaze and reached out to stroke a finger down the side of his cheek. “Devlin?”

“Here.”

“I need to go,” she said, swallowing, “from Rosecroft and Winnie. I can’t seem to make myself do it.”

He wanted to close his eyes so she wouldn’t see the pain in them.

“I’ll interview the top three candidates for governess, Em. Let’s plan on moving you back to the cottage at the end of next week, and I’ll have your choice of the three start the week after that.”

Her eyes filled with tears, but she just nodded and crawled into his arms to cry herself to sleep. When she was truly beyond awareness, he lifted her into his arms and put her in her own bed. Because the sheets were cold and her fire burned down, he climbed in with her, warming her with his body until she was again deep in slumber.

And how tempting it was, to be discovered in her bed, to take away the option she most wanted to exercise and give himself the one he wanted for himself. That, he sternly admonished himself, would not be the way a man showed he cared for a woman in difficulties, though; so he pressed one last kiss to her forehead, built up her fire, and returned to his own bed.

There to toss and turn until the sun came up two hours later.