Jordan awoke lucid, staring up at the ceiling, two thoughts uppermost in his mind. He wasn’t in pain and he wasn’t alone.

Slowly, he turned his head to see Martha there, her eyes closed in sleep, lashes brushing her cheeks. He studied her for long moments, measuring her soft breathing until he became aware he was matching his breath to hers.

The past few hours were hazy, but he could recall enough to put the pieces together. She’d taken Henry’s place. She’d massaged his leg, easing the pain. She’d stayed beside him as she promised.

He needed to send her away. He should protect her virtue just as she’d protected him in the hours just past. She’d stayed when he asked her to. She’d understood when no one else ever had.

How the hell could he marry her sister?

How could he marry anyone else when his heart expanded as he looked at her?

Slowly, he reached out a hand and touched her hair, feeling as if his fingers knew the soft curls. He’d done this before.

He rolled to his side, grateful not to feel any pain from his leg. Now he was so close her breath was on his cheek. This, too, was familiar.

His hand formed a fist, knuckles grazing the soft skin of her temple. A surge of protectiveness almost stopped his heart for a moment when she sighed.

What did she dream about? Sailing her torpedo ships? What captured her mind in her sleep?

He should wake her and send her from his room now, right this moment. Otherwise, he might be tempted to kiss her. A forbidden kiss and one he shouldn’t even contemplate.

He cupped her cheek, the delicate edge of her jaw fitting against his palm in a way that made him think he’d done this before.

When?

His thoughts about Martha had occupied him, but when had he touched her? He’d thought of bending over her just as he was doing now and gently kissing her half-smiling mouth. When had he done it?

Her lips were warm against his. Her lips quivered a little, the half smile disappearing as she made a sound. Just a small sound, really, one of welcome, relief, joy. Was he being foolish?

No, she was turning to him, her arms stretching out to encompass his shoulders.

He knew her. This woman with her generous nature, with her surprising mind, was no stranger. She’d never been a stranger.

He knew her as he’d known no other woman.

Martha awoke with Jordan’s lips on hers. The pleasure was so intense that for a moment she thought it was only a dream. But then, he pulled back and looked at her, his eyes clear in the light from the bedside lamp.

There was no confusion in his gaze. Nor was there any pain.

“It was you,” he said. “It was you, Martha. That night it was you.”

She remained silent.

“Do you deny it?” he asked.

“No.” The word was so softly spoken that he bent closer to hear it. His breath was on her temple, his hands gentle on her shoulders.

“It was you,” he repeated.

“It was me.” A confession she uttered on a sigh. “It was me.”

“I dreamed of you,” he said against her ear. “I could never understand why my dreams were filled with you. Now I know.”

Heat filled her. She shouldn’t have made her own confession, but she couldn’t hold back the words.

“I dreamed of you, too,” she said.

In each of those dreams, the result was the same. He woke knowing it was her.

He was suddenly kissing her again, just like in her dream. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, knowing it was the worst thing she could have done.

In only a few hours he was going to marry her sister.

He kissed her mouth and then trailed a path across her cheek to her ear and then down to her throat, murmuring words that made her heart swell.

“It could never have been anyone but you,” he said.

Just a moment. Only a moment and then she would leave. She would go with only the gift of his words to hold for the rest of her life.

She reached out both hands, framed his face, and kissed him back.

For a moment she couldn’t hear anything but the rush of the blood in her ears, the pounding of her heart as he kissed her. Just like before, time seemed to slow and stop. Only the two of them existed in the entire universe. They were the only ones who mattered, who breathed and lived and touched.

Her arms wound around to his back, his dropped to her hip.

He was her lover. Perhaps her only lover. The only man who’d ever touched her naked skin. The only one to know the shape of her breasts, her limbs. He’d taken her virginity and given her something precious in return, a taste of pleasure and bliss. A knowledge of fulfillment she’d hold dear for the rest of her days.

Oh, how hard it was to leave him. She never wanted to move, wanted to go on kissing him for as long as she drew breath.

She should slide off the mattress and leave the Queen’s Rooms as quickly as possible. With any luck, no one would know she’d been here.

This instant. She was going to leave any second. But if he could just kiss her once more beneath her jaw, or perhaps in front of her ear. On her lips, please. A deep kiss that explored her mouth and conquered her without a word spoken.

He wasn’t drugged. He wasn’t under the influence of an opiate. He knew who she was. Neither of them had an excuse.

She would never feel for another man what she felt for Jordan. She knew it somehow, the knowledge seeping through her bones. No one would ever matter as much or be capable of hurting her so easily.

Yet no one could ever stir her simply with a look or a quick smile.

What kind of person was she to contemplate making love under the circumstances? She’d never before considered herself hedonistic, but it seemed as if she was, especially when he touched her just that way.

Suddenly her petticoat was gone, thrown to the floor. Her bodice was loosened as was her corset.

She should sit up and put herself to rights. She should gather up her scattered clothing, lace her corset, and be gone.

He slipped a sleeve off her shoulder, kissing his way down to her elbow. She’d never known an elbow could be such a source of pleasure or that she could feel the touch of his lips there so acutely, the sensation traveling to her core.

“Jordan,” she said softly, his name so easily tumbling from her lips. “Jordan.” She’d meant to utter a caution, but his name sounded more like an endearment.

She really should leave. She really should. This very moment before she lost any more of her clothes.

But, oh, the temptation was too much. This was the reason mothers cautioned their daughters against passion.

This might be the last time in her life she tasted it. Here, now, with Jordan, might be the last memory to last her for years and years of yearning.

She wasn’t going to leave. She wasn’t going to pull away from him.

If anyone caught her here, she would claim she was half-asleep, or that she’d been seduced against her will. No, she wouldn’t blame Jordan. The responsibility lay with her. Perhaps she would tell anyone who asked that she’d taken some of the elixir and was the one who was drugged.

“Jordan,” she said again.

“Martha.” He pulled back, smiling down at her.

He wasn’t drugged unless passion could be considered an opiate.

She reached up with one hand and placed it against his heated cheek.

“I should leave.”

“Yes,” he said. “You should. After one more kiss.”

“I shouldn’t.”

“No,” he said, bending to kiss her throat, “you shouldn’t. But I’ve just found you. How can I lose you again so soon?”

Oh, how she wanted to remain in his arms, to feel his body against hers, to marvel at the magic of lovemaking, how it could transform two people into one. She wanted to throw her arms around his shoulders and hold on as bliss overwhelmed her. She wanted to be carnal and adventurous and seductive, but her conscience was awake and demanding she do the right thing.

He kissed her again, one hand on her cheek, the other spearing through her hair.

“I love your hair,” he said. “It’s like a cloud surrounding you.”

She should have left then, but she didn’t. He was himself and he knew who she was. She wasn’t a figment of his drugged state. She was Martha and for these few hours, his lover.

This afternoon she would stand in the church and watch him marry her sister, but for now he was hers.

Her clothes seemed to melt away from her body, testament to his skill at seduction. Perhaps another time she might be jealous about who had taught him to manipulate the busk of a corset or remove a shift with such expertise, but not now. Not when time was against her and the passing moments marched him inexorably toward his wedding vows.

Let him love me. Just for now. Just minutes out of a busy life.

She would ask forgiveness at a later date. Perhaps. She would confess her sins and await God’s censure. But not now.

She couldn’t stop the tears. They seemed perfect for this moment. She couldn’t hold everything she was feeling inside. It slipped out as soft weeping when he kissed her again.

“Why are you crying?” he asked, pulling back.

She could only shake her head. How did she tell him? It was sadness that these moments could never be replicated. She’d lived most of her life without him, but she would know his loss for the rest of her days. It was also joy, because she would always have these memories, this forbidden time in his arms.

Slowly, sweetly, tenderly, he kissed each separate tear. She placed her hands on the side of his face, closed her eyes, and memorized how his bristly cheeks felt against her palms, the softness of his hair as she threaded her fingers through it.

His shoulders were perfect, the muscles in his arms well developed, his chest with its light dusting of hair attracting her attention and her kisses.

She rose up over him, her knees on either side of his hips.

His hands held her breasts, teased the nipples, then pulled her down for a kiss.

“How is your leg?” she asked.

His laughter reassured her, banished her tears, and made her smile.

“I care more about another appendage at the moment,” he said.

She lay against him, her arms stretched out on either side of his head, her breasts pressed against his chest. She wanted to absorb the feeling of him, the heat of his body, the perfection of his form.

The words almost escaped her, but she held them back at the last moment. They weren’t appropriate, not now. She had no right to say them, but she said the words silently as she rose up to kiss him.

I love you.

I love your strength and your courage.

I love your determination and your ferocity.

I love your pride and your persistence.

I love you.

I love you, Jordan Hamilton, for all the people you are and all the roles you play. I love you in pain and anguish. I love you in laughter and joy. I will love you until the end of my days.

“You should leave,” he said, his voice even.

She bent to nuzzle at his neck, placing kisses over his throat.

“You’re right,” she answered. “I should leave.”

But he neither pushed her from the bed nor did she move of her own accord. Instead, she rose up gently, slowly, allowing him time to reprimand her or alter their positions.

All he did was watch her, his eyes intent on hers, his hands gripping her hips.

She wanted him inside her. She wanted to claim him one last time. She wanted the bliss once more.

Condemn her as a harlot. Point her out in the village square. Castigate her in whatever manner you chose. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but him.

When he filled her, she closed her eyes for a moment, a gasping sigh leaving her. Was there anything so perfect as this surrender, this joining that had been ordained since time began?

She opened her eyes to find that he was still watching her, his gaze almost another penetration. He could see inside her soul, witness everything she felt for him.

She wouldn’t be able to see him after tomorrow. She couldn’t be in the same room with him without wanting to be embraced, without needing a kiss. Her entire body would go hot at his gaze and she would be able to recall this exact moment when he filled her, his hands caressing her breasts.

She wanted him to remember her. She wanted him to recall this moment, forbidden, sinful, and glorious.

Let him dream of this. Let her fill his nights.

No, she shouldn’t wish that for him. She didn’t want him miserable. Nor did she want him lonely. Then, perhaps, it would be better to wipe her memory from him, grant him forgetfulness. She would take on the burden of memory for both of them.

She would never forget.

When her body trembled with pleasure and she collapsed with her face beside his, tears came again and this time she didn’t try to stop or even hide them.

His hand reached up and cupped her wet cheek, soothing her. She turned her head, their lips meeting softly, gently. The tenderness in those moments was almost her undoing. But somehow, with the strength she didn’t know she possessed, Martha moved away from him, gathered up her clothing, and dressed behind the screen.

Neither of them spoke.

Only when she was about to leave the bedroom did he say something.

“Why did you come to my room that night at Sedgebrook?” he asked.

She looked at him, then away again.

“Must I pose the question again?”

“I thought Josephine had gone to your room,” she said. “I was trying to prevent her from doing something stupid.”

“I take it Josephine’s aim was to place me in a compromising position?”

She nodded.

“Are you certain the two of you are sisters?”

“Because she’s so much prettier than me, is that what you mean?” she asked, an edge to her voice that hadn’t been there earlier.

“I meant no such thing. I find your looks to be preferable to those of your sister’s, especially your hair.”

“My hair?” Her hand went up to tuck an errant tendril back into place.

“I’d like to see an end of that bun of yours. Do you ever release the mass of it to spring around your head?”

She stared at him, bemused. He liked her hair?

“And your lips. I think your lips are perfect.”

She pressed her fingers to her mouth. She’d never thought to hear a compliment about her lips.

“Besides,” he said, “looks fade. What will keep you beautiful is your mind. I find your mind absolutely fascinating, Martha.”

“You do?”

He nodded.

What on earth could she say? She could tell him she thought he was the most handsome creature she’d ever seen, that his smile made her heart race. She’d never before felt what she did when he looked at her like he was doing now.

“You were a virgin that night. Was I a halfway decent lover?” He threaded his fingers through his hair. “Why am I asking you that question? You wouldn’t know.” He glanced at her. “Now I’m butchering any conversation we might have over the matter.”

“I was quite pleased,” she said. How did she tell him she’d enjoyed every moment of her seduction?

She’d always remember the sight of him now naked and unashamed, propped up on his elbow, his hair askew, his cheeks ruddy with color.

“Thank you,” he said. “For caring for me. For being my Joan of Arc. Why did you come? How did you know I was in pain?”

She’d forgotten. Everything had flown from her mind when she’d seen him. She hadn’t remembered why she’d come to his room.

“Reese has stolen the Goldfish,” she said, telling him what Mr. Haversham had said. “It’s in his carriage. I didn’t know what to do.”

He swung his legs slowly over the side of the bed, reaching for his dressing gown at the end of the mattress.

“I do,” he said. His eyes went to the mantel clock above the fireplace. “Time enough to rectify the situation. I’ve no doubt Reese thought he was doing something good for the War Office, but he isn’t going to steal your discovery.”

The rush of warmth she felt had nothing to do with passion.

“It wasn’t just mine,” she said. “It’s my father’s and yours as well.”

“Regardless, I’m not going to let Reese steal the Goldfish.”

“What can I do?”

“Leave,” he said gently. “Before anyone sees you.”

“Should I summon Henry?”

He shook his head, his smile surprising her. “That would be unwise,” he said. “I’ll do it. You just get back to your room.”

“No,” she said. “Under normal circumstances, I would agree, but this is my ship. I have some stake in this.”

“Martha,” he said gently, “do you trust me?”

As much as her father or Gran, and more than Josephine or Reese.

“Yes.”

“Then let me handle this. It would be difficult to explain your presence at this hour of the morning.”

He was right. Annoyed nevertheless, she left the Queen’s Rooms.