Disoriented, Sarah blinked open her eyes. She’d intended to rise at dawn, but Munro was no longer abed—and he was whistling. She stretched like a contented cat, remembering the intense pleasure he’d given her.

“Time to get up, lazybones.”

She turned her head, stunned by the sight of Munro wearing only his shirt. It was long enough to cover his private parts, but emphasized the length of his powerful legs.

The shirt was unbuttoned to the waist, revealing chiseled muscles she’d been unable to see in the darkness, and the soft curls she’d sifted her fingers through.

His black hair was endearingly tousled, his smile bright.

The memory of what lay beneath the shirt taunted her. “I want to see you,” she said, shocking even herself. Her desire for this man was turning her into a wanton. Perhaps she’d fallen under his spell too quickly. Sarah the Frigid, who cringed at the mere thought of sexual congress, longed to impale herself on the proud lance she hadn’t even been able to see last night.

He glanced at his groin, then shook his head. “My tarse is already clamoring for yer touch. If I let it have its way, we’ll be late for the funeral. Giles is up already.”

Rolling the previously unknown—probably Scottish—word tarse over in her head, she noticed he’d built up the fire, and three bowls of steaming oatmeal sat on the table. Sound asleep, she hadn’t heard a thing. “You seem very capable for the son of an earl,” she teased, climbing out of bed.

“Weel, ye ken, we Scots are hardy folk. Not like the English,” he countered.

Smiling, she stretched, reaching for the ceiling, but grabbed her shawl when she realized his gaze was fixed on the pouting nipples that the shift did nothing to conceal.

He blushed and looked away. “If ye keep that up…”

The heat rose in her face and she was tempted to laugh. “We’re like a couple of adolescents.”

“Aye,” he agreed. “I love to see ye smile, but sit down and eat. I’ll call Giles if ye promise not to seduce me.”

Giggling, she obeyed, struck by the realization Reginald had totally lacked a sense of humor.

Munro managed to get his trews on and buttoned up before Giles arrived, no mean feat given his state of hard arousal. The lad greeted them heartily, still sporting the sly grin caused by Munro’s appearance downstairs wearing naught but his shirt. Assuming the boy would still be asleep had been a mistake. A brisk walk around the yard had done nothing to dampen his tarse’s enthusiasm.

He was glad he’d made Sarah smile. However, the current situation was no laughing matter. They had to make some decisions about the future, but it would be inappropriate to broach the subject until after the funeral.

Last night, he’d had a small taste of the joy to be experienced with Sarah. He wanted more, and he wanted it now. The Munro Pendray who’d never lusted after women was suddenly filled with sexual cravings. She was in his blood, like a drug.

Tucking into his oatmeal after bowing his head for grace, he chuckled inwardly at the notion. After all, she was an apothecary.

“What’s funny?” Giles asked, apparently sensing his amusement.

“Naught,” Munro replied.

Giles scooped up another spoonful of oatmeal and lifted it to his mouth. “Mam used to say a gentleman should button up his shirt when there’s ladies present.”

Sarah snorted, then laughed till tears ran down her face.

Giles gaped at her then shrugged. “Daddy always said it’s impossible to understand women,” he told Munro.

It appeared the lad didn’t understand the reason for his employer’s mirth.

Munro feigned chastened compliance with Mrs. Raincourt’s pearl of wisdom, buttoned up his shirt and handed Sarah a napkin.

Munro and Giles raced each other down the stairs for the chance to be first at the pump for their ablutions. Their laughter echoed even from the yard. Sarah removed her shawl and lifted the shift over her head then dipped a flannel in the warm water and sponged her face and body. It was something she did every morning, though the water was usually tepid at best. Yet, today she was acutely aware of the slide and texture of the wet cloth as she cleansed her breasts, and other intimate parts of her body. Even her hands and arms had taken on a new sensuousness.

She supposed she should feel guilty for the happiness bubbling in her heart on the day of her mother’s funeral. “But I don’t, Mama,” she said loudly.

Strangely reluctant to put on clothes, she wandered around the apartment naked, letting the air dry her body. Her behavior stood in sharp contrast to always taking pains never to be unclothed in front of Reginald.

Oddly disappointed Munro didn’t appear and catch her in the act, she selected her best frock from the hook after donning the shift.

She was ready when Munro returned, except for the cursed bonnet.

“The same dress ye were wearing when we met,” he said with a broad smile, putting on his tunic and cloak.

“My funeral attire,” she retorted, reaching up to tie the bow. “You forget I was coming back from Chepstow.”

“Let me help with that,” he offered.

She sucked in a breath and went weak in the knees when he cupped her breasts.

“Ye’re a temptress, Sarah North.”

“It’s the bonnet I need assistance with,” she replied, “not supporting my breasts.”

The ease with which the word breasts rolled off her tongue took her by surprise. Munro had breached more barriers than she could have imagined.

He shrugged. “Ye canna blame a mon for wanting to put his hands on such beautiful globes.”

She inhaled the scent of his still-damp hair while he fixed the bonnet.

Giles’ voice broke the spell. “Ready,” he yelled.