The Brazen Bride

Four

She wasn’t surrendering to him but to herself-to that brazen self who wanted to know what more of the magic he could show her. Last night had been a revelation, but if there was more to know, more to experience, she needed to know, to learn of it.

Knowledge, experience, understanding-she’d realized from her earliest years how important those were, how crucial to leadership. Taking risks to achieve them was, to her, second nature, simply a part of who she was.

Once she sank against Logan, wound her arms about his neck and kissed him back-as fearless as he was ravenous-her decision was made. Made and communicated; there was no going back. She never even considered it. Stepping back from a challenge wasn’t her style.

And his kiss-this kiss, his mouth and hers joined-was the first fascination. The first flare of heat, the first taste of passion. It was more, so much more, than any kiss she’d ever shared with any of her earlier lovers; they’d been boys, mere learners, dilettantes.

This kiss, his kiss, was one of claiming-of challenge, of blatant promise. Of sensual threat. A statement of intention, certainly-of domination. As with lips and tongue he ravaged and sent her senses spinning, she clung and fought to return the pleasure, to match and meet his educated assault, while inwardly her brazen self rejoiced.

Titillated, expectant, glorying in the moment.

His arms had closed around her, his hard hands holding her, then they moved and he sculpted her curves-possessively, predatorially.

Excitement sparked; her nerves came alive-aware, awake, as they never had been. Tense and waiting, anticipating.

The next touch, the next flagrantly possessive caress.

It came, his hard hand closing about one globe of her bottom, the firm curve filling his palm; his fingers kneaded as he held her to him, lifted her to her toes-then he moved, hips suggestively thrusting, the ridge of his erection riding against her mons, the hard length impressing strength, intention, and erotic promise against her taut belly.

Setting greedy flames flaring low, swelling the hollow emptiness that had opened there.

The emptiness she needed him to fill.

Yet…

She felt a tug-realized he’d undone her laces. Felt her bodice sag. In mere seconds he had her out of it, had drawn her arms free, pushed the gown down to her hips, leaving it to slide as it would to the floor, and his hand closed, hard and demanding, about her breast, screened only by her thin shift and even finer chemise.

On a gasp, she pulled back from the kiss. Eyes closed, stretched up on her toes, her fingertips sinking into the heavy muscles of his shoulders as his wicked fingers found her nipple and tweaked. “ Slowly ,” she gasped.

And immediately felt his touch ease.

And what a thrill that was-a shiver of knowledge, of understanding, skated down her spine. She lifted her heavy lids and looked into his eyes.

They glittered through his dark lashes, his own lids low. “Just as long as slow doesn’t mean stop.”

The words were deep, almost guttural. They made her smile. “No-just slow. Slow so I can…” Feel everything, every little nuance. So I can learn of myself, and even more of you. Her smile deepened. “Savor.”

His eyes searched hers. “With that,” he murmured, “I’ll be happy to comply.”

His hand hadn’t stopped caressing her breast, had been toying firmly, definitely, yet without the urgency she’d sensed had been about to sweep them both away.

He bent his head and kissed her again, took her lips again, engaged with her again, and instantly she sensed, all but felt, the rein he’d imposed on his passions.

That he maintained as, slowly, he stripped her gown, her shift, then her chemise away, and laid her on the bed, stripped off his own clothes-slowly, so she had the chance to catch her breath and admire the lines of the most magnificent male body she’d ever laid eyes on, bandages and all-then he joined her.

Unhurriedly propped on one elbow beside her, and ran one hard, callused hand slowly over her body from her throat to her calves.

She let herself respond instinctively, found herself arching lightly into the caress, her body, already heated and yearning, wanting more-blatantly, uninhibitedly.

If she wanted this-wanted to know, to learn, to experience-she saw no point in inhibitions. They had no place here, no purpose between her and him.

Something in his eyes as he looked down at her, for a moment studied her face, gave her the impression he somehow understood that, that he’d seen, taken note, and would use the knowledge, would respond accordingly.

Then he bent his head and set his lips to her breast.

First one, then the other, sampling, tasting, then feasting. Slowly.

Even as she writhed, as she gasped, then softly moaned, as her fingers tangled in his thick hair and she held him to her, helplessly offering her flesh, her body, for his delectation, she knew she’d been inspired in insisting on slow.

Slow . The word became a heartbeat, a pulse of this loving. This seduction he waged on her flesh, on her mind.

On her senses, on every inch of her skin.

She came alive beneath his hands in a way she never had before-and this time she knew it, felt the change to her bones, reveled in the inexpressible pleasure, in the freedom and joy of knowing this could be hers.

That she could have this, be this, the houri he’d called her.

He opened her senses, and she rose to the challenge-waited eagerly to experience what next would come as he lazily-slowly-wended his way down her body, placing hot, wet kisses here, there, past her navel, over the swell of her stomach.

Resting his head on her waist, he looked down, watching as he sent his fingers circling through the tight red-gold curls at the apex of her thighs, then he pushed past, down, and touched her.

Parted her already slick folds and caressed her.

Slowly. Blatantly.

As if he had all the time in the world to feel her, touch her, stroke and caress her.

Urgency slammed into her. She caught her breath; instinctively her thighs eased, parted-inviting, wanting.

She felt more than heard his deep chuckle.

“Slowly, remember?”

“Yes, but -” She broke off on a strangled gasp as another far-too-knowing caress had her arching beneath him, fingers digging into his shoulders.

“Ah-perhaps this is what you want?”

Before she could gather her whirling wits, his hand shifted between her thighs and he sank one long finger-slowly-into her, deeper and deeper into her sheath, until he could reach no further.

The breath she’d drawn in and held gushed out, halfsigh, halfmoan. “Yes. Oh… yes.” Her head was spinning.

“Good.” He stroked, slowly , deep inside her, then again, and her nerves tightened.

Tightened.

He continued his slow stroking until heat beat in swelling waves through her veins, pulsing and spreading beneath her skin.

Until she was wet, and helpless, and needy.

Until she was one stroke away from wantonly begging.

Until she was so taut that with the next stroke she was sure she’d fracture.

That next stroke never came. He slid lower in the bed; his finger left her. He pushed her thighs wider apart, one trapped by his shoulder, the other held wide with one strong hand.

She cracked open her lids, looked down her body at him-saw him looking down at her-at her swollen, throbbing flesh.

Then he ducked his head and set his mouth to her there.

She came off the bed with a shriek.

He paused, looked up at her. “Is anyone likely to hear you?”

“What?” It took a moment to process the question, to think of the answer. “No. Even the attic rooms aren’t directly above us.”

“Good.” With that, he set his other hand across her belly, holding her down, lowered his head, took her soft, most intimate flesh into his mouth, and suckled.

She screamed, fought to mute the sound, fought to breathe, hands scrabbling for some purchase that would hold her to reality as he played on her senses for all he was worth.

In this arena, he was worth quite a lot. Knew a lot-so much more than she. Her skin was dewed, flushed, her heart pounding, long before he eased back from the exquisite torment.

Panting, mind racing to catch up, she felt his gaze on her, gauging, but couldn’t find the strength to lift her lids-couldn’t cope with what she knew she would feel at the sight of him supping at her there.

Once he’d thoroughly- slowly -consumed her, reducing her to a mass of excruciatingly alive nerves, tense, knotted, and desperately aware, he shifted, licked, laved, then with his tongue probed.

Plunged her into passion unlike any she’d ever known. Her hands clenched, helplessly gripping, in his hair, all she could do was hang on as he drove her, shuddering, quivering, to the brink of ecstasy.

Then he drew back.

He surged over her, and she felt his heat, despite the bandages felt the inexpressible pleasure of his hard body hovering inches above hers as he wedged his hips between her widespread thighs, as he fitted himself to her-then sank home.

Her body arched. She clung, desperately held on-desperately wanted to feel every fraction of an inch of him as he thrust deep and hard into her heated, helplessly willing, mindlessly needy body.

As she felt her sheath stretch, greedily taking him in, all the hard length of him as he forged deep, she hungrily clutched, held him to her. With her arms, with her body, she wrapped herself around him and held tight.

Heard his guttural groan as he came to rest deep within her, then he lowered his head, found her lips-and she tasted her nectar on his lips and tongue as he kissed her ferociously. Then his spine flexed, powerful and sure, and his erection pumped within her, his hips driving in a steady, pounding rhythm…

She couldn’t hold on. Couldn’t hold back the tide that rose up and crashed over her, surging again before barreling through her.

Ecstasy smashed into her, a tidal wave of sensation that streaked down every vein, down every nerve, to explode in brilliant glory.

Shattering her, emptying her, draining her, then filling the void with glory-tinged bliss.

A bliss that only deepened, only strengthened when he stiffened, then she felt the warm rush deep within, and he groaned and slumped in her arms.

She held him close and marveled, drifting in the aftermath-one deeper, more profound, than she’d previously known. Hands weakly shifting in his hair in an instinctive caress, she lay relaxed and boneless beneath him, beyond amazed at the depth and intensity, the sheer vibrancy of feeling that with him the act had encompassed, had contained.

Never, ever, not in any of her three previous attempts, had the act been anything like this. Not even a weak echo of this.

Logan knew he should shift, that he was pressing her into the bed and she probably couldn’t breathe, but… he could feel her hand in his hair, gently stroking, and some part of him didn’t want to let the moment go. Not yet.

She’d wanted slowly, so he’d gone as slow as he could. Not so easy given that the instant she’d melted into his arms, he’d known he would have her again-that her body was his to take again-and his baser self had been fixated on that, on achieving that as quickly and as blatantly as possible.

Why that last was so important-why some part of him had been so urgent to reimpose, reenact, reiterate his possession of her-he didn’t know. He liked women, liked indulging with them, yet never before had he wanted to do more than physically enjoy them. Possess them? No. Not him.

He wasn’t a possessive lover-or at least he never had been… for a moment, he wondered how he knew, yet consulting his deeper feelings, he knew he was right. He’d never before felt the need to mark a woman as his.

Yet he felt that way with Linnet Trevission.

Perhaps being clouted over the head had changed him?

Yet… why her?

Admittedly she felt better beneath him-fitted him better, suited him better-than any other woman he’d ever known. Still…

Perhaps when his memory fully returned, he’d lose this primitive urge to tighten his hold on her and never let her go.

Perhaps.

Dragging in a breath, he managed to lift his body from hers-reluctantly separating skin from slick skin-then he left himself down gently on his back beside her. He was well aware the gash on his side had not yet mended; he’d felt the stitches pull during his recent exertions, but was fairly certain none had popped.

Chill air played over his cooling skin. He hadn’t noticed the temperature before. Reaching down, he snagged the covers and flicked them up over them both. She lifted a hand weakly to help.

Grinning to himself, he lay back and simply rested. Sensed that it was a long time since he’d just lain back afterward like this, and let the warmth of aftermath lap, then gently recede.

He couldn’t raise his left arm and gather her in, not without stretching his wound. Eventually, even though he sensed she was awake, he turned carefully onto his side and slid his right arm over her waist. Felt insensibly comforted by having her beneath his arm, within his hold.

She shot him a quick glance, but immediately looked away, confirming she was wide awake. He knew why he was-he was basking, savoring the moment too much to succumb to slumber and miss it-but he knew he’d satisfied her, thoroughly, deeply, and utterly completely, so by rights she should be comatose… except she was thinking. Pondering.

He suspected he knew about what. Weak light from the distant candle played over them, well enough for eyes adjusted to the dimness to see reasonably well. Keeping his lips straight, his expression blank, letting his lids fall so he could only just see through his lashes, he murmured, “Your other lovers-I take they weren’t as… inventive as I.”

The look she shot him was faintly shocked, but even as he watched, that faded. Clearly assuming his eyes were closed, she studied his face, frowned. “I wouldn’t have said inventive. I suspect experienced is closer to the mark.”

He could smile without giving away that he was watching her. “I see. How many were there?”

Why he wanted to know was a mystery-he never had with any other lover. But with her… he wanted to know.

She continued to frown. “Three.”

“Only three?”

“Three before you.” Folding her arms over the covers, snugging them beneath her breasts, she acerbically added, “Three was enough to convince me that there was little in the activity to recommend it to me.”

That had him opening his eyes wide to stare at her. Directly into her pale emerald eyes. She couldn’t possibly mean… “Three lovers-three times?” That would explain why he’d found her so incredibly, arousingly tight.

“I wasn’t about to further indulge them if I got nothing from the event.”

“Nothing?” His mind boggled; she’d been gloriously, uninhibitedly responsive. “They must have been clods.”

“They weren’t.” She shrugged. “Just… not as imaginative as you.”

He held her gaze, inwardly held his breath. “Am I to take it, inventive, imaginative, and experienced as I am, that you won’t be averse to indulging with me again?”

She hesitated, but now he was piecing her situation together, he wasn’t all that surprised. He knew well enough not to push, but merely wait; she was, after all, a gently bred female, so that she’d indulged at all with anyone…

He narrowed his eyes. “How old are you?”

She narrowed her eyes fractionally back. “Twenty-six.”

When his expression relaxed, she frowned. “Why? What does it matter?”

“It doesn’t, but it does explain why you’ve indulged at all-twenty-six is getting a trifle long in the tooth.”

“Indeed. As you can clearly remember, twenty-six is more or less on the shelf.”

“And they-local society-expect you to marry.”

“Yes, but that’s not why I decided to take a lover. We weren’t courting-there was never any question of that.”

He inwardly frowned. Either customs had changed radically, or he was missing some relevant fact.

Before he could think of what question to ask, she said, “I’d already decided I would never marry.”

He let his frown materialize. “Why not?”

She arched her brows, haughty again. Even naked, she could pull it off. “For the same reason Queen Elizabeth didn’t.”

Oddly, that made perfect sense. “Ah. I see.”

Linnet was surprised. Indeed, she doubted he truly had, but then he confirmed it.

“The question of power.”

“Yes. My position here is essentially that of liege-lord, a hereditary position I’ve been bred to fill, and I have no inclination whatever to give it up.”

He held her gaze for a long moment-so long she wondered what was passing through his mind. Then he said, “You haven’t answered my question.”

She frowned. “What question?”

“Whether, given my expertise, you’re agreeable to indulging with me again.”

She couldn’t see any reason why she shouldn’t. Could formulate several reasons why she should. “Ask me again later, when you’re able.”

Something hot-that sense of blue flame-shifted behind his dark eyes. The sight made her breath hitch, made parts of her tingle. Made her seize on a distraction. “Could you really tell from kissing me that it was me with you last night?” Aside from all else, she wanted to know.

He smiled, slowly. “That, and other things.”

“What things?”

The heavy arm across her waist lifted, raising the covers. “Let me show you.”

Before she’d realized what he was about, he’d lifted over her, spread her thighs with his long legs, and settled his hips between-proving that, contrary to her expectations, he was very much able already.

He looked down between their bodies, shifted, and she felt the broad head of his erection nudge past her folds-instantly setting her nerves jangling, her body tightening in expectation, in anticipation. Pausing, he raised his head, caught her eyes as he settled on his elbows above her.

From a distance of mere inches, his gaze burned into hers. “This-how you feel when I’m pushing inside you”-he demonstrated, forging slowly but steadily in-“how you close so tightly around me when I fill you- ” With a powerful thrust he filled her completely, making her gasp, making her arch beneath him, making her already furled nipples brush against the coarse bandages circling his chest-making her cry out.

Making her sheath contract tightly around him-making him hiss and close his eyes.

But then he opened them again, pinned her as she lay beneath him. “This,” he said, his voice gravelly and low as he withdrew and then thrust deep and hard again, “was the final proof.”

She’d thought her nerves were shattered, wrung out, unable to respond, not again, not so soon. But they were already sparking, tensing, tightening. As for him… “I didn’t think…” That was all she could manage to say as he filled her again.

“Don’t think.” He lowered his head to rest alongside hers. “Stop thinking. Just feel.”

She didn’t take orders well, but this time she complied.

His breathing harsh by her ear, her own breath coming in panting gasps, his heavy body moving over hers, her own responding, his hips and legs pinning her, spread and open, beneath him, she really had no choice as he settled into a driving, pounding rhythm that rescripted all she’d ever known about what could pass between a man and a woman.

Flames rose and enveloped them. Cindered all thought, any lingering inhibition. When she felt him tug one of her knees, she responded, raising her legs and wrapping them around his hips, opening herself even more.

For him to take. To fill. To ravish.

Logan didn’t hold back. She’d given him a telling piece of information-her comment about Queen Elizabeth. About her position here. Her other lovers would have known it and bowed to it-and so failed. She was too strong a woman to be made love to gently, reverently, at least not at first. She didn’t need a man to bow to her but to take her, possess her-to show her what it was like, how it felt, to be desired and possessed.

So he took, gave desire and predatory hunger free rein and unrestrainedly possessed. He demanded, commanded, and took all she had to give, savoring her moans, her gasps, her surrender, until her ulitmate climax brought on his own.

The ensuing cataclysm rocked even him.

As he hung above her, gasping, waiting for his thundering heart to slow, his sawing breathing to ease, he looked down, and watched as, this time sated well beyond thought, she slipped, boneless and relaxed, into sleep beneath him.

He felt a satisfaction deeper than any he’d ever known as he withdrew from the clinging clasp of her body, then slumped beside her.

For however long he remained here, for however long this odd hiatus in his life lasted, she would be his. His to possess whenever he wished.

Whenever he could persuade her to it.

December 12, 1822

Mon Coeur, Torteval, Guernsey

Logan woke to dawn seeping through the room, and an empty space in the bed beside him. As the events of the night replayed in his brain, he found himself grinning, but as the reality of the situation impinged, his sense of euphoria faded.

He didn’t yet know who he-Logan Monteith-was, not as an adult, not now. He didn’t know what he did, how he made his living-didn’t know where he lived, nor where he’d been going. He needed to jog his memory and remember, but regardless, one fact stood crystal clear.

Despite his lack of memory, he had to have a life he needed to return to. Ergo, his time here, with Linnet, was limited.

He’d known that, and she knew it, too. Indeed, in a way she was counting on it, knowing that, regardless of whatever grew between them, he would eventually leave. The critical point being that she and her position stood in no danger from him.

Pushing back the covers, swinging his legs from the bed, he frowned. The knowledge that their liaison was already slated to be temporary, fleeting, sat poorly… as if he’d endured many such meaningless encounters in the past and no longer found succor in them.

That might well be true. Grimacing, he stood, crossed to the armchair by the window, and lifted the robe Linnet had given him. Shrugging into it, belting it, he decided he needed to do all he could to bring his memory back.

Going along the corridor, he washed, shaved. Twisting before the small mirror, he tried to unpick the knot securing the bandage around his chest, but couldn’t. He wanted to take a look at the wound, but would need help to do so. Turning his attention to the bandage about his head, he started unwinding it, only to discover it had stuck to his scalp and he couldn’t get it loose. Frustrated, he rewound it as best he could.

Returning along the corridor to Linnet’s room, he saw one of the little maids standing outside the door trying to balance a pile of clothes well enough to knock.

Hearing his footsteps, she turned, brightened. “There you are, sir-I’ve brought these up for you.” She offered the pile. “These are what you was washed up in. We’ve done the best we can with them, but Miss Trevission says that if you find anything unwearable to please continue to use the clothes she gave you.”

“Thank you.” He took the pile of neatly laundered clothes.

The maid bobbed a curtsy, turned, and clattered away. Logan entered the bedchamber, closed the door, then laid the clothes out on the bed. He studied them-the plain coat and linen shirt, the black breeches-tried to recall anything about them-where he’d bought them, even when or why he had-but they told him nothing. He didn’t even feel any sense of ownership. Perhaps he was the sort of man who cared nothing for his clothes.

That didn’t sound right, didn’t feel right.

Inwardly shrugging, he donned the clothes, discovering slashes in the shirt and coat corresponding to his wound neatly mended. The breeches were a better fit than Linnet’s father’s had been. He continued using the stockings Linnet had given him, and her father’s boots-wearable, if a touch tight. His own had yet to reappear.

Feeling oddly more himself, he went downstairs and headed for the dining room and the babel therein. Today he was early enough to catch the other men at the table. Exchanging nods and greetings, he slid into the vacant chair next to Linnet’s.

Brandon reached over the table, holding out a belt. “This is yours. We reoiled it and it came up well, but we couldn’t save your boots.”

“Thank you.” Logan took the belt. Uncoiling it, he saw the buckle was… something he should remember, but didn’t. Shifting in his chair, he slid the belt through the loops on his breeches, cinched and buckled it.

As the other men rose and left for their work, Linnet caught his eye. “Your boots were Hobys.”

When he blinked at her, she asked, “Do you know what that means?”

He nodded, but couldn’t work it out. A gentleman’s boots were usually made to measure and therefore not readily transferrable-witness the current pinching of his toes. So the boots he’d been washed up in were almost certainly his own, and Hoby was one of the ton’s foremost bootmakers.

The other little maid-Molly, he thought her name was-brought him a plate piled even higher than the day before. He thanked her and absentmindedly fell to eating while he tried to solve the riddle.

In case he hadn’t seen it, Linnet murmured, “Your expensive boots don’t match your ordinary clothes.”

He glanced at her, but said nothing.

Linnet left him to his thoughts. The children finished, and she dispatched them to their various chores and lessons. Buttons followed Jen, Chester, and Gilly out, shooing them ahead of her to the schoolroom.

With only herself, Muriel, and Logan left in the room, Linnet transferred her gaze to Logan, and waited.

Eventually he looked up and met her eyes. Grimaced. “I have no idea what the discrepancy between my clothes and boots means.”

He fell silent again, his forehead-what showed beneath the now lopsided bandage-deeply furrowed. Linnet looked down the table at Muriel, sipping her last cup of tea, and arched a brow. Her aunt saw, considered, then nodded.

Linnet rose, went into the parlor, retrieved both the scabbarded saber and the wooden cylinder, returned to her chair, then placed both items on the table before Logan. “These were the only other things you had with you, other than your clothes and boots, and the dirk.”

He glanced sharply at her and reached for the saber.

Unperturbed, she responded, “As I believe I mentioned, we’ve”-with her head she indicated Muriel, watching from the table’s foot-“had significant experience with temporary loss of memory. It never pays to push, to try to recall too much at once.” She watched curiously as he withdrew the saber and examined the blade. “Regardless, I was going to give you the saber yesterday, after the dirk had been so helpful in bringing so much back to you, but, if you recall, you were tired after that, so pushing again then didn’t seem wise.”

He glanced at her, grimaced, then looked back at the saber. “Despite your solicitousness, this isn’t having the same effect as the dirk.”

“Perhaps it isn’t yours,” Muriel said.

Logan slid his hand into the saber’s guard, grasped the hilt. Hefted it, rolled his wrist a little, gauging the weight. “No-I think it is mine. It feels… familiar. But…” Frustrated, he shook his head. “I just can’t remember what it means, what it tells me.”

Setting it back on the table, he picked up the wooden cylinder. Examining the strips of wood that formed it, held together by brass clasps, he frowned. “This tells me even less. I’m fairly certain it’s not mine.” He tried to open what appeared to be the top, secured by a combination of brass levers, but nothing he did seemed to release the lid.

“It has to be important to you,” Linnet said. “You were carrying it, wrapped in oilskins, in a specially designed leather sling-the cylinder rested along your spine, secured by a belt loop and two other straps that went over your shoulders. We had to cut the sling off you to tend to your wound.”

“I can’t open it-I’m not sure I ever could.” Setting it down, he stared at it. “I must have been a courier-presumably taking that to someone, somewhere. But why? And to whom? And where was I heading?”

No answers came.

After a moment, Linnet rose. “Never mind that now-my advice is to leave it and it’ll come to you. However, as you’re clearly going to puzzle over it anyway, come and let me take a look at your head while you think. That bandage needs retying.”

As the loosened bandage had developed a tendency to slip down over one of his eyebrows, Logan grunted and rose. Muriel rose, too, and headed for the kitchen. Logan followed Linnet into the corridor leading to the back door, then she turned off it, down a narrower corridor. Stopping outside a door, she opened it and went through, into a small bathing chamber.

“Sit there.” She pointed to a bench beside a sink.

Noting that her voice of authority had returned in full measure, Logan somewhat grumpily sat.

Linnet ignored his frowning, undid the sloppily tied knot-one he had clearly fashioned-and carefully unwound the bandage, removing the various lumps of padding they’d included to protect the wound.

“It’s stuck,” Logan informed her, just as she reached that point. “That’s why I couldn’t take it off myself.”

“You shouldn’t have tried.” She looked, then humphed. “I’ll need to moisten it, dampen it to remove it. Wait here while I fetch some warm water.”

She went out and to the kitchen. When she returned minutes later carrying a basin with warm water, Logan was sitting exactly as he had been, hands braced on his knees, his gaze fixed in the distance, his brows drawn down in a distinctly black frown.

“If you keep on like that, you’ll give yourself a brain fever.” Setting down the basin, she squeezed out the cloth she’d dropped in the water, then drew his head forward, and gently, carefully, wet the patch where the bandage had stuck.

He shifted, but she kept hold of his head. “Does that hurt?”

“Not of itself-only when you press.”

“Good.” The bandage finally came free. She lifted it away. “Lean further forward so I can check the wound-you might not need another bandage.”

He obliged. Lifting the thick locks of his hair, she inspected the contusion. Although still raised, it looked nowhere near as angry as it had two evenings before, and the break in the scalp was closing nicely.

She straightened. “Let’s leave it unbandaged through the day. The air will help it heal. But you might need padding to sleep comfortably-we’ll see.”

“I sleep on my side or stomach mostly.”

She recalled that he’d tended to sleep draped over her-more on his stomach than not.

Sitting up, he caught her gaze. “I need to check the wound in my side-it’s itching, but until I look at it I can’t tell if that’s good or bad, but I couldn’t untie the knot.”

“Just as well. That’s my handiwork- I’ll untie it and check the dressings and the wound.”

He shrugged. “As you like.” He eased out of his coat. She helped him free his hands, then turned away to lay the coat aside.

When she turned back, he had his shirt half over his head. She leapt to help him draw it off and down his left arm. Pulling it free, she shook it out, then laid it on the coat and turned back to him once more.

Inwardly frowned as her mouth went dry at the sight of him. She wondered how he could possibly seem larger-broader, harder, more powerfully muscled-than he had in her bed last night. He’d seemed more than big enough, powerful enough, then. Of course, then, the bleak winter daylight hadn’t been washing over him, highlighting every line, every curve, every sleek bulge.

And she hadn’t, then, had time to stare.

Realizing, she gave herself a mental shake and briskly walked closer, waving him to swivel so she could reach the knot in the middle of his broad back.

As she reached around him to pick the knot apart, the scent of him-a definable scent that screamed male -teased her senses.

She held her breath and concentrated on the knot.

It came apart before she expired.

Straightening, surreptitiously dragging in a deep breath, she started unwinding the long bandage. Series of bandages. He had to help, but eventually, after she once again applied her damp cloth, the bandages and the dressings were stripped away, and he sat naked to his waist on the bench.

“Here.” Grabbing his left wrist, she lifted it. “Lean on the sink. I’ll need to check the stitches-you might have pulled some.”

His dark eyes watched her, but he said nothing, simply complied.

Ducking under his raised arm, she followed the line of the wound down, inch by inch checking each stitch, running her finger along the side of the gash-still angry but healing, and with no sign of infection, thank God. She worked her way down the side of his chest, bending to examine the spot where his rib had been exposed, then continuing her inspection down to his waist.

As she neared the point where the wound disappeared beneath his breeches, his right hand moved to the buttons securing the waistband, but then paused. “Do you want to check the rest?”

The lower part of the wound, the part that swept across his belly, hadn’t needed stitches, but she and Muriel had applied a salve. “I should check it for infection. Just in case.”

He could have checked that section, but she preferred to see for herself.

“As you wish.”

There was something in his tone that made her look up at his face as he obliged, his hand shifting as he freed the two buttons, but when her eyes met his, he merely arched his brows.

She frowned, then looked down.

Leapt up and back. “Oh!”

Color flooded her cheeks. Her gaze remained immovably locked on the head of his fully erect penis. She hadn’t thought… hadn’t expected him to be standing to attention quite like that.

Hauling in a breath, she wrenched her gaze upward, narrowed her eyes on his. “You did that on purpose!”

He laughed. It was such a lovely, rolling sound that she was caught, blinked. Then his eyes returned to hers. “I assure you it doesn’t respond to commands.”

She’d known that, but… the sight of him like that had temporarily scrambled her brain. Beyond her control, her gaze slid down again, to where he stood, if anything even more rampant. That part of him looked a lot bigger than she’d imagined… had she really taken all that inside her?

“From the look on your face, I take it your previous experiences all occurred at night, or at least in a bed.”

She managed to haul her gaze up to frown at him. “Where else… oh.”

She’d never get her color back to normal if she kept thinking…

“Clearly there’s a lot you’ve yet to experience. I’ll be happy to show you… but did you want to check my wound first, or not?”

She blinked at him, gathered her wits. “Yes.”

“In that case”-he waved with his left hand, the one propped on the sink-“be my guest.”

His other hand was splayed on the bench beside him. She suspected he could, if he wished, use it to help her, but from the gleam in his eye, the damn man was baiting her. Challenging her.

She’d never refused a challenge in her life.

Steeling herself, she stepped closer. His knees were wide spread; she halted between. Then she looked down. Boldly reached for his erection, closed the fingers of her left hand about it, and tilted it to the side.

She couldn’t see the gash well enough while standing. Fluidly dropping to a crouch, she slid her fingers down his length, keeping the head tipped aside so she could focus on what was now a red, healing welt. The salve had helped seal it. As far as she could see, the seal had withstood his exertions of the night.

Satisfied, she tensed to rise, but beyond her control her eyes shifted left. To the solid rod she held between her fingers, more or less level with her face. The flaring rim caught her eye, as did the dark color, more purple than red. The skin beneath her fingertips, fine as a baby’s cheek, seemed odd in contrast to the rigid, steely strength. Fascinated, she shifted her fingers, stroked.

Realized he’d grown not just silent but still.

Totally, utterly still-like a massive cat about to pounce.

Before she could react, his hands closed about her shoulders. She rose as he drew her up.

“Don’t let go.”

The words were bitten off, a command-after one glance at his face, one she deigned to obey. Excitement slithered through her, anticipation streaked down her spine.

One large hand rose to slide around her nape, drawing her to him. Into a kiss.

His lips closed over hers, just as she felt his other hand close about hers, locking her fingers around his erection. She tightened her grip-and sensed the hitch in his breathing. Sensed that, with her touch, she held his attention, his entire focus, absolutely.

She drew back from the kiss enough to breathe across his lips, “So teach me. Show me.”

A command of her own, one with which he complied.

He kissed her, all hot tongue and ravenous lips, while he guided her hand, showed her how to please him.

His hand drifted from her nape, down her back, to her waist. Then further to cup her bottom and knead. Then he urged her closer.

He was raising her skirt, and she was curious and eager to learn what it would be like to indulge in broad daylight, when a knock fell on the door.

Releasing him, she whirled to face the door as Molly called, “Miss, are you done with that basin yet?”

“Ah… almost.” She swallowed desperately, fought to strengthen her voice. “I’ll be finished in a moment. I’ll bring it to the kitchen when we’re done.”

“All right, miss.”

Soft footsteps receded down the corridor. Linnet breathed freely again.

Then she whirled-and discovered Logan reaching for his shirt.

She looked down. His breeches were closed. For one crazed moment, she didn’t know if she was grateful or not.

Then she looked him in the eye. “Just as well-I have to work with the donkeys this morning.”

He arched a brow, then pulled his shirt over his head. His expression when his head emerged was harder, bleaker. “I have to remember-if I’m a courier, then there’s some place I’m supposed to be, and no doubt people waiting for me to arrive.”

She frowned, then backed a step so he could stand and tuck in his shirt. “You can’t force your memory-you need to stop trying.”

He said nothing, just shrugged on his coat.

She stifled an irritated humph, then reached for the basin and lifted it. Cast him a deliberately challenging glance. “I could use some help, if you’re up to it.”

He looked at her-directly enough for her to wonder what she’d said-but then his lips thinned and he waved her to the door. “Donkeys. Lead the way.”

She did, waiting by the door for him to open it, then carried the basin back to the kitchen.