Burning Up

He covered her mouth with his. Soft and quiet, wooing her. Her heart lurched and then raced. He touched her gently and with purpose until she trembled in his arms.

He smiled. “Cold?”

“No.”

Her skin flushed as he continued to touch her, to taste, trailing his fingers from throat to breast, from hip to thigh and everywhere in between. His hands left fires in their wake, a bone-deep glow, flash points of pleasure.

“Jack.”

He gathered her close, body to body, skin to skin, heat to heat. Their mouths met and explored before he grasped her hips and nudged forward. She gasped, her fingers biting into his shoulders. He thrust.

Ah. She shuddered, her teeth biting down on her lower lip. “Again.”

He paused. “Are you asking me or telling me?”

She wriggled. “Which will get you to do what I want?”

“Either,” he admitted frankly. His neck arched, the cords straining as she touched him. “Oh, God, Morwenna.”

She melted against him. “Please. Do it. Now.”

He surged.

She cried out in passion, in possession, in joy. He was in her, part of her, as she clenched around him and made him hers, as he thrust inside her and made her his, all their boundaries blurring, all their divisions melting away. They moved together, flowed together, fused together by sweat and heat and need.

One.

Tenderness cracked her heart.

“You are the first,” she told him.

He focused on her face, his pupils wide and wild. “What?”

She touched his cheek. “My first love.”

Her last.

Her only.

“Good,” he said with masculine satisfaction and sank into her again.

The ripples began inside her. He held himself deep and still as she shuddered, as she shattered, feeling him everywhere inside her, surging inside her, in her blood and in her loins and in her heart. She wrapped her arms around him to hold him closer, wrapped her legs around him to bring him deeper, felt him push into her, pound into her, until he plunged with her into the heart of the whirlpool and they both were swept away.

They floated, drifting in each other’s arms. The sun was warm on her naked hip, golden behind her eyelids.

He raised his head and kissed her so sweetly she shivered again in longing and delight.

“I am a plain man with ordinary needs. I want to give you my life and my love. To share a home and children with you. Marry me, Morwenna.”

She felt the prick of real tears, hard, human tears in her eyes. She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Are you asking me or telling me?”

But his emotions ran too deep for teasing. His gaze was straight and serious. “Which will get you to do what I want?”

“Either,” she answered honestly. “I love you.”

His hands tightened. His eyes blazed. “Yes?” he demanded. “Say yes.”

“Yes!”

Neither spoke again for a long while.

SIX

The sun slid toward the sea. Pink and purple clouds fled across the sky, herded like sheep by the wind. The tide rolled in, long, flat breakers edged with dirty lace.

Morwenna sat in the prow as Jack rowed the heavy wooden boat back to the mainland.

She loved.

And was loved.

The knowledge was a warm glow in her chest, radiating outward to her fingers and toes like the rays of the afternoon sun.

Jack hauled on the oars, his lean brown face open and relaxed despite the restive sea. She had done that for him, she thought smugly. She had erased the lines from his face and put that lazy, satisfied glint in his eyes.

She smiled.

“Wind’s picking up,” he remarked.

She could feel a shimmer of vapor in the air, a powerful current flowing from the west. “It must rain sometime,” she said apologetically.

“We’ll be home before then,” he assured her.

Home. Such a round, firm, settled word. The warmth inside her grew.

“I want to go to Arden,” she said.

He nodded. “I told Cook to prepare a special dinner for us.”

She was touched by his thoughtfulness; amused by his appetite. “After that lunch?”

The empty picnic basket rested between the seats. She nudged it with her foot out of the water that had collected in the bottom of the boat.

“We should celebrate. I have something to give you,” Jack said.

She looked at him, instantly diverted from the puddle at her feet. “What?”

“My mother’s ring. A cabochon sapphire.” He cleared his throat. “Of course you might prefer a different stone. Or a larger one.”

She did not care about the size or the stone. The look in his eyes meant everything. “I would love to wear your mother’s ring.”

Pleasure shone in his dark eyes, but he only said, “Wait until you see it.”

“Tonight.”

“Actually, I have it in my pocket. I still haven’t proposed to you properly.”

She arched her eyebrows. “There is a proper way to propose?”

“Generally the man goes down upon one knee.”

“I think I might quite like you on your knees. Just think of all you could do . . . down there. But the way you proposed was better.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Without ceremony?”

“Naked,” she explained. “And inside me.”

His gaze kindled. “Most improper. But since it persuaded you to say yes . . .”

A pop.

A lurch.

A rush.

Morwenna stared, bewildered, as a black rag washed between the seats. The bow dipped suddenly beneath Jack’s weight. “What . . . ?”

Water gurgled in the bottom of the boat. The picnic basket listed on its side in a rapidly growing pool of water.

“Jack?”

A wave washed over the side. Her seat slanted under her.

“We’ve sprung a leak.” His voice was calm and sharp. “Stay with the boat.”

The water gushed to his boots. There was a hole, she realized. Under his seat. She was not frightened, only bewildered and annoyed.

“Hold on to the boat,” Jack ordered. “The hull will float if—”