Temper vanished. Rafe reached for the pot again. 'We're sleeping together. That's all.'
'You gotta start somewhere.'
'She's different, Shane.' He hadn't been able to admit it to himself, but it came easily brother to brother. 'I haven't sorted it out, but she's different. She matters a lot.'
'Everybody's got to take the big fall sometime.' Shane slapped a hand on Rafe's bare shoulder. 'Even you.'
'I didn't say anything about falling,' Rafe muttered. He knew the implications of that. Falling in love. Being in love.
'You didn't have to. Look, I'll plow the lane, just in case. You got any food around here?'
'Yeah, there's enough.'
'I'll take off, then. It's supposed to let up by mid-morning. I have animals to tend to, so if you need something, try Devin first. I might be out.'
'Thanks. Shane?' He turned, eyeing his brother. 'If you so much as glance in that parlor on your way out, I'll have to kill you.'
'I already got a good look at her legs.' Whistling cheerfully, Shane ambled down the hall. 'See you, Regan.' It cost him, but he kept his eyes averted on his way to the door.
The minute she heard it slam, Regan pressed her face on her updrawn knees. Stepping into the parlor, Rafe winced at her defensive posture, her trembling shoulders.
'Look, darling, I'm sorry. I should have locked the damn door.' Gently he patted her shoulder and sat down beside her. 'Shane doesn't mean to be an idiot. He was born that way. He doesn't mean any harm. Don't be upset.'
She made a strangled sound, and when she lifted her face, it was wet with tears. Her laughter bubbled out like wine. 'Can you imagine what we looked like, the three of us, in that hall?' She pressed her hand over her mouth and rocked. 'The two of us half-naked, Shane looking like the abominable snowman.'
'You think that's funny?'
'No, I think it's hysterical.' Weak with laughter, she collapsed against him. 'The MacKade brothers. Oh, God, what have I gotten myself into?'
Delighted with her, he hauled her into his lap. 'Give me back my shirt, darling, and I'll show you.'
Chapter 7
Cozy in the sleeping bag, Regan dozed by the fire. It sizzled, logs crackling, and brushed heat over her face and her outflung arm. She sighed, cruising with the dream, shifting toward her lover.
Her dreams were nearly as erotic as the reality of the past hours, vivid enough to have her stirring, and yearning. When she reached out and found herself alone, she sighed again, in disappointment.
The fire was lively, so she knew Rafe had built it up once more before he left her. The room was quiet enough that she could hear the ticking of the mantel clock marking time. Evidence of the night's activities was all around her, in the hastily strewn clothes littering the floor, the torn bits of lace and the jumbled boots. And the evidence was within her as she stretched, feeling the warm glow of desire.
She wished he was there, so that he could stoke it as he had stoked the fire.
Still, it was a wonderful shock to realize she could lay claim to such a bottomless well of passion.
It had never been so before, she reflected, sitting up to exercise her stiff and sore muscles. Physical relationships had always been far down on her list of priorities. She wondered if, after her recent behavior, Rafe would be surprised to know that before him, she had considered herself hesitant, even a little shy, when it came to intimacy.
With a yawn, she reached for her sweater and pulled it over her head.
Knowing him, she decided, he'd just be smug.
It was a pity she couldn't blame her celibacy of the past few years for her wildfire response to him. It felt as though her libido had been nothing more than dry timber set to the torch the moment he put his hands on her. But using abstinence as the major reason for her response would be far from honest.
Whatever her life had been before, he'd changed it just by stepping into her path. It was certain she would never look at cozy nights by a fire in the same way again. It was doubtful she would look at anything in quite the same way again, she mused, now that she knew what she was capable of with the right... mate.
Just how, she wondered, did a woman go back to a quiet, settled life once she'd had a taste of Rafe MacKade? That was something she was going to have to deal with, one cautious day at a time.
At the moment, the only thing she wanted was to find him.
In her stocking feet, she began to wander the house. He could be anywhere, and the challenge of hunting him down, finding him busy with some chore—one she was determined to distract him from—amused her.
The chill of the bare floors seeped through and had her rubbing her hands together for a little warmth. But curiosity far overweighed a little discomfort.
She'd been through the first-floor rooms only twice before. First on her initial viewing to take notes and measurements. The second time to recheck them. But there were no workmen now, no sounds of voices or hammering.
She slipped into the room beyond the parlor, dreaming a bit.
This would be the library—glossy shelves filled with books, deep-cushioned chairs inviting a guest to curl up to read. A library table would stand there, she mused, a Sheraton if she could find one, with a decanter of brandy, a vase of seasonal flowers, an old pewter inkwell.
library steps, of course, she continued visualizing, seeing it all perfectly, almost to the grain of wood. And the wide-backed chairs near the crackling fire would need cozy footstools.
She wanted a reading stand in the far corner, one with a cabriole base. She'd set a big, old Bible with gilt- edged pages open on it.
Abigail O'Brian, married to Charles Richard
Barlow, April 10, 1856
Catherine Anne Barlow, born June 5,1857
Charles Richard Barlow, Junior, born November
22,1859
Robert Michael Barlow, born February 9,1861
Abigail Barlow, died September 18,1864
Regan shivered, swayed. She came back to herself slowly, her arms wrapped tight to ward off the sudden, bitter cold, her heart pounding as the vision faded from in front of her eyes.
How had she known that? she wondered, running a shaky hand over her face. Where had those names and dates come from?
She'd read them somewhere, she assured herself, but shuddered again. All the research she'd done, of course she'd read them. Very slowly, she backed out of the room and stood in the hall to catch her breath.
Of course she'd known the Barlows of that time had had three children. She'd looked it up. The dates must have been there, as well—she'd retained them for some reason, that was all.
Not for anything would she have admitted that she had thought, just for a moment, that she'd actually seen the thick white page of a Bible opened, and the names and dates written there in a carefully formal hand.
She walked to the stairs and climbed them.
He'd left the door open this time. When she reached the landing, she heard the scrape of his trowel against the wall. Letting out a relieved breath, she crossed the hall.
And was warm again, just looking at him.
'Need a hand?'
He glanced back, saw her standing there in her classic sweater and pleated trousers. 'Not in that outfit. I just wanted to get this coat finished, and I thought you needed some sleep.'
She contented herself with leaning against the doorway to watch him. 'Why is it that manual labor is so attractive on some men?'
'Some women like to see guys sweat.'
'Apparently I do.' Thoughtfully she studied his technique, the slide of the trowel, the flick of the wrist. 'You
