his own, and come heaven or hell or death itself, he meant to see them through.
And this innocence…
This, too, was the last thing he needed. She was hardened, and there were jagged edges to her. War did that. War and death and pain and blood. But the innocence was still there, too. He had thought he could make her run, and he had thought he could be strong enough himself not to touch her. He was used up. He knew that. He was used up, and she deserved more than that. He was still alive, though, still breathing, and she touched every raw cord of desire within him. Maybe he had known what was to come, and maybe he hadn't expected it at all, but now that it was happening, he couldn't even try to deny it. She spun a golden web of arousal and passion as soft and silky and luxuriant as the long strands of hair that tangled around them both, dampened by the glistening sheen of their bodies. She had beautiful features, exquisite features, fine, high cheekbones, a small, slim nose and eyes like an endless blue sky, darkly fringed with rich lashes and glazed now with blossoming passion. And her mouth… it was full and giving, sensual in laughter, sensual when her lips parted beneath his own. She was soft, she was velvet and she was created for desire, with high, firm breasts, a slim waist and flaring hips, and smooth, fascinating buttocks. He hadn't meant to stay. He hadn't meant to come here, and he hadn't meant to stay. He hadn't meant to touch her…
But he had.
And she moved. She moved with exquisite grace. She made sweet, soft sounds that entered his loins and caused the blood to pound in his head so that he could think no more. Only one thought guided him, and that was that he had to have her, had to have her or go mad. Her nipples pressed against his chest, and she arched against his hand. Despite his best efforts, the agony of the past was erased, the vengeance of the future forgotten. Even the present meant nothing at all. All that mattered was this woman, and she was hot and wet and begging for release.
He pulled her to him almost roughly. Her eyes widened, and he commanded her to hold tight. He caught her lips in a heady kiss and swept his hands beneath her. He fought hard to remember her innocence. He kissed her with sweeping ardor, and then he entered her.
He was slow, achingly slow, and she was sleek and damp, a hot sheath ready to encase him, and still he felt her shudder, heard the sudden agonized cry that she muffled against his chest.
He'd heard it before. On his wedding day.
The irony, the bitter, bitter irony touched him for a moment, and for a moment he hated her and himself. For a moment he was still. Then he felt her shudder again and thought she might be crying, and then he was whispering things without thinking.
Yes… he'd been here before. Making love tenderly to a woman for the very first time. Her very first time.
He held her, caressed her, promised to help her. And then he moved again, slowly at first, carefully, tenderly.
And then she was moving beneath him, subtly at first. She was taking him in, and the tears were gone, and the shock was gone, and the desperate tension was growing again.
Care and consideration left him. A thirst that he was frantic to slake ripped through him and into his loins. He couldn't remember ever being so fevered, and still the sensations grew. He touched her breasts, struck anew by their beauty. He inhaled the clean, sweet scent of her tangled hair and the fever soared higher and higher. He wrapped her legs tightly around him and cupped her buttocks, and rocking hard, filled her with himself again and again. He threw back his head and rough sound tore from him as the relief began to shake and convulse through his body. Again and again he spilled into her. She cried out, her voice ragged. He was aware that she had reached some sweet satisfaction, and he was pleased. She fell still, and the last of the fever raked through him. He thrust deep, deep inside her one last time. It was shattering, and he couldn't remember when he had known such a deeply satisfying climax.
He fell to her side, covered with sweat, breathing heavily.
She was silent. He touched her cheek and found tears there.
Suddenly he was furious with himself and with her. This should never have happened. She should have married some young buck and worn white, and she should have been loved, not just desired.
She twisted away from his touch, and he let her go. She turned her back on him, and he wondered if she was crying again. Maybe she had a right to, but it was damned insulting. He'd taken even greater care with her than he had with — Elizabeth. With Elizabeth.
There. He dared to think her name.
Though he gritted his teeth and wished it away, agony gripped him from head to toe. He wondered if the pain would ever leave him.
'You can… you can go back now,' Kristin said suddenly.
'What?' His voice was sharp.
'Our deal.' She spoke softly, her voice a mere whisper, as if tears hovered behind her words, tears and just a touch of anxiety. 'It's — it's made now, isn't it?'
He hesitated before he answered her. 'Yes, your bloody bargain is made, Miss McCahy.'
'Then you could… you could go back. Across the hall.'
He didn't know what demon seized him. He didn't care if he was heard by the others in the house, didn't care about anything at all. He sat up in a sudden fury and wrenched her around to face him. He spoke bitingly, trying to make every word sting like the stroke of a lash.
'Not on your life, my little prima donna. You invited me in here. Now you've got me. That was the game, Kristin. You knew it was going to go by my rules —'
'My God!' she cried, jerking away from his touch. 'Have you no consideration, no —'
'Compassion? Not a whit. This is what you wanted, and now you've got it.'
She was beautiful still, he thought. The moonlight was playing over her breasts, and they were damp and shimmering and very, very fine, the nipples still enlarged and hard. He felt a quickening inside him all over again, and with it felt the return of the pain. The pain of betrayal. It was all right with whores, with tavern girls. It was something else with this innocent young beauty.
He scowled fiercely and turned his back on her. 'Go to sleep, Kristin.'
She didn't move. She didn't answer him. Not for endless seconds.
'Go to sleep?' she repeated incredulously.
'Damn it, yes, go to sleep.' He swung around again and pressed her down on the bed. She started to fight him, and he wasn't in the mood to take it. Dark anger was in him, dark, brooding anger, and though he didn't mean to be cruel to her, he didn't seem to be able to help himself. He caught her shoulders and shook them. 'Good night, Kristin. Go to sleep.'
'Leave,' she said stubbornly.
'I'll be damned if I will.'
'Then I'll leave.'
'And I'll be damned if you'll leave, either. Now go to sleep!'
He turned around, offering her his back once again. He didn't know why he had started this bout, but now that he had begun it, he wasn't about to lose.
He felt it when she started to rise, and he turned with frightening speed, sweeping his arm around her waist and holding her still. He felt her heart beating like that of a doe.
'Go to sleep!'
He heard her teeth grating, but she didn't move, not again. He knew she was planning to wait until he fell asleep, then slip away.
He smiled. She had another think coming. He would feel her slightest movement. He would awaken.
When she did try to move, he kept his eyes closed and held her fast. He heard her swearing softly, and he heard the threat of sobs coming to her whispering voice.
But then it was she who fell into an exhausted sleep. And it was he who awoke first with the morning. He stood and stretched and padded naked to the window and looked out on a beautiful summer's day. It was a fine ranch, he thought. Then he sighed, and he knew that she would think she had sold herself dearly in the night.
He had sold himself dearly, too. He had sold his honor, and he would have to stay, and he would have to protect her.
He walked over to the bed. The evidence of their night together was painfully obvious in the twisted
