He sensed release nearing, felt it catch him, sweep up and over him. With one last thrust, he sank deep within her, and surrendered. Let it take him.
Rake him.
Until, at the last, he shuddered, and sleep thickened and closed about him again, and pulled him down into a deeper realm, one where satisfaction and content blended and soothed, cradling him in earthly bliss.
Linnet lay beneath her fallen angel, his dead weight an odd comfort as she struggled, battled, to regain the use of anything-wits or limbs. Even her senses seemed frazzled beyond recall, as if she’d drawn too close to some flame and they’d singed.
He slumped, heavy and boneless, beside her, but she no longer feared waking him up. If their recent exertions hadn’t, nothing would, not soon. And he hadn’t woken, of that she was sure. She’d seized the moment, taken the risk-and it had paid off.
Magnificently.
At last able to fill her lungs, she drew in a huge breath, let it out long and slow.
Staring up at the ceiling, she whispered, “Damn-that was good.”
Then she glanced sideways at the man-her fallen angel-lying facedown in the bed beside her. “I might have to rethink my policy on men.”
Two
Linnet woke when she usually did, which in December meant an hour before dawn. Oddly relaxed, unusually refreshed, she stretched, savoring the unexpected inner glow, then raised her lids-and found herself staring at a stranger’s throat.
Tanned. Male. Incipient alarm was drowned by wariness as full memory of the previous day, and the night, flooded her mind.
She jerked her gaze upward.
To a pair of midnight blue eyes.
Propped on one elbow, he was looking down at her, his regard shrewd, assessing, and curious.
“Where am I?”
His voice matched the rest of him-disturbing and deep. Just a little gravelly, with the hint of an underlying burr.
“More importantly,” he went on, “what are you doing in my bed?”
She struggled to sit up, thanking her stars that before she’d fallen asleep the second time, she’d had the sense to pull down her nightgown, tie her robe tight, and stuff the extra blanket down between them, a barrier between his body and hers. “Actually, you’re in my bed.”
When his winged black brows flew high, she hurriedly added, a touch waspishly, “You were injured, unconscious, and it’s the only bed in this house long enough, and judged sturdy enough, to accommodate you.”
For a moment, he said nothing, then murmured, “So there are other beds?”
She was tempted to lie, but instead nodded curtly. “I was worried by your continuing chill, and decided it was wisest to… do what I could to keep you warm through the night.”
Flicking the covers aside, she slid out of the bed, tugging her robe and gown firmly down as she stood.
He watched her like a predator watched prey. “In that case, I suppose I should thank you.”
“Yes, you should.” And she should go down on her knees and thank him-not that she ever would. Cutting off the distracting memories, she glanced at the bandage around his skull. “How’s your head?”
He frowned, as if her question had reminded him. “Throbbing… but not, I think, incapacitating.”
“You’ll feel better after you eat.” Crossing to her armoire, she opened it and looked in, ignoring the weight of his steady blue gaze. He hadn’t remembered-she felt sure he hadn’t. He wasn’t the sort of man to hold back if he had.
As she pulled out a gown, he said, “You haven’t yet told me where I am.”
“Guernsey.” She glanced back at him. “The southwestern tip-Parish of Torteval, if that means anything to you.”
His frown darkened. “It doesn’t.” His gaze drifted from her.
Shutting the armoire, she opened a drawer and drew out a fresh shift. Turned back to him. “What’s your name?”
“Logan.” He looked at her, after the barest hesitation asked, “Yours?”
“Linnet Trevission. This house is Mon Coeur.” Turning back to her chest of drawers, she added stockings and chemise to the pile in her arms, then crossed to where she’d left her half boots. Picking them up, she glanced at the bed. “So-Logan who?”
He looked at her, looked at her, then he softly swore. Swinging his legs from beneath the covers, he sat up on the edge of the bed.
Well-shaped feet, long, muscled calves dusted with black hair, broad knees, taut, heavily muscled thighs. Linnet gave thanks for the corner of the sheet that draped across his lap. Unconscious, with half his torso hidden by bandages, he’d been an impressive sight; awake and active, his impact was mind-scrambling.
She needed to get out of the room, but… she frowned as he dropped his head into his hands, fingers gripping tight.
“I can’t remember.” The words were ground out. Then he looked down, at the bandages about his chest and abdomen. Lowered a hand to trace them.
“You were on a ship-most likely a merchantman. There was a storm the night before last, a bad one, and the ship wrecked on the reefs not far from here.” Linnet caught his dark eyes as they rose, as if in hope, to her face. “Do you remember the name of your ship?”
Logan tried-tried to dredge some glimmer of a memory up from the void in his brain, but nothing came. Nothing at all. “I don’t even remember being on a ship.”
Even he heard the panic in his tone.
“Don’t worry.” His gorgeous erstwhile bedmate-and wasn’t that a terrible fate, to have slept like a log with all those mouthwatering curves within easy reach, and not have known?-studied him through pale emerald eyes. “You’ve a nasty head wound-most likely from a falling spar. You were incredibly lucky to have got onto a broken-off section of the ship’s side before you lost consciousness. You had a firm grip on the planks-that’s what got you to shore and into the cove, and stopped you getting smashed up on the rocks. More smashed up.” She nodded at his bandaged head. “The blow to your skull would have rattled your brains. Most likely your memory will come back in a day or two.”
“A day or two?” He watched her cross to a dressing table against the far wall and pick up a brush and comb. His gaze shifted to the rippling fall of her red-gold hair. Even in the dim light of predawn, it looked like fire; his fingers and palms tingled, as if recalling the silky warmth. He frowned. “ ‘Most likely’? What if I don’t remember?” The thought horrified him.
“You will. Almost certainly.” She headed for the door but paused, glanced at him, then detoured back to the large armoire. “But you shouldn’t try to bludgeon your brain into remembering. Best to just let it be, let your memory slide back of its own accord.”
He narrowed his eyes at her. “You’re a doctor?”
She arched brown brows at him, gaze distinctly haughty, then turned to look into the armoire. “No, but I’ve been around enough men who’ve had their heads thumped to know. If you’re alive, and can walk, your memories will return.”
