“You’re mad about me,” he said.
“I’m mad about something,” she caustically retorted, “but I’m too much of a lady to confess what it is.”
He chuckled. She was adept at soothing his low mood, at getting him to grin despite how glum he was.
He started kissing her again, and she joined in, but apparently, she was awash with fury. They sparred like brawlers intent on winning their skirmish. They bit and wrestled and scrapped, going on and on and on until he couldn’t imagine where it would end.
They were so isolated. They might have been the last two people on Earth, and they could engage in any illicit behavior. Who would ever know?
He felt as if he was outside his body, observing as a stranger carried on precisely as he shouldn’t. What was his plan with regard to her? If he kept on, they would wind up fornicating, which would be a horrendous disaster. But wasn’t this the road they’d been traveling from the beginning?
He had a destiny with her. Why not let it unfold? Where might he be when it was over? He suspected it would be somewhere fascinating.
Or was that the lust talking? It probably was. If he didn’t have her—and soon—he truly couldn’t predict how he’d survive the debacle. A man could grow too amorous, and it wasn’t healthy to ignore the amount of desire flowing in his veins. It had to be sated.
The interval became more ardent, as he caressed her in places he hadn’t previously. His hands roamed over her thighs and bottom, her waist and chest. He massaged her breasts, playing with the nipples, being very rough and not worrying about her tender condition. It seemed as if they were in a war, and they would both be victors when it was over.
She was enjoying his ministrations, her oohs and aahs driving him to new heights of yearning. Gradually, he was unbuttoning her gown, pushing it off her shoulders. She wasn’t wearing a corset, but a pretty chemise that had flowers embroidered on the border.
He tugged down the straps, baring her bosom, and she didn’t exhibit a stitch of maidenly shyness. Not even when he abandoned her luscious mouth to suck on a nipple. She trembled with pleasure and held him even closer, urging him to feast.
All the while, he was easing the hem of her skirt up her legs, past her shins, her knees. He arrived at her drawers and discovered a lacy undergarment he wouldn’t have expected on a woman as modest as he deemed her to be. It might have been a secret gift she’d been hiding just for him.
He slid his hand under the trim and found her woman’s sheath. She was wet and ready for him, and as his lips tormented her breast, he dabbed at the special spot at the vee of her thighs where all her sensation was centered. She was a very physical creature, and with three flicks of his thumb, he sent her soaring to the heavens. She spiraled up and up, reached her peak, then tumbled down.
Again, she exhibited no shock or shyness, and her lack of inhibition had him wondering if she was really a virgin. She’d once insisted she was, but now, he wasn’t sure he believed her.
He shifted onto his side, and she moved too so they were nose to nose. He couldn’t fathom what thoughts were racing in her mind. She wasn’t like any other female he’d ever encountered, so he wouldn’t hazard a guess, but when she finally spoke, he laughed long and hard.
“I still hate you,” she said.
“We’ve been through this. You don’t hate me.”
“I used to think I didn’t detest anyone, but you’ve forced me to accept that I have a massive temper.”
“It’s all that red hair. It’s impossible for you to be meek and calm.”
She rolled away from him, her back snuggled to his front. He spooned himself to her, his much larger body cradling her much smaller one. She fit next to him perfectly, as if she’d been meant to lie just where she was and nowhere else.
He couldn’t resist taking a firm thrust against her bottom, his phallus pressing into her in a manner that was completely unsatisfying.
“You desire me,” she said.
“Is that a surprise to you?”
“No. I may be a maiden, but I’m not naïve about masculine drives. I’m a midwife, remember? I deliver babies, and I’ve had more than a few women tell me how they’re created.”
“I’ve figured that out about you.”
“What dragged you here?” she asked. “You haven’t told me.”
“I was fighting with my sister.”
“Shame on you.”
“It left me very despondent.”
“Are you feeling better?”
“Yes. I’m feeling better by the second.”
“Why were you fighting with Mrs. Howell?”
It was on the tip of his tongue to confess it, but he couldn’t unburden himself. He was loafing in her bed and trying to determine whether he should fornicate with her, so he could hardly admit that he was angry because Sandy and Margaret wanted to marry.
He and Margaret had quarreled over class and station, over what type of person was appropriate for them to love and lust after. He’d hurled plenty of harsh opinions at Margaret, but afterward, he’d rushed straight to Joanna’s cottage. What did he actually believe about the issue? What did he truly know about how the world should work?
“Could we not talk about it?” he asked. “I’d rather not dredge it up. It will simply infuriate me.”
“Just because you don’t talk about it, the problem won’t vanish.”
“I realize that. I’m merely certain—if I give you a hint of what it was about—you’ll scold me for being an idiot. Then we will quarrel too, and I’ve had enough fighting for one day.”
“Poor, poor Captain Ralston.” She snorted with amusement. “I don’t feel sorry for you.”
“You shouldn’t. I’m a beast and a fiend. I can’t deny it.”
“I’ve started to recognize those traits in you.”
They were quiet for a bit, and he said, “Do you think I’m like my father?”
“In what
