His tongue swiped over her cheek, and she gasped. Her nipples peaked, straining against the rough, wet fabric.

“You’re mad,” she breathed.

His lips grazed her ear. “I’m perfectly clear of mind. Want to test my recollection? On Mondays, you have country walks. On Tuesdays, sea bathing. Tomorrow, perhaps I’ll come find you in the garden and pull you into the shrubbery.”

The suggestion made her weak. She imagined his body, atop hers. The heat of him, contrasting with the cool, damp ground. Her mind conjured the scents of grass and earth.

“And on Thursday . . .” He pulled back and gave her a wicked look. “That’s interesting. We never did get to Thursday. Please tell me on Thursdays you oil yourselves up and wrestle Grecian-style.”

She gasped. “You are horrid.”

“And you love it. That’s the worst of the matter. You want me every bit as badly as I want you. Because I’m exactly what you need. There’s no one else in this village strong enough to take you on. You need a real man, to show you what to do with all that passion seething beneath your surface. You need to be challenged, mastered.”

Mastered? “You need to be caged, you beast.”

“A beast is just what you want. A big, dark medieval brute to throw you to the ground, tear the clothes from your body, and have his wicked way with you. I know I’m right. I haven’t forgotten how excited you were in the aftermath of that blast.”

The nerve of him!

How could he tell?

She lifted her chin. “Well, I haven’t forgotten the sound you made when I first touched your brow. It wasn’t even a moan, it was more like . . . like a whimper.”

He made a dismissive sound.

“Oh yes. A plaintive, yearning whimper. Because you want an angel. A sweet, tender virgin to hold you and stroke you and whisper precious promises and make you feel human again.”

“That’s absurd,” he scoffed. “You’re just begging to be taught a hard, fast lesson in what it means to please a man.”

“You’re just longing to put your head in my lap and feel my fingers in your hair.”

He backed her up against a rock. “You need a good ravaging.”

“You,” she breathed, “need a hug.”

They stared at each other for long, tense moments. At first, looking each other in the eye. Then looking each other in the lips.

“You know what I think?” he said, coming closer. So close she could feel his breath wash warm against her cheek. “I think we’re having one of those vexing arguments again.”

“The kind where both sides are right?”

“Hell, yes.”

And this time, when they kissed, they both made that sound. That deep, moaning, yearning, whimpering sound.

That sound that said yes.

And at last.

And you are exactly what I need.

She could feel the tension and urgency coiled in his muscles. But his kiss was patience itself. His mouth brushed hers, teasing her lips apart. Her pulse hammered as he made that first tantalizing pass with his tongue.

Oh dear. Oh dear oh dear oh dear.

There was passion, stockpiled inside her. He’d called her a powder keg, but that would be understating. She saw it all now, stretching in her mind’s eye. Vast storehouses, whole magazines. Here were crates of kisses, never shared. Casks of sweet caresses kept sealed from the rain. Row upon row of breathy moans and sighs, all carefully bottled and tightly corked.

He uncapped one now, with a clever flick of his tongue. Pressed his thumb to the hinge of her jaw, unlocking yet more desire. He kissed her slow and deep, taking time to explore.

“Bram,” she heard herself whisper. She pushed her hands through his cropped, sleek hair. “Oh, Bram.”

The further he raided, the closer he came to the other rooms. Those unused, cobwebbed chambers of her heart. Would he dare to venture there? She doubted. Jumping off a cliff was a flashy sort of courage, but a man would need true strength and valor to break through those padlocked doors. There were dark, uncharted spaces within her that had been built to house love, and even she was afraid to explore them. Terrified to learn just how vast and how achingly empty they truly were.

And her heart wasn’t the only aching, empty place. Between her legs, she was both. As they kissed, he slid his hands to her backside and lifted her, bringing her pelvis flush against his. The prominent, hot ridge of his arousal rubbed against her sex. She moaned into his kiss, a wordless plea for something more. Surely he would know how to answer.

And answer he did.

He bit down on her lip. Hard.

“Ah!” He winced away from her, completely breaking their embrace.

Susanna opened her eyes to see him clutching his head and grimacing with pain.

“What the devil . . . ?” he said.

“Take that, you brute.” Minerva Highwood moved between them, soaked to the skin and clutching a weighted pouch in her hand.

“Minerva?” Reeling from the abrupt interruption, Susanna touched a finger to her lip, testing for blood.

“Don’t worry, Miss Finch. I’m here now.”

She must have swum out from the cave and . . . and seen them. Oh God.

“I’m fine, truly.” Susanna’s gaze snapped to the pouch dangling from Minerva’s wrist. It looked like a reticule, fashioned from oilcloth. “What’s in that?”

“Rocks. What else?”

Rocks. Good Lord. Susanna looked to Bram with fresh concern. The man had just taken a cudgel to the head. It was a wonder he hadn’t fallen unconscious. She started toward him, but Minerva gave a little shriek and backed up, throwing her body in front of Susanna’s.

“Brace yourself. Here he comes again, the . . . the rutting Zeus.”

Bram was clearly still dazed, rubbing his head with one hand. With a growl of pain and a sudden, lurching motion, he stood tall—rising head, shoulders, and exquisitely chiseled torso out of the water. Water droplets sprayed everywhere, catching the sunlight and flashing like tiny sparks.

Rutting Zeus, indeed. He did rather look like a linen-draped Greek god, dripping with potency and a divine air of possession. The sight took Susanna’s breath away. She briefly wondered if she’d been hit over the head with a sackful of rocks. He was beautiful. Dazzling in his masculine perfection.

“Don’t worry.” Minerva scrambled onto a nearby boulder, readying her stone-packed reticule. “I’ll save you, Miss Finch.”

Susanna reached for her. “Minerva, no! There’s no need. He wasn’t—”

Splash.

Thirteen

Bram came to consciousness slowly, floating into awareness on a gentle, soothing wave. The world was dark, but he was warm all over. Delicious sensation lapped at his wounded leg, stroking away all the pain and soreness with a light, rhythmic touch.

As his eyes fluttered open, questions teased at the frayed edge of his mind. Where was he? Just who was touching him? And how did he make sure it never, ever stopped?

“Oh, Bram.” Susanna’s voice. “My goodness. Just look at this.”

He struggled up on one elbow, wincing at the sudden lash of pain. He saw a tangle of white sheets. He saw his own dark, hairy legs. He saw her hands on his skin.

Her bare, ungloved hands.

He fell back against the mattress, seeking sleep again. Obviously, he was hallucinating. Or dead. Her touch felt like heaven.

“This explains so much,” she said, clucking her tongue in mother-hen fashion. “You’re compensating for this withered appendage.”

Withered appendage? What the devil was she talking about? He shook his head, trying to clear it. Colin’s dire predictions of shriveled twigs and dried currants rattled in his skull.

Wide awake now, he fought to sit up, wrestling the sheets. “Listen, you. I don’t know what sort of liberties you’ve taken while I was insensible, or just what your spinster imagination prepared you to see. But I’ll have you know, that water was damned cold.”

She blinked at him. “I’m referring to your leg.”

“Oh.” His leg. That withered appendage.

How long had he been unconscious? An hour? More? She’d changed into a frock of striped muslin, but her hair was still wet, combed back from her face in dark amber furrows.

Her hands kept stroking. He saw that her fingers were glistening, coated with some sort of liniment. The herbal scent of it filled his head. Lust sent his blood rushing everywhere else. It had to be a sign of his prolonged celibacy that viewing her ungloved hands aroused him more than a woman’s full nakedness had in the past.

Or maybe it was a sign that he wanted this woman more fiercely than he’d ever wanted another.

“Where are we?” he asked, looking about the room. A light, airy bedchamber, done up in chintz and hardwood. The mattress beneath him felt bowed like a hammock, strained and tested by his weight.

“Summerfield.”

“How did we get here?”

“With great difficulty. You weigh as much as an ox. But you’ll be glad to hear your men rallied to the challenge.”

Deuce it. Damn it. Devil take it and fling it off a cliff. His second full day in command of new recruits, and he’d capped it by dropping unconscious, felled by a squinty bluestocking and her reticule. They’d carried his dead weight all the way here, likely passing through the village on the way and attracting a crowd of onlookers. Even the sheep had probably watched the processional, bleating with smug satisfaction. He was their lord and commander, and now they’d all seen him at his most feeble.

“Must have amused you, seeing me bludgeoned so soundly by a girl.”

“Not at all,” she said. “I was terrified.”

She wasn’t terrified at the moment. Just look at her leaning over him, giving him bold flashes of her pale, freckled bosom. Stroking his bared leg with talented, fearless fingers. Earlier, she’d called him a beast. Now she was treating him like a broken-winged bird.

He snarled down at his wounded leg. Withered appendage, indeed.

“Here.” She pressed a cup into his hand. “Drink this.”

He eyed it skeptically. “What is it?”

“Relief from pain, in liquid form. My own special preparation.”

“You’re a healer?” He frowned, and it hurt. “Should have figured you for one of those females with her little basket of herbs and sunshine.”

“Herbs are good. They have their uses. For a wound like this, you need drugs.”

He sipped. “Ugh. That is vile.”

“Too much for you? If you like, I can add some honey. That’s what I do for the village children.”

He tossed back the rest of her potion without comment. He truly couldn’t comment, what with the bitter taste scorching his throat.

After setting the drained cup aside, she returned her attention to his leg. “What happened to you?”

“A bullet happened to me.”

“It’s a miracle you didn’t lose the leg.”

“It wasn’t a miracle, it was sheer force of will. Believe me, those bloodthirsty field surgeons tried to take it.”

“Oh, I believe you. I’ve known my share of bloodthirsty surgeons. My youth was rife with them.”

“Were you ill as a child?”

She shook her head. “No.”

She dipped her fingers into the crock of liniment and moved her attentions up his leg, to his aching thigh muscles. Of course, by soothing the pain in those muscles, she was only creating new aches in his groin. Didn’t she know how dangerous it could be to provoke a man this way?

He ought to tell her to stop. He couldn’t.

Her touch was . . . God, it was just what he’d been needing. She was talented indeed.

“So how did you fend them off?” she asked. “The field surgeons.”

“Thorne,” he said. “Sat by my bedside with a pistol cocked, ready to fire at the first gleam of a bone saw.”