A Lady by Midnight by Tessa Dare

growing larger by the instant. As though some projectile were rapidly approaching from above.
    Jesus, no.
    Thorne had been here before, many times. Battle, sieges, skirmishes. Thought ceased, and instinct took over. His grip tightened on her shoulders. His already thundering heart pumped faster, powering strength to his limbs.
    The word “Down!” tore from his throat.
    He threw himself forward, wrapping her body in his arms and flattening her to the ground—
    Just as the explosion hit.

Chapter Eight
    I t took Kate several seconds to register what had happened.
    One moment she’d been staring, incredulous, as an object plummeted toward her from the sky. She’d stood transfixed by the sheer absurdity of it. This strange, roundish thing silhouetted against the sun, growing larger and closer . . . and greener.
    The next thing she knew, she was on the ground. Corporal Thorne was on top of her. And they were both covered in wet, sticky melon pulp. Shards of rind littered the ground nearby. A pungent sweetness filled her heightened senses. Evidently, Sir Lewis’s adjustments to the trebuchet had gone awry.
    Really, there was nothing else for it. She had to laugh. Softly at first, but soon her whole body shook with mirth.
    Thorne didn’t share her amusement. He didn’t rise or roll to the side. He kept her in his arms, covering her with his body. His muscles had gone rigid, everywhere. When she sought his gaze, she found his blue eyes searching and unfocused. His nostrils were flared and his breaths were harshly won.
    “Thorne? Are you all right?”
    He didn’t answer. She didn’t think he could answer.
    He wasn’t there.
    It was the only way she could think to describe it. His body lay atop her, heavy as sacks of grain. She knew he was alive, from the way his heartbeat slammed against hers. But mentally, he wasn’t there. He was somewhere else. On some scorched, smoking battlefield, she imagined, where round objects falling from the sky had a great deal more destructive force than the average overripe melon.
    She touched his face, just lightly. “Thorne? It’s all right. It was only a melon. I’m not hurt. Are you?”
    His arms flexed, squeezing her until she winced with pain.
    He forced a strange growl through his clenched teeth. The sound was inhuman. Each hair on her arms stood tall, as if to wave a tiny flag of surrender, and her pulse drummed in her ears. She was truly afraid now. For him, and for herself. She lay small and defenseless beneath him. If he’d mistaken her for the enemy on his phantom battlefield, he could do her true harm.
    She caressed his face with trembling fingers, reaching to sweep the hair back from his brow. Between the velvet of his thick, soft hair and the wetness of the melon pulp, it felt like stroking a newborn foal. Tenderness swelled in her heart.
    “All’s well. We’re unharmed. This is Rycliff Castle. Spindle Cove.” Kate tried to keep her voice low and steady, aiming to soothe them both. “You’re home. And it’s only me. Miss Taylor. Kate. I’m the music tutor, remember? I’m your . . . I’m a friend.”
    His jaw tensed. And not in a friendly way.
    She’d never been more aware of the brute power contained in a man’s body. If he wished, he could snap her in two. Though perhaps not very cleanly—which was all the more reason to avoid the experience, she thought. Somehow, she needed to remind him of his humanity. The gentleness these same bones and tendons and muscles could produce.
    “I’m Miss Taylor,” she repeated. “Yesterday, you came to my rescue in Hastings. You brought me home on your horse. We stopped to take bread, and—and you kissed me. In a field of heather, just at sunset. I’ve tried so hard to forget it, but I’ve thought of little else since. Can you recall it?”
    She brushed a thumb across his lips.
    His mouth softened a little and a shaky exhalation rushed over her fingertips. She thought she glimpsed a spark of awareness returning to