Surrender The Night by Colleen Shannon Page A

have heeded him. This man had twice saved her from ugly ends. It was as natural to take comfort from him now as it was to respond to his kisses.
    She began to talk, haltingly at first, then louder. Her face was buried in his chest, so she couldn’t see the arrested expression in his eyes as he listened. “It . . . happened when I was seven. We played in . . . an old deserted monastery. I thought I’d found such a cleve r place to hide. It was a crypt so ancient that the walls were disintegrating. But I didn’t consider the dangers as I climbed inside the end of a sarcophagus where the statue on the outside had broken away. I . . . suppose even my slight weight was enough, for I was no sooner inside than the outside cornice crumbled. I was there for almost an hour before my father found me.”
    The trembling that had abated started again. “The coffin was still sealed, but it smelled so . . . old. I’ll never, ever, forget that scent. I . . . imagined I he ard bones rattling as the skeleton arose to berate me for disturbing his rest.” She rubbed her goose-pimpled arms as if that stench still clung to her. She slumped against him, the last of her terror spent in the confession.
    Devon stroked her hair for a few more minutes. Something odd happened then. When she tilted her head back for his mouth, he merely brushed her lips lightly with his, then set her away. He evaded her reaching arms and turned to the door. “I’ll fetch you some tea,” he muttered, walking out.
    Katrina stared at the closed door. Why hadn’t he rung for Martha? Had he continued to hold her, she would have gladly participated in whatever he desired, for her barriers had been smashed by his kindness. The fact that he’d rejected her when she’d finally been eager for him both puzzled and hurt. Would she never understand him?
    By the time he returned holding a tray, she’d composed herself. She met his uncertain smile calmly. “Thank you,” she said, nodding, when he set the tray down beside the bed. While she sipped the tea he’d fixed her he left the room and returned shortly—carrying her valises. He set them down next to the door.
    He sprawled in the chair beside the bed and accepted the cup she handed him. When she sent a grateful look at the cases and said quietly, “Thank you,” he nodded.
    They drank in silence, but she caught his surreptitious glances. He peered at her as if he’d never seen a woman before. If she tried to hold his eyes, he looked away. His behavior was peculiar, for it had always been she who’d not been able to sustain his arrogant gaze. How could her tale of woe change him so drastically? she wondered. Or did she imagine a concern lacking before?
    The suspicion was borne out by his behavior from then on. That night, and for two nights after, he did not initiate relations with her. Though she could feel him growing hard against her leg, he merely held her in his arms until she drifted off to sleep. On the third night he finally turned to her like a starving man, but his lovemaking had subtly changed.
    Where before he’d demanded, now he asked. Where before he’d taken, now he gave. And that tenderness was far harder to resist than his selfish, wicked skill, but somehow she managed. His gentle loving sent pleasure such as she’d never known coursing through every pore of her body, but even at its height she didn’t return his caresses. Only the conviction that she could never be happy as his mistress strengthened her against the enchantment of those long, lazy nights.
    His wooing during the day was almost as devastating. He made her laugh, he made her cry, he made her angry, he made her glad. One occasion was especially memorable. They were relaxing before the hearth during a rainstorm, she on the settee, he on the rug before the fire with his back against her legs. He suddenly sat upright, turned, and clasped his arms about her knees.
    “How would you like to walk in the rain?”
    She looked at him as if