clouds. Gareth made his way toward a fallen stump. He lowered himself to the ground, which was spongy with moss and bracken, and glanced around.
He inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with fresh air. Sunlight had banished the misty chill of the morn. Rabbits popped madly from the grass, darting to and fro. The twittering, warbling song of a skylark filled the air, reminding him of warmer days. It was a lovely place, and he could almost envision the panorama of summer. The field surrounding him would be filled with wildflowers, pink and purple and brilliant yellow.
Gillian did not join him, but walked idly about. Gareth was not surprised. Her manner had been most restrained. Directly meeting his eyes seemed an ordeal she could scarcely manage. It was the kiss, he knew, the kiss he did not remember—and perhaps the loss of this memory was the one he despaired the most! Their midnight encounter had been discussed no more—but it had not been discarded, he was almost certain of it. Aye, he strongly suspected she strived very hard not to think of it…
Christ, it was all he could think of.
And indeed, his head turned slowly as he searched for the object of his thoughts.
He frowned. “Gillian?”
No answer was forthcoming, but there was a rustle in the grasses nearby.
He tried again. “Gillian?”
A brow crooked as he weighed her silence. Was the lady determined to ignore him?
In truth, Gillian was not. But the cottage was small, and finding herself in such close quarters with Gareth after what had happened between them was difficult. Her nerves were screaming. It seemed she had only to turn and he was there behind her … before her … beside her!
He was so broad, so tall he had to stoop to step through the door. It still seemed strange, to see him standing on his own. So vital. So tall and broad. So intensely masculine, no matter that he limped slightly. She couldn’t forget the way he’d held her. Caressed her. The hot brand of his mouth upon hers … It mattered not that he did not remember—of a certainty she did! Nay, she could not forget. Indeed, it was almost preferable when he’d been lying helplessly abed!
“Gillian!”
Her head swivelled toward the tree stump where she’d left him. Where the devil was he?
“Gillian!”
The call came again. This time it betrayed an unexpected urgency. She picked up her skirts and started toward the spot where he’d last been. Instinctively her steps quickened.
He lay on his side, his head pillowed on one arm. Her heart lodged in her throat. She dropped to her knees beside him.
“Gareth! Oh, I knew it! I knew it was far too soon for you to—”
Warm lips trapped hers ‘ere she could finish. Strong arms locked tight about her back and she was swept against a hard male form. There was no escaping the blazingly thorough possession of her mouth.
When he raised his head, she glared up at him, willing aside the peculiar heaviness that had gathered in the pit of her belly. He’d frightened her half to death—and now had the audacity to appear quite pleased with himself, the wretch!
“What the devil do you think you’re about!” she cried. “Do you think you can make free with me just because you kissed me once—”
“Twice,” came a reminder accompanied by a wolfish grin.
She thumped her fists against his shoulders. Her lips pouted as she prepared to deliver a stinging denouncement of his brashness.
It never happened. His mouth closed over hers yet again. His fingers slid through her hair, binding her to him and holding her captive to his will. He allowed no room for retreat—and Gillian could summon no denial. But there was naught of force or plunder in the way he kissed her, only a subtle, seductive persuasion that was both hot and sweet and sent tendrils of fire to every part of her.
She was trembling inside when at last he released her. A blunted fingertip traced the outline of her lips.
“And now thrice,” he whispered.
It was no small task
He inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with fresh air. Sunlight had banished the misty chill of the morn. Rabbits popped madly from the grass, darting to and fro. The twittering, warbling song of a skylark filled the air, reminding him of warmer days. It was a lovely place, and he could almost envision the panorama of summer. The field surrounding him would be filled with wildflowers, pink and purple and brilliant yellow.
Gillian did not join him, but walked idly about. Gareth was not surprised. Her manner had been most restrained. Directly meeting his eyes seemed an ordeal she could scarcely manage. It was the kiss, he knew, the kiss he did not remember—and perhaps the loss of this memory was the one he despaired the most! Their midnight encounter had been discussed no more—but it had not been discarded, he was almost certain of it. Aye, he strongly suspected she strived very hard not to think of it…
Christ, it was all he could think of.
And indeed, his head turned slowly as he searched for the object of his thoughts.
He frowned. “Gillian?”
No answer was forthcoming, but there was a rustle in the grasses nearby.
He tried again. “Gillian?”
A brow crooked as he weighed her silence. Was the lady determined to ignore him?
In truth, Gillian was not. But the cottage was small, and finding herself in such close quarters with Gareth after what had happened between them was difficult. Her nerves were screaming. It seemed she had only to turn and he was there behind her … before her … beside her!
He was so broad, so tall he had to stoop to step through the door. It still seemed strange, to see him standing on his own. So vital. So tall and broad. So intensely masculine, no matter that he limped slightly. She couldn’t forget the way he’d held her. Caressed her. The hot brand of his mouth upon hers … It mattered not that he did not remember—of a certainty she did! Nay, she could not forget. Indeed, it was almost preferable when he’d been lying helplessly abed!
“Gillian!”
Her head swivelled toward the tree stump where she’d left him. Where the devil was he?
“Gillian!”
The call came again. This time it betrayed an unexpected urgency. She picked up her skirts and started toward the spot where he’d last been. Instinctively her steps quickened.
He lay on his side, his head pillowed on one arm. Her heart lodged in her throat. She dropped to her knees beside him.
“Gareth! Oh, I knew it! I knew it was far too soon for you to—”
Warm lips trapped hers ‘ere she could finish. Strong arms locked tight about her back and she was swept against a hard male form. There was no escaping the blazingly thorough possession of her mouth.
When he raised his head, she glared up at him, willing aside the peculiar heaviness that had gathered in the pit of her belly. He’d frightened her half to death—and now had the audacity to appear quite pleased with himself, the wretch!
“What the devil do you think you’re about!” she cried. “Do you think you can make free with me just because you kissed me once—”
“Twice,” came a reminder accompanied by a wolfish grin.
She thumped her fists against his shoulders. Her lips pouted as she prepared to deliver a stinging denouncement of his brashness.
It never happened. His mouth closed over hers yet again. His fingers slid through her hair, binding her to him and holding her captive to his will. He allowed no room for retreat—and Gillian could summon no denial. But there was naught of force or plunder in the way he kissed her, only a subtle, seductive persuasion that was both hot and sweet and sent tendrils of fire to every part of her.
She was trembling inside when at last he released her. A blunted fingertip traced the outline of her lips.
“And now thrice,” he whispered.
It was no small task
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