The Brazen Bride

Six

December 13, 1822

Mon Coeur, Torteval, Guernsey

He’d tried to do the right thing, but Linnet had turned the tables on him.

The next morning, Logan sat at the breakfast table outwardly listening to a general discussion of the day’s planned activities while inwardly brooding on his reversal of the night.

His foxy hostess-she of the fiery hair, peridot eyes, and incredibly fine white skin-had neatly manipulated him with her demand-one he couldn’t very well decline, given it was entirely within his ability to comply-to repay her by teaching her more about the pleasures to be had when a man and a woman joined.

If it had been nothing more than physical pleasure-the giving and the taking-he wouldn’t be so… uneasy. But he was too good a commander not to see the problems looming. They were who they were, yet… she might come to mean, might even have already started to mean, too much to him.

He’d known she was different from the very first instant he’d laid eyes on her-his angel who was no angel. From the moment he’d slid into her willing body in his dream that had been no dream, he’d known she was special, that she held the promise, the chance, the hope of more-that she, somehow, resonated with some need buried deep within him, one he hadn’t yet articulated but that somehow instinctively she fulfilled.

All well and good, but until he recalled who he was, what he was doing, and where he was supposed to be, any relationship between her and him was… stifled. For all he knew, it might be strangled at birth.

She might not want him even if he wanted her.

“Stop frowning.”

The words from his left, in typical bossy vein, had him changing his absentminded frown to a scowl and bending it on her.

Linnet pulled a face at him. He’d been in a strange mood ever since he’d come downstairs. “I’ve been thinking about where you might have come from-where you might have been in recent months.”

He raised his brows, listening. At least his scowl was dissipating.

She looked up as the other men rose. She acknowledged their salutes with a nod, waited until they’d passed out of hearing before looking again at Logan. “Your hands are very tanned.”

He looked at them, then slanted her a midnight blue glance, no doubt realizing why the darkness of his hands had stuck in her mind. She could still see those strong hands traveling over her very white body.

Shifting, disguising the movement as turning to face him, she pointed out the obvious. “You’ve been in the tropics-somewhere hotter, much sunnier. You’re a cavalry officer. Perhaps if you look at maps, something might strike you.” Rising, she touched his shoulder. “Wait there-I’ll fetch our map book.”

The Trevission map book contained an excellent collection of maps of all the countries, coasts, and shipping routes around the globe-all those involved in trade. Linnet set it on the table and opened it to a map of the western Channel. “Here’s Guernsey.” She pointed. “Here’s where the ship wrecked, and that particular storm blew from the northwest.” With her finger she drew a line from the western cove out to sea. “Your ship was traveling somewhere on that line, which means it was most likely headed for Plymouth, Weymouth, Portsmouth, or Southampton. Given it was a merchantman, and looked to have been of reasonable size, Plymouth or Southampton are the more likely, with Southampton most likely.”

The children leaned across the table, looking. Geography was the one subject in which Buttons never had to work to hold their interest.

“Plymouth or Southampton-if either was the destination, where was the ship coming from?” Logan glanced up at her.

Linnet turned to the front of the book, to a huge map that folded out, showing all the major countries and shipping routes. She pointed to the relevant ones, of which there were many. “Southampton’s England’s busiest port. Your ship could have come from the Americas, but given the current situation there, more likely that it came from the West Indies.” She looked down at Logan. “There are British soldiers there, aren’t there?”

Logan looked at the map, grimly nodded. The information was there, in his brain. “But we have troops over half the globe-in many countries from which ships would pass Guernsey to Plymouth or Southampton.” He pointed to the map. “Aside from the West Indies, even though the war’s long over we still have troops in Portugal, and even some in Spain, and there’s detachments through North Africa, and whole regiments in India.”

He stared at the map, then sat back and looked up at her. “There’s another possibility. I was a cavalry commander-I’m sure of that-but I might not be one now. I might be a mercenary.” He waved to the map, indicating a broad swath across the middle. “And there’s mercenaries fighting over much of the world.”

When he looked down again, frowning at the map, Linnet inwardly grimaced. She gave her attention to the children, seeing them off to chores or lessons, then looked back at Logan-still wracking his brains.

Reaching out, she folded the large map, then shut the book.

Met his dark eyes as they lifted to her face. “Come and help me with the pigs. You haven’t met them yet. Who knows? Perhaps they’ll inspire you.”

Rising, she waited pointedly until he rose, too, then she led the way out.

Later that morning, certain that no other occupation would suit him as well, Linnet had Gypsy and Storm saddled, and with Logan rode out toward the hills, then cut back to the coast above Roquaine Bay.

Her destination was a small stone fisherman’s cottage nestled in a hollow at the top of a cliff, looking out to sea. Old Mrs. Corbett, a longtime fisherman’s widow, lived there alone.

“She had a bad fall last month, but she won’t leave here, even though she could live with her son in L’Eree, further north.” Linnet drew rein at the top of the cliff; the rocky descent to the cottage was too steep for horses. “I suppose we all understand, so we try to keep a neighborly eye on her.”

Already on the ground, Logan halted by Gypsy’s side; before Linnet realized his intention, he reached up, grasped her waist, and lifted her down. Being held, trapped, between his strong hands, that instant of helplessness sent memories of the night surging through her mind.

When he set her on her feet, she had to haul in a breath, quiet her thudding heart.

He looked down at her, but then released her. “I’ll wait here with the horses. She might feel imposed upon, overwhelmed, if I come in.”

Just the thought of Mrs. Corbett coping with such a large masculine presence in her small house… the old woman would be thoroughly distracted. With a nod, Linnet handed him her reins and started down the steep path.

The cottage door opened. Mrs. Corbett came out, wiping her hands on a cloth. “Good morning, missy-and as there’s no storms brewing, it is a good morning, too.”

“Good morning, Mrs. Corbett. How’s the hip?”

“Aching some, but I can manage.” Mrs. Corbett’s gaze had fixed on Logan, now seated on a large rock at the head of the path and looking out to sea. Glancing back, Linnet saw the sea breeeze ruffling his black hair, the pale glow of the sun playing over his chiseled features.

“Be he the one who washed up in your cove?”

“Yes, that’s him. His memory hasn’t yet fully returned.”

“No doubt it will in time. But come you in and have a sit down-I’ve griddle cakes made this morning.”

Linnet followed the old woman indoors. She sat and they chatted about the little things, the mundane things that made up Mrs. Corbett’s world, then moved on to local gossip. As many locals looked in on the widow, she often had the latest news.

Eventually satisfied Mrs. Corbett was coping, Linnet rose. “I must be going. Thank you for the cakes.”

Seizing a cane that rested by the door, Mrs. Corbett followed her outside. “Always a pleasure to have you drop by.”

Linnet paused at the foot of the steep upward climb.

Halting beside her and looking up at Logan, the widow murmured, “Could he possibly be as good as he looks?”

Lips twitching, Linnet followed her gaze. Felt forced to reply, “Very likely, I should think.”

Mrs. Corbett humphed. “You might want to think about hanging onto him, then. A lady your age, with your responsibilities, needs something to look forward to at night.”

Linnet laughed and started up the path. As much as she appreciated Logan, especially at night, she wasn’t about to forget that when his memory returned fully, he would leave. Would have to leave, because clearly there was somewhere he was supposed to be, something he was supposed to be doing.

Behind her, Mrs. Corbett leaned on her cane and raised her voice to call to Logan. “You’re not a sailor, are you?”

Logan rose to his feet, politely inclined his head. “No, ma’am. I can sail, but I’m not a sailor.”

“Good.”

Reaching the top of the path, Linnet allowed Logan to lift her to Gypsy’s saddle. Gathering the reins, she watched him fluidly mount, then looked back to salute Mrs. Corbett.

Hands folded over the top of her cane, the old woman looked up at her. “You remember what I said, missy. Sometimes life drops apples in your lap, and it never does to just toss them away.”

Linnet grinned, waved, and turned Gypsy’s head for home.

“What was that about?”

“Nothing.” She kicked Gypsy to a gallop, sensed Storm surge, coming up alongside. She glanced briefly at Logan, then looked ahead.

Much as she might wish it, hanging on to him-holding on to a man like him-wasn’t a viable option.

On the way back to Mon Coeur, they fell in with Gerry Taft, her chief herdsman, and his crew, who were rounding up the cattle and driving them down from the low hills to the more protected winter pastures. Logan hadn’t met the herdsmen before; she performed the introductions, then she and Logan joined the effort to keep the normally wide-ranging herd together and moving in the desired direction.

With the fields so large, with so few fences and the ground broken by rocky outcrops and the occasional stand of wind-twisted trees, what should have been a simple matter wasn’t easy at all.

They rode and checked, constantly shifting direction, patroling and enforcing the perimeter of the loosely congregated herd, urging them with shouts and yells to keep moving. And within five minutes, apparently unable to help himself, Logan was giving orders.

Linnet, at least, recognized he was, but his approach was such that neither Gerry nor his men had their noses put out of joint. Command was her forte, yet she looked on with reluctant appreciation as Logan asked questions, clearly valuing the men’s knowledge, then made suggestions, which the men therefore saw the sense in and immediately implemented.

The mantle of command rode easily on Logan’s shoulders, very much second nature to him, something he didn’t have to think to do.

As she skirted the herd, wondering how she felt about that, she noticed the herd’s matriarch had been hemmed in by their shepherding. She pointed with her whip, yelled, “Clear her way-get her to lead them.”

Logan was closest to Linnet. He looked, and changed his previous orders to implement her direction.

She continued to ride nearby, and he continued to defer to any countermand she made.

By the time they drew within sight of the herd’s destination, she had to admit he knew what he was doing in this sphere of command as much as in the bedroom. He was one of those rare men who was so settled in his own skin, so confident in his own strengths, that he didn’t have any problem deferring to others; he didn’t see others’ status as undermining his own.

He didn’t see taking orders from a female as undermining his masculinity.

Thinking of his masculinity, of its innate strength, made her shiver.

Damn man-he really had got under her skin.

As Gerry and his men turned the herd through the gate into their winter quarters, Logan drew near. “Back to the house?”

She nodded, waved to the others, then turned Gypsy’s head homeward. Logan settled Storm to canter alongside.

They rode through the morning, the rising wind in their faces. One glance at his face told her he’d returned to wracking his brains, trying to remember his present, and his recent past.

Unbidden, Mrs. Corbett’s words echoed in her mind. Prophetic in a way; if he was an apple fate had dropped in her lap, she’d already taken a bite. And intended to take more. Until he remembered who he was, and left.

The thought effectively quashed the budding notion that, as he seemed a man capable of playing second fiddle to a female, she might, just might, be able to keep him.

She couldn’t regardless, because he wouldn’t stay. Almost certainly couldn’t. His nighttime lessons stood testimony to considerable experience in that sphere; for all she knew-all he knew-he might have a wife waiting for him in England.

No thought could more effectively have doused any wild and romantic notions that might have started germinating in her brain. She had to be realistic; he would remember and go… and that any wild and romantic notions had even occurred to her proved that her wisest and most sensible course was to do all she could to help him remember. So he could leave before she started yearning for things that could never be.

She glanced at him. “Torteval-the village-isn’t far. We should ride over and see if anyone there has learned anything more about the wreck.”

He met her gaze, then tipped his head. “Lead on.”

She did, wheeling east, determinded to find some clue to ressurect his memory so he could be on his way.

They rode into Torteval, a village just big enough to boast a tiny tavern. Leaving their mounts tied to a post, Logan followed Linnet inside. The locals greeted her eagerly; she was clearly well known, well liked, well respected. She introduced him, and eagerness instantly gave way to curiosity.

Those seated about the tables were old sailors and farmers; none were young.

“You’ve the luck of the devil,” one elderly seadog informed him. “Coming from that direction, if you’d missed Pleinmont Point, you’d have washed into open sea-next stop France.”

Logan grimaced. “I was hit on the head, and I’ve yet to remember where my ship was bound.”

Stripping off her gloves, Linnet sat on one of the benches at the long wooden table about which everyone was gathered. “Has anybody found anything-learned anything-around here?” She looked up at the innwife, bustling out from the kitchen. “Bertha, have you heard of any pieces of the wreck being washed up?”

Bertha shook her curly head. “No, miss-and I would of if there had been. We’d heard there’d been a wreck, so those ’round about have been looking, but no one’s even seen bits and pieces.”

Grimacing, Linnet glanced up at Logan. “It was worth a try.” Looking back at Bertha, she said, “Now we’re here, we’ll have two plates of your fish stew, Bertha, and two pints of cider.”

Bertha bobbed and hustled back to the kitchen. Understanding they were lunching at the tavern, Logan stepped over the bench and sat beside Linnet.

One of the old sailors leaned forward to look at Linnet. “No sign of debris in Roquaine Bay?”

She shook her head. “My men have checked, but no one’s found anything.”

“Then seems likely the ship broke up on the reefs well out from the bay, north and west of the point. Given the direction of that last blow, if things didn’t fetch up in your west cove, they’d miss our coasts altogether.” The sailor looked at Logan. “If that’s the case, there’s not going to be anything to help you get your memory back, not anywhere on the island.”

The other sailors all nodded their grizzled heads.

Bertha appeared with two heaped and steaming plates, which she placed with a flourish before Linnet and Logan. “There you are! That’ll warm you up before you head out again. Wind’s whipping up. I’ll fetch your ciders right away.”

The talk turned to the perennial sailors’ subject of the day’s likely catch. Logan applied himself to the surprisingly tasty fish stew and let the chatter wash over him.

He was ready to leave when Linnet rose and bade the company good-bye. He was reaching into his pocket for his purse when he remembered.

Linnet waved to Bertha, telling her to put the charge on the Mon Coeur slate. Logan followed her from the tavern, frowning as they walked to their tethered horses.

He lifted Linnet to her saddle, then held her there, caught her gaze. “If I was wearing Hoby’s boots, I must have money somewhere. When I remember where, I’ll pay you back.”

She arched her brows. “I was thinking you could pay me back tonight.”

Lips thinning, he held her gaze. After a moment said, “That hardly seems sufficient recompense.”

Releasing her, he turned, grabbed Storm’s reins, and swung up to the saddle.

“Then make it sufficient.” Linnet caught his eye. “I’m sure, if you exert yourself, you’ll manage.”

With that, she set her heels to the mare’s sides and surged out into the lane.

Logan held Storm in, prancing on the spot, while he stared at Linnet’s back. Then, frown converting to a scowl, he eased the reins and set off after her.

Returning to the house, Logan insisted on doing what he could to help about the estate-which that afternoon meant helping the other men erect a new enclosure to protect a small herd of deer Linnet had imported to breed and raise for meat.

He threw himself into it, blotting out his frustration with not being able to remember-and with her. He hadn’t liked her suggestion that he repay her hospitality with sex the first time he’d heard it, and he was even more annoyed that he’d let her override his scruples and lure him into playing her game last night.

Her continuing insistence on casting their nighttime interludes in that light made him… he didn’t know what, but spearing a shovel into the dirt to dig out a post hole felt good.

He was aware of his wound, of it pulling, skin tugging, but as long as he protected his left side, he wasn’t too restricted. His strength had largely returned to what he thought it should be, and as he was right-handed, he could wield a mallet with more force than any of the other men there.

So he dug, and thumped, and with the other men heaved posts into place, railings into grooves, and ignored the female critically watching.

Linnet stood under a nearby tree and watched her deer pen take shape. The pen itself met with her approval; it was just the right size, in both acreage and height. She wasn’t so sure about her latest stray, but she could hardly complain. Constructing enclosures was not her forte, yet he, apparently, knew enough to direct Vincent, Bright, Gerry, and their respective staffs. From the respect they’d immediately accorded his “suggestions,” he was, once again, firmly in charge.

He pulled his weight, literally. Despite the chill wind and the gray clouds scudding overhead, all the men had stripped off their coats and were working in their shirts, with or without waistcoats. In Logan’s case, without; she watched the way his muscles, visible through the fine cotton of one of her father’s old shirts, bulged and shifted, contracted and released as he lifted a huge post into the last hole.

Immediately he grabbed a shovel and started filling the hole in. Young Henry ran to help; even from a distance Linnet could detect a certain awe in the lad’s expression.

She humphed. All very well, but… was this Logan’s way of balancing the scales with her, rather than obliging her in her bed? In her view, there was no real debt-she would do the same for any man in his situation and expect nothing beyond sincere thanks-but their liaison had been established, more through his doing than hers, and in light of that, her request that he educate her in matters in which he was expert was entirely reasonable. Yet although he wanted to lie with her, neither last night nor this afternoon had he been at all eager to fall in with her script.

Indeed, after today’s exchange, her earlier challenge, he’d insisted on coming out here and building her a deer pen.

Folding her arms, she frowned, as the last section of fence in place and secured, negligently swinging a mallet it would take her two hands just to lift, he walked to where Vincent and Bright were assembling the gate.

The message was clear. He wasn’t going to cease his exertions until the pen was complete.

She narrowed her eyes on his back. She knew the male of the species found her significantly more than passably attractive. Logan was, in that respect, typical of his kind. So why wouldn’t he accept her proposition?

Presumably because he didn’t like the language in which it was couched.

Last night his reticence had sprung from a sense of honor. While she might not agree, that she could respect. And the more he recalled of the man he was-cavalry commander, gentleman-the more his code of honor would become entrenched. However, if she didn’t have the excuse of allowing him to repay her by teaching her of things she, at her age, really ought to know, things she patently wouldn’t be able to learn from, or with, anyone else, then what reason would she have for indulging with him?

What other excuse could she have for wanting to lie with him?

She felt like Queen Elizabeth worrying about Robert Dudley. At least she judged Logan more trustworthy, and less power-hungry, than Dudley had been.

But like Elizabeth, she felt she was grappling with a relationship that was threatening to develop in ways she didn’t want.

Ways that could only lead to heartache.

So no. Logan would have to toe her line, and accept her proposition as it stood; it was safer that way. While their interaction remained on such a footing-a near-commercial exchange-neither she nor he was likely to forget that what happened in her bed had nothing to do with her heart.

And neither would develop any deeper expectations.

The men finally lifted the gate into place and secured it. As a group, they stepped back and looked at it-surveyed the pen, admired their handiwork, then congratulated each other on a job well done.

The lads gathered up the tools. Parting from the other men, Logan bent to retrieve his coat from where he’d tossed it over a log-and Linnet saw the bandage around his torso shift and slide.

Lips thinning, she stepped out from beneath the tree and waited on the path as, shrugging on the coat, he walked toward her.

As he drew near, he arched a brow.

“Thank you for your help. Now come inside and let me check your wound and retie that bandage.”

Spinning on her heel, she stalked ahead of him back to the house.

Lips tightening, Logan followed.

After pausing to wash his hands under the pump near the back door, Logan ambled in Linnet’s wake into the downstairs bathing chamber. Without a word, he shrugged off his coat, drew off his shirt, then sat on the bench beside the sink and let her have at him.

He’d largely worked off his earlier frustration, but was curious as to what was gnawing her. As she shifted back and forth in front of him, unwinding the long bandages, he studied her expression.

When she next went to step past, he caught her about the waist, held her between his knees. He examined her forehead, then lifted one finger and rubbed between her brows.

She jerked her head back, stared at him. “What was that for?”

“There was a furrow forming there.”

The furrow promptly returned. He raised his finger again.

She batted it away. “Stop that.”

“You don’t have any reason to frown, so why are you frowning?”

She met his eyes, hesitated, then said, “You’re making things too complicated. Just…” The last bandage fell free and she scooped it up. “Just sit there and let me check your stitches.”

Linnet shifted his arm, held it back, and focused on the stitches. She breathed in, steeled herself against being this close to him. Just concentrate on the stitches.

She examined, gently prodded. Thought again of how he must have got such a wound. Seized on the distraction. “Some man faced you with a sword-someone who knew how to wield one. Right-handed, like you. He went for a killing stroke, but you pulled back just enough, just in time. You must have been fighting on deck during the storm-you could only have just taken this wound when you went into the water. You lost some blood, but you would have lost a lot more if you hadn’t been immersed in icy water.”

“There were two of them.”

She glanced up to see his gaze fixed in the distance.

“No.” His eyes narrowed. “That’s not right. There were three , but I killed one… after they leapt on me as I came out of the forward companionway. I came up to see what was happening with the storm.”

Carefully straightening, she held her breath. His words were coming slowly, as if he were literally piecing the memory together.

“I didn’t know them… I can’t remember who they were. I’m not even sure I knew at the time. I can’t see their faces.”

When he fell silent, she whispered, “What can you see?”

“Beyond the storm, beyond the flash of blades… nothing.” Suddenly focusing, his gaze shifted to her face. “But I know they were after something I had. That was why they wanted me dead, so they could take…” He paused, then, face and voice hardening, continued, “The only thing of potential value I had on me at the time. They must have been after the wooden cylinder.”

He tensed to stand.

Slapping her hands on his shoulders, she held him down. “No! The cylinder is where we left it. You can get it in a minute, but first I need to finish checking these stitches, then I need to wash, dry, and rebandage. With stitches you can’t go out without a bandage yet.”

The look he bent on her should have withered steel, but she was adamant and gave not an inch.

With a disgusted humph, he settled back on the bench.

Logan let her finish tending his wound while he struggled to make sense of what he’d remembered. The facts were sketchy, disjointed, some visual memories, others just random bits of knowing .

When he added them up… his blood ran cold. He didn’t know who his opponents were, or why they wanted the cylinder, but of their viciousness, their utter disregard for life, their callousness, their unrelenting evil, he had not a shred of doubt.

He might not remember who they were, but he knew what they were.

The thought that such evil might have followed him there, might even now be tracking him to this isolated, windswept, and so beautifully complete little corner of the world-Linnet’s corner, her domain-shook him.

“I need to leave.” He met Linnet’s eyes as she turned from setting a washcloth aside. “They might follow me here.”

“Nonsense.” She frowned at him. “You heard the old seadogs-if they didn’t wash up in our coves, then they almost certainly perished.”

He frowned, shifted as she dabbed along his damp side with a towel. “Others might have been waiting ahead and now be searching-they might hear there was a survivor and come looking here.”

Linnet blew out a dismissive breath. “If they’re waiting ahead, then they’re either somewhere in England, or somewhere even farther away-we assumed your ship was heading north, but it might just as well have been going the other way.” Opening a pot of salve, she dabbed two fingers in, then-trying not to notice whose chest she was tending, or indeed anything about that chest at all-she smeared Muriel’s potent cream down the still red, but healing, wound.

“And,” she continued, doggedly stroking, “no one other than locals knows you’re here. How could anyone-especially off-island-learn you’re here?”

She glanced up, saw his jaw clench. Setting aside the salve, she reached for the roll of clean bandage she’d left ready.

“Matt and Young Henry went to the market with the cabbages the second day I was here-they would have mentioned it to someone.”

“No, they wouldn’t. Trust me-they know better than to gossip about something like that.” As she shifted around him, bandaging his chest again, she looked into his face, saw his disbelief. “If you need more reassuring on that point, both lads are ex-buccaneer brats. They know to keep their mouths shut about anything that washes in from the sea.”

Logan gave up arguing. He didn’t have enough facts to win, or even to make sense of his burgeoning fear. His pursuers were people any wise commander would fear-of that much he was now sure. And in that vein, the fear he felt wasn’t personal. All his fear was for her and hers.

He didn’t know why-couldn’t formulate a rational argument-but he knew what he felt.

Later, standing before the sideboard in the parlor and turning the wooden cylinder over and over in his hands, he still couldn’t say why he felt so strongly, but the premonition of danger, of impending threat, was impossible to deny.

After dinner, he sat on the parlor floor with the children and taught them another card game.

Linnet sat in her armchair and watched, not the children but him.

She could almost see the connections forming, the intangible links. Brandon and Chester he’d held in the palm of his hand from the moment he’d opened his eyes, but Willard-Will-was both older and more wary. Although friendly, Will had initially held back, hesitated to commit to the near hero-worship the younger boys had so enthusiastically embraced. But Will was now a convert, too.

All three asked questions-about this, that, male-type questions-all of which Logan either answered or used to gently steer their thoughts in a more appropriate direction.

The girls, too, Jen and Gilly, enjoyed his company, and while they didn’t take the same advantage of his presence, they, too, were benefiting simply from having a large, strong, adult male about with whom they could interact freely, and trust implicitly to care and watch over them.

Children knew. Her children-her wards-certainly knew. She, Muriel, and Buttons hadn’t raised them to be anything but quick and bright. Enough to be wary of strangers, ready to be suspicious, ready to react to any even minor detail that wasn’t quite right.

All of them had looked at Logan, looked at him and seen, and known he was trustworthy.

And in that they were correct. He was good with them, instinctively knowing when to be firm, when to laugh and tease. When to be kind. He was good with them in ways neither Edgar nor John, both of whom were fond of the children, could emulate. Where the older men struggled to find the ways, Logan simply knew.

She doubted he was even aware of it; his reactions to the children were immediate, innate. It occurred to her that while he might still be wrestling with what sort of man he was, she and her brood could fill in many traits-all the important ones, certainly.

He was good, kind, considerate without being overwhelming. He was commanding, yes, but only in spheres in which he was experienced. He was trustworthy, caring, strong, able, and, after his response to his latest recollection, she could throw loyal and protective-highly protective-into the mix.

She also suspected he could be recklessly brave.

And on that note, she decided she would stop-she was making him sound like a saint, and he was definitely not that.

Underneath his protectiveness and caring lay a dictatorial possessiveness she recognized all too well; she carried the same trait. That was one reason he and she would never be compatible beyond a certain point. For a few days, even a few weeks, they could brush along well enough, but eventually the inevitable clash would come-and she would win. She always did, and then he’d leave-if he hadn’t remembered and left already.

“Time for bed.” Pushing out of the armchair, she rose, let her skirts fall straight as she fixed the children with a direct look that slew their protests before they uttered them.

Edgar and John had already retired. Buttons was struggling to stifle her yawns. Muriel looked up from her knitting and smiled over the top of her spectacles. “Indeed. It’s grown late.”

Within minutes, Linnet was alone with Logan in the parlor, with only a single candle burning and the sound of footsteps retreating up the stairs. She arched a brow at him, wordlessly asking why he’d remained.

“I recall last night you said something about ‘doing the rounds.’ ”

She might have known. “I check all the doors and windows on the ground floor-a habit my father instilled in me.” Shielding the candle flame, she started for the back door, smiling wryly when Logan fell in behind her. “At one time, pirates, then later buccaneers, used to lurk in the southern reaches of Roquaine Bay.”

“I’d always heard that folk from the Isles were descended from pirates.”

“You heard aright-we are.”

“Are there any pirates-or, for that matter, buccaneers-remaining in these parts?”

She smiled. “Nearer than you might suppose. But they’re no threat to you, much less to this household.”

Reaching the back door, she slid the twin bolts home; as she led the way on, she pretended not to notice that he checked, then tried, the door.

Her “rounds” done, she parted from him on the first floor and headed upstairs to check on her wards. Logan watched her go, imagined her bending over the small beds, tucking hands beneath covers, dropping kisses on foreheads.

Doing all the little caring things women-mothers-did, even though she wasn’t their mother.

He still wasn’t sure what to think of this household, but the longer he spent within it the more he realized that for all its unconventionality, it worked. It provided those who lived there with all they needed for a full, happy, and contented life.

A safe life, too, as far as Linnet could guarantee.

Reaching her room, he went in. Closing the door, he crossed to the window, and as he’d done the night before, stood looking out. He’d thought, last night, that he’d been drawn to the view because that way lay England, but in reality, it was the sense of peace, even in the face of the strafing winds and beneath the roiling skies, that drew him. Held him.

Outside the window, nature ruled over a raw, rough, elemental landscape, yet people had lived there for centuries-possibly longer than they’d lived in England. The rawness, the roughness, reminded him of Glenluce, yet here the elements were harbingers of excitement, adventure, and exhilaration, lacking the bleakness, the grayness, that characterized Scotland.

This was home yet not, familiar yet different, and somehow more welcoming. Perhaps that was why he felt so intensely about protecting it, defending it, from any threat.

Such a depth of innate protectiveness wasn’t something he’d felt before-not anywhere, not for anyone. His memory might still have holes, but he was indisputably sure of that.

Just as he knew that Linnet herself would deny he had any right to feel so. There was no logic or rationale behind his unbending conviction that he was, somehow, protector and defender of these innocents, of this small realm. As if he’d fallen under some spell-the house’s or hers. Perhaps both.

Regardless, Mon Coeur increasingly felt like the lock his key fitted.

The door opened. He turned his head as Linnet came in.

Locating him, she set the candlestick on the tallboy and walked deliberately, with certain intent, toward him. She was wearing another of her fine woollen gowns, a plain, modest creation in smoky green, yet the sleeves outlined the graceful lines of her arms, the scooped neckline drew his eye to the swells of her breasts, while the clinging skirts flirting about her long legs teased his senses.

Fixing his gaze on her face, he steeled himself to hear her push to continue their “arrangement,” with him repaying his obligation to her by educating her, tutoring her, in the ways of the flesh.

Her flesh, and his.

He didn’t want that-didn’t want to, couldn’t bring himself to, treat her like that, to view her and her body as part of some bartered exchange. He, body, mind, and soul, would be delighted to make love to her if she wanted him-if, freely, she wanted to lie with him, to explore that side of paradise with him without any hint of obligation or coercion.

He wanted to deal with her on a different plane-man to woman, gentleman to lady, lover to lover. He wanted nothing, no other consideration, tainting what they shared, coloring it, corrupting it.

As she halted before him and looked into his eyes, he wanted to tell her, to find the words and rescript their relationship, nudging it onto the simple, direct, conventional path, one he’d followed with no other woman but wanted to follow with her.

He knew what he needed to say, but he didn’t have the words.

Regardless, he couldn’t speak them. Uncertainty, lack of memory, forced him to silence.

He didn’t yet know his recent past-didn’t know if he had a wife waiting for him. He didn’t think he had, yet the possibility was there.

Making love to Linnet at her instigation, more, at her insistence, was one thing-something his honor didn’t approve of but could live with given he had no real choice. That she would leave him no choice. But to speak, and lead her to believe there could be more between them when he didn’t know if that were so, would be the action of a cad.

He looked into her eyes, lucent in the moonlight, and knew he wasn’t going to like where she would lead him. Yet until he knew all about Logan Monteith, the man he was now, the commitments he’d made and had yet to fulfill, he was helpless to, on her own turf, take the reins from her.

Linnet studied his eyes, examined what she could see in his face, in the chiseled angles and planes. “You’re thinking too much.” He was thinking of ways to argue, to discuss their situation. She trapped his dark gaze. “Stop resisting. You know there’s no point. Your obligation to me is mounting, so how are you planning to balance the account?”

She felt utterly brazen-and just a touch guilty-holding to such a line, compelling him in a way she knew he didn’t like, yet that way would keep her firmly in control, dictating their relationship.

Ensuring it remained superficial.

Ensuring she did nothing to encourage him to think it might be more. Could be more. That she might ever wish for more.

His eyes narrowed on hers. “What do you want of me? What lesson am I supposed to teach you tonight?”

His voice had lowered; she hid a smile. He was, it seemed, going to fall into line. “I want to learn more-I want you to show me more beyond what we’ve already shared.”

His lips thinned. “You’ll need to be more specific.”

Her own eyes narrowed. Perhaps she’d been too quick to assume his capitulation. How could she be specific if she didn’t know?… she smiled. Smugly. “I want you to treat me as you would a slave-a pleasure slave.”

His eyes widened.

She let her smile deepen. “As a female given to you to do with as you wish- specifically for you to indulge your most potent desires.” Boldly, utterly brazenly, she arched a brow. “Is that specific enough?”

His lips tightened to a grim line. His eyes were deepest midnight. “You don’t know what you’re asking for. Try again-you don’t want that.”

She raised her brows higher, haughty and assured. “I know what I want-your desires unfettered. I want to know-to experience-what meeting those desires means. What fulfilling your most potent desires feels like.”

Logan stared into her witchy green eyes, took in her prideful, arrogant expression-and felt everything within him quake.

He felt like a predator about to pounce. To be offered such a sexual feast, to have it forced on him… but he shouldn’t. She shouldn’t. Desperately he sought some way to deny her.

She tilted her chin and stared back at him, stubbornness in every line of her face, of her body. “Tonight,” she stated, her tone a ringing challenge, “that’s my price.” Her gaze held his. “And I believe you’re obligated to pay.”

He struggled not to react. All but shook with the impulse to seize her and devour. How had he got into this? Every time he thought he’d be able to control her, she took another step into deeper waters-and effortlessly dragged him with her.

If he did as she asked…

You don’t know what you’re asking for.

Truer words he’d never spoken-he knew to his bones she had no idea. Compared to him, she was an innocent. Why she was pushing him in that particular direction he didn’t know, but given said innocence, if he complied, even half complied… perhaps she wouldn’t push him again. At least not along such a dangerous path.

The last thing he wanted was to see fear in her eyes, yet just a lick, a suggestion, would with luck have her shying from any further dangerous games-not with him or anyone else.

God forbid she tried this with anyone else.

That thought sealed his fate. Better him than any other. If he wanted to protect the damned witch, then picking up the gauntlet she’d just flung at his feet was the right course.

To make sure she never flung it again.

“All right.” He nodded. “You’re my pleasure slave for the night. You don’t speak unless asked a question, and you obey every order I give instantly-without hesitation.”

Her lips curved in subtle triumph as she inclined her head.

“Fetch the candlestick.”

She turned and walked back to the tallboy. He flung himself into the armchair angled before the wide window. She returned, candlestick in hand.

“Put it on the table by the bed.”

She did, then looked at him.

He pointed to a spot a yard before his feet. Obediently, she crossed to stand there. Cloud-veiled moonlight and starlight washed through the window, combining with the candle glow to illuminate her while leaving him largely in shadow.

He met her gaze. “Take off your clothes.”

Her lips curved, and she obliged. She patently understood enough of her role to do so without haste, yet without unnecessary hesitation.

He watched as she revealed herself, the long lines of her limbs, her delectable curves, all encased in alabaster-white. He debated, but didn’t instruct her to let down her hair; the rippling mass would conceal too much of her body, and he was leaving her no modesty tonight.

That was part of his plan. As he watched, he worked out more.

When she tossed her chemise aside and it floated down to join the rest of her clothes scattered to one side on the floor, he openly examined her, ran his gaze slowly over the white curves and hollows, over the full peaks of her breasts, the indentation of her waist, the flare of her hips, the thatch of red-gold curls at the apex of her thighs. Long, sleekly muscled thighs, sculpted knees, svelte calves and delicate feet.

Slowly, still blatantly assessing, he ran his gaze back up, to her face. “Put your hands on your breasts. Cup them.”

She blinked, but obeyed, supporting the white mounds in her hands.

“Fondle them.” He gave her directions, watched as she complied-watched the arrested expression in her eyes. He debated how far he might take that tack, but the activity wasn’t making his life any easier.

His gaze on her breasts as they overflowed her hands, he reached up and unknotted the kerchief about his neck, slowly pulled it free, knowing she’d noticed and was watching.

Slowly, he stood, then walked toward her. “Keep fondling.” Unhurriedly he circled her, then halted behind her, with less than a foot between her back and his chest.

He draped the kerchief over her shoulder, clearly intending to use it later. For what, he left her imagination to supply, for now.

Then he curved his palms about the ends of her shoulders and began.

Linnet fought to stay upright, to keep her spine rigid while his hard hands and long, strong fingers commanded her senses and suborned her will.

His hands roved her body and possession seared her skin.

Until her nerve endings sparked, until every inch of her skin came alive, delicately flushed, heating.

Abruptly he pushed his hands under hers, still loosely cupping her breasts.

“Leave yours on top of mine.”

The rough command fell by her ear, then he closed his hands and kneaded, much more firmly, more devastatingly knowingly, than she had. His fingers found her nipples and squeezed, squeezed until she came up on her toes, head tipping back as her spine bowed and she gasped for her next breath.

He drew his hands away, pressed hers to the now swollen and aching mounds. “Like that.”

An order, one she bit her lip and tried to obey.

As his hands slid down to her waist, then back and over her hips.

To caress her bottom. To explore, flagrantly possessive, to examine.

The night air turned cool as her skin fevered and dewed.

Without warning, he clamped one hand about her hip, with the other reached beneath the globes of her bottom and touched her-stroked once, long and sure-then he thrust one finger into her, penetrating deep into her sheath.

Her lungs locked; she couldn’t breathe. She closed her eyes-and felt her own hands on her breasts, felt her awareness heighten, felt sensation streak like lightning through her.

She closed her hands, sucked in a tight breath as he eased his hand back, but only to push a second finger in alongside the first.

He stroked, deep, hard, the pressure nothing less than an intimate invasion.

Her heart raced. Desperate, she trapped her nipples and squeezed as he worked his fingers relentlessly within her, his fist flexing beneath her bottom, pushing her on.

The tension built, soared. Head back, she gasped. His iron grip on her hip guided her as she helplessly rode his invading fingers.

As release drew closer, brighter, as her nerves tightened and coiled.

His fingers slowed, then left her.

Eyes snapping open, lips parted and dry, she fought to stand steady as her senses reeled.

He walked around to face her. His face a mask carved in stone, he met her gaze. “Pleasure slaves have to earn their pleasure.” His gaze fell to her hands, still locked about her breasts. “Hold out your hands, wrists together.”

Dragging in an unsteady breath, she obeyed. He lifted his kerchief from her shoulder and lashed her wrists together, tightly enough so she couldn’t part them but could swivel her hands back and forth.

“On your knees.”

She felt heated but empty, and deliciously, fascinatingly, out of her depth. Excitement flickered through her as she lowered herself, settled on her knees, then looked up at him.

His eyes were dark pools. “Open my breeches and take my member in your hands.”

She knew enough-had heard gossip enough-to know where this was leading. She tried not to be too eager, to keep to her role of slave as she freed the buttons at his waistband, pushed open the placket of his breeches and took his straining erection between her hands.

It wasn’t the first time she’d touched him there, skin to skin, yet she couldn’t hide her continuing curiosity, her avid fascination. Without waiting for any instruction, she traced the length, circled the empurpled head, then closed one fist and lightly squeezed.

Heard his breath hitch, catch.

Felt tension leap and snare him. Sensed the muscles all over his body tighten as beneath her palms his erection turned to steel. Rigid steel covered with skin the texture of fine satin; such a contrast, such a strange softness.

Forgetting to wait for orders, she played, explored, learned.

Felt his hands slide into her hair, glide beneath the heavy chignon that hung low on her nape, fingers spreading into the coiled tresses as he gripped.

“Take me into your mouth.”

She complied instantly.

Greedily.

Logan closed his eyes on a groan, one he only just managed to hold back as her lips slid over his engorged head, then lower, and her hot mouth engulfed him. He tightened his grip on her skull to guide her, only to have logical thought suspend as she licked, laved, then sucked.

Where the hell had she learned…?

Even as she set about shredding his control, he realized she was improvising. That she didn’t really know but was doing as she wished…

God help him.

As if in answer to his prayer, she eased back and released him, but only to demand, “Tell me how to please you.”

Opening his eyes, he looked down.

Just as she glanced up, met his eyes. “Master.”

She purred the word, her sinfully wicked lips brushing skin so sensitive he felt it like a burn.

Looking into her green eyes, all he could think was: Master? Who was master here?

But then she licked, broke the spell, and his hands tightened on her skull and pressed her back into servicing him, to which she enthusiastically devoted herself as, in a voice hoarse with passion, he instructed her.

As he told her how to raze every defense he possessed against her and bring him to his knees…

Realizing, he looked down, saw her red head at his groin, felt the silk of her hair brush his exposed skin… felt his control sliding. Dragging air into lungs locked tight, he forced himself to act-to slide a thumb between her lips and withdraw his throbbing erection from the haven of her mouth.

She complied with his implied directive. Sitting back on her ankles, she looked inquiringly up at him-undaunted, uncowed, undeterred.

All he saw in her eyes was desire and brazen willfulness.

Delight and the unalloyed anticipation of pleasure.

His own lips tightened. Clamping his hands about her shoulders, he lifted her to her feet-and slanted his mouth over hers. Kissed her-devoured her. Passionately, possessively demanding, commanding, then ravishing without quarter. As he wished, as he wanted.

As she wanted, too.

She met him in a clash of tongues and rapidly escalating desire.

He couldn’t get enough of her, the taste of her like this, wild and wanton, and so patently, potently, his.

Surrendered, but joyously, gladly, eagerly.

Dangerous, so dangerous…

He was supposed to be teaching her about what she didn’t want, what she shouldn’t invite…

Wrenching his mouth from hers, he spun her around to face the side of the bed. Her hands were tied; grasping her waist, he lifted her. “Kneel on the edge.”

She did. The mattress brought her hips to the perfect height; her knees spread for balance, she glanced over her shoulder.

“Face forward. Keep your gaze fixed directly ahead.”

His words were little more than a guttural growl. Linnet deciphered them well enough to obey, breasts aching, pulse thrumming, as she waited for what came next.

A hard, hot, masculine presence, he stood close behind her, between her calves, and touched her again, but differently.

He showed her how force could be wielded against her, taught her how feeling helpless could add a sharp edge to passion, how through nothing more than touch her senses could be razed, how desire could be honed into a whip to lash her until she sobbed.

Until she moaned.

Until desperation sank to her bones.

He showed her how waiting for his touch could make her quake, how receiving it could make her gasp, then moan. Then sob, then scream.

Showed her how passion could build, and build, until it grew claws and raked her, then shattered her.

Taught her how pleasure could flay her, how raw need could beat her from the inside out, how pleasure could become a raging fire that consumed her.

His hard hands moved over her with unveiled intent. Harshly, compellingly, driving her on. If he’d pressed possession on her before, now he gave her fire and conflagration-gave her no choice but to take it in and let it rage. Let it have her. Consume her.

Eyes closed, giddy, she fought to keep upright, to keep her head from tipping back. Tried not to notice how her breathy pants converted again to moans, then to hitching sobs.

Greedy passion again leapt high, flared cometbright, then raced over her skin, spreading beneath, then building like a fever.

Until she burned again.

Until primitive passion ran molten in her veins.

Until visceral desire was an empty furnace in her belly and she ached with the need to feel him within her. Had to fight the compulsion to writhe under his hands.

His wicked fingers continued to knead, to squeeze and explore, to possess every curve, every intimate hollow. From behind, he probed her sheath again, but purely to confirm that she was ready, wet and hot and slickly prepared to receive him.

Gasping, sensually reeling, she felt him move closer. Between her thighs, he slid his fingers further forward, with the broad tip of one circled the delicate nubbin throbbing behind her curls, sending sensations spiraling and rising, pushing her arousal to even greater heights.

“What do you want?” The words were a guttural whisper by her ear.

“I want you inside me.” Eyes closed, she licked her lips. “Deep inside me. Now.”

“Good.”

She felt him at her back, then one hand flattened and pressed between her shoulder blades, forcing her down.

“Bend over. Put your elbows on the bed.”

Her skin crawling with need, she did. His hands clamped about her hips, gripped.

She had an instant of warning-an instant for her nerves, every sense she possessed, to seize with expectation, then he drove himself into her-hard, deep, powerful and sure.

Into the weeping furnace of her sheath.

She couldn’t hold back a moan as he filled her, then he withdrew and thrust powerfully in again, pushing deeper still, and her moan turned to a strangled sob.

The fabric of his breeches rode against the sensitized skin of her bottom, reminding her that he was all but fully clothed while she… was bent naked and helpless before him on her bed, her wrists tied, her sheath flagrantly offered for his use.

Another layer of arousal, a deeper possession.

She sobbed, panted, unable to do more than shake her head from side to side as he pounded into her, and she gladly-so gladly-received him. As she tightened and clung, embracing the fullness of his shaft as he pressed deep and filled her, as she desperately clung to sanity as he drove her ever higher up the peak of sensation.

She wanted every last moment, every senses-shattering instant of pleasure.

She fought to shift, to ride his thrusts and prolong the engagement-and discovered she couldn’t. Discovered just how helpless she was as he held her immobile and repeatedly, relentlessly, filled her.

As over and over he worked his erection, all steel and fire, deep in her sheath, until the friction felt like living flame.

Logan held her in position, refused to let her buck, let her move her hips at all as he stroked repetitively, pressing deep, as he felt her instinctively clamp and cling, the most primitively intimate caress of all.

Her head threshed as he drove her harder, higher up the peak; the sounds falling from her lips were gasping sobs of entreaty and surrender.

He felt her muscles clench, closed his eyes, and thrust forcefully deep-heard her scream as she came apart, her sheath clamping hard, pulling him in.

Jaw tight, he hung on, pumped steadily through the powerful, rippling contractions, until he felt them slowly ebb, then fade.

Opening his eyes, he looked down at her. Her hair had come loose; a rumpled red curtain, it flowed over her shoulders and veiled her face as she lay slumped, panting, still gasping, her cheek on the covers as she struggled to catch her breath.

Her skin glowed like a pale-rose-tinted pearl, flushed with desire, sheened with spent passion.

He still held her hips clamped between his hands, was still sunk to the balls in her bounty.

He’d slowed his thrusts while he’d looked. He picked up the pace, worked his erection deeper into her surrendered body, enjoying the sensations of having her so open, so intimately exposed and conquered.

He stroked deep, felt sensation shiver through him, long, luscious, a lingering sense of triumphant possession.

He’d planned to let go and plunder her body anew, to finish like this, in this position, reinforcing what he hoped was the lesson she’d learned-that she could be made helpless by passion, then taken, conquered, and used in whatever way her conqueror desired…

He’d thought that was what he would want, but… no.

She’d demanded he use her to satisfy his most potent desires.

There was no reason he shouldn’t.

Withdrawing from her, he stepped back, and stripped off his clothes.

Lifting her, he laid her on her back in the middle of the bed, her body flat, her head barely touching the pillows, her arms extended above her head, her hands, still tied, between the pillows. Her limbs were still lax; she struggled to lift her lids, tried to frown. Naked, on his knees, he grasped her ankles and spread them wide, then moved between and let his body down on hers.

Came down on his elbows, wedged his hips between hers, caught her gaze as her lids rose to reveal dazed green eyes.

He thrust powerfully into her.

Watched her eyes flare, heard her breath catch.

Then he bent his head and took her mouth.

Rapaciously, ravenously plundered, sinking deep and claiming both her mouth and her body.

Felt her rise beneath him as he did.

Felt her join with him and ride the uninhibited crest of unleashed passion, of unfettered desire.

This was what he wanted-his most potent desire-to have her spread beneath him, his to plunder, yet with her with him, an active participant, every heated inch of the way.

He filled her forcefully, repeatedly, unrelentingly. Yet even as he reached for her knees, she lifted her legs, wrapped them about his hips and tilted hers, inviting him deeper yet, luring him further yet, riding him as he rode her in an unreservedly primitive consummation.

Taking unreservedly.

Being taken unreservedly.

But as he sensed their climax roaring down on them, as the wave of release reared, about to crash, as her body clung to his, abandonly enticing, he realized…

Then she screamed his name and shattered, and her release brought on his own, and all thought was drowned beneath an orgy of sensation.

Bliss rolled in on a heavy wave of aftermath.

In the instant before he succumbed, he acknowledged defeat.

She hadn’t drawn back. She hadn’t been frightened-not the faintest lick of even reticence had touched her.

She’d loved every minute, every intense second.

On a long-drawn groan, he slumped on top of her.

He’d achieved the opposite of what he’d intended-and more. Worse.

Only one thought, one reaction, managed to surface in his exhausted brain. How the devil had it come to this?

He should have guessed she’d revel in the power, the passion, the intensity. She was like no woman he’d ever known, ergo…

Some untold time later, when he’d managed to lift from her and settle them in the bed, with her curled beside him, he lay staring at the shadowed ceiling-thinking. Of what, beneath all the heat and fire, courtesy of the power, the passion, and the intensity that had undeniably ruled, had actually occurred.

Had happened.

There was no going back.

It had definitely not been what he’d intended-almost certainly not what she’d expected, either. But she’d stubbornly brought it on, engineered the encounter, and it had happened, come to pass, and so here they now were.

Somewhere they hadn’t been before.

He’d thought that being so dominant a personality, she’d recoil from being dominated-that she wouldn’t like it, would draw back from it. Instead, she’d gloried in his possession, welcomed and embraced it, and him, and wrapped him in something akin to heaven-an angel’s embrace. He’d thought she’d run screaming, at least figuratively. Instead… he was the one conquered.

The one now addicted.

She’d satisfied every dream-every potent desire-he’d ever had.

Even if he dreamt up more, and he could-definitely could-he felt certain, now, that she would happily fulfill them.

After what had happened… things between them had changed. Irreparably, irretrievably. He wasn’t going back, could no longer step back. Not now he knew what it was like to touch heaven and come to rest in an angel’s arms.

Even if she was, very definitely, no angel at all.