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soon become unattached to their money, and then tragically unattached to mortality.”
    W es nodded with an affected look that meant touché , pretending her words hadn’t cut. How could she condemn when she knew nothing about it? Cavalier, gamely, unaffected; all in his arsenal of playacting. “Then rest assured, you’re safe from the threat of me, seeing how art and drama and adventure hold no appeal for you.” He said each item as though he’d unrolled a long list and read them off. “I must agree: idling away in the country and sleeping alone in a cold bed is far less unpredictable and taxing than the life lived in passion.”
    Mary turned her head, watching out the window, and Wes regretted his words. She’d injured him, and so he’d returned the barb. Already she was robbing him of his senses. Yet if he capitulated, she’d only despise him more — he knew her already.
    “Do you know what puzzles me, Mary?”
    She flashed him a sideways glance from under her eyelashes, and it hit him full on the chest. Either she practiced those witchy looks in the mirror, or she transformed into a vixen with every full moon.
    “What baffles me is the way you kiss—” Her startled expression was priceless. “For an ingénue, you certainly have fire in your lips. Witchery, even. I’d say it’s not quite proper for a virgin goddess to provoke a man so, as though she meant to ravish him on the spot.”
    Mary pounded the seat with her fist and regarded him as though he’d grown a third eye. “You are too cruel, Sir Wesley. I will not tolerate your mockery any longer!”
    “Cruel? Mockery? Dearest Mary—”
    “Don’t call me that!”
    “Darling Mary, I have never been more serious in all my life. You kiss like the angel and the devil, all at once. I thought someone ought to tell you so, before you slay more unsuspecting men.”
    Seeing unshed tears brimming in her eyes killed the sport for him; he’d pushed her too far, or struck a nerve. “I will open the door and boot you out into the snow.” She said it without the slightest waver in her voice, but with plenty of the hate he’d glimpsed earlier. Stories to be told, there. Who in the past had injured Mary Cavendish?
    He leaned forward, grasping each of her knees to hold her still , and kissed her again. A little deeper, sneaking in a slide here and a pull there, implying a rhythm that should appeal to her instincts even if she was an innocent. Once he found the perfect compromise, he repeated it over and over, until her mouth softened. Her breath eased on a sigh, a little feminine sound that made him burn even hotter.
    She lingered of her own volition, so he paused to let her decide what to do next. A few panting breaths curled vapor in the air, and her hand rested on her abdomen in a sign of bewilderment. The swinging lantern outside the coach window reflected the snowfall, casting spots around the walls and ceiling. A glowing crest marked the great house sprawled on a hill; Rougemont, only minutes away.
    Eyes narrowed, she seared him with another look of love-hate, then it was she who kissed him. Combative, spirited, tender; all at once. She seemed to say, “Here’s your passion, and so there!” It set the blaze in his chest roaring, supplanting even the sharp throbbing in his injured shoulder.
    A groan escaped his t hroat, otherwise he let her dictate. He kept his hands to himself, but she’d wrapped her arms around his neck, and he didn’t mind at all when her hands wandered lower onto his chest. Likely she was incognizant of kneading and rubbing, moving her fingers over him as though she wanted his shirt off.
    With her mouth she berated him, praised him, then he recognized when she set it all free. Long, blissful seconds seemed like hours.
    There was some inexplicable magic between them, a fundamental correctness . He already knew how she would move. Seemed like he’d known her forever. The way he wanted her was as urgent as fire, with a paradoxical