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didn’t even try to resist. The voice of her conscience went mute, and her eyelids fluttered in exquisite surrender. She sighed into the kiss. A shameless confession of longing.
    His lips were so warm. And for all his cool, stony appearance, he tasted delicious and comforting. Like freshly baked bread, mixed with some faint memory of bitters by the pint. She had a vision of him earlier that day, drinking in a dimly lit tavern. Alone. The poignant solitude of that image made her want to hold him. She had to settle for clutching his coat lapels, nestling close to his chest.
    She let her lips fall apart, the better to breathe him in. He caught her top lip between his, then sipped at the lower. As though he craved the taste of her, too.
    He brushed firm kisses to the corner of her mouth, her jaw, the pounding pulse in her throat. Each press of his lips was swift and strong. She could feel each kiss’s imprint linger like a fiery brand on her skin. He was marking her with stamps of his approval.
    Her passion-swelled mouth . . . Wanted.
    Her softly arching neck . . . Desired.
    The sweep of her cheekbone . . . Lovely.
    And last—the wine-splashed mark at her temple . . . Sweet .
    His kiss lingered there for several moments. His breath moved in and out, stirring her hair. Standing like this, pressed so close to him, she could feel the barely restrained power coursing through his body. His whole being shuddered with palpable desire.
    Then he pulled away.
    She clung to his coat, dizzied. “I—”
    “Don’t be concerned. That won’t happen again.”
    “It won’t?”
    “No.”
    “Then why did it happen in the first place?”
    He put a single fingertip under her chin, tilting her face to his. “Don’t ever— ever —think no man wants you. That’s all.”
    That’s all?
    She stared up at the hardened, handsome, impossible man. He would kiss her at sunset in a field of heather, make her feel beautiful and desired, set her whole body throbbing with sensation . . . only to set her back on her feet and say, “That’s all”?
    His weight shifted, as though he would retreat.
    “Wait.” She tightened her grip and held him in place. “What if I want more?”

Chapter Four
    M ore.
    Thorne braced himself. That word shook the ground beneath him. He could have sworn the hillside rolled and swayed.
    More. What did it mean to her, that word? Certainly something different from the visions his own mind supplied. He saw the two of them, tangled in the heather and the rucked-up muslin of her skirts. This was why he sought out experienced women who shared his definition of “more”—and had no qualms about telling him exactly when and where and how often they’d like it.
    But Miss Taylor was a lady, no matter how she denied it. She was innocent, young, given to foolish dreaming. He cringed to imagine what “more” meant in her mind. Sweet words? Courting? A vinegar jar had more sweetness in it than he did. His experience with courting had been limited to courting danger.
    That wrongheaded kiss had been just one more example.
    Stupid, stupid. His own mother had said it best. Your head’s as thick as it is ugly, boy. You never will learn.
    “You can’t just walk away from me,” she said. “Not after a kiss like that. We need to talk.”
    Brilliant. This was worse than sweetness, more fraught with danger than courting. She wanted talking .
    Why couldn’t a woman let an action speak for itself? If he’d wanted to use words, he would have used them.
    “We have nothing to discuss,” he said.
    “Oh, I beg to differ.”
    Thorne stared at her, considering. He’d spent the better part of a decade on campaign with the British infantry. He knew when his best option was retreat.
    He turned and whistled for the dog. The pup bounded to his side. Thorne was pleased. He’d been divided as to whether to leave him with the breeder so long, but the extra weeks of training seemed to have paid off.
    He walked toward the place where