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catch her as she tumbled from the branch. She landed in his arms in a jumble of velvet skirts. He hefted her up easily, then juggled her into a more comfortable position.
    It took two attempts before Francesca managed to fill her lungs. "Th-thank you." She stared at him, and wondered if there was something else she should say. He was carrying her as if she weighed no more than one of the kittens. His eyes were locked on hers; she couldn't think. Then those grey eyes darkened, turned stormy and turbulent. His gaze shifted to her lips.
    "I think," he murmured, "that I deserve a reward."
    He didn't ask—he simply took. Bending his head, he set his lips to hers.
    The first touch was a shock—his lips were cool, firm. They hardened, moving on hers, somehow demanding. Instinctively, she tried to appease him, her lips softening, yielding. Then she remembered that she was considering marrying him. She slid her hands up, over his chest, over his shoulders. Locking them at his nape, she kissed him back.
    She sensed a fleeting hesitation, a momentary hiatus as if she'd shocked him—a heartbeat later it was wiped from her mind by a surge of fiery demand. The sudden pressure shook her. She parted her lips on a gasp—he surged in, ruthless and relentless, taking and claiming and demanding more. For a moment, she clung, helplessly aware of her surrender, aware of being taken—driven—rapidly out of her depth. Aware of sensations streaking through her body, through her limbs, aware of her toes slowly curling. Far from frightening her, the feelings thrilled her. This was what she'd been created for—she'd known that all her life. But this was only half of it, half of the adventure, half of the apple when she wanted the whole. Without resistance, she let the wave of passion flow through her; as it ebbed, she gathered her will, then set about turning the tide.
    She kissed him back passionately, and caught him—surprised him. He hadn't expected it; by the time he realized, he was trapped in the game with her—the heated duel of tongues that she'd always imagined must be. She'd never kissed any man like this, but she'd watched and imagined and wanted—she'd suspected mirroring his caresses would work. That, she'd assumed, was how ladies learned the art—by kissing and loving with someone who knew.
    He knew.
    Hot, urgent, their mouths melded, tongues tangling, sliding, caressing. Her flesh heated, her nerves tightened; sharp excitement gripped her. Then the tenor of the kiss altered, slowed, strengthened, until his deep, sliding, rhythmic thrusts became the dominant theme.
    She shuddered, felt something in her yield, something open, unfurl. React. Her whole body felt glorious, buoyed, languidly heated. Seduced.
    Gyles was drowning, sinking beneath a wave of desire more powerful than any he'd previously known. It drew him under with the force of a tidal wave, eroding, washing away his control. Abruptly, he broke the kiss. Jerked his head back and looked down at her. Clinging to his shoulders, held tight in his arms, she blinked, struggling to reorient.
    His features hardened. He muttered a curse, followed by, "God, you're so damned easy." Her eyes widened, then her lips set. She wriggled furiously; he swung her down, set her on her feet. She pulled away, stepped back, briskly brushing her bodice free of leaves, then shaking and straightening her skirts.
    Francesca recalled she'd been miffed at him—even before that comment. He'd said he'd call in the morning—it must have been noon before he'd deigned to arrive. She'd lain in wait to waylay him. When he hadn't shown, she'd gone riding to calm herself. What did noon say of his eagerness to win her?
    As for his attitude! No wooing, no loverlike embraces—just hot passion and bold seduction. All very well that the latter appealed to her rather more than the former— he couldn't have known that. Was he so uneager… or was it, perhaps, that he was so sure she'd accept him?
    And what,