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    Byron applied pen to paper. “She stands in the beauty of the moonlight,” he muttered, then shook his head and scratched though the line.
    His door flew open, Logan’s frame filling the entryway. “She vexes me.”
    Byron nodded his head. “She walks in moonlight,” he said, tapping the quill he favoured, ink staining his fingertips.
    “She bewitches and bewilders me.” Logan tossed another log on the fire.
    “You act as if your head is up your arse in her presence.” Byron stood up, moving back towards the window, watching the thunder clouds gather, obscuring the moonlight. “She walks in beauty…”
    “What distracts you so?”
    Byron pointed.
    Logan squinted out into the night, sheets of rain falling now, lightning bolts illuminating the woman lifting her face to the sky.
    Byron tapped his quill on the windowpane. “I wonder, does your Esme pray for a lightning bolt to strike and transport her back from whence she came?”
    “The hell you say, man,” Logan cursed. Clad only in the linen drawers he wore before he had barrelled into Byron’s chamber, Logan bounded down the staircase and flung open the front doors.
    Byron watched from his window.

    Esme welcomed the cool air lifting her chemise in its breezy caress, her face turned to the moonlight. Storm clouds rolled across the darkening sky, the quick release of their moisture catching her by surprise. She laughed, revelling in the chaotic weather swirling around her, the rain mingling with her tears.
    Lightning crackled and thunder rumbled. Esme counted the seconds between the two, the lightning close enough to strike her, yet still she stood in the downpour, reluctant to return under Logan’s roof.
    A third bolt lit up the silhouette of the man striding towards her.
    Esme lifted her chin.
    Logan shouted at her, but Esme shrugged. It was impossible to make out his words over the din of wind and rain. He caught her arm, bending his head close to her ear.
    “Do you wish to catch your death?” His mouth so close to her ear distracted her.
    Esme lifted her chin higher. “Afraid of a little rain, Lord Davenport?”
    “Damn your obstinacy, woman.” Logan reached out to drag her towards the house, but Esme twisted, slipping from his arms. She stumbled, the grass and mud and slashing rain creating an unsteady surface. Logan lunged to catch her, losing his own footing as well, the pair tumbling to the ground. Logan rolled to break their fall and Esme found herself back in his arms. Again.
    “You insufferable man!” Esme yelled, the rush of adrenaline at the next lightning strike fuelling the heat in her veins at the sight of him, the thin material of their saturated undergarments serving to titillate her further. She pushed herself away from him with one hand—yet her other lingered, one finger travelling down the fine trail of hair tapering from the width of his chest down his muscled torso.
    Logan caught her hand. Esme jerked away, confused, pushing at him as he rose to his knees, pulling her up after him.
    “Do you persist in your schemes to destroy my reputation for sport or for spite?” Logan asked, his eyes mirroring her confusion.
    “I just wanted to take a walk! How am I supposed to know how fast these storms come up?” she yelled back.
    “A lady does not wander about her host’s grounds without proper escort, Miss Tyme—and for certain not in her underwear in the dead of night.”
    Esme felt Logan’s gaze sweeping over her, moving down her body, lingering where the fine linen clung to her curves. Esme folded her arms across her chest, covering her nipples, hard and erect in the cold wet, from his hungry gaze. Remembering his hands on her breasts distracted her…as did her hand on his belly right now …
    Esme dropped her arms, standing defiant against the onslaught of wind and rain and the unrelenting heat of his aquamarine stare. Logan clenched his teeth.
    Esme’s chin lifted. “Even…even if you were my