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had,
she wouldn't have fallen asleep, restlessly or otherwise. He'd realized almost
immediately that she didn't know who he was. There was no reason she should
recognize
him
. She would, however, recognize his name.
    Her peculiar profession would make keeping up with
ton
gossip imperative; he had not a doubt that, had he favored her with his name,
she would have made the connection and reacted accordingly. Which would have
been trying for them both.
    Convincing her that she had no reason to fret would
have taken a great deal of effort, which he did not, at the moment, have to
spare. He still had Tolly's murder to contend with—he needed her calm and
composed. He found her directness, her unfussy, almost wifely
matter-of-factness, refreshing and strangely supportive.
    The fire glowed, gilding her face. Devil studied the
delicate curve of her cheek, noted the vulnerable softness of her lips. He
would confess his identity in the morning—he wondered what she would say. The
possibilities were, he judged, wide-ranging. He was mulling over the most
likely when she whimpered and stiffened in her chair.
    Devil opened his eyes fully. And simultaneously became
aware of the renewed ferocity of the storm. Thunder rolled, rumbling ever
nearer. The wind rose on a sudden shriek; a sharp crack echoed through the
wood.
    Honoria gasped and came to her feet. Eyes closed,
hands reaching, she stepped forward.
    Devil surged from his chair. Grabbing her about the
waist, he lifted her away from the fire.
    With a wrenching sob, she turned and flung herself
against him. Her arms slipped about him; she clung tightly, pressing her cheek
to his chest. Reflexively, Devil closed his arms about her and felt the sobs
that racked her. Off-balance, he took a step back; the old chair caught him
behind his knee.
    He sat down; Honoria did not slacken her hold. She
followed him down, drawing up her legs; she ended curled in his lap. Sobbing
silently.
    Tilting his head, Devil peered at her face. Her eyes
were closed but not tightly. Tears coursed down her face. She was, in fact,
still asleep.
    Trapped in her nightmare, she shuddered. She gulped
down a sob, only to have another rise in its place.
    Watching her, Devil felt a sharp ache twist through
his chest. The tears welled from beneath her lids, gathered, then rolled
slowly, steadily, down her cheeks.
    His gut clenched. Hard. Gently, he tipped up her face.
She didn't wake; the tears continued to fall.
    He couldn't stand it. Devil bent his head and set his
lips to hers.
    Engulfed in sorrow so black, so dense, not even
lightning could pierce it, Honoria became aware of lips warm and firm pressed
against her own. The unexpected sensation distracted her, breaking the hold of
her dream. Blackness receded; she pulled back and caught her breath.
    Strong fingers curved about her jaw; the distracting
lips returned. Warmth seeped into her bones, her skin, driving out death's
chill. The lips held to hers, reassuringly alive, a link from one dream to the
next. She made the transition from nightmare to a sense of peace, of rightness,
reassured by the strength surrounding her and the steady beat of a heart not
her own.
    She was no longer alone in misery. Someone was here,
keeping her warm, holding the memories at bay. The ice in her veins melted. Her
lips softened; tentatively, she returned the kiss.
    Devil caught his baser instincts an instant before
they bolted. She was still asleep—the last thing he intended was to scare her
awake. The battle to resist his demons, clamoring for him to deepen the caress
into something far from innocent, was furious, as ferocious as the storm. He
won—but the effort left him shaking.
    She drew back. Lifting his head, he heard her sigh
softly.
    Then, lips curving in a distinctly feminine smile, she
shifted, settling herself in his lap.
    Devil caught his breath; he bit his lip.
    Pressing her cheek once more to his chest, she slid
into peaceful slumber.
    At least he'd stopped her tears. Jaw