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shoulders, which were proud and square, and the hint of the swell of her breasts that he could just see as she tossed back her rich mane of ebony hair.
    Darkness was falling, he realized regretfully. How he longed to light a candle. But he did not, sensing that she needed to come to him in shadow.
    She didn’t glance his way, but hurriedly climbed into the bed. He caught a quick glimpse of the front of her and he was suddenly aware that his breath was as ragged as the wind. A shudder tore through his body, and he was made very acutely aware of his almost painful reaction to her. His muscles tensed; his manhood throbbed.
    A loud shout from the street pierced the web of sensual enchantment that was spinning around him, and he twisted to glance out the shutters once more.
    Matthews. That damned raving lunatic!
    Sloan had seen him before, finding “witches” in Liverpool by order of King James.
    Matthews shouted something again. He and his men turned down the alley. They slowly disappeared.
    A slight sound, a shifting of long limbs against the sheets, attracted his attention. He returned his gaze to the bed, and the stunning woman who lay upon it.
    Her hair was spread upon the pillow, a dark silken fan against the white linen. Her eyes were closed. His eyes roamed to the elegant length of neck and ivory throat. She was flushed a tender pink, and her luxurious dark lashes swept low over her cheeks.
    Just a glance at her,
he thought incredulously,
and I feel that I am touched by fever.
    The roaring in his ears began all over again, and thought was swept cleanly from his mind. He wanted his cravings soothed and his mind cleansed. It could happen.
    Even in the darkness she appeared pale as new-fallen snow and her enigmatic eyes were as wide as a pair of gold doubloons. But then that look was gone—her ink-black lashes slid lazily over her eyes, a subtle curve touched her lips, and a tremor suddenly riddled his body.
    He moved lightly to her. She glanced up at him, blue eyes widening again. He saw a pulse beating furiously at the base of her throat and again he found himself wondering just who was this most unique female? Too fine, too beautiful, for her calling.
    He touched a silken lock of her hair. Her eyes stared into his, deep and mysterious, slightly glazed and luminescent. Her lashes brushed over her cheeks and her fingers curled over the sheets. He moved his gaze over her, haunted by the round, full beauty of her breasts, and the valley dipping between them.
    He found himself smiling at her, impatient, his rushing blood seeming to come alive with a smoldering fire. Yet he was equally willing to go slow and prolong his own torture to touch and explore all that made up the perfection of her form. He had wanted nothing more than a quick, uninvolved bedding; now he wanted to make love, to tease her senses as he allowed his own to soar.
    He knelt down beside her, taking her gently into his arms.
    “I need you, Brianna,” he whispered to her.
    She flinched at his touch but so faintly, he might have imagined it. He began to touch her, savoring the softness of her flesh. She jerked slightly as his fingers grazed the crest of her breasts, then settled between them to find the erratic beat of her heart. She was still as he allowed his fingers to explore, massaging her throat, the slope of her shoulders, the length of her midriff to the curve of her waist. He found the cleft in her back, the slight dimples that shadowed her buttocks just below her spine.
    Brianna barely dared to breathe, staring, as if compelled, at his eyes. It had taken all her willpower—and the rampant fear of a burning death—to remain still at his first touch.
    It was becoming more than willpower and fear that held her. If there was truly a devil who could lure and seduce the innocent, it was he. Conscious thought slipped slowly but surely away from her. A part of her mind darkened to oblivion; a new part awakened vibrantly. Her flesh came alive, and the