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She didn’t ask him to stop. She should have. She meant to.
    But she didn’t.
    She even wished she had worn her soft burgundy kyrtle, just for him. Maybe he would like to touch the fabric where it hugged her hips.
    Peter cleared his throat. “A little further and you can get down.” His arm tightened around her.
    Zipporah stared straight ahead and hoped he hadn’t noticed how ragged her breath had become. How did he do that to her? It really should be a crime.
    “Gilburn will kill you when he sees you next,” she managed.
    “I will take you home soon enough, and he shall thank me, begrudgingly, for rescuing you. And you, my love, will not say a word about this.”
    “Do not call me that. And perhaps I shall tell him.”
    “I am willing to take a chance on you.” His voice deepened, rumbling in his chest. “Are you that angry with me?” He propped his chin on her shoulder, the golden shadow on his jaw chafing her cheek again.
    “I am always angry with you.” She shrugged her shoulder and he lifted his head. “You leave me no other alternative.”
    “There are other alternatives.”
    Aye, there were, but she could not pursue them.
    “Why won’t you look at me?”
    She closed her eyes. It would be so natural to lean back against his chest, to bask in the feel of him so close to her. So warm, so solid—clouding her judgment.
    Oh, Lord, what was she doing?
    She opened her eyes. “I have to get down now.”
    He slowed his horse to a walk. “Is it that bad?”
    “Please let me down.”
    Peter halted his stallion and helped her off, her hip sliding along his leg.
    A lady’s value was in her virtue. Kingdoms throughout history were won or lost upon it. Men died defending it. Men died for taking it. Zipporah wished someone had warned her. She’d had no idea what it would cost, to give herself to Sir Peter of Ravenmore.
    Her heart felt like mush. Her sleep was filled with visions of a baby she would never know, and like it or not, her need for him appeared to be a fire that refused to be snuffed out.
    He dismounted and led his horse on foot. His wide shoulders were bent and his head bowed. Like it or not, there was still a part of him inside of her, and she hated seeing him like that.
    “I am sorry,” Zipporah said.
    “Sorry I disgust you?”
    “It could be worse.”
    “Worse?” He halted, his gaze searching hers.
    She opened her mouth, then closed it and shook her head. Her words had not come out right, and she wanted to kick herself. “We shouldn’t keep doing this. Being alone together.”
    “I do possess some restraint.”
    “That is not what I meant. Nothing I say is right. I might as well hang a sign around my neck saying, Sorry, Peter .”
    He sighed. Then he turned and touched her face. Somehow he managed to smile, and Zipporah fell into it. She didn’t want to come back again.
    Ever.
    But she had to, or he would lead her astray, and she was very afraid that she would go right ahead and let him.
    “I miss you,” he said, his fingers sliding away.
    “I read your missive.”
    “You did?”
    “I said I would.”
    He was quiet for a moment. “And?”
    “You sounded homesick.”
    “I still am.”
    “But you are home.”
    “Nay, I am not.”
    Zipporah wasn’t ready to acknowledge that. She wasn’t even sure whether or not to believe him. She pushed a branch out of the way as they walked. They were near the lake now. The ground was soft.
    “Gilburn is not beyond killing you,” she said.
    “It is too late for that now.” He seemed to be gathering his thoughts. “If you had read my missive when I first sent it to you, would it have changed anything?”
    “I do not know.” She’d been heartbroken about the baby, and angry he had not been there for her when she’d needed him so badly. Her mother had taken care of everything, swearing the midwife to secrecy, telling her father she had a contagion and needed to remain locked in her chamber for months. The only two people she saw during