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sensations.
    It seemed a long time before he pulled back. As she fought to catch her breath and regain her senses, he caressed her cheek with the backs of his long fingers. "You're an innocent," he murmured, his hazel eyes growing murky. "But you cannot be. You have a daughter, a lovely bright daughter such as I've never seen."
    "I didn't give birth to Mary," she admitted softly. "She was brought to me an orphan, a year ago, by Lord Cainewood. But I'm not innocent. I was married fourteen years. And…" She looked down, her gaze settling on the bottom of the old boat.
    He touched her hand. "And you were nearly raped, is that what you wanted to tell me? You needn't say the words. I've learned from Caithren what happened—your sorry tale that brought her new husband out for justice and into her arms. Lord Cainewood blames himself, as I understand it."
    "It wasn't his fault, though I reckon he may feel responsible. The man was out to hurt him and mistakenly thought he could do it through me. He thought"—she pushed at one of the oars with the toe of her shoe, then looked up at him—"he thought I was Lord Cainewood's mistress."
    He rubbed a thumb under her chin. "You're certainly pretty enough."
    She wasn't used to compliments—not from the men in her life. The truth was, she didn't know how to respond to them. So she didn't. "The man would have finished the job he'd started, except for what happened to Mary."
    "Which was?"
    "She was in his way. So he slammed her against a wall. When she lay there, still as death, he took off, afraid he'd killed her."
    "Which he almost did, from what I've been told."
    She nodded gravely. "She didn't awaken for weeks. But she's better now."
    "Thank God for that."
    "I do," she said in a whisper. "Every day." From the look in her eyes, Cameron didn't doubt it. "But the truth is that now I'm healed I don't think of my own ordeal overmuch…it was nothing that hadn't happened to me before."
    He'd known it somehow, but he wanted to hear it from her lips. "Before?"
    "Within my marriage."
    He was silent for a long moment before he reached two fingers to lift her chin. "It's sorry I am for you, Clarice. I'm sorry you were hurt, this last time and the times before. And I'm sorry because…I don't understand. As a man, I don't think I'll ever understand."
    "You understand very well," she said, wonder in her voice.
    Cameron moved away, giving her the space he sensed she needed. "Tell me about your marriage."
    "I was fifteen." She focused down at her hands clasped in her lap. "My folks had other mouths to feed. Will needed a wife, children. He was getting on in years—forty-five, he was—and he wanted to breed a family to support him in his dotage."
    "Your parents married you off to a man thrice your age?"
    She looked up, her eyes flashing with challenge. "Is that so different from what you're asking?"
    He gazed at her unblinkingly. "Aye. It is."
    For a moment, that challenge persisted. He admired her for that spirit. He'd never wanted a pliable woman.
    At length a long sigh escaped her lips. "It's the done thing. I was a good daughter. I offered no argument." She shrugged. "I spent my childhood working my hands to the bone in their home. I thought marriage would be easier."
    "But it wasn't."
    "Not with Will. All I wanted was a family of my own, a family I could do better with, children I could cherish. But…"
    "What?" He leaned to touch her clasped hands. "Tell me."
    "Will couldn't give me that." Her voice broke, and she paused for a breath. "He betrayed our vows with other women, and he never gave them children, either."
    A beat of silence stretched between them. And then, "Marriage doesn't have to be like that, Clarice. Painful and empty and childless." Rushing on, he took her hands in his and squeezed. "It wouldn't be like that with me."
    "Marriage! You're jesting again." But he looked uncertain, surprised by his own words, and Clarice was afraid he mightn't be jesting, after all. "Even were I to