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shaft, then clasped it firmly in her hand. Dear God!   He arched…
    Helen gasped as Rafe thrust against her. He’d been doing wondrous things to her body, touching and kissing until she was panting and nearly incoherent. She explored him in turn, reveling in the differences between them.
    He was hard and muscular, covered with silky hairs that raised sparks wherever they brushed against her. Exploring lower, she passed a trim waist and firm buttocks, finally reaching his manhood.
    Silk-sheathed iron. How could something so hard feel so soft?  So intriguing. So alive.
    “God!” he gasped, arching again when she squeezed. “Now—  Need—  Can’t wait—” 
    His control snapped for the first time in years. He had to have her. Had to thrust hard and fast and deep…
    Desperate, he dragged his thumb over her nubbin.
    Helen screamed, digging her nails into his back. He was driving her mad, but it wasn’t enough. She needed more. Much more. Writhing against his hand, she fought for—
    His tongue ravaged her mouth as he rolled, thrusting her legs wide.
    Her scream changed from passion to pain.
    “Helen!”  Rafe froze. He hadn’t yet entered her, so how could she hurt?  “Helen?”
    She didn’t move.
    He pulled his hand from under her head. It was wet and sticky.
    Horror banished lust. He scrambled to light a candle, then rolled her gently to her side and parted her hair. A huge knot was topped by a jagged gash. Blood oozed where his frenzy had reopened it. Older blood stiffened the surrounding hair. Had she fallen trying to escape?
    Covering her with a quilt, he paced the room, cursing. There was every chance that when she woke, she would be appalled to find herself wed to a stranger. Concussion might even erase memory of the wedding.
    At the very least, she would be upset. He’d forced her into marriage at a time when she could not think rationally. Would she hate him?  Had his impetuous proposal trapped him in the very union he’d feared since he was old enough to understand his mother’s torment?
    Cold seeped into his soul. He would never survive such a marriage. He’d seen too much fighting in his youth. There had not been a moment of peace at home. Facing a similar future would drive him mad.
    But it was early days to accept failure. He’d sworn to protect her, so that was his immediate duty. How had she been injured?
    He tried to remember what she’d said after crashing into him, but he’d been reeling from the brandy, furious at Hillcrest, and engulfed in lust. Nothing else had registered.
    Damn!  What the devil had he gotten himself into?
     

Chapter Three
     
    May 21
    Rafe awoke to a pounding head and a soft bottom nestled against his morning erection. Unwilling to open his eyes – which he knew from experience would cause pain – he kneaded his mistress’s breast.
    “Wake up, Lydia,” he murmured sleepily. “I need your morning remedy.” She made a potion that eased the effects of overindulging.
    “Who—?  What—?” 
    Not Lydia. This voice was sultry.
    Rafe cracked his lids. The girl had scrambled away and now cowered against the bedpost, a quilt clutched to her chest. Red curls raged wildly over her shoulders.
    Memory roared back.
    Helen. His wife.
    Sitting up unleashed Gentleman Jackson and his corps of pugilists to brawl in his head while Satan’s slaves lashed his stomach into a stormy sea. Sunlight plunged daggers into his eyes. He squeezed his lids together and fell back.
    Echoes of his greeting redoubled his misery. He couldn’t have found a worse way to wake Helen if he’d tried. But maybe she hadn’t heard him.
    “How is your head?” he asked, again cracking his eyelids.
    “Fine.”
    She didn’t look fine. Her scramble had turned her face stark white. Terror widened her green eyes. Grabbing the quilt had left him exposed in all his nakedness.
    He pulled the sheet to his chest and forced calm over his voice. “Do you remember yesterday?”
    “Of course!