“You… You should not be resting.”
“I should be many things,” she replied lightly. “Resting. Returning to Whitby. Preparing to resume my former life. And yet, here I am.”
He opened his mouth to reply—
Prometheus reared.
The movement was explosive. A crash of hooves, a scream of equine panic.
Fiona stumbled backwards, but not quickly enough.
Those massive hooves sliced through the air toward her, and she had time for one breathless thought—this is going to hurt—before a wall of muscle slammed into her from the side.
Christian.
He seized her around the waist and spun, placing himself squarely between her and the flailing hooves. She felt the impact jolt through him as one struck his shoulder. He grunted—and then they were falling, tumbling into an empty stall in a scattering of straw.
For a moment, there was only breath and impact and the echo of hooves.
Then stillness.
Fiona became aware, all at once, of the rapid thunder of her heart—and of Christian’s body shielding hers.
He had braced himself on his forearms to avoid crushing her, but their bodies aligned from chest to hip. His legs tangled with hers. His hair fell forward, half-veiling them from the world.
His breath was warm against her cheek.
“Are you hurt?” His voice was rough with urgency. “Fiona—”
“I am fine.” She wasn’t sure that was true—her heart was doing something extremely concerning, and her ability to think had apparently abandoned her entirely—but she seemed to have all her limbs, which was the important thing. “You—your shoulder—”
“A graze. Nothing more.” He started to push himself up, and she did something utterly unforgivable.
She grabbed his shirt and pulled him back down.
“Fiona.” Her name was warning and plea intertwined. His arms trembled with restraint. “We cannot.”
“You told me you wished to offer me more. That you would wait for the proper moment.”
“Yes.”
She slid her hands from his collar to his chest, feeling the solid heat of him beneath linen. “And when will that moment arrive? When the roads clear and I depart? When I am safely married to someone who has never once made my pulse falter?”
“Do not—”
“I am not asking for recklessness.” Her voice softened. “I am asking you to stop enduring me as though I am a temptationto be survived. Be with me, Christian. Here. Now. Without apology.”
He stared down at her, eyes dark in the dim stable light.
“You deserve—”
“I deserve the man who just threw himself between me and a rearing horse.” Her voice trembled despite her resolve. “I deserve the man who speaks to frightened creatures as though they are worth saving. I deserveyou—if you will only allow it.”
Something shifted behind his gaze—something fragile yielding.
He lowered his head and kissed her—slowly this time, tenderly, as though she were something precious he feared to mishandle. His lips moved against hers with aching gentleness, and tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, for this was somehow more devastating than passion.
This was not hunger.
