"Yes," he said in a strangled voice.

She moved her fist over him, stroking up the silky, solid length. It fascinated her. She moved again, this time downward.

"Becky," he groaned. "Stop."

Instantly, she let go. "I'm sorry."

He grabbed her beneath her arms and hauled her up over him so she straddled him again. But this time there was nothing between them, and the feel of the hot length of him between her legs made her gasp out loud.

"No," he grated out. "I'm the one who is sorry. I-God, just your touch is so close to making me explode."

"Why?" She was truly curious. Even as she asked the question, though, she fidgeted over him, every move of his flesh against hers sending tiny tremors of pleasure sparking through her.

"Because it feels good. Too good."

She smiled at him. It was a smile of conquest, a smile of power. She could bring this man to the edge of fulfillment with a simple touch.

"Kiss me," he commanded.

She knelt to drop a kiss on his lips. As soon as their lips connected, a pulse of energy ran through them both, connecting them, and Jack took control. One hand pressed on the small of her back; the other fisted in her hair, locking her to him. She couldn't move. She had no desire to move.

His mouth took possession of hers, his tongue exploring greedily, sensuously, and his taste exploded through her-hot, salty, commandingly male.

He nipped at her lip, then soothed the area with soft, warm kisses, leaving a trail of white-hot pleasure in the path of the pain. All the while, the length of his sex slid over the most sensitive parts of her.

Still kissing her, he turned her onto her back. He loomed over her, his body seeming twice as wide, twice as large, as her own.

The rough pad of his thumb stroked across her cheekbone, and his kiss traveled away from her mouth. He sampled her flesh, her jaw, her nose, her eyelids, and then he moved lower. He untied the neckline of her chemise to access her breasts, then used his mouth and hands to work the plump flesh and her nipples until every touch made her gasp and squirm, seeking more of him, seeking the fulfillment he could offer, the satisfaction only he could give.

"Please, Jack, please..."

He drowned her words in another of his overwhelming, hot kisses. She clutched his shoulders as he reached down, adjusting himself at her entrance. With his hand still tangled in her hair, he thrust into her.

Becky cried out. Her body arched convulsively.

"Oh, God. Am I hurting you?"

"No." She writhed, moving against him, away from him. He drew out, and she whimpered at the sensation of his hot, hard flesh sliding against her inner walls.

"So sweet," he murmured against her mouth. "So tight."

Closing her eyes, she sighed in an agony of pleasure.

She allowed the sheer power of her desire and her love to rise, to burn her distrust and fear to ashes. They fluttered away on the wind, and without all that fear blinding her, she could see clearly again.

He would be-no he was-hers. Her lover. Soon, her husband. She was his.

She loved this man. Loved how he made her feel. But now, so close, so connected, she could not fathom a life, another moment, without him.

She was so in love with him. And that didn't bring her pain. It didn't even evoke fear. Instead it made her feel powerful. Invincible. He was beauty incarnate. Intelligent and worldly. Affectionate, and possessive. And she was worthy of all of those things.

He saw reciprocal qualities in her. He wanted her as much as she wanted him.

"Jack," she said as he moved within her, a rhythm of pleasure. "Jack."

The pleasure built, dark clouds gathering into a gale, beautiful and powerful at the same time.

"I can't stop it," he gasped.

She could hardly speak for the storm building within her. "Don't stop."

His strong body moved with quick, deep thrusts. He moved faster, harder, each of his exhalations a sharp explosion of breath. And then his fingers tightened in her hair, and the storm burst in a violent shower of pleasure that shuddered all the way through her, curling her toes and her fingers. Her nails dug into his shoulder blades.

"Becky." It was a half-whisper, half-groan. He stiffened and stilled, and through her own pulsing pleasure, she felt his, contracting deep and hard inside her.

She lost awareness of everything except the point where they were connected, only returning to the world when the pulsing subsided and the tension in the body over her relaxed.

He touched his forehead to her shoulder. "I'm sorry."

She blinked. "What?"

"That was too fast. I did not give you pleasure. It was selfish of me." She heard him grinding his teeth. "Damned inconsiderate."

Reaching up, she pressed her hand against his cheek, turning his face so he could see her-or at least the shadowy outline of her face. "No. You gave me pleasure. So much pleasure."

He released a harsh breath. "Come here, sweetheart."

He rolled onto his side, bringing her along with him and tucking her backside against his body.

They lay pressed together for long, delicious minutes. This bed had seemed cold before he had joined her in it, but now a thin sheen of sweat covered her body, and she wiggled.

"Are you too warm?"

"A little."

He pulled back and lifted her chemise over her head, leaving her completely bare. He tossed away the offending material and once again pulled her close.

"You fit here," he murmured. "Perfectly."

Yes, she did. She gave a drowsy murmur of agreement and snuggled against him, his warmth a lure, a promise of contentment. Of happiness.

Jack lay awake a long while after Becky's breaths deepened and her body went slack against his. Still he kept his arms wrapped around her, unwilling to let her go.

He'd promised her honesty. Yet there were two things he could never reveal to her. The first was the truth about the night the Marquis of Haredowne had died. The second was his initial reason for wanting to marry her.

He was falling in love with the precious woman in his arms. Both of those truths would hurt her, abolish the trust she'd so generously extended to him, sever the connection they had built.

He couldn't do that to her. Worse-he couldn't do it to himself. He needed her too much. He was too selfish.

Full of self-loathing, he closed his eyes. And offered a prayer up to God that she would never put him in a position to lie to her. He would be honest about everything but those two things, and God must know that his intentions toward Lady Rebecca Fisk were now nothing but honorable and pure.

Please, God, don't let me hurt her.

Still holding her tightly against him, he dropped into a fitful slumber.

Chapter Fourteen.

She came downstairs in the late morning, just after Jack had returned from fetching their breakfast from their landlady in the village. Since he'd let the house, he'd communicated with the woman-a stolid, even-tempered widow with a puff of brownish-red hair and a deeply lined face-and he'd prepared her for his and Becky's possible arrival at the house without notice. He'd already warned her about their need for board, and she obligingly provided him with a simple repast for breakfast and a promise of hot stewed beef for their luncheon.

Becky hesitated in the doorway to the kitchen, and Jack turned from the stove. His chest tightened at the sight of her. So beautiful, in her rumpled chemise. She'd brushed her hair and it hung in a sleek black fall down her back. His eyes lingered on the suggestion of creamy mounds rising from the neckline of her shift.

"Good morning," he murmured, dragging his gaze to her face. "Coffee?"

"Oh. Well, yes. Thank you."

"Have a seat. I'll bring you some. There's also fresh hot cross buns and some boiled eggs."

She nodded and sat at the table. He lowered a plate and a cup of steaming coffee in front of her and then took the chair beside her with his own food. She took a tentative sip of coffee. From the way she grimaced, it seemed she didn't drink coffee often.

They ate their breakfast in comfortable silence, and though the table lacked Stratford's ever-present stack of newspapers. Jack found himself more content to be drinking his coffee beside Becky.

When they finished eating, he took the dishes into the scullery, rolled up his sleeves, and washed them. She trailed after him and watched him with a bemused expression on her face.

"How odd."

Up to his elbows in water, he raised his brows at her. "What's odd?"

"You're washing."

"Yes...?"

"I never knew a gentleman who cleaned dishes before."

"You haven't known very many gentlemen."

"True."

"And we haven't any servants to perform the task for us." He reached a soapy hand out to her, and asked, "Would you like to help?"

Her lips twitched. "I haven't the first idea what to do."

"Tell me you've never in your life washed a dish."

"I've never in my life washed a dish."

"Not even when you were a child scampering after the servants and their children?"

"No. I never scampered."

"Ah," he said. "Did you frolic? Cavort? Romp? Play?"

"No." She leaned against the doorframe, perfectly relaxed. "My father died when I was four years old, you see, and my mother when I was six. Garrett purchased his commission in the army when I was very young and was absent for most of my childhood. My aunt Bertrice made certain I was safe and well, but she wasn't the most maternal of guardians, and she discouraged childish behavior."

The wistful expression on her face pulled at his chest. She'd been lonely even as a child. He held out a cloth. "Well, then, I'll help you. Use this rag and rub it round the plate. When it's clean, rinse it in the tub here."

She pushed up her sleeves and followed his directions. He nodded in approval after she pulled the clean plate from the rinse water, and he directed her how to place it on the drying rack.

"What happened to your parents?" he asked as he handed her another plate.

"My father died of an apoplexy. My mother of consumption."

"Do you remember them well?"

She dipped the plate in the rinse water. "Not my father. I recall a very stern, scowling man, but I cannot say for certain whether my memory of him is accurate. My mother I remember a little better. She was always very frail, and she seemed unhappy. I was never to raise my voice or become boisterous in her presence, for such behavior agitated her. I always thought she was so sad because of something I did wrong, but now that I think back on it, I cannot imagine what it was."

"I doubt she was sad because of something you did, Becky."

They finished cleaning the dishes in silence, and then they went into the parlor, where Jack built a fire and then sat beside her on the sofa. He drew her head against his chest and played with the soft, silky strands of her hair while they gazed at the flickering orange flames.

"It is so peaceful here," she murmured. "It's like a dream. When we leave, we'll wake up in a completely different world."

"The harshness of that world cannot diminish what we've shared here." What he hoped they could continue to share. He was unaccountably, oddly nervous. They both knew he'd ask her to marry him again, but the question was when. He wanted to choose the right time.

"I hope you're right."

He kissed the top of her head. "I know I am."

"Did the harsh outside world diminish what you and Anne shared?" she whispered some moments later.

Against his will, he stiffened. Then he forced himself to relax. "I told you the rumors weren't true. We weren't lovers after her marriage."

She was very still beneath his arm. "But you were before she was married."

"Yes."

She sighed.

"That was many years ago. I was a boy of seventeen."

"I know."

"I don't like talking about her," he admitted. "I don't speak of her to anyone."