Secret shivers racked her from head to toe. Why fight it? She was independent, mature; she could choose what she wanted. She could prove that not all Sinclairs were alike, that they could save instead of betray, give as well as take.

She could choose to give herself.

His hips lifted, probed, demanded. "Prove what you said by the lake," he said. "Prove you're a match for me. Teach me."

She heard the challenge and knew it must be met without fear. The old MacKenzie Sinclair fell away like a snake's molted skin.

She braced herself over him, closed her eyes, and gave him his answer.

Chapter Nine.

This time is out of joint; O cursed spite, That ever I was born to set it right!

a"William Shakespeare SHE WAS EVERYTHING she'd been by the lake and a hundred times more. Her mouth descended on his with an abandon that startled him before he gave himself up to the exultation of victory.

For he'd been right. She was like a banked fire, a tempest locked in an improbable body. And now that tempest descended on him with unantic.i.p.ated fury.

A fury in which he could lose himself, a flame to consume the rage and the pain he'd sworn never to feel again, the anguish that was nothing but impotence and weakness.

Mac was burning life to remind him that Perry hadn't succeeded. That loss and betrayal were not all that existed in the worlda There was no hesitation in Mac's kiss, though it lacked the finesse of experience. Her tongue darted out to brush his lips and ventured no further. She acted now in half-fearful defiance, to prove herself his equal.

But she was a woman. He could bury himself in her, and forget for a while. There was nothing between them but desire. Nothing to make him weak again.

He had wanted her, not understanding why. He admitted that now. But now it didn't matter, because the wanting was all there was. In this moment out of time he was free, liberated from every chain of reality. He wanted to pour his seed into the hot core of her body, to feel the swell of life in every nerve and let his blood shout defiance to very death itself.

And she wanted him. He was certain of that. She'd saved his life and come close to losing her own. The need in her was as strong as it was within him.

His mouth held hers with flicks and forays of his tongue as he maneuvered her about, rolled with her on the narrow cot until they lay side by side. Her slender thighs were trapped under his, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s puckered against his chest. He felt her try to speak, but he trapped her words with a deeper kiss and worked her beneath his body.

Soft. She was so much softer than he'd realized. He kissed her chin, her jaw, the hollow of her cheekbone, the slight arch of her dark brow. She gasped a little when he lifted himself and pulled the b.u.t.tons of her shirt open with one hand.

"Liam," she cried. His name from her lips was urgent and sweet. But this was no time for talking. He wanted none of ita"only feeling, sensation, taking. Her breast fit perfectly in the palm of his hand. He teased her nipple into a delicate knot and stroked it with his fingertip. Her back arched, pushing the hollow between her thighs against his groin.

It was hot, like the rest of her. He knew she'd be wet, ready for him when he took her. No thinking. No questions. Only this.

The pulse in her neck throbbed under his tongue. He licked the little hollows under her slender collarbones and inched his way down to the exquisite treasures of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. She made little sounds as he tasted one and then the other, lingering until each nipple puckered under the laving of his tongue.

Black, thick lashes shaded her gaze, but he knew she watched him, watched everything he did with fascination. Her breath was rapid and hoa.r.s.e with excitement, her fingers worked into the cloth of his shirt. Grasping, urging him on.

She was his, completely his, holding nothing back, innocent and wild in a combination like to drive him to madness. Her body was supple as a sleek and exotic animal, taut under silky skin. He pushed her shirt aside and laid his palm on the flatness of her belly. It quivered like the velvet coat of a highbred horse.

The bones of her hips were distinct, but there was a sweet curve to them. He learned her body with his hands, and then with his lips. He unb.u.t.toned her trousersa"so loose and oversized around her waista"and eased them down. She helped him, wriggling her body until he thought he would burst the seams of his own pants.

She wore nothing under the trousers. And she was wet. He slid his fingers through the snugly curled hair at the base of her stomach, lower still. Her fingers clenched and unclenched in his shirt like the claws of a sensuous cat being stroked. He accommodated her. She arched again and shuddered under his caresses. And when he tested her with a finger, pushing gently inwarda He stopped. She must be all but a virgin. He could feel her tightness, the subtle resistance. Ready as she was, she had no skill at seduction, or the ease of a woman who'd taken many men into her body.

She had nothing to teach him. He was guide, and master, and teacher.

And protector. She was no innocent, not out here alone in the jungle, but there was an inexperience, an uncertainty that called to the last dwindling spark of reason trapped within his desire. She's only a woman, and you're using her, just as they used Siobhana No thinking. With fumbling haste he worked open the b.u.t.tons of his trousers. The release of imprisoned flesh was an ecstasy in itself. He slid against her slick thighs, higher, probing and eager. She'd spread herself for him. Her skin was flushed, her lips parted and glistening. He watched her as he made the first foray, heard her moan in pleasure.

Then he saw her eyes. Wide open now, fixed on him. And under the glaze of excitement and pleasure was something else. It was nothing so simple as fear. It was sudden, overwhelming knowledge of a threshold to be crossed, of life forever changed.

The knowledge Siobhan must have held in her heart when she'd taken her first lover and sold her honor for survival.

The knowledge Liam would see in Caroline's eyes on their wedding night.

He tensed, holding himself rigid above the woman he had resolved to take with so little thought. The past was there in bed with him, and the future stood watching, ready to condemn.

Condemn Liam O'Shea.

Mac's face held no condemnation. It was real, warm, trusting, wanting. Asking more than he could ever give.

Because he'd been wrong. He couldn't take Mac and feel nothing, take nothing, pay nothing.

He heaved himself off of her, the muscles in his arms shaking with knotted tension. In his hunger and need to forget, he could put a child in her body, become responsible for her. Responsible for a woman who could have no place in his future or in his life. A woman whose recklessness and bold naturea"the very nature that inexplicably drew hima"would make it impossible for him to protect her.

And as those thoughts crystallized in his mind, the chill of them worked through his body and doused his l.u.s.t to ashes.

Mac's gaze, blank with bewilderment and desire, followed him as he rolled away on the cot. He grabbed the edges of her shirt and closed them across her chest, covering her thighs with the long shirttail. With an awkward motion he tucked himself back into his trousers and b.u.t.toned them again. Only then did he reach over the side of the cot and grab the whiskey bottle Mac had dropped. There was still one sip left.

The silence was profound. Mac didn't move for many long minutes.

"Well?" he said harshly. "The lesson's over, Mac."

"What?"

He rolled to his feet and sauntered to the desk, slamming down the bottle with deliberate force. "Please forgive me if I let it go a little too far."

"The lesson, or the joke?" She paused, clutching her shirt to her chest. "It was a joke to you, wasn't it?"

Strange. Her voice was subdued and flat, not angry or hurt. Not Mac's usual spirit at all. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and watched her, severing any emotion except indifference. The empty bottle taunted him.

"Call it what you like."

Her fingers were steady as she knelt on the edge of the cot and b.u.t.toned her shirt. As if nothing had happened. As if he hadn't been about to take her with her full cooperation.

She was pale and composed, revealing no emotion. Just like that her pa.s.sion was snuffed out. Instead of relief he felt an emptiness in his belly that was more than unsatisfied hunger, a flare of consternation that she'd pushed him away so easily.

More easily than he'd pushed her away.

"It was pleasant enough," he said, turning back to her, "but I got a littlea carried away." That was all he would concede, all he could admit.

Mac had drawn her knees up under the tails of the shirt so that all of her but her feet was covered. "You never had anything to learn, did you?" she said.

Poker-faced. Not the Mac he knew. A stab of guilt thrust at him. "Ah, well, darlin'," he said. "No hard feelings."

A flicker of something in her eyes. Anger? Humiliation? But she rose from the cot and quietly retrieved the trousers he'd thrown on the ground.

"Turn around," she said.

He did, trying to remember the retort he'd been about to make. d.a.m.n.

"Well," he said, shrugging into his shirt, "you did say you thought you had a way back toa where you came from. I'll have Fernando prepare a meal, and then we'll go to the tunnel, or wherever you choose."

She stood where she was, her back still turned. "Wherever I choose?" she repeated. "How generous."

Flat. Cold. He ran his hand through his damp hair, wincing at the returning pain in his shoulder, and walked to the tent flap. "I pay my debts."

"Oh, yeah." The shirt pulled against her shoulders as she hugged herself. "That's what really counts."

He didn't pause at the entrance to exchange another barbed sally. Just outside the tent he waited, his mind gone blank, for any sounds of rage or weeping. None came. He tried to remember the last time he'd felt so much the blackguard. And for what, d.a.m.n it? He was doing the girl a favor. She was still as purea"or nota"as she'd been before.

If she was working for Perrya"and Liam no longer knew what to believea"she was no worse off. And neither was he.

Liam slammed his fist into his palm. The pain of realization was still sharp, but now it was overlaid by deep and bitter rage. If Perry had tried to have him killed, the betrayal was beyond comprehension. Nothing would stop Liam from returning to San Francisco now.

He found Fernando with the single mule, speaking to her softly in an ancient Maya tongue; he looked at Liam as if he .knew everything that had happened in the tent. d.a.m.n him, he probably did.

"We're leaving before dawn tomorrow for Champerico," Liam said in Spanish. "Did you get extra food from the village?"

Fernando nodded as he examined the jenny's hoof. "And the seorita!"

"Leave her to me."

The corner of Fernando's mouth twitched, but he offered no further comment. Liam felt the muleteer's gaze on his back as he walked away. Walking was what he needed to do; a long, hard walk now that the sun was lowering and the worst of the day's heat was past. That or a good soak in the lakea"but he wouldn't go there again.

He grabbed a machete and got a few yards into the jungle before the pain in his shoulder returned. More punishment for his sins. He scowled and forced himself to keep going, pausing only to sc.r.a.pe sweat from his brows. For a time he imagined Perry's face in every hapless tree or bush he attacked. It was almost satisfyinga"until his thoughts drifted, inevitably, back to Mac.

What was she doing now? Probably blasting him up one side of the Petn and down the other. She wasn't the sort to accept an indignity quietly. He could imagine the little h.e.l.lion charging into the jungle with her strange collection of devices, getting herself lost or worse.

He was not responsible for her.

d.a.m.n it. d.a.m.n it. And d.a.m.n it all to h.e.l.l.

He turned and started back.

What a fool she'd been.

Mac paced the length of the tent and back again, trying to determine where to begin her search. Her watch had to be somewhere in this tent, and by G.o.d she was going to find it and be out of here before Liam decided to come back.

She paused in her furious strides to survey Liam's shaving supplies, laid out on the folding camp desk. Razor, antique bottles filled with pungent lotion, a comb and scissors. No wrist.w.a.tch. She would not think of the way Liam had looked with the sun on his hair, shaving down by the lake.

Or remember how he'd reacted when she'd given him Perry's watch. She hadn't imagined his vulnerability thena"or his need.

When he'd kissed and caressed her, she'd lost herself, felt the borders between two bodies melt and merge. She'd felt his need as something limitless, becoming part of her own.

His body was no more capable of lying than hers was. For a time he had truly wanted her. For a while the vast gulf between them had ceased to exist.

Now it was as wide as the Grand Canyon. Or time itself.

She had to get back. Now. Tonight. As soon as she'd found her wrist.w.a.tch; she didn't intend to leave any part of herself behind.

She dropped to her knees beside the trunk that contained his clothing; the lid had been closed over the trailing arm of a shirtsleeve, and the contents were in disarray. She didn't bother to be neat in her exploration. Shirts, trousers, a belt, socksa underweara she tossed those aside sharply, hoping they landed someplace where stinging insects would make a nest in them.

No plastic waterproof wrist.w.a.tch. Only a flat paper folder at the very bottom of the trunk, buried under everything else.

Inside was an envelope, neatly printed with Liam's name and a San Francisco address. Postmarked 1884. She couldn't resist opening it.

A swirl of perfumed scent rose from a sheet of fine stationery. Elegant lines of script flowed across the page; a woman's hand, delicate and feminine.

Dear Liam, the letter began.

Mac's gaze drifted to the bottom of the page, to the demure signature so perfectly placed.

Caroline Gresham, it said. Caroline. The name was extremely familiar. In fact, it made her think ofa Her blood seemed to drain from her fingers and toes and head all at once, leaving her giddy and dazed.

She began to read again.

Dear Liam, I write this letter in haste, because I know that you and Peregrine are shortly to leave for the jungles again. Oh, how I wish I could go with you! Peregrine says that someday I will have just such an adventure. Peregrine has also promised to bring me a trinket. I shall wait to see which of you brings me the better one. Until you return, I shall keep you both in my prayers.

Your affectionate friend, Caroline Gresham For a moment Mac simply held the letter. Good Lord. Caroline Gresham was the woman Perry had marrieda"Mac's own great-great-grandmothera"the daughter, Mac remembered, of a wealthy San Francis...o...b..sinessman.

Mac looked inside the envelope again and found what she'd missed the first time. A photograph, new enough looking to have been recently taken. A photograph of a beautiful young woman with pale curling hair and flawless features and limpid eyes. She was almost too perfect to be real. And this was Liam's "affectionate friend."a "What are you doing?"

Mac scooted around to face Liam, the letter and photo still in her hand.

"Who's Caroline?" she demanded.

He stopped in his charge across the tent. "Caroline," he said between his teeth, "is the woman I'm going to marry."

Mac stared at him as the ramifications slid into place in her mind.