He inhaled deeply and fought the temptation to bury his face in the fragrant hollow. He grazed the satin skin lightly with his jaw.

"Ohh," she murmured. Her nipples were taut, thrusting against the thin fabric of her nightgown, only inches from his hands, from his mouth. He could feel one brushing against his arm. He moved his arm. She shivered deliciously and her eyes darkened.

At her visible response to him, he felt a primeval surge of triumphant possessiveness. He'd found her, against all the odds he'd found this woman, this one woman like no other, his own personal siren. His woman. His wife.

His wife-to-be.

He forced himself to straighten and dip the next piece of toast into the egg, as if nothing momentous had happened. He proffered it, his gaze locked with hers. Her eyes were dark, almost slumbrous with desire. She parted her lips and his fingers brushed against them as he fed the toast to her. He watched hungrily as she slowly chewed and swallowed.

She ate in silence, gazing into his eyes. It felt like she was looking into his soul, but he could not drag his eyes away.

He fed her another toast soldier, then another. All that could be heard in the room was the hiss and crackle of the fire, their breathing, and the soft sounds she made eating. Intimate sounds. Personal. Evocative.

Could she hear his heart pounding? He wondered. He sure as hell could.

He fed her finger after finger of toast until the egg was finished. He was very careful not to let any yolk drip again. He could not trust himself again if it did.

He never lost control. It wasn't going to happen now.

He fetched the pot of marmalade and spread it on the remaining piece of toast, cut it into triangles and handed the plate to her, saying. "Eat."

She gave him a long look, then picked up a piece and crunched into it, starting from one corner and working her way to the end. When she had finished, a tiny bead of jam glistened at the corner of her mouth.

He couldn't take his eyes off it. It was like a beauty spot tempting him. Quivering with each movement of her mouth. He watched as she ate a second triangle and a third. She ate delicately, like a cat, yet that tiny bead of golden jam remained, hovering just above the corner of her mouth.

Her very kissable mouth.

"Tea?" he said and without waiting for her response, poured her a cup, adding milk and a little sugar. Tea would wash it away.

"You remembered how I like it," she commented as he stirred the tea and handed it to her.

Of course he remembered. He remembered everything she'd ever said or done in his presence.

She took a sip and grimaced. "Cold." She put the cup down, saying softly, "We took too long over that egg." It didn't sound as though she regretted it in the least.

Not that he cared. She'd had her chance. That bead of marmalade was still in the corner of her mouth and he could not leave it there a moment longer.

Gazing into the dark golden depths of her eyes, Harry leaned forward until his mouth was a bare few inches from hers.

She swayed against him, lifting her face to his, offering herself silently to him. With a low groan he licked the tiny drop of marmalade from the corner of her mouth.

"Sweet," he murmured, "yet tangy." He licked her mouth again, though there was no jam left. "Delicious."

He teased lightly along the seam of her lips with his lips and tongue, and she sighed and opened for him. A low growl of satisfaction curled up from deep within him as he drew her against him and kissed her deeply, sealing her mouth with his, learning the taste and texture of her.

Her taste entered his blood like a firestorm and he pulled her closer, feeling the gentle give of her softness against his hardness. He kissed her deeply, stroking the inside of her mouth and feeling her arch and shudder against him with each movement. She was flame to his tinder, the headiest wine.

She murmured something and rubbed the palms of her hands along his jawline, sliding her fingers into his hair.

His kisses deepened as she caught the rhythm that was burning him alive, racking his body in a fierce primeval thundering that swamped his senses.

Nell kissed him back, blindly, passionately, following his movements and her instincts. He tasted salty, spicy, darkly masculine, and he kissed her with a fierce hunger that melted her bones.

It awakened a hunger deep within her, one she'd never before experienced, one that had nothing to do with food.

She loved the feel of him, the taste, the delicious friction where his bristles rasped against her skin. She clung to him, her body pushing against him over and over in a rhythm she dimly recognized.

And then she felt a hard thrusting at her belly that she definitely recognized. Suddenly she realized the meaning of the rhythm.

A thread of blind panic quenched the heat in her blood. Shocked at herself, at what she'd been about to do, at what she had been craving, she jerked her head back and stared at him. "No," she whispered. "I can't."

He paused, his mouth still hot upon her, and she braced herself to shove him away. She was not ready, it was too soon, too unsettling. She had to think. And she couldn't while he was here.

But before she could move or say a word, he released her and stepped back, his chest heaving.

"You're right." His voice was deep and ragged. He straightened his clothes and ran a hand through his thick, dark hair. "I should never have let that happen. Not yet. Not until we're married, until you're ready. Your virtue is safe with me, I promise. Good night." He cupped her cheek gently and walked stiffly toward the door.

Nell blinked, her mind reeling at his response. She'd said no. And he'd listened. He'd stepped back at once, uttering words that sliced through every defense she had, cutting right to the heart.

Your virtue is safe with me, I promise.

She had no virtue left to protect, he knew that. And yet he'd promised to protect hers anyway. And with such quiet sincerity, as if there was no question or doubt in his mind.

Giving her back her honor.

He paused at the door. "Are you all right, now?"

"Y-yes, perfectly all right, thank you," she managed.

"Good, I thought you'd feel better with some food inside you. Sleep well."

She stared at the closed door, wanting to go after him, knowing she could not. What she felt had nothing at all to do with food, and everything to do with Harry Morant.

Sleep well, he'd told her. Harry hoped she would, but he put no faith in it. For an hour at most he'd managed to distract her, stop her fretting about her lost baby.

He'd succeeded in distracting himself more. He groaned.

Whatever had possessed him to feed her?

He wasn't going to do it again. Not until they were safely married.

From now until their marriage, if she wanted to starve herself, he would let her. Probably. It was only a few weeks away. She wouldn't do herself that much damage. Probably.

He crossed the hall to his bedchamber and rummaged around in the drawer till he found what he was looking for. He'd noticed it last time he was here, a small bell with a handle. He tied it to a loop of string, tiptoed back across the hall and attached it to her door handle.

If she opened the door, the bell would wake him up.

He knew he ought to just cross the hall and get into bed with her, chastely, as he had the past two nights. She slept better if he did. The lilac shadows around her eyes had faded considerably since he'd started to share her bed.

Harry, on the other hand, wasn't well rested at all.

And when he was short on sleep, his self-control wasn't as reliable. And after the last hour, his self-control was considerably challenged.

He wasn't sure it was possible for him to share a bed with her any longer. Not without making love to her. And she wasn't ready for that.

He needed physical relief. Desperately.

He was fairly certain much more holding her without making love to her would kill him. He would explode.

It had taken every shred of strength he had to pull away from her and stride coolly from the room.

But she'd said no, even though he knew that she wanted him. And Lord, how the thought of her wanting him fired his blood anew.

But no was no. In Harry's code that was that.

Who was the bastard who'd raped her? The question ate at him. He wasn't going to get off scot-free, not if Harry had anything to do with it.

No man who forced a woman deserved the title of man.

And a man who would force someone like Nell . . . such a man didn't deserve to live.

Twelve.

Ethan squinted over the letter that had arrived that day from Tibby. It was not her usual neat hand. She must have written it in a hurry. And in the rain, for the paper was crinkled in spots, and some words were blotchy where the ink had run.

My dear Mr. Delaney,

I must confess to some concern as to the tone of your last letter, particularly when you were talking about this woman you are courting. Far be it from me to criticize a woman I've never met

Ethan frowned. Never met? Who the hell did she think he was courting?

but it seems to me that she does not value you as she ought. You are a fine, decent, honorable, intelligent man, Mr. Delaney, and the equal of any one in the land.

Ethan read that part again, savoring the sound of the words: fine, decent, honorable, and intelligent. He didn't know another living soul who'd describe him in those terms. Someone might describe him as fine. Or decent. And possibly honorable. But never all three at once and never with the word "intelligent" attached.

Never accept inferior treatment, and do not look down on your background for the things that cannot be changed, and for which you cannot be blamed. What is important is what you have done with your life, and the skills you have learned, and most of all your heart. If this woman does not value this about you, my dear Mr. Delaney, she is not worthy of you.

Here the writing got very blotchy indeed. The rain must have set in, he thought. That would explain the odd way she'd ended it.

I say this as your former teacher, to whom your welfare and future happiness is important.

Yours most sincerely, Miss Jane Tibthorpe

Ethan grinned as he carefully folded her letter and put it in the box with all her letters.