She returned his kiss with all the pent-up passion inside her, theyearning, the endless weeks with only memories of their lovemaking to sustainher, building the hunger until it fairly consumed her.

"I want you, Danny. I'm tired of trying to deny it."

Sheridan's heart soared, even as a voice warned her not to trust his huskywords. Yet she, too, was tired of denying what she felt for Nicholas, offighting the feelings he roused in her.

Perhaps he had finally realized, as she had from the start, that they weremeant to be together. Or perhaps he'd sensed Jules's acceptance. Or perhaps her temper and stubbornness had pushed him away.

Weren't her sisters forever reminding her no man would tolerate her boldopinions, wild ways, and penchant for doing the opposite of whatever someonetold her to?

"There's no reason we can't be friends and lovers, is there, Danny?"Nicholas murmured against her ear, sending rivulets of fire through her veins.

"Aye," she breathed. "Friends ..."

"And lovers."

She smiled against his throat. "That, too."

He cupped her chin. "Very much of that." He kissed her lightly, sweetly,adding, "At least until I marry Jessica."

Sheridan's body froze faster than water in the North Sea. "What?"

Nicholas continued to sprinkle kisses over her face, heedless of the changein her. "I'm one of those men who wants to be faithful to his wife. Odd, Iknow. But how can I expect the same fidelity in return if I don't act thepart? Until then, however, we can have a good time."

Sheridan felt as if a hand squeezed the air from her lungs. "A ... goodtime?"

"A very good time," he murmured, his gaze promising delight. "Will you cometo my bedroom?"

Sheridan stifled the pain ripping its way through her in favor of anger.She would weep no more tears for this man.

He wanted no surprises? She'd barrage him with more than he could handle.

He'd prefer not to wake up every morning wondering if he took his life intohis hands by leaving his bed? She'd make him sorry he woke up at all.

He wanted staid rather than unpredictable? She'd give him a heaping pile ofunpredictable.

"Aye. I'll come to yer room."

His beautiful smile bespoke his ignorance of what life held in store forhim from that moment on.

"Meet me in ten minutes."

She halted him as he turned to leave. "I have something for ye."

Sheridan hurried over to her flower arrangement, making sure Nicholascouldn't see her hands as she quickly slipped on her gardening gloves, swipedup the pruning shears and cut a nice batch of monkshead for his bouquet Thenshe removed all the flowers from the vase and presented him with thearrangement, made especially for him and only him.

"These are for ye."

A slight frown marred his brow, as if a warning bell clanged. "That's verysweet of you."

" 'Tis the very least I could do, what with droppin' yer sweetheart'slovely arrangement."

"You know, I truly think you're sorry."

Sheridan smiled. "Ye'll never know how sorry." But he would soon enough."Smell them. 'Tis a special scent they carry."

Tentatively, Nicholas held the bouquet to his nose and Sheridan bit theinside of her mouth to keep from laughing with glee.

"Beautiful," he murmured. "Like you." Ignoring his empty flattery, shestood on tiptoe and whispered in his ear, "I hope every time ye look at theseflowers, ye'll think of me and remember this moment."

*Chapter Sixteen*

He would kill her.

The minute Sheridan walked through the front door, Nicholas planned to wraphis long, strong fingers around her silky, oh-so-easily-snapped neck and spinher head so fast it would travel back in time.

Damn, he itched!

Bloody wolfsbane.

The lesser of the two banes in his life at that moment Nicholas also had to contend with the deadlyIrish-Lass-Seeking-My-Imminent-Demise-and-Won't-Give-Up-Until-I'm-Dead bane,contracted when one came in contact with the slender, violet-eyed Sheridanflower, whose poisonous, prickly thorns were cleverly hidden beneathmagnificent petals.

Ever since she had plowed into his life, he'd been walking a tightrope inthe middle of a hurricane. He could have sworn just that morning he sawsomeone hanging a sign on his front door: Asylum for the Insane. Anyone whowalked into his house was instantly corrupted.

Nicholas himself was a prime example. He was beginning to relate to UncleFinny, glimpsing occasional lucidity in the man's eyes and a hint of pity,making Nicholas wonder if Sheridan's uncle was not so much mad as a Marchhare, but rather clever, his lunacy a ruse to protect himself from the femalesin his family.

A particularly vivid memory came to mind from a week earlier.

Birds chirping gaily. Sun shining brightly.

Female glaring menacingly. Shoe flying wildly. Reflexes reacting slowly.

Uncle Finny speaking rationally.

"Now there be a spoon ye'll sup sorrow with yet, boyo," he had remarked toNicholas, nodding his head at Sheridan's retreating form, her back ramrodstraight as she marched unevenly down the hallway, one foot minus the shoe shehad winged at Nicholas's head after he innocently suggested she wear her hairup instead of letting it dangle down her back like a wild woman.

His request had nothing to do with the fact that Sheridan's lush tressesswung enticingly over an equally lush derriere, thereby distracting him to thepoint of physical pain and drying his mouth to a pasty substance. Nothing atall.

Propriety dictated certain rules for women. Ever the gracious host,Nicholas felt it only right he should inform Sheridan of said rules.

"Oh, ye want me to put me hair up, now, do ye? Like the way Lady Jessicawears hers, perhaps?"

"Well, now that you mention it..."

Next thing Nicholas knew, Sheridan's not-so-dainty shoe whistled past hisear and hit his bedroom window with such force it cracked one of the panes.

Uncle Finny patted him on the shoulder. " "Tis a good thing ye're quick,lad. I've seen the girl take off an eat. Keep low, 'tis my advice," he said,shuffling away.

Nicholas grimaced at the memory and scratched hit itchy chest like a dogwith fleas.

"I hope every time ye look at these flowers, ye'll think of me and rememberthis moment," he mimicked Sheridan's last buckshot-filled words to him beforeshe had conveniently disappeared for the rest of the day.

When he had prodded Jules for information on Sheridan's whereabouts, hiscousin merely eyed the red, blotchy spots marring his skin and laughedhysterically. He stalked off.

At first, and foolishly, Nicholas believed Sheridan had put the wolfsbanein the bouquet accidentally. She had seemed rather amorous with him in thegarden after all, her kiss telling him she wanted him. And he had wanted her,by God, to the point he would have overlooked just about anything.

Even after the itching started and an hour had passed; with no sign ofSheridan, Nicholas continued to tell himself she was innocent, that she didn'trealize the harm the plant could cause.

Two things clarified his delusion.

Nothing Sheridan Delaney did was accidental.

Nothing Sheridan Delaney did was innocent.

Combine that with her conspicuous absence from his bed and from the house,and his conclusion was airtight Nicholas prowled his office, a room from whicha thousand indecisions had been launched, but where he made one very definitedecision that day.

Retreat and regroup.

He had met the enemy. And he was hers.

Holding her shoes in her hands, Sheridan tiptoed down the dimly lithallway, one sconce showing her the way. The night cloaked her in shadows--andthe shadows were a friend to a lass endeavoring to be clandestine.

She'd sneaked in the servant's entrance with Ian, who, having fallen ongood times as the recipient of fifty pounds of Nicholas's money for capturingScally, had shown her a most enjoyable evening.

Ian attempted to teach her a Scottish reel. She, in turn, demonstrated anIrish jig. They talked about their homes, their families, and their dreams.

Yet no matter how much fun they had, Nicholas's face overshadowed theevening, the way he had looked at her in the garden, the desire burning in hiseyes, his mouth upon hers, branding her as he had from the start Her body'sresponse had been immediate.

Sheridan realized with despair that the only way she might be able to putNicholas Sinclair from her mind-- and heart--was to return to Boston. A hollow sensation settled in the pit of her stomach at the thought.

And what about Jules? How could she think about leaving when Jules neededher? Sheridan couldn't desert her friend. That left her with only one choice.

Retreat and regroup.

She had met the enemy. And she was his.

Sheridan started as the ormolu clock chimed midnight Clutching the newelpost at the bottom of the steps, she took a deep breath to settle her suddenlyjangling nerves and headed up the stairs to her bedroom.

"Welcome home," a silky voice murmured, sounding none too welcoming.

Sheridan froze in mid step.

Dislodging her heart from her throat, she quickly counted the remainingstairs to the second floor landing wondering if she could outrun him.

Twenty-four steps. Why did the English have to live in houses with morethan one floor?

Glancing down at her skirt, Sheridan scowled, knowing the blasted thingwould hamper her escape. Tomorrow she would start wearing breeches.

Still, a Delaney never gave up without a fight. So Sheridan tested theboundaries of the anger she heard in Nicholas's voice and placed her foot onthe next tread.

"I can make it to the top of the stairs in less than foul seconds," hewarned. "I was a sprinter at Oxford." Figures.

Sheridan eased her other foot onto the step. "I also enjoyed wrestling."

That stopped her cold. Nicholas was the last person with whom she wanted towrestle. She'd capitulate at the first touch of his hands upon her body.

Chin up, shoulders back, feet leaden, she turned to faces the music--amournful tune eerily similar to a funeral-dirge, and she could well imaginewhose funeral it was.

"I could take ye in a heartbeat," she challenged instead! of retreating.

Then her eyes settled on his face--his handsome blotchy face. She prayedfor the strength not to laugh, pressing her twitching lips together tightly."So you think I look funny, do you?" Sheridan shook her head because to openher mouth I would inevitably mean mirth would pour forth. He grimaced andscratched behind his ear. That was all Sheridan needed to see. She doubled over with laughter.

"I'm ... ye're ..." She couldn't get any words out! between breaths. Everytime she made the mistake of glancing up at Nicholas, whose scowl deepenedwith every guffaw, she broke out in a fresh gale.

She sobered immediately when he grasped her wrist and began dragging hertoward his office. "W-what... what are ye doing?" she panicked, wishing shehadn't removed her shoes. In her stocking feet, she slid like a skater acrossthe floor.

Would he spank her again?

Or would he throttle her outright this time?

He yanked her in front of him as soon as they stepped over the threshold ofhis office. Sheridan twirled toward a leather settee and landed in a rather ignoble heap.

Nicholas slammed the door shut with a booted heel.

She was trapped.

"Join me in a drink, will you?" Before Sheridan could reply, Nicholasstrode toward the sideboard, his entire body rigid with anger. "Nothing like agood vendetta to give one a thirst."

He poured two glasses of straight whiskey and turned, a determined gleam inhis eyes as he stalked toward her. Sheridan had to fight the urge to dashbehind the settee to keep a barrier between them.

Then he was in front of her, pressing the glass into her hand. "Take it."

"I--I don't want it."

His look warned her farther protest would be futile, as well as potentiallydangerous. She took the glass, a fine tremor shaking her hands.

Piercing eyes studied her as she raised the drink to her lips. Sheridancouldn't take her gaze from Nicholas, regarding him over the rim of her glassas she took a sip of the fiery liquid. If he had been expecting her to chokeon the potent brew, he would have a long wait. Her uncle's undiluted poteenmade regular whiskey taste as mild as water.

"Satisfied?" she prodded defiantly.

"Satisfaction is one word I doubt I'll ever utter ill relation to you, mydear."