"Like a babe wants its mother's milk." She handed him the flask. He gazedat it as if God had just told him he was getting a second chance. He salutedher. "Cheers."

The first mouthful hit Nicholas like a gale wind off a polar ice cap. Hadhe been standing, it would have laid him flat on his back. As the liquorcoursed down his throat, it sucked him along, spun him around, and spit himout. Beneath his closed eyelids, his orbs rotated in their sockets. The stuffwas bottled lightning.

"Better?" she asked.

He pried open an eyelid and choked out, "Much." And oddly enough, his painwas receding. He took another swallow, coaxing the liquid down hisstill-burning gullet. His nerve endings sang a happy song.

Sighing, he rolled onto his side, his early discomfort becoming an amusingtickle. "So you're Irish," he said offhandedly.

She stiffened, clearly telling him the liquor had not bestowed upon him agolden tongue.

"There's no need for bristling, my girl. I was merely making conversation."

Her chin notched upward, showcasing that stubborn jaw. "I'm not bristlin'."

He pretended to pluck something from his backside and hold it out to her."Here, this belongs to you. It's one of your bristles. My hide is covered withthem."

She folded her arms across her chest and leveled him with a look. " 'Tis conversation ye're wantin', then? Well, let me point out to ye that ye'reEnglish."

"No, I'm not," he replied, beginning to slur his words as the liquor in hismouth lassoed his tongue. "I was stolen by gypsies and sold to the English.Certainly you can't hold that against me?"

She riveted him with a glare worthy of any schoolmarm attending to anunruly student. She was a tough nut to crack, this one.

He sighed. "All right. So I'm English. What does that mean?" He tookanother healthy dose of the firewater in the flask. "Other than the fact thatI crave scones heaped with clotted cream and tea instead of that despicablecoffee Americans are so found of." He made a face. "Tastes like boiled dirt."

"Some say it means we should be enemies," she replied coolly, her defiantgaze never wavering.

Thought-provoking rebuttal, Nicholas mused, yet war was clearly impossible.His white flag was already raised. "Well, we can't be enemies. We are twosouls entwined, remember?" He winked and took another belt. "Why are youlooking at me like that?" And why was she suddenly so far away ... and a bithazy?

"Because I'm thinkin' the liquor is goin' to yer head. 'Tis clear ye're nota drinkin' man to be affected by such a weak liquid as that."

Weak? What did they drink in her country? Lava?

He shrugged, too languid to argue. "I'm not a fighter or a drinker."Although, in truth, he was both. "Do you like men who fight and drink?"

"I never gave it much thought, although it seems that all the men I knowfight and drink. 'Tis part of who they are."

Nicholas didn't hear her last few words. Instead he concentrated on the first part. "So you know a lot of men, do you?"

"Aye." No hesitation. A bitter pill settled in his stomach.

He put the flask to his lips and sucked down the remaining contents. Theliquor possessed his body and stirred his brain into soup, his last cohesivethought being that his elf was a jade.

"You're very pretty."

Sheridan shifted in her chair at the drowsy-lidded look he gave her. Nomatter what his state, drunk or sober, he made her heart beat to an odd rhythmthat left her breathless.

"Surely, and ye have kissed the Blarney stone to have been gifted with sucha glib tongue."

Like a dangerously beckoning snake, his tongue slid out of his mouth,poised between strong, white teeth-- taunting, tempting her as the serpent hadtempted Eve. Sheridan knew an unspeakable need to wrap her lips around it.

With intoxicating slowness, he drew the serpent back into its lair. "Ispeak only the truth. Your beauty beggars my ability to describe it. Do youhave a name, my druid maiden?"

For a moment, Sheridan forgot what it was. His mere presence sucked awaylogical thought. "Danny," she finally managed.

A reckless half grin brought a dimple to his cheek. "Danny," he tested thename. "Unusual. Like you."

A jolt of realization rocked Sheridan, a startling truth she hadconsciously denied: She was no match for this man, and she had always believedno man was a match for her.

She always knew what to do when it came to males with lustful intentions.Either a few well-phrased words put them promptly back in their place or aknee in the groin did the trick for the more hardheaded ones.

Yet something told her no amount of words would deter this handsome devil,and a knee in the groin, should she even get that far, would backfire. The mandefined irresistible.

She had to get out.

Rising abruptly, she stammered, "I--I must go."

He reached out and grabbed her hand. "Don't ... please."

She trembled as his thumb swept back and forth over the top of her hand. "Ihave to," she replied, cursing her lack of insistence.

He frowned, looking as if he searched for words. "That crewman who accostedyou might still be out there. Stay here. I'll protect you." He scooted over,his eyes moving from her to the space beside him on the bed.

Sheridan could imagine the kind of protection he offered. Worse, he wasdrunk. The man certainly didn't possess a cast-iron stomach to have beenaffected so significantly.

Curiously, she plucked the flask from his loose grip and held it to hernose. She took a sniff and groaned inwardly. Sweet lord in heaven, it wasn'twine in the flask but her uncle's special blend of whiskey, strong enough torevive a corpse--or turn the unsuspecting into one. Her uncle must havediscovered her duplicity, tossed the wine, and replaced it with whiskeywithout her being the wiser.

And her dark angel, a man unused to its potent effects, had finished offthe remaining contents.

Oh, what had she done? She couldn't leave him like this. He would bedefenseless in his condition. But certainly he wouldn't get into any trouble,would he? No, he would sleep. Yet when Sheridan searched his face one thoughtcame to mind: This man loved trouble.

He tugged on her hand, making her decision for her.

She went to sit down in the chair, but he pulled her toward the bed. "Idon't feel so good," he murmured.

Heaven help her, he looked good, she thought, promptly berating herself for doing so.

"Lie beside me," he sweetly begged, his hair mussed, a lost little boy in abig boy's body.

Alarm bells clanged in Sheridan's head. Only peril could come from lyingnext to him. But as was the case with her, whenever something forbiddenpresented itself, she felt compelled to reach out and take it with both hands.Her mother often told her she was three-fourths daring and one-fourth regret.

Silently praying for forgiveness to both the Lord and her mother, Sheridaneased down onto the bed, telling herself she merely did so to lull her darkangel into sleep, that her actions had absolutely nothing to do with wantingto know what it was like to lie close to a man, to feel the heat from hisbody, to breathe in the scent of him.

But not every man. Just this one.

"Comfy?" he murmured in her ear, his warm breath fanning across her cheek,causing goose bumps to prickle her flesh and a large knot to form in herstomach. "You're trembling." He took her hand. "Are you cold?"

Hot and cold, she almost replied, but he rolled to his side, wedging hisbody against hers. Words lodged in her throat. His blue-black hair tumbledacross his brow as he levered himself up on his elbow, his smoldering greeneyes memorizing her face. Her gaze strayed to his lips, wanting to feel thempressed against hers once more.

"I--I'm fine," she lied.

"But I'm not," he said in a husky rasp. "I think I'm dying."

" 'Tis only the poteen in yer blood. 'Twill go away. I promise."

He took her hand and pressed it against his chest. His flesh was warm andsmooth and oh-so-solid. His heart beat fiercely against her palm as she slowlyelevated her gaze to his. What she saw pierced her all the way to her soul.

"Save me, Irish," he murmured as his head bent toward her. "Only you can."

Blood raced through Sheridan's veins as his lips feathered across hers,every nerve ending alive and on fire. The part of her that had knelt countlesstimes before the cross, hearing the sharp bark of the priest warning of theevils of the flesh, the shame and guilt any good Catholic girl should feelthinking such thoughts as she was just then--and had been thinking from thefirst moment she had laid eyes on her green-eyed sassenach--began to floataway on the wings of a dove.

"I'm a good girl," she whispered against his mouth, tasting him, honey andsensual heat, learning his texture, needing no alcohol to be intoxicated byhis raw physical presence.

"I know," he whispered back, his tongue outlining her lips before dippinginside to duel with hers, his big body pressing her down, encompassing all hersenses ... surpassing all her dreams.

The mysterious man in her dreams now had a face.

And in her heart, Sheridan knew this was the man she was destined to marry.

*Chapter Five*

Her name on his lips became the sweetest benediction against her cheek, anerotic exhalation in her ear, a building tempest along the contour of her jaw,and divinity as his mouth claimed hers with seamless ease--dissolving thought,annihilating will.

Destiny.

"One look and ye'll know, child," her grandmother had told her long ago."The soul 'tis a wondrous thing to recognize what the eyes cannot."

Certainly her dark angel had to be her other half, for never had Sheridanexperienced such a need to become one with a man. To be touched. To be loved.

He lifted his head and gazed down at her. Something in him called to her ina deep, indefinable way. Those emerald eyes, the exact color of the lush grassthat covered the hills around her family's cottage in Tralee, seemed to be asign from above.

His desire surrounded her, raising her temperature to match his own as his arm coiled about her waist and he rolled her on top of him. He sank his handdeep into her hair as his tongue traced a path down her throat, where hismouth resumed its magic, gently drawing in the flesh at the base of her neck.Hazy pleasure thickened her blood and made her squirm, aching to touch, totaste, to explore as he did.

He groaned and sat her up. His shirt had worked its way free, laying himbare before her eyes. His hard, sun-bronzed skin begged for her touch. Sheinhaled deeply and placed her palms against the muscled expanse of his chest,her fingers testing his flesh, smoothing over the contours that made male andfemale bodies so very different. She wanted to taste him.

Instinct guided her as she leaned over and tasted the intriguing darknipple that fascinated her, using her tongue as he had used his, trailing,circling, sucking. A rumbling of pleasure emanated from deep within his chest.

"Too damned good," he murmured in a raspy voice. He grasped her upper armsand sat her up again. "My turn."

He lifted shaky hands to the top button of her blouse, fumbling withendearing nervousness. Sheridan took his hands in hers and placed them at hissides, fear and excitement warring inside her. She wasn't so naive she didn'tknow what he wanted.

Her thirst for new experiences and knowledge had made her interested in thelure of the male physique and the relationship between men and women. Shehadn't learned much, but she knew more than most virgins, mainly because shehad befriended a girl who danced in the burlesque show at Cohan's saloon.

Many a night, Sheridan had surreptitiously watched the goings on betweenPaddy's girl and his patrons through the balusters on the second floor, an oddstirring settling in the pit of her belly. But nothing had ever come close tosetting off the maelstrom of sensations her dark angel made her feel.

Her fingers trembled like leaves in a high wind, hesitating on the lastbutton of her blouse, a small voice of reason warning her to stop before itwas too late, that she should be ashamed of her actions. But this was meant tobe.

He placed his hands over hers and together they undid the last button. Thematerial of her blouse, though soft, felt like the coarsest linen as it gentlyslipped from her shoulders. Only her thin chemise covered her torso, but theway his gaze devoured her scorched a hot path down Sheridan's neck and overher chest.

Slowly, her hands rose to the white ribbon at the top of her chemise. Shetugged one end, then the other. The material parted, her straps falling offher shoulders.

His throat worked, his green eyes appearing almost black as she let thematerial shimmy down her skin, halting at the distended peaks of her breasts.

Sheridan shook slightly and the material fell away, puddling at her waist,baring herself to him as she had to no other man.

She peeked at him to gauge his reaction. He was staring. Her breasts grewheavy and full, her nipples hardening painfully under his intense scrutiny.

Feeling as if she'd been too bold or that perhaps he was disappointed tofind she did not have small, perky breasts like other women, Sheridaninstinctively folded her arms across her chest.

"Don't." He took her wrists and placed her arms at her sides. Reverently,he cupped her breast. "Exquisite," he murmured, dragging her forward, herbreasts dangling in front of his face.

A jolt pierced her when the tip of his tongue flicked her nipple. When hetook the nub into his mouth and gently suckled while his hand toyed with herother aching peak, Sheridan thought she would die.

He rifted his hips. She felt the thickened ridge of his manhood through thematerial of her skirt. He rocked gently at the juncture of her thighs, causinghot, damp heat and burning need to center there. She heard a moan and realizedit came from her own throat Sheridan moved off him and scooted to the side of the bed. He reached for her, the need in his eyes sluicing through her.Sheridan warred with her inner demon, the voice that told her it was not too late. She could still leave.

She slipped off the bed and stood up, standing half naked before hisdevouring gaze. Her heart thumped wildly, the ache that his mouth and handshad created not abating but growing stronger the more he watched her.

Closing her eyes, Sheridan took a deep breath and undid the buttons at theback of her skirt. The material slipped soundlessly to the floor. Her chemiseand pantalets followed.

Slowly, she opened her eyes. Never had she been naked before a man. Neverhad she wanted to be. Until now.

"Beautiful," he murmured, leaning up on his elbow and reaching his otherarm out for her.

Trembling, Sheridan placed her hand within his warm grasp. He pulled herforward, startling her when he leaned toward her and kissed her hipbone, histongue tracing her tattoo. The gesture was so reverent, so sweet, that itshook Sheridan to the core.

Then he began to feather kisses downward and Sheridan nearly jumped out ofher skin when his mouth drew closer to the nest of curls at the apex of herthighs.

"Nay," she protested, covering herself with her hands.

"Ssh," her dark angel murmured, nudging her hands away. "Let me love you."

Had her knees not been braced against the edge of the bed, Sheridan wouldhave melted to the floor at the first touch of his tongue on her sex.

He cupped her buttocks, holding her firm as his tongue flicked over theheated pearl inside, teasing, moving slowly and then quicker, circling andthen drawing the nub between his lips. She cried out at the erotic torture,the new and amazing sensations rocking her.

He wrapped his arms around her waist, his muscles bunching as he drew herdown onto the bed. Sheridan felt liquid and on fire.

His mouth plundered hers as he rolled her onto her back. Sheridan's breathlocked in her throat as he rose above her, his shoulder-length hair tumblingabout his face in sensual disarray. She memorized every detail, storing itaway to cherish for the rest of her life.

He moved on top of her, chest to chest, hip to hip, the weight of him a joyto savor.

"You make me wild," he murmured before taking her earlobe between his lips,settling himself firmly between her legs.