Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Thirteen

Kiss me, Kate willed silently.

Please. I’ve just laid my heart at your feet. Kiss me now, or I’ll die of disappointment.

She knew he was tempted. He stared at her mouth so intently, she could taste the softness and strength and heat of his lips. Her own jaw softened in response. She could see it so clearly, in her mind’s eye. Just how that kiss would go. She would be yielding and open, inviting him in. The boldness of his possession would shock and excite her. She would cling to him, and his big hands would roam every bit of her body. Their kiss would be frenzied at first, and then slow, sweet.

“Thorne.”

She caught his gaze. His pupils were so dilated, his eyes were almost entirely black. Even so, that thin orbit of blue was so intense, so piercing—she felt it inside her.

A sudden realization gave her a thrill. In her imagination, they were kissing. In his mind, they were doing something much more intimate. More animal, with far fewer clothes.

The thought enflamed her. Inexperienced as she was, she knew enough to sense her feminine power in the situation. He might say no to family and comfort and connection. But could he truly refuse this?

She leaned forward until her cheek met his. Just a simple press of skin to skin, and it was like nothing she’d ever felt.

“Is it . . .” She forced herself to ask, “Is it always like this? With your other women?”

He shook his head slowly. The scrape of his whiskers against her jaw—oh, it made her wild. But it wasn’t enough.

“No?” she prompted. She had to hear him say it. She had to hear him say something. His voice could stroke her, so very deep.

At last he gave her what she craved. “No.”

That dark, thrilling syllable whispered hot against her ear and sank into her very bones.

“Well?” she asked, breathily. “Shouldn’t we do something about it?

He groaned and shuddered, and she suspected he was mentally thumbing through a whole catalog of things he would like to do about it. Some sort of lovemaking drill book with all possible positions and maneuvers clearly defined. The precise contents would be a mystery to her—but she was ready and willing to learn.

Shameless, she tugged on his neck and pulled him forward until she could kiss his ear.

He sighed. “I can’t give you what you need.”

“Oh, I think you can.” She caught his earlobe in her teeth and worried it.

With a husky groan, he gave in. He dipped his head, and his strong lips brushed her pulse.

“You don’t see yourself,” he said. “When you’re around the Gramercys, it’s like a flame comes to life inside you.” He marched a column of kisses down her neck. “You don’t light up for me.”

She pressed her body to his. “I burn for you, Thorne. I’ve never felt this way. I never knew I wanted to feel this way.”

She pulled at his neckcloth, unknotting the fabric and tugging it free. She pressed a kiss to the dark notch at the base of his throat, then nuzzled there, inhaling the arousing musk of his skin. His raspy breathing gave her hope.

She was getting to him. Delving through the layers, uncovering the man beneath.

All those buttons of his coat must come next. She worked the top one loose with trembling fingers.

“You called me scared,” she said, “and I am frightened. But not the way you think. I’m terrified that I’ll part ways with you, and I’ll live my whole life without feeling this again.”

She chanced a look at him then, pleading with her eyes. Begging him to give in to her, to take control of this . . . just do something, before she was forced to rip open her bodice and say something truly embarrassing like, Make me a woman.

“It’s only desire you’re feeling.” His brow was heavy, disapproving. “Curiosity. If I give in to it, you’ll despise me afterward.”

“I could never despise you.”

“Yes, you could. You spent a full year doing just that.”

She cursed under her breath. He would have to point that out. “I was a fool. I didn’t know you. I didn’t know my own heart.”

His gaze sharpened. “What makes you think you know it now?”

“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “I don’t know. But this afternoon, Lark Gramercy came to me and offered everything I ever thought I wanted. A family. A home. Security, friendship, society. More wealth than I’d ever dreamed. And at that moment, I knew in my heart it still wouldn’t be enough. Either I’m the most greedy, ungrateful woman in England, or I’m . . .”

God, could it be true?

Her heart told her it must be. Nothing else made sense.

“Thorne, I think I’m falling in love with you.”

“Katie.” He took her face in his hands. Roughly, and with a possessive power that thrilled her. A brooding divot formed between his eyebrows. “Katie, you’re so—”

She wondered what delightfully misanthropic word he would choose this time. Wrongheaded? Foolish? Stubborn?

Kissable, apparently.

He gave up on words and claimed her mouth instead, kissing her with more passion and fire than she would have ever dared to hope. One of his hands slid down her back, coasting over silk and sweeping hot sensation all the way to the base of her spine. But he didn’t stop there. His touch dipped farther. He spread his fingers to cup her backside, then lifted and squeezed, pulling her pelvis flush against his. Pleasure sparkled through her veins. She moaned into his kiss and clutched his neck so hard, her fingernails would surely leave marks. He didn’t seem to mind.

He kissed her deeply, pushing her jaw wide and swallowing her desperate gasps of pleasure. She writhed against him, pressing close to feel the abundant evidence of his lust for her. The solid ridge of his arousal pulsed against her belly. She wanted to feel that heat where it belonged—against her sex. As they kissed, she twined one leg around his booted calf, grasping his shoulders to work herself higher . . . closer . . .

Drat.

Badger pulled them back from the brink of paradise. Some yards away, the puppy started barking like a creature possessed.

“Ignore the dog,” she murmured, tugging Thorne back to the kiss. Catching and sipping at his bottom lip. “He’s perfectly fine.”

“He’s fine,” he echoed. “It’s just another rat.”

“Yes.”

Yes.

His hand swept over her curves, lingering for a brief, delicious squeeze of her backside before dipping to caress her thigh. He gathered a large fistful of her skirt and tugged, drawing her body just as tight and close as she craved and exposing her ankles to the cooling afternoon air.

With one hand, he delved under her skirts and petticoats, encircling her thigh in his grip. The feel of his work-roughed palm against her stockinged leg inflamed her. And her desire only mounted as he swept his touch higher still. Over her ribbon garter, up the sensitive slope of her bare inner thigh, and . . .

There.

It amazed her, how easily he claimed her most intimate, untouched places, and how little timidity she felt. His fingertips traced the cleft of her sex, slipping easily over her aroused flesh.

“So wet,” he murmured.

The words shocked her. She wanted to hear more.

He stilled, resting his temple against hers. His breath stirred her hair as he traced her intimate flesh in slow, tantalizing strokes.

“For me?” he whispered. The vulnerable rasp in his voice undid her.

She kissed his jaw. “For you. Only you.”

He rewarded her boldness. Deftly parting her folds, he slipped one broad, callused fingertip inside.

A startled cry of joy escaped her.

“Hush,” he soothed. “Hush. I won’t take too much. Only let me ease you this once.” He nibbled lightly at her ear and neck, stroking deeper. “You’ll feel better afterward, see matters clearer. It will be enough.”

Enough?What foolishness. She’d never known such an exquisite blend of sensual relief and desperate hunger for more. He claimed her lips in a kiss, and their moans mingled as he cupped her sex in his clever, wicked hand. His tongue and his finger thrust in unison, moving deeper by gentle yet steady degrees. She gripped his shoulders, rocked by wave after wave of devious pleasure.

Yes. Oh, yes. She wanted this. Him inside her. The two of them, joined in every way. And it would never be enough. She would always crave more.

More.

His hand stilled.

Kate panted for breath. Was something wrong?

Apparently so. He withdrew his touch completely, letting her skirts fall loose to the ground, and Kate’s muddled senses finally gathered why.

It was Badger again. More barking. More dashing about. More ruining everything.

Drat, drat, drat.

With a muttered curse, Thorne turned to follow the dog with his eyes. “He’s got his sights on something.”

“Only a rat, surely.”

“Perhaps.”

The dog disappeared around a corner of the castle ruins, growling and snarling as he went.

“But perhaps not.” Thorne released her with a sigh of obvious regret. “It’s not like him to behave that way.”

That was it, then. The moment was gone.

Thorne strode off in pursuit. Resigned to it, Kate picked up her skirts and followed after both dog and man.

They rounded the corner of a crumbling sandstone wall.

Badger had his quarry cornered in a shadowy niche. The puppy stood at attention, growling at whatever it was he’d captured.

“I don’t see any rat,” Kate said, drawing nearer. “Perhaps it’s only a tiny vole?” She moved closer to investigate.

Thorne caught her by the arm, holding her back. “Don’t.”

Kate froze. When uttered in that tone, it wasn’t a command she could refuse.

Then she saw the reason for his sudden change in demeanor. It wasn’t a rat or a vole Badger had cornered, but a snake. A long, thick adder curling in on itself and weaving figure eights in the matted grass—less than a yard from her slippers. A thin tendril of tongue flickered out, and the snake’s hiss crawled down her spine.

The puppy—brave, foolish thing—stood his ground at her feet, still snarling and preparing to pounce.

She could see very easily what would happen. The snake was backed into a corner, and the creature no doubt knew—in whatever way snakes knew these things—its only chance of escape was to strike.

“Oh. He’ll be bitten.” Kate struggled against Thorne’s grip. “Badger, no. Come away from that horrid thing.”

She attempted to reach for him, but Thorne held her back.

“Shush,” he said firmly. “I’ll see to him. Just don’t move.”

He released her arm. Kate clenched her fists at her sides to keep still. Her fingernails bit into her palms.

Thorne planted his boots in the grassy turf. Then, moving with excruciating slowness, he stretched his right arm as he leaned forward, spreading his fingers wide. As he leaned, the full length of his hard thigh pressed against the back of her leg. She could feel the leashed power in his every small motion.

Just a little farther. A few inches more and he’d be able to snatch the puppy by the scruff, deliver him up and away.

Oh, hurry,she pleaded inwardly, even though she knew sudden movements would be disaster.

Thorne ceased moving altogether. His outstretched right arm went ramrod straight, and she could feel the energy tensing in his muscles. It made the hairs on her arm lift. Like quiet thunder rumbling through a cloud.

Then came the lightning strike.

With a powerful lunge forward, he reached out—

And grabbed the snake.

Five seconds and it was over. Once Thorne had the adder in hand, he doubled the length and snapped its spine. The writhing coil of green-sheathed muscle fell lifeless to the ground.

Badger kept right on barking.

Kate fell to her knees, scooping up the dog, clutching him to her chest and peppering his fur with kisses.

“Why did you do that?” she asked Thorne. “You might have just reached for Badger and pulled him out of harm’s way.”

Thorne shook his head. “That snake was going to strike when I did,” he said. “If I’d reached for the dog, those fangs would have found your ankle instead.”

Good Lord. He’d never had any intention of reaching for Badger. He just grabbed for the snake with his bare hand, rather than risk it biting her. How exceedingly reckless and stupidly brave.

“You shouldn’t have done that.”

Leaning against the stone wall, he turned his hand this way and that. “I reckoned I could weather it.”

Kate’s heart stalled. “What do you mean? Were you bitten?”

When he didn’t answer, she released Badger and scrambled to her feet.

“Let me look.” She reached for his wrist, and he did not fight her as she raised his big, roughened hand to the light for examination. “Oh, no.”

There they were. Two neat, round punctures just where the heel of his hand met his wrist. The area around the bite was already puffing with blood.

“We must go to your quarters. Do you have a medical kit? This needs to be treated, and quickly.”

“It’s only an adder bite.”

“Only? Only an adder bite?”

He shrugged. “Just a scratch.”

“A scratch infected with venom.” She pulled on his sleeve, tugging him back toward the castle keep.

“There’s a lot of me. It would take more than a few drops of poison to bring me down.”

Nevertheless, he walked with her to the corner of the keep that served as his personal quarters. As he nudged the door open with his left shoulder, she saw him misjudge his step and stumble against the door.

“Are you dizzy?”

“Just . . . a misstep.” But he stayed there, leaning against the door, his eyes unfocused. “Give me a minute.”

Absolutely not. At the rate his hand was swelling, she wouldn’t give him another second.

She found a stool beside the lone, small table and braced it against the turret’s interior stone wall.

“Sit down,” she ordered. He might be a big, intimidating infantry officer, accustomed to having men march, load, and fire at his command—but she would not be countermanded on this score. She grabbed his good arm and pulled with all her might.

Oof.He barely budged. Goodness, he was just an enormous lump of masculinity, all muscle and heavy boots. There was a lot of him, as he’d said.

“I’m well,” he protested.

“I’m worried. Humor me.”

Kate coaxed him to the stool and made sure he sat with his back well braced against the wall. Badger came to his heels, sniffing about his boots and making small whining noises.

Once Thorne was seated, she began tugging at his sleeve. “I’m sorry. We have to remove your coat.”

She began with the sleeve of his injured right arm, carefully drawing the red wool sheath down until he could pull his entire arm free. She eased a hand behind his shoulder to help him out of the sleeve. An involuntary tremor passed through his sculpted shoulder muscles—a whispered confession of the danger he faced, despite his impressive size and strength. Kate shivered in response.

While she propped his wounded wrist on the table for examination, he twisted his torso and shook the garment down his left arm. The red coat slid to the floor.

He gave the discarded coat a regretful look. She knew it must pain him to see the uniform crumpled on the ground. But he didn’t bend to retrieve it.

“Perhaps I’m not so well,” he said.

Her pounding pulse accelerated. If he admitted it, he must be very bad off indeed.

A serrated knife lay on the table. She reached for it.

“Be still,” she warned.

With clumsy swipes of the blade, she laid open the linen sleeve of his shirt, rending it all the way up to the elbow. Angry streaks of red blazed from the adder bite. She could follow those streaks halfway up his thick, muscled forearm, even through the covering of dark hair. She needed a tourniquet.

When she raised her head to ask Thorne where one might be, she saw that his face had gone pale. A thin sheen of perspiration covered his brow, and his breathing was uneven. She reached for his unknotted cravat and worked it loose with trembling fingers. He tilted his head back to assist her. As her fingers brushed the freshly shaven skin of his throat, she could see the pulse beating beneath his jaw, as though a butterfly were trapped under his skin.

His Adam’s apple bobbed. “You’re undressing me,” he said thickly.

“It can’t be helped.”

“Wasn’t complaining.”

Once she had the cravat free, she doubled the arm’s-length strip of fabric and wound it around his arm, just below the elbow. She took one end of the fabric and clenched it in her teeth, then pulled the other end with both hands. Her efforts wrenched a groan of pain from his throat. By the time the thing was in place, she was huffing for breath and sweating just as much as he was.

“Where is your medical kit?” she asked, already scanning the room for likely places.

He slid his gaze toward a battered wooden chest on a high shelf.

Kate hastened to the shelf and stretched up on her toes to retrieve the box.

When she turned back, she nearly dropped it. Thorne had the knife in his left hand. His sweat-covered brow was furrowed with concentration and he was pressing the serrated blade against the angry, swollen skin at his wrist.

“Oh, don’t—”

He grimaced and twisted the knife. A growl of pain forced through his clenched teeth, but his hand didn’t falter. Before she could reach his side, he’d turned the blade a quarter turn and slashed through the distended flesh again. Blood flowed freely from the crossed incisions.

He let the knife fall to the table and slumped back against the wall, breathing hard.

“Why’d you do that?” she asked, carrying the kit to the table.

“So you wouldn’t have to.”

Kate was thankful. She knew he’d done the right thing. Releasing the blood—and venom—from the swollen area was necessary, lest it travel to other parts of his body. But the sight of so much blood stunned her motionless for a moment. She had helped Susanna a time or two when she’d treated the villagers’ illnesses and injuries. But that was offering a bit of assistance to a skilled, competent healer. This was the two of them, alone with desperate measures.

He could die.

A wave of nausea passed through her. She rode the crest of it, then put a hand to her belly and willed herself to be calm.

Kate opened the chest and found a clean-looking length of gauze in the medical kit. She used it to dab blood from the seeping wound.

“Don’t bind it,” he said. “Not yet.”

She nodded. “I know. What do we do next?”

“You go back to the village. I either live or I don’t.”

The words were so absurd, she choked on a wild laugh. “Are you mad, Thorne? I’m not leaving you.”

She rifled through the bottles and jars in the medical kit, straining to read the faded labels. None of the contents looked familiar. “You said you own four books. I don’t suppose any are books of physic?”

He nodded toward a shelf. Kate dashed to it and found a well-thumbed military drill book, a Bible coated in dust, a bound collection of geographical magazines . . .

“Aha.” She seized on a large black volume and peered at the title. “Treatment of Ailments and Injuries in . . .” Her hope dwindled as she read the remainder aloud. “ . . . in Horses and Cattle? Thorne, this is a veterinary book.”

“I’ve been called a beast.” He closed his eyes.

Kate decided she didn’t have the time to be particular. She quickly paged through the book until she found the section on bites and stings. “Here we are. Adder bites. ‘The sting of the adder is rarely fatal.’ Well, that’s reassuring.”

Although she would have felt a great deal better had it read “the sting of the adder is never fatal.” To say adder bites were “rarely fatal” seemed to her the same as saying “adder bites are occasionally fatal,” and Thorne did pride himself on being an exception to ordinary conduct.

But there was a lot of him, she reminded herself. And all of it was young, healthy, and strong. Very strong.

There were several possible remedies suggested in the text.

She read aloud, “ ‘First, squeeze out the blood.’ We’ve done that, haven’t we? Good.” She made an impatient swipe at a lock of hair dangling in her face and continued. “ ‘Take a handful of the herb crosswort, some gentian and rue, boil together in a thin broth with Spanish pepper and some ends of broom, and when that is done, strain and boil with some white wine for about an . . .’ ” She growled. “About an hour?”

Drat. She didn’t have time to go scouting for a dozen different herbs, much less boil them for an hour. She didn’t even dare leave Thorne for the time it would take to run to the village for help.

She glanced at his face again. God, he was so pale. And his arm was entirely swollen now. Despite the tourniquet, those streaks of red had reached his elbow and beyond. His fingers were purple in some places.

“Do be calm,” she said, even as anxiety pitched her voice. “I’ve several more remedies to go through.”

She went back to the book. The next suggested remedy was to wash the affected area with salt and . . .

Urine.

Oh, good Lord. At least that substance was obtainable, but still. She couldn’t. She couldn’t possibly. Or perhaps she could, to preserve a man’s life. But she’d never be able to look at the preserved man again.

She sent up a fervent prayer that the third remedy would prove suitable to save both his life and their combined dignity. She read aloud with rapidity. “ ‘Lay a plaster to the area, with a salve made of calamint pounded with turpentine and yellow wax. And give the animal some infusion of calamint to drink, as a tea or mixed in milk.’ ”

Calamint. Calamint sounded perfect. If only she had some.

Kate went back to the medical kit and peered at all the contents of the bottles. She uncorked a vial stuffed with a dried herb that looked promising. When she held it to her nose and sniffed, she supposed it smelled as much like calamint as anything.

She looked around the room. There was a great deal to be done. Light a fire, boil water, melt wax, pound the salve, make a tea. And Thorne was tilting dangerously on that stool she’d given him. At any moment he’d topple the small pedestal table and crash to the floor.

She decided his wound had bled long enough. The extreme swelling had slowed the blood flow to an ooze, anyhow. She wrapped a bit of linen about his wrist as a loose bandage, then made her way to his good side.

“Up,” she directed, sliding her shoulder beneath his unbitten arm. “We’re going to take you to the bed.”

As she helped him to his feet, she could feel his eyes on her. His stare was heavy and intent.

“Am I causing you pain?” she asked.

“Always. Every time you’re near.”

She turned her face away to hide her wounded reaction. “I’m sorry.”

“Not what I meant.” He sounded drunk. With his healthy hand, he nudged her jaw until she faced him. “You’re too beautiful. It hurts.”

Wonderful. Now he was hallucinating.

Together, they shuffled toward his narrow bed. It was only a distance of a half-dozen feet, but it felt like miles. Her spine hunched under his formidable weight.

At last they reached the edge of the mattress. She managed to turn them so that when she removed her support, he sat down on the edge of the bed. Without much urging from her, he reclined onto his back.

There. That took care of head, shoulders, and torso. Now, to get his legs on the mattress, too.

“I feel strange,” he said dreamily. “Heavy.”

“You are heavy,” she muttered, straining to lift one of his massive boots from the floor and heave his leg onto the bed. Goodness, lifting him felt like lifting a statue carved of granite. Once she had the first leg in place, the second came easier. Badger leapt onto the bed and curled between his boots.

She leaned over him to place the pillow under his head.

“I can see down your bodice,” he remarked.

A thrill shot down her spine, leaving her body through the soles of her feet.

Really, Kate. This isn’t the time.

She laid the back of her hand to his forehead. Hot to the touch.

“You’re feverish. I need to strip the rest of your shirt, to cool your body and ease your breathing.”

She reached for the knife, wiped it clean of blood, and used it to make a notch in the neckline of his shirt. Then she grabbed both sides and ripped it straight down the front, pushing the halves to either side and working the remaining sleeve down his good arm.

When she’d bared his chest, she startled. He didn’t seem to notice her shock, and she wasn’t sure whether his insensibility was a fortunate thing or a very bad sign.

But since he didn’t notice . . . she openly stared. His chest was hard, sculpted muscle covered with tanned skin. She saw a liberal sprinkling of dark hair, a few healed scars . . .

And tattoos. Several tattoos.

Kate had heard of such things. She knew many sailors had patterns or pictures inked into their skin, but she’d never seen an example in person, to her recollection. Definitely not this close.

Not all of Thorne’s tattoos were patterns or pictures. There was an abstract design of some kind on his upper right chest, encircled by a medallion just smaller than her palm. On his shoulder was a tiny, crudely drawn flower—rather like a Tudor rose. A row of numbers marched up the underside of his left arm. And on the side of his rib cage, she found a pair of letters: B and C.

So primitive. So fascinating. She couldn’t help but lay her fingers to those letters and wonder what they meant. The initials of some former sweetheart, perhaps? She knew he’d had lovers, but the notion of Thorne with a sweetheart seemed absurd. Almost as absurd as the spike of jealousy twisting in her chest.

But when she touched his skin, the scalding heat reminded her of the larger task at hand. Keeping this immense, stubborn, tattooed man alive.

She tried to rise from the bed, but his good arm shot out to catch her. He still had some strength in him, apparently, and he used it to pull her close.

“What is it?” she asked.

“You smell so good.” His eyes were closed, and his voice was a low, rummy drawl. “Like clover.”

She swallowed. “I don’t even know what clover smells like.”

“Then you need a good roll in it.”

She laughed a little. If he was making jokes, he couldn’t be beyond hope.

Then his muscles seized and his eyes rolled back as he thrashed on the mattress. She put her hands to his chest and leaned all her weight on them, holding him to the bed.

He fell limp, panting. His hand found and tangled in her loosened hair. “Katie. I’m dying.”

“You’re not dying. Adder bites are rarely fatal. That’s what the book said. But I need to make you some salve, and a tea.”

He held her fast, forbidding her to move. “I’m dying. Stay with me.”

Desperation pressed on her, but Kate forcibly held it at bay. She reminded herself of what Susanna had once told her—big, strong men always made the worst, most infantile patients when forced to a sickbed. If they took sick with a cold, they moaned and complained as though they were at death’s door. Thorne was simply overreacting. She hoped.

She stroked a touch over his perspiring brow. “You’ll be fine. I’ll just go make you some—”

“You don’t know me.”

“I do. I know you far better than you give me credit for. I know you’re brave and good and—”

“No, you don’t know. You don’t recall me. But it’s best. When I first arrived, I worried. Feared you might place me. At times, I almost hoped you would. But it’s . . .” He drew a raspy breath. “It’s best this way.”

“What do you mean?” Kate’s every nerve jumped to attention. “It’s best what way?”

“You’ve done so well for yourself, Katie. If she could see you, she’d be . . . so proud . . .” His voice trailed off and he closed his eyes.

What did he just say?

She shook his arm. “Who? Who’d be proud?”

“Sing for me,” he whispered. “Your sweet voice will be the last thing I hear. I’ll carry a little echo of heaven with me, even when they drag me down to hell.”

She didn’t know what to make of any of his rambling. Perhaps he was simply delirious. That had to be the explanation.

“I have to pound the herbs,” she choked out. “There’s a salve you need, and then some tea.”

“Sing.” His grip on her hair went slack, and he pulled his fingers through her loosened curls. “Only not . . . not the garden. Not the blossoms so fair. Don’t sing that verse for me.”

She froze, stunned. “How do you know that song? When did you hear me sing it?”

“Always hated . . . hearing it from your lips.”

She searched her memory, trying to recall if she’d ever sung that verse in his presence. She didn’t think so. Even if she had, why would he hate it? “Have you been following me? Spying on me?”

He made no answer.

Well, Kate needed answers, and she was going to have them. She extricated herself from his grasp. “Lie still in that bed and let me make you some salve. We will talk about all this when you’ve recovered.”

“Katie, just sing to me. I’m dy—”

She grabbed him by the jaw and gave his head a brisk shake, forcing him to open his eyes. His pupils were so wide, there was almost no blue in them.

“You are not dying,” she told him. “Do you hear me, Thorne?”

“Aye.” His eyes slowly focused on her face. “But just in case . . .”

He pulled her mouth down to his, catching her in a kiss.

A wild, feverish, dangling-on-the-brink-of-death kiss.

He’d caught her unawares, lips parted. The result was a passionate, open-mouthed tangle of tongues and teeth. There was nothing tender in this kiss, nor even seductive. It was hot, possessive, fierce, and it held nothing back for tomorrow. As his tongue swept deep into her mouth, again and again, she could taste his hunger and desperation. His need resonated as a deep ache in her bones.

And she found herself answering. Out of pure instinct, she was kissing him back. Letting her tongue rub against his. With each slide of that sweet friction, desire spiraled through her. He moaned against her mouth and gripped her so tightly it hurt.

When the kiss broke apart, Kate was left reeling.

Which put her better off than Thorne, who slumped back onto the bed, unconscious.

“No. No.”

Frantic, she put a hand to his throat and felt for his pulse. It was there. Steady, if rather fast.

She had to act quickly. She rose from the bedside. From the table, she gathered up the vial of calamint.

Salve first. Tea, second. Prayers, third.

Extensive questioning later on.

As she took the tinderbox to the hearth, she spoke to him. “You are not going to die, do you understand me? I will not allow it. I am going to save your life if I have to barter with the devil for it.”

Whatever information Thorne was hiding, she’d be damned if she let him take it to his grave. She needed answers.

And she needed him.