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Her gaze was still drawn to him, when he turned abruptly. Caught off guard, Stormy’s eyes clashed with his.

“It will be a while before the room is warm. In the meantime, you need to get out of your wet clothes.” His comment was matter-of-fact and it irked her.

“I have nothing else to wear and I refuse to parade in front of you in my under-things.”

She felt the heat rise along her throat. Embarrassed, she tossed her damp hair in a dismissive gesture.

“Normally, I would not argue with you, madam, but I am responsible for your welfare and so you had better do as I say.”

She crossed her arms under her breasts, unwittingly drawing his gaze there and evoking the memory of that delicious sight from when he had cavalierly cut the buttons from her shirt with his saber. Well, hell, he hadn’t known there was a girl under there. Christ, the chit had a way of making him hot under the collar and uncomfortable to boot.

“I have never deferred to any man, nor will I ever.” Her voice held the cutting edge of her contempt. “You are not responsible for my welfare and I will leave here the minute this miserable rain stops.” She started to stalk toward the fire, but his hand shot out and he grabbed her arm.

He stared down at her, his gaze masked by the thick fringe of his lashes and inscrutable.

“Our rains last hours and sometimes days. So you might have a long wait. You either take off your wet clothes willingly, or I will remove them myself.”

Her eyes blazed a dark green. “How dare you? Unhand me this minute or you will regret it. I can take care of myself, I already told you.”

“I am sure you can,” he bit out, but his hand did not soften its grip on her arm. “But you are used to a different climate. When it rains in England, the temperatures drop drastically.

There are dry clothes in the adjoining room. They may not fit you, but at least you will be dry and won’t catch your death of cold.”

He propelled her toward a rough-hewn door, his manner that of a father ordering a recalcitrant child. She balked and stamped her foot, but she slinked into the room, fully aware that she would indeed catch cold, if she continued her childish resistance. In fact, she felt the chill bumps skittering up her arms already.

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She stopped and stared at the Spartan furnishings. The bed frame was fashioned of logs and covered with furs.

“What is this place?” She turned abruptly and collided with his solid chest. A frisson of unease skittered through her, brought on by his close proximity.

Holding a pewter candlestick high above his head, he shrugged. “It’s an old hunting lodge. My grandfather built it several decades ago. It lacks amenities, since it is supposed to be a stop-over for hunters, a meeting place of sorts to skin and dress the kill.”

He walked past her, trying to tamp down the awkwardness their collision had evoked in him. Her scent still lingered in his nostrils. Damn, this whole situation became more uncomfortable by the minute. She was a temptress close up, and her eyes could make a man forget his best intentions.

Merde, where had that come from? She was a child, a tempting one to be sure. She was the daughter of his friend’s brother, a colonial with a different outlook on life. A refreshing change compared to the prim ladies of the ton. A grin stole across his face, and he was glad he had his back to her, because it amused him that she exhibited the same spirit as his countrywomen. Yes, she could definitely pass for a French woman.

It irked him that he would bother to consider all these aspects. He wasn’t in the least attracted to her. He rolled his lips inward, when a small voice of reason niggled at his conscience. They would be forced to spend several hours alone. What if her father would not accept his assurance that there had been no other way and that nothing had happened between them?

He rubbed a hand over his face, trying to clear his mind. There was nothing he could do to change anything right now, and there was no use pondering over something before it transpired. With a grunt of disgust, he rummaged through a large chest in order to find something suitable for Stormy to wear. He finally held up a homespun shirt that tied at the neck, squinted at it in disgust before he tossed it at her.

“It’s the best I can do,” he said gruffly. “There are plenty of furs lying about you can wrap yourself in for more warmth.”

“What about you? You need to get out of your clothes worse than I do. You carried me and protected me from the worst of the storm. Your back has to be sodden to the skin.”

Sacré, he didn’t want her solicitude. He liked it better when her hackles were up. It made it easier to dislike her. He flicked her a look. “I’ll be okay. I am used to the weather hereabouts. But I will change into some dry clothing once you have changed out of yours.”

He walked out of the room and left her standing. Once the door shut behind him, Stormy lost no time to strip off her rain soaked gown. Shivering, she debated whether she should take off her wet under-things as well, but decided against it. It would be scandalous enough if she walked into the other room in the man’s shirt, even if it came down past her knees.

Hurrying, she pulled the shirt over her head and scampered back into the other room, where the fire now blazed and it had warmed considerably. And then she stopped short and sucked in a shocked breath.

André stood by the fire, bare to the waist, rubbing his hands to get warm. She knew better than to stare, but she couldn’t help herself. Heaven help her, but the man was even more magnificent stripped down. Wide shoulders tapered down to a slim waist and now that his breeches were wet, they did nothing to hide his manly assets.

He turned his head in her direction and saw the shock in her eyes. Scrubbing a hand across his flat stomach, he apologized for his state of undress. “I had no idea how long you STORMY HEIDE KATROS

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would take, Lady Michaella. Although I am inured to the English climate, I don’t often get soaked to the skin.” His mouth edged up in a deprecating smile she found endearing.

Less endearing were the flutters that smile evoked in the pit of her stomach. For lack of something witty to say, she inclined her head. “My friends call me Stormy. Michaella is my given name, but before I came to England, no one ever called me that. Would you please do me the honor of calling me Stormy?”

Of course, he’d heard her parents call her that. It was out of sheer desperation that he wanted to keep that small formality between them like a protective barrier. He stepped aside to allow her better access to the roaring fire and his breath caught. Christ, her wet underclothes had soaked the dry shirt. It clung to her curves in a most delectable display of her charms.

Somehow he managed a smile. “I would be pleased to call you Stormy, if you would stop calling me Monsieur Despard. André will quite suffice.” The moment the words were out, he wished he could undo them. It only added a dangerous dimension to the dilemma they were already facing.

Stormy edged closer to the roaring fire, shivering as she did so. “You had better change, André. I am cold, and I can only imagine how chilled you must feel.”

Muttering something, he threw her a fur blanket made of foxtails, before he sidled past her and hurried to the adjoining room. Once inside, he slammed the door harder than he intended and collapsed against the rough planks. Oh, bloody hell what had he gotten himself into? Either she was truly as innocent as she acted or she was setting him up for a hard fall.

Stormy huddled into the soft fur and scooted close to the fire. Gad, how long would it take before she ever felt warm again? She idly raked her fingers through her damp hair and was pleased that it wasn’t as wet as the rest of her had been. Staring into the flames, she wondered if there was any food in this inhospitable place. And as if on cue, her stomach growled.

At the sound of the door opening from the adjoining room, she turned her head. André stood in the doorway, dressed in dark riding breeches and a dark shirt, an oiled cloak slung over his arm. He scowled at her. “I won’t be but a few minutes. I need to check on Rebel.

Hopefully, your mount has made it back to Emerald Hills by now or that he was at least smart enough to find some shelter.”

She nodded. “I’ve thought about that. I just hope no one will send out a search party in this deluge. Have you any idea how long we’ll be forced to stay here?” It was a tentative question, one that was made with the awareness that she was at fault that they were in this predicament.

André’s sculpted mouth turned down in a show of impatience. “I should hope that no one at Emerald Hills is unduly worried, if only … eh, Sugarplum shows up.” He almost guffawed, because he’d only been a smidgen away from letting on that the horse’s name was Sugar and he had made up the rest to irk her. His voice turned cool. “I would also hope that they would trust me enough to see that you are safe.” He inhaled surreptitiously, thinking that a lamb might be safer in the company of a ravenous wolf. “You see, the problem with rain in England is that it often turns a perfect afternoon into treacherous darkness. It would be folly for anyone to come looking for us. The forest floors are slick with wet leaves and pine needles. We just have to wait it out.” With that parting shot, he turned abruptly and stalked out the door.

She tried to laugh it off, but in truth, she was concerned. Her parents would be worried over her safety. True, André came with Uncle Thomas’ approval, but being alone with a man certainly put her in a precarious position. No, she had nothing to fear from André. He’d not shown the slightest interest in her.

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Time dragged on. Where in god’s name was André keeping himself? There were no clocks in the hunting lodge, so she couldn’t even say for sure how much time had passed. She became more worried by the minute. What if he got hurt and she would have to spend the night alone? Her breath caught. The night? Good lord, she didn’t want to spend the night in this godforsaken place, much less with André.

Distressed, she got to her feet, tossed the fur blanket on the nearby settee and began to pace. No, she couldn’t stay here. She had to get back to Emerald Hills. At the sound of the front door opening, she swiveled around, her eyes wide with apprehension.

André started to shake the rain off the oiled cloak he had worn, when he caught sight of her, backlit by the fire behind her. He stood paralyzed, his mouth working silently, while his eyes widened with shock.

They both started to speak at the same time. Stormy babbled about the falling night and having to get home, while André tried his best to get through to her that she might as well stand there stark naked. Bloody hell, she didn’t have the slightest idea that the picture she presented played havoc with his libido. Vexed, he rubbed a large hand over his face. What more would the night demand of him?

He firmly closed the door behind him and exhaled on a troubled breath. “It’s coming down in buckets. There is no way we can leave in this downpour.” He came closer, his hands held out to the fire. “Rebel was waiting for me, when I came outside. I stabled him and rubbed him down. He will certainly be comfortable for the night.” Not like some of us, he thought with a sidelong glance at her scantily clad body. Bloody hell, he had better do something about that.

He snatched up the fur blanket and handed it to her. “You had better cover up. The temperature will drop drastically as the night progresses. Don’t want you to catch cold.”

Their fingertips touched and the simply contact sent a surge of heat through Stormy that robbed her momentarily of breath. Shaken, her eyes flew to his face. The firelight played across the planes of his handsome face and softened his features. But it was the way he regarded her through hooded eyes that made her realize that he had also been affected by their accidental touch.

Neither could have said later what happened right afterwards, but Stormy stepped into his embrace like a sleepwalker and offered her mouth for his kiss. André tried to salvage his sanity and push her away, but when her hardened nipples pressed into his chest, he was lost.

With a groan, he shoved his hands into her hair and drew her close. His mouth ravaged hers with a desperation he had never experienced before. She tasted of honey and innocence and he thought he would never get enough of her.

Stormy reveled in the feel of his lips molding hers. She had never been kissed quite this way. She wriggled closer, aware of the hardness of his body, the sense of danger surrounding them, and yet nothing had ever felt so comfortable and secure.

André’s hands roamed across her back as he deepened his kiss. He wanted her more than anything he’d ever wanted in life and he forgot all his good intentions to keep his distance. Hell, he was damned either way. Once he returned her home, he would be forced to marry her, because they’d been gone overnight.

Lust clouded his judgment as he helped her gently to the ground and laid her on the fur in front of the fire. The warmth enveloped them like a mantel and their kisses became more ardent.

“You are so beautiful,” André whispered and his hand stole under the hem of the shirt he’d loaned her. His fingers glided across velvet soft, bare flesh. Biting back a groan of desire, he shifted his body to accommodate the bulge of his manhood as it strained against the front of STORMY HEIDE KATROS

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his breeches. Not yet. They had all night and he had learned from the best in Paris how to charm a woman into giving herself without reserve.

Staring down at her, he studied every delicate curve of her face. She was unblemished, though by English standards it was unbefitting for a lady of quality to allow her skin to become sun-kissed. Actually, André found the slight hue of gold rather delectable. He bent to press a kiss to her throat, when her eyes flew open and she looked into his eyes for the first time at close range.