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“How was your meeting with Zepporah? Were you able to convince her to allow Thomas and Willie to marry?"
"Straight to the point, as always," Draegan answered dryly.
Seated primly at the rectory table, the candlelight casting burnished highlights on her wealth of auburn hair, Fallon raised her brow. "Pray, sir, what were you expecting?"
"That for once you might beat about the blasted bush," he said, "and ask me how my day was. That you might show the slightest concern for my wellbeing."
She replied with a patience Draegan found maddening. "Very well, then. How was your day?"
"Harrowing," he said flatly. "I barely managed to escape the wheelwright's home with my virtue still intact."
Her full red lips curved upward. "Draegan the Despoiler, the bane of all womankind? I was not aware that you had a scrap of virtue remaining after living your oh, so dissipated life."
Draegan frowned at her. "It's apparent that I spoke hastily the last time you were here, unwittingly providing you with ammunition to use against me. In the future I shall be more wary of what I tell you."
Her amber stare was disapproving. "You are far too wary as it is, sir. Now, do tell, was your visit to the Plums successful?”
He looked sharply at her. "I beg your pardon?"
Her lips, so luscious, so kissable, twitched with secret amusement. "Master Plum. Did your visit bring him solace in his sick-bed, as Cordelia had suggested?"
Draegan snorted. "Master Plum did indeed catch cold last week, but he was not abed at all. In fact, I found him seated at the dining table, surrounded by his family, and quite relieved that I had arrived in a timely fashion. It seems he has a strong aversion to cold potatoes, and was waiting dinner on me only at Cordelia's insistence."
Fallon grinned, which further annoyed her host. "Not only did she foist my presence upon her family with little notice in advance," Draegan continued, "but she lured me there under false pretenses, completely wasting my afternoon." He dragged an impatient hand through his hair, raking Fallon with his heated gaze. "Dammit, Fallon, this isn't the least bit amusing!"
"No," she conceded, hastening to hide her smile behind her upraised coffee cup. "I don't suppose it is, since you're the one who's been outmaneuvered. But I really don't understand your upset. You did say that you left the wheelwright's house with your virtue intact. Cordelia, therefore, did not succeed in bagging a prospective husband. At least not today."
"It is the fact that I allowed myself to be maneuvered by that young she-wolf that rankles the most," he admitted. "I do not like feeling trapped." Trapped and helpless ... like the night of the hanging, only to a far lesser extent. Draegan's smile was decidedly grim. The incident with Miss Plum was lesser, perhaps, yet it triggered the same rage, the same feeling of impotence, that he had hoped never to feel again.
None of this could he explain to Fallon. Fortunately, she did not press the matter, but seemed content to let it pass in lieu of other things. "What news have you for Willie?" she asked over the rim of her chipped porcelain coffee cup.
Draegan wandered restlessly to the hearth and stood, one fist thrust deep into his coat pocket. In the other, he clutched his near-empty cup. "Willie, it seems, is destined to be disappointed. Madam Rhys thinks her too young and too tender to wed. There is also the matter of young Master Thomas. For some reason known only to her, she doesn't approve of the lad, and so insists that they wait."
"I feared as much," Fallon said with a sigh and a doubtful shake of her head, "but I detest the thought of breaking the news to Willie. She wants this marriage so badly. She's bound to be heartbroken."
"She does not have to be," Draegan said darkly. "They can wed if they wish."
"Why, Draegan, what are you suggesting?"
"They can always elope. It's perfectly legal and an end to their means. They should have no difficulty finding a reputable minister to unite them in the eyes of God."
"But Zepporah!"
He shrugged, swirling the dregs of his coffee before tossing them on the fire. The liquid sizzled and steamed, and was quickly consumed by the greedy flames. "Zepporah thinks they should wait. But there is always the chance that they will wait for a tomorrow that never comes. Life comes with no guarantees, and neither Zepporah nor you nor I, nor even the great Lucien Deane, can say with absolute certainty that the sun will rise tomorrow. If Willie and Thomas abide by their parents' wishes, they may be squandering their one chance at happiness.''
She was frowning at him, heavily, as if seeing him for the first time. "Has the search for Sparrow hawk made you so pessimistic?" she asked. Her voice was so quiet, so sincerely concerned, that Draegan winced inwardly.
"Life,” he replied, staring fixedly into the flames, "has made me realistic, and before I say something to prompt a veritable flood of questions, perhaps we should change the subject."
"How very consistent," Fallon said, tapping one shapely finger against her creamy cheek. "The moment our discourse becomes personal, you hasten to turn the topic to something more to your liking, something safer.”
"Fallon—" he began, but she handily cut him off.
"Do not 'Fallon' me. This time it will not work. What deep, dark secret are you keeping? Have you a wife somewhere, whom you have cruelly deserted? A host of wives, perhaps?"
"I have never wed, and probably never will."
"Are you a thief, then? A wanton murderer?"
"Fallon, for the love of Christ. I did not bring you here so that you might badger me."
"If you would but cease closing yourself off from me each time I get the least bit close, there would be no reason for me to badger you!" She rose from her chair and stood, glaring at him, her palms braced on the surface of the table.
Draegan went to her and seized her wrists, lifting first one hand, pressing a kiss onto the knuckles of one, and then the other. "Why must you bedevil me so about something that truly doesn't matter, when we have other, more important things to discuss?"
"This is important—to me. I have given you my trust, and in return you have given me nothing. Not even your name."
He released her and, sighing, turned away. "The less you know of me, the better it will be."
Fallon followed him to the hearth, persistent as always. "Better for whom? For me, or for you?"
"For both of us! Now, leave be! I have enough to do, trying to pacify the villagers while playing the Right Reverend Mattais, watch the road and the passageway, and keep watch on your friend Captain Quill while I fend off Cordelia's unwelcome advances! Do not add to my already considerable aggravations."
She went still. "You are watching Randall?"
"As closely as I dare."
"Whatever for?"
"I have a good idea that he may be in league with Sparrowhawk."
"Randall." She laughed disbelievingly. "But he is the ranking officer of our local militia."
"And a traitor, it would seem. Apart from the militia, he is away a great deal, 'on business,' isn't that so?"
"Yes, I suppose that he is, now that you mention it."
"Has he ever indicated to you what manner of business venture he is involved in, or with whom?"
Fallon frowned. "Other than the dispatches he carries for Uncle Lucien, I really could not say."
"Dispatches?"
"Letters. To Master Trumbolt."
"Trumbolt," Draegan said.
"Joshua Trumbolt. He owns an estate some miles west of Albany, and is an old friend and colleague of Uncle's. For a number of years, they have enjoyed a vigorous correspondence."
"And you say that Randall carries these letters for Master Deane?" Draegan probed carefully. He was terribly aware of the need to keep his suspicions about Lucien's activities from Fallon. There was no telling how she would react if she were to discover that his investigation—the investigation in which she was now playing an active part—centered around her uncle.
Quite likely, she would refuse to believe him, refuse to listen, do her utmost to convince him that he was wrong. In addition, the possibility always existed that she would turn against him, betray him, in order to save her loved one.
The bonds of blood were stronger than the tenuous threads of their own newly forged alliance, and although he had long since given up the notion that she was somehow involved in the treasonous activities of Sparrowhawk, he still could not afford to trust her.
"Randall," she said. "It seems so ludicrous!"
Draegan's chest grew tight. "Why is it ludicrous, Fallon? Because in your heart you don't want to believe that Randall Quill is guilty of the wanton cruelty for which Sparrowhawk is noted, because you care for him more deeply than you are willing to admit?"
She bristled visibly at what he was implying. "I have known Randall half my life, much longer than I have known you! Of course I care about him, but not in the fashion you are implying. And though he is at times pompous and arrogant, I do not believe him the monster you seem eager to paint him."
The sidelong glance Draegan cast Fallon's way was dark and unreadable. "Perhaps you don't know him as well as you think."
"And you do know him," she said.
He looked away, toward the fire, and a muscle leaped convulsively in his lean cheek. "Well enough to know that he is not worthy of your concern or your friendship. He is a man without honor, lacking in compassion, capable of unspeakable acts—the worst sort of cruelty and injustice."
His voice was terrible in its softness. It chilled Fallon, and though she stood but a short distance from the blaze Jacob had kindled earlier, she shivered. "Cruelty and injustice that you have witnessed firsthand—is that what you are saying?"
"I am saying that he is suspect, and for safety7s sake, I would suggest that you endeavor to keep your distance from him."
She faced him squarely, her small chin thrust slightly forward. "That is an evasion, and not good enough. If you have cause to doubt Randall Quill, then I wish to hear what it is." Draegan looked at Fallon and then away, a fleeting glance filled with the bright light of a hatred so intense that it shocked and frightened Fallon. In less than an instant the light faded, the mask of impassivity slipped back into place, and once again he appeared cool and aloof.
Fallon was incensed. He was retreating from her again—closing himself away behind the impenetrable wall of secrecy that shielded him from the outside world, from her, from anyone who happened to venture too near.
Fallon reached out swiftly, grasping his arm, bringing him back to face her. "Draegan, no. Don't close yourself off from me. Don't turn away again."
"What do you want from me?"
"Only to understand you. To understand about Randall, about your suspicions."
"Liar," he said softly. "You want it all. My failings and my weaknesses, my past, my soul."
"I want the truth from you, and nothing more," Fallon countered. "Just an ounce of honesty. The smallest bit of trust."
" 'Just’ you say. 'The smallest bit.' You make it sound so easy, so trifling a matter." He shook his head and laughed low, a humorless sound. "You don't know what you are asking."
"Then explain it to me, and I will listen. We are partners, are we not? Dedicated and sworn to help each other. Partners share things, good and bad. And there is nothing so terrible that you cannot share it with me, if only you trust me." The hand that rested on his sleeve tightened slightly, to emphasize her point. "You can trust me, Draegan. I swear to you, I would never betray you to anyone."
He did not move. Indeed, he did not seem to breathe, yet Fallon had the strange impression that he had moved closer. He stared first at the hand that rested on his sleeve; then he slowly raised his gaze to her face, her lips. "Can I?" he asked, so softly, so achingly.
"With your life, if need be."
He lifted his free hand to toy with the short tendrils that had escaped her neat chignon and curled at her cheek. "You want my trust, my truth. You want to know why I detest Captain Quill. But what will you offer to me in return for all that I give you?"
"My unflinching loyalty. My all." She answered without thinking, without sensing the subtle changes in his voice during the course of their conversation. Yet when he covered her hand with his and closed the distance remaining between them, she realized her mistake.
His dark head dipped. He touched his carnal mouth to hers, briefly, teasingly. "All, Fallon," he breathed against her. "Your generosity of spirit is heartening."
"I only meant—" she began, breaking off when he stole yet another kiss. "I did not mean to—Draegan."
"Fallon," he replied, drawing her into his arms, holding her tightly to his lean, hard length. "How soft you are, how sweet. So delectably pure... Fallon."
He kissed her then, long and languorously, pressing her gradually, relentlessly back, over the arm that tightly encircled her waist, giving her no choice but to cling to him or fall.
Ruthless. He could be ruthless when it came to getting what he wanted.
Impossible. An impossible man to resist.
Fallon struggled hard to break free of the spell his nearness cast over her, but her efforts were slow and sluggish, halfhearted. She gripped the superfine of his coat in both fists for an instant while warring within herself, and then with an audible sigh her hands relaxed their grip, opening, sliding up and over his shoulders to tangle in the thick, dark silk of his hair.
"We're partners," he breathed against her parted lips. "There is nothing you cannot ask of me. Nothing I would not do to pleasure you. I promise you, my love, to give you my all."
His words, rich with hidden meaning, and his voice, so low and warm and hoarse with wanting, made Fallon quiver. "All," she said, echoing his former ploy. "You wish to pleasure me."
He was tracing the curve of Fallon's jaw with his tongue, doing the most delicious things to the lobe of her ear, but at her words he straightened. "Mmmm, yes... to unbearable heights of rapturous pleasure." He toyed with the lace that edged the neckline of her gown, tracing his fingers slowly down the bodice front. He flicked open the hooks as he went, smiling darkly down at her.
"You would do anything," Fallon said.
"Anything," he vowed passionately, bending to nuzzle the hollow beneath her ear, trailing his lips along the sensitive tendon running down the side of her throat.
Fallon gasped and arched her neck, instinctively giving him greater access. "Anything at all," she breathed. She heard him murmur an unintelligible reply, intent upon nibbling his way across her collarbone and down. His hold had slackened. Fallon quickly stepped back, watching as a questioning look crossed his patrician features. "Then pleasure me thoroughly, sir," she said, "with truth."
He took a determined step toward her; she held up both hands and stepped back, still out of reach. "I want you, Fallon," he murmured, "more than I can possibly convey to you with words, and that is the blatant truth."
"That's not the truth I'm talking about," she.
He looked at her narrowly. "This is no time for games, my lady."
"You're the one playing games, Draegan. I have never been more serious." Or more frightened, Fallon thought—not of Draegan, but of herself. Something in him drew her, and though she knew the dangers of her situation, his dark, seductive power was far too strong to resist. At that moment she was out of his arms and feeling stronger, more in control.
But that sense of control was misleading. One touch and she would weaken; a kiss and she was lost.
"You are seeking to strike yet another bargain," he said with a slight smile. "One more to my liking than the last. Perhaps, after all, we can parley."
Fallon moved back, placing the table between them. On the tabletop, a candle guttered in a pool of melted wax. "No bargains, sir. If I deal with you on the terms you are seeking, I might as well deal with the Devil."
"That's a trifle harsh, don't you think?" he said, coming slowly forward.
"In truth, I don't know what to think. Or what to believe. When you touch me, my will dissolves, and my inherent weakness makes me ill. I think of you when we're apart; I pray for your safety each night. I worry and I watch and I wait, until I'm convinced I must be going mad! When I try to work, I find that I can't concentrate. And all for a man I don't know, a shadowy figure without a name, devoid of truth or honesty! I cannot care for you! Letting you into my life would lead to my destruction. I will not allow myself to care!"
He looked at her for a long moment, a measuring look, and then, without a word, he wet his finger and thumb and reached out, snuffing the candle's flame, throwing the room into deep, concealing shadow.
It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the darkness, and in that moment Fallon held her breath, certain that he would reach for her. But he only sighed wearily and slipped off his black superfine coat, draping it over the back of a chair. "I was baptized Draegan Mattais in the Congregationalist Church at Albany thirty years ago, not far from my boyhood home in the Mohawk Valley. It is the same church over which my uncle Jonathan Akers now presides."
"The Mohawk Valley," Fallon said. "Not Connecticut?"
He raised one hand to his throat and tugged at the knotted ends of his stock. "Born in New London, reared in New York."
"Your education, the shop, and the surveying.... the Ida Lee."
"At the age of eighteen I became involved with a young woman of good family. The lady in question mentioned rather belatedly that she had a husband who happened to be away on business a great deal."
"Belatedly?" Fallon said.
"She informed me as he was striding up the front walk. Escape with dignity was impossible, and so I stood my ground, much to the dismay of the lady in question. The husband was understandably outraged. He named me a young rascal and called me out. But he proved a terrible hand with pistols."
"What happened to him?"
"My shot was true; nonetheless the story has a happy ending. I wounded the man in the shoulder, much to the outrage of his wife, who, suddenly stricken with overriding wifely concern for her husband, nursed him back to health. The old gent gave her several little ones shortly thereafter, and I daresay the lady in question hasn't strayed since." He unwound the neck cloth and, allowing the ends to trail, began to unbutton the fine linen shirt he wore. "Father was understandably displeased with my behavior when he learned of it, but Mother was livid. She packed me off to Harvard College with an earful of admonishments, and since New York City had become a rather warm environ for me, I went willingly enough. When I arrived, I discovered that she had arranged for me to study theology, in hopes that it would provide me with 'the solid moral foundation Father's neglect had failed to provide.' "
"A background in theology," Fallon said. "That would explain your convincing performance at the pulpit."
"Performance," he murmured. "Ever astute, ever forthright. I'm not sure why I am surprised at your ability to see through me. You always have, it seems." He took a deep breath and expelled it slowly, unfastening his cuffs. "I remained at Harvard for a time, as Mother intended. Looking back now, I am not sure just why. Perhaps it was my way of trying to mend the rift between us."
"And did you? Mend the rift?" He had captured Fallon's interest and, in some odd way, her empathy.
She watched with a rapt expression as he eased the tail of the linen shirt from his tight dark trousers, her appreciative gaze taking in the loose, flowing lines of the pale garment, the dark silhouette of his muscular body barely showing beneath.
"I was expelled from Harvard in my second year for scandalous behavior, and I wandered once again to New York City. My grandfather had passed on a few months before, leaving his shop to me, as I believe I have already mentioned."
"But the life of a shopkeeper did not suit," Fallon prompted, eager to know more of him, wanting, strangely, to know all.
"It was too dull to suit my tastes. I like excitement, danger, the thrill of living on the edge." He braced one hand on the tabletop, bringing the other one up to cup and caress her cheek. His touch was gentle and soothing, and Fallon had to struggle not to turn her face into his hand. "What about you, Fallon? Do you have a taste for adventure, excitement, and danger?"
A month earlier she could have answered truthfully that she felt no thirst for anything more than she already possessed: a comfortable life, a few good friends, a purpose. And then Draegan had entered her life, and everything had changed. Her reply, however, was more cautious. "I admit, I enjoy a bit of intrigue, but in small doses, and not without a certain amount of restraint. To immerse oneself in the 'thrill of living on the edge' is foolhardy, and could very well lead to ruin."
He smiled his devil's smile. "Some of life's greatest rewards are reaped by throwing caution to the wind."
"Spoken like a man," Fallon said. "Abandoning caution is a luxury a woman cannot afford, and should not consider unless she is prepared to rue her lapse on the morrow."
"But what if tomorrow never comes? What if you let the moment slip by you for caution's sake, and find yourself robbed of your one chance at happiness? Would you not rue that loss for the rest of your days, and wish that once, just once, you'd laid aside your logic and given your heart free reign?"
His reasoning was self-serving, Fallon thought, yet in some terrifying way it also made perfect sense. "We have strayed far afield from our original course. I believe we were discussing your jaded past."
"There is little left to tell. I surveyed along the shores of Lake Oneida until the mosquitoes had sucked me dry, then signed on board my brother Clayton's ship, the Ida Lee."
"What happened after?"
"Fallon." He was impatient now. "Why dwell on the past, when the present provides so many intriguing possibilities?"
Fallon opened her mouth to speak, and he hastened to place his fingertips over her lips, effectively stilling her protests.
"You know me better than anyone, more intimately, I think at times, than I know myself." Lifting her hand, he kissed her fingertips, then slowly drew her hand toward him, pressing it to his naked breast. Fallon felt a sudden shocking surge of warmth wash over her, felt the heavy thud of his heart against her palm. "Do not look to my wasted youth, Fallon, but to what's here." Holding her hand tightly to his breast, he moved around the table, halting when he came to stand before her. "The past is done, finished. I cannot change what I have been."
Fallon leaned toward him, then caught herself and tried to pull away, seizing the first thought that leaped to mind. "I much prefer the light," she said, reaching for the taper with the hand he did not hold.
"And I prefer the darkness," he said softly, drawing her to him once again. "The time for talk is past. Come to me, Fallon. Give yourself fully to our union, partake of my experience, permit me to pay homage to your beauty—your purity and innocence. It is what I want above all things, and you cannot in truth deny that the time is right."
Fallon would have sought to deny it, with her last breath if need be, had the sensuous slide of his mouth on her throat not stolen the breath from her body, driving her will so far from her that it could not be summoned back.
Her heart fluttering wildly in her breast, she watched him part the bodice of her gown and tug it off her shoulders, until only her chemise remained. The thin lawn proved a fragile barrier at best against his scorching gaze.
"So lovely," he said, "so perfect, soft, and sweet." He peeled away the sheer chemise, baring her breasts. In the next instant his dark head dipped, and he kissed the tawny coral bud that capped her breast, caught it gently in his teeth to worry it with love.
Fallon gasped and slid her hands into his hair, wordlessly urging him closer, urging him on. Sensation, as old as time and as new as each moment, instinctive and amazing, shot through her vitals sang along her nerves to pool, white hot and molten, deep in her belly.
He suckled her breast, gentle and insistent. The flames that scorched her flesh leaped higher.
Fallon closed her eyes against the brilliant warmth as he drew her slowly, relentlessly down. The memory of that night at the garden gate weeks before and the scandalous thoughts Draegan's kiss had conjured up drifted through Fallon's mind— forbidden thoughts of lying in his arms unclothed, of basking in his animal heat....
Skin on silken skin. Beguiling blessed heat. She ached to touch him, hungered to feel the sensuous slide of his skin beneath her questing fingers.
Her surrender to impulse was swift and unbelievably sweet. She uttered a soft groan low in her throat, then restlessly shifted beneath him. Casting aside her inhibitions, she slid her hands beneath the open front of his shirt and pushed the garment down.
His skin was smooth and flawless, like heavy satin beneath her fingertips, his shoulders broad, his torso lean but well-muscled. Straining upward, Fallon briefly pressed her parted lips to his. Then she teased the slight indentation below his sensuous lower lip with the tip of her tongue, nibbling delicately at his chin. He would need to shave, come morning, she thought, and she wished with a pang that she could have been there to observe him in that simple, human act.
Down her playful kisses crept, slanting across his cheek to his jaw, to the hollow beneath, and down again, across the column of his throat.
Draegan closed his eyes, waiting for her to grow still, to awaken from her impassioned state, to recoil. He wondered how he would bear the loss if she left him then, like that, so abject in his longing, so desperately in need of the one thing only she could give.
Never in his life had he known such sweet, unspoiled innocence, such truthfulness, such innate goodness as Fallon's. Fallon, who was the antithesis of everything for which he had always stood. Ironically, she was the one woman who had made him wish that he could change his hedonistic, self-serving ways and settle into a life of dignity, honor, and forthrightness.
And perhaps he could have.
If it were not for Randall Quill, Lucien Deane, and the empty grave in the churchyard that lay between them...
His moment of truth came quickly. He held his breath. If she noticed the scar, she would question him, force him from the shadows, badger him into telling the truth, and he would lose his one chance at redemption. He could not explain about Randall without telling her of that night, of Sparrowhawk and a noose swaying in the storm wind from the sturdy limb of the sentinel maple.
If she pressed him that far, the fact that he had come to the Catskills to ruin and kill Lucien Deane might come out as well, and he would lose his precious, bookish, virginal Fallon. Fallon, who had been sheltered from the sordidness and debauchery of his world, the callousness and cruelty. Fallon, who had come to mean so much to him.
Draegan waited and feared her reaction, praying that the darkness would not fail him, that the shadows would keep his secrets a little while longer, until he could think of a way to have his reckoning with Sparrowhawk and Captain Quill—and to have Fallon too.
She kissed the thick pad of scarred flesh that ringed his throat and after an instant's thoughtful hesitation moved on to his chest, where she toyed with his nipples in exactly the fashion he had toyed with and teased hers to life.
The immediate danger had passed. Relief surged through him. He drew a ragged breath and bent closer to her, slipping a questing hand under her skirts to explore the length of her stockinged calf, the silken skin of her inner thigh, moving cautiously, steadily upward, to the downy curls that crowned her womanhood.
Fallon felt the heat of his hand as he claimed her most secret self and was filled with a mild alarm. She knew she should have stopped him. She should have stayed his shocking advances, prevented him from progressing further, before irreparable harm was done.
And she would, she assured herself, very soon.
A moment or two was all she required, a small space of time to define the delicious tingling sensation that centered at the point of Draegan's magic touch, radiating outward, a moment to gather her flagging will and push away from his warm embrace. A moment, she thought, or perhaps two, and she would feel stronger, more able to resist him.
Yet somehow that moment never came.
The wondrous sensations Draegan evoked with practiced hands and carnal kisses grew ever stronger; her will to leave his arms grew weak. The struggle between what she knew was right and what she wanted was mercifully brief. With a softly uttered sigh, she surrendered to him, to the sea of passion threatening to engulf her, and slowly sank beneath the scarlet waves of physical bliss.
Draegan watched as her expression grew taut and sensed her time was near. He pushed back slightly, just enough to loosen his belt and breeches.
He would take her at that moment, claim her as his own, right there on the comfortless floor of the rectory kitchen, and there was no one and nothing to stand in his way, not even Fallon, his tumbled virgin—the virtuous miss he had longed for since his return to the valley and who now lay pliant beneath him, ready and eager to please.
With his hand at his belt, Draegan hesitated, suddenly aware of their surroundings, of Fallon, laid out like a sacrifice to the fiery lust that raged in his loins. He closed his eyes and groaned as his conscience reared its ugly head and smote him hard.
God help him. This was no simple tavern wench to be tumbled at his leisure, no bored but beautiful matron seeking a temporary diversion from her mundane existence.
This was Fallon Margaret Deane, a virtuous, honest, forthright young woman of good family, who stood to lose a great deal at his hands in the coming weeks. And she deserved more than to have her virgin's stain adorning the rectory floor, more, unquestionably, than he could ever give her.
Cursing softly, Draegan closed his eyes, burying his face in the soft, fragrant mounds of her breasts. He would hate himself come the morrow, he knew, when he awoke sweating and stiff as a pikestaff after another dream of her.
He gave a dark chuckle, aimed at himself. Who the hell was he trying to kid? He hated himself already.
"Draegan," Fallon murmured softly, sweetly. "Oh, Draegan, please."
"Ssshhh," he said, pressing a kiss to her trembling breasts and moving downward. He kissed the curve of her ribs, the wonderful womanly dip of her waist, her soft belly ... and when at last he reached the downy curls that capped her womanhood, he raised her shapely legs and draped them over his shoulders. Then, with practiced ease, he cupped her lovely rounded derriere in the palms of his hands and brought her to his mouth, worshiping her woman's flesh, not pausing until her rapturous cries rang sweetly in his ears, echoing in his lightless soul....