Chapter 16

Draegan's ramblings continued intermittently throughout the night, disjointed and often confusing, drawing Fallon down torturous paths, deeper and deeper into the vast wasteland of his past. Dutifully, she followed where he led, mop­ping his fevered brow, seeking to soothe him when he grew restless in the company of the voluptuous beauties he'd methodically wooed and betrayed and he called out Fallon's name....

During those first hours, in the blackest part of night, the man she now discovered was Major Draegan Mattais Youngblood poured out the se­crets he'd previously withheld from her. Fallon—once so avid to learn his secrets—tried not to listen, but it quickly proved an impossible task. The things he said were at times difficult to hear, yet she didn't leave his bedside for a moment or falter in her task.

Rebel hero or heartless roue, saint or sinner—the fact remained that Draegan needed her. Weeks ear­lier she would have spurned him for the truths she learned that night; but their relationship had gone too far for that.  She had invested more in him than simple hopes and girlhood dreams.

She had invested her heart, and having done so, she could not now withdraw it; she could only hope that he wouldn't cast it carelessly aside, as he had done to all the others who'd gone before her.

The sky outside the bedchamber window grad­ually lightened. Dawn was not far away. Worn from his ramblings, Draegan at last lay quiet and still.

Fallon pressed the back of her hand to his temple and sighed in relief. The fever that had gripped him throughout the night was abating. His battle was won. From that moment on he would grow stronger, more in control. But Fallon's fight, the fight for truth from this complex man, had only begun.

It was nearly noon when Draegan finally emerged from the tangled morass of his dreams and opened his eyes. His surroundings were un­familiar. Soft green moire covered the walls beyond the curtained bed, and Irish lace fluttered at the open window. The fine linen sheets covering the soft feather mattress on which he lay felt wondrous against his naked skin. He studied the bed for a moment as his feeling of disorientation intensified. It was not the narrow cot he occupied at the rec­tory, but a tester bed, large enough for two.

Soft humming drifted through the parted cur­tains at the foot of the bed, a feminine voice, a sir­en's song, dulcet and sweet. Instinctively, he sought the source of the sound, pushing himself up in the bed, stifling a curse as pain shot through his left side.

The humming ceased. There was the soft tread of footsteps, the swish of silk skirts; then a feminine hand pushed back the bed curtain and Fallon's bright face appeared. "You're awake," she said, sounding surprised. "How are you feeling?"

Draegan frowned, settling back against the pil­lows. He was naked in the bed, and Fallon was smiling down at him. Surely this wasn't real, he thought. He couldn't be lying there, his secret ex­posed and the room bright with the midday sun, not after all the considerable trouble he'd gone to, to keep it from her.

But it was real, terribly, horribly real, and he was cornered and vulnerable. "How am I feeling?" he asked with rising indignation, his hand at his throat. "Naked and betrayed, that's how I'm feel­ing."

"Jacob said that you wouldn't be pleased with this arrangement—" Fallon began calmly.

That quiet calm incensed him. "Jacob," he said flatly. "Blasted coward. At the first sign of adver­sity he succumbs, and leaves me to the wolves."

"Wolves?" She elevated one finely drawn brow as she peered at him. "You are raving, sir. There are no wolves here. Your fever must have re­turned."

She would have felt his brow, but Draegan deftly caught her hand and pushed it aside. "That is a matter of opinion."

"You are bent on being difficult," she said with a tight smile. "I can see you are feeling more your­self. Would you like some broth?"

Draegan's face flushed dark at her patronizing tone. "You may shove your damned broth, ma­dam. I'm not an invalid, and I won't be treated like one." He struggled up, gritting his teeth against the pain his movements brought on, intent upon ex­tracting himself from this dread situation.

Fallon would not allow it. She placed her hands on his shoulders and forced him down onto the pillows. "Lie back and be still before you break open that wound and start bleeding again!"

The feel of her hands on his bare skin took some of the rancor from him. He'd never stopped want­ing her. The deep-seated hunger to possess her, to take her and make her his own, had never ceased. Yet he couldn't let go of the bitter regret, the hurt that had so long been a part of him. "Where is this place?"

"Gilead Manor."

He closed his eyes and let go a groan. "This can­not be happening. It must be a nightmare—a hor­rid dream brought on by frustration. As a dream, it shall pass." He lay quietly a long moment, wait­ing, then slowly opened his eyes once again to the same large bed and brocaded bed curtains, the same flood of bright light, and Fallon, standing by the bed, the soul of patience. "What possessed you to bring me here?"

"It is the one place I could think of where you would be safe from Randall's fury. He would never think to search for you here, and even if he sus­pected, he would never dare intrude upon the peace of this house."

Her logic about Randall was flawless, but she was ignorant of one important factor. Gilead Manor was Sparrowhawk's base of operations, his refuge. And she had unwittingly brought him into his enemy's stronghold.

She seemed to sense his next question. "We brought you through the passageway, Jacob and I. It was a very difficult undertaking."

"Jacob again," he said sourly. "It seems I owe him a considerable debt. Tell me, Fallon, was it Ja­cob who gave you leave to put me in this bed and relieve me of my dignity?"

Fallon met his smoldering glance with a look of pure defiance. "Your dignity, Draegan Mattais, is hardly my first concern. I have been far too worried about you losing your life to consider the bumps

and bruises sustained by your manly pride."

"This has to do with much more than simple pride."

"Indeed?" she inquired, perching on the side of the bed. "Go on, sir. Explain. I'm listening."

"Ever curious, aren't you?" he replied, but when she didn't retaliate in kind, he softened the smallest bit. "I have dreaded this day, and worked very hard to avoid it."

"You've gone to great lengths to keep your se­cret," she said. "Those nights in the rectory when we—" She broke off, lowering her gaze, and a faint, telling blush touched her cheeks. "Why?"

He looked sharply up at her. "That much, I would think, should be obvious. I loathe this scar, and everything it represents. It shames me, Fallon. I did not want you, of all people, to see—and now the choice has been taken from me."

"I did not mean to pry—I did not intentionally examine your person—" She broke off, blushing to the roots of her hair. "What I mean to say is—"

"What you mean to say is that it was waiting there under my clothing, and in the process of stripping me naked as a newborn babe, you could hardly overlook it." He would not have thought it possible, but her color deepened. Draegan felt a fleeting twinge of guilt, fleeting, because he derived a perverse pleasure from lying in her feather bed, watching her stammer and blush—a purely femi­nine reaction to his heartless baiting, and utterly charming. His reaction to her, on the other hand, was undeniably male, despite the nagging throb in his side.

As he watched, she laced her fingers together be­fore her, seeking control. "Your clothing was bloodstained and soiled, and Jacob, trustworthy soul that he is, is not a good nurse. Had I ignored my duty and left you there at the rectory, you would likely have succumbed to an infection by now, or worse."

Draegan shifted uneasily in bed, painfully aware of how deeply indebted he was to Fallon, yet not quite able to curb his tongue. "And if I weren't such an ungrateful wretch, I would thank you for efforts on my behalf."

She said nothing. She merely sat, waiting for him to apologize for his rudeness, for his ingratitude, waiting for the explanation he knew was now un­avoidable, because he could deny her nothing.

It was hard to countenance, Draegan thought, and even harder to admit that after a lifetime of scapegrace behavior and scandal he'd fallen hope­lessly, endlessly in love with this guileless slip of feminine logic and practicality. He hadn't the slightest idea of how or when it had happened— or, worse, what to do next. He only knew that she alone could purge him of his bitterness and anger, fill the aching emptiness where his vitals once had been.

"You have nothing to fear from me," she said softly. "You can set aside your shadows, Draegan, and step into the light."

He passed a hand over his face. "Tell me what it is you want from me."

"Something only you can give. The truth, Drae­gan. It’s as simple as that."

"There is nothing simple about it," he said. "Nothing pretty about my past, Fallon."

"We all have regrets," she assured him. "Things that we would do differently if it were possible."

"Your regrets in no way compare to mine. You are an innocent; you have not used men as I have used women, bedding them for sport, for the in­formation they provided me, betraying their trust with no regard whatsoever to their feelings. I have done all of that, and much, much more. In point of fact, I rather made a career of seduction, short-lived though it was. Kitchen maids in Tory households, wives of Tory and British officers, lonely, vulnera­ble women susceptible to a bold glance and a dev­ilish smile.

"I devised the game, and for a time, I played it very well. The Tory faction in New York City knew of my rebel leanings, yet I let it slip in certain in­fluential company that I was disgruntled with the lack of appreciation my superiors displayed to­ward my obvious military talents and was rethink­ing my loyalties."

"And this worked to your advantage?"

He nodded. "My uncertain political stance and my position in the community as heir to Grand­father's holdings were enough to assure my accep­tance. The rest came easily. Too easily, perhaps, for by the time I met Lucy Greenhill at a New York soiree, the excitement had worn thin and I'd grown rather bored with it all, negligent and indiscreet."

"Lucy Greenhill," Fallon put in, "the woman who shot you." Draegan arched a black brow at her and watched as she shrugged. "You talk in your sleep."

"Do I indeed?" he said wryly. "I shall try to re­member that. Lucy came along at the height of my arrogance. She was nearly thirty, but still hand­some of face and figure. She was also the wife of Sir Percy Greenhill, a major general serving under Howe. Sir Percy was forty years Lucy's senior, a cold English fish, and Lucy was starved for affec­tion, a fact that I should not have so blithely dis­counted."

Fallon was watching him closely, an earnest ex­pression on her small piquant face. "Were you in love with Mrs. Greenhill?"

"In love with her?" Fallon had taken him quite by surprise with that one. He tried to answer honestly, yet talking about his past indiscretions came unbelievably hard. "I suppose I was fond of her, in my own careless fashion, but no, I did not love her. I daresay I didn't grow a heart until I came to this shady mountain hollow." He sighed, and trailed the tips of his fingers over the back of her hand, a wordless plea for clemency. "Are you cer­tain you wish to hear this?"

"Indeed. Go on. I'm listening."

"Yes, well. As I said, I never imagined that Lucy had taken the affair so seriously until Christmas Eve of '76, when she sought me out with the news that she had been widowed, and found me other­wise occupied."

"You were with another woman? How horrible for her!"

At her exclamation, Draegan grimaced. "I would not be so quick to rush to Lucy's defense. She had a hideous temper, and she exacted a heavy toll for a minor dalliance. Thanks to Lucy, I'll walk with a limp for the rest of my life, and doubtless she's forgotten all about the entire episode by now. I'm sure she's gone back to England and married some drooling old fool in his dotage. She does not de­serve your sympathy."

“I think I shall reserve the right to disagree," Fal­lon said. "Any woman who has fallen victim to your lethal charm deserves a measure of sympathy. How did you come by the scar?"

"My, what a bloodthirsty little wretch you are, anxious for every detail, no matter how horrid."

She lifted her chin, an endearing trait uniquely hers. "I saved you from Randall and removed you from Jacob's doubtful care. Surely an explanation is a small price to pay."

"That depends on which side of the telling you're on. Where I happen to sit, the price you de­mand seems exorbitant."

"Cease your complaining and finish your tale," Fallon said. "It’s nearly one, and you haven't even had breakfast."

He sighed, resigned to the fact that he was a vir­tual prisoner and had little choice but to continue. "Word of the sordid affair got around very quickly. Soldiers in winter encampment seek out the most mundane diversions—anything to relieve their in­cessant boredom, however temporarily. When I re­turned to Valley Forge, I was greeted with a great show of enthusiasm and not a few sniggers. My commander in chief, however, wasn't the least bit amused by my exploits. By the end of the day, he'd sent me packing, back to Schuyler's command in Albany.

"I was angry, filled with bitterness toward Lucy and my former commander's high ideals. At the time, I felt it was the lowest point in my life. But I was wrong. I was two days' ride from Albany when foul weather struck. I'd been pushing hard to reach my destination, and hadn't shaved in nearly a month. Gaunt and weary, in a uniform that had seen better days, I looked the worst sort of vagabond, yet even a vagabond needs shelter from a howling icy wind. I found it in a most un­likely place. An abandoned stone chapel, situated off the way."

She inclined her head slightly to look at him, lips parted.

"Aye, Fallon," he replied softly, knowing her thoughts. "The very same. It offered shelter and a sort of peacefulness that beckoned. There, in a high-backed wooden pew, I fell asleep. I woke several hours later to a ring of strangers standing around me. With them was a young militia captain who questioned me, asking me who I was and how I'd come to be there. The captain admitted that they had been in pursuit of Sparrowhawk, to whom they'd lost a man, and had chased him to the chapel where I sat sleeping. I vowed that I'd seen no one enter, that I'd been there the evening through, but no man among them was willing to listen. Quill lifted a cloak from the back of the pew on which I sat, but it was not the tattered woolen garment I had worn into the chapel. It was a gen­tleman's cloak, still dotted with sleet."

He paused and drew a deep breath, releasing it slowly. His hand, which a moment earlier had toyed with Fallon's, curled into a fist, the knuckles showing white against the pale green coverlet. With a sigh, Fallon gathered her courage, closing her own small hand over that iron fist, an offer of wordless compassion, the only thing she could give. "The rest happened so quickly," he said. "Quill gave the order and one of his men searched my things, producing a fistful of papers that had belonged to Sparrowhawk. Everyone by now was closed against my claims of ignorance and inno­cence. In the space of a heartbeat I was convicted of spying for the British and was summarily con­demned."

He paused again, and a shudder ran through his lean frame. "You need not tell me the rest," she said.

But Draegan continued his tale as if he hadn't heard. His gaze was fixed on some point in the distance, and Fallon knew he was looking into the past. "They bound my hands behind my back and forced me out into a night that was miserably cold. It was still sleeting, and the stump that served as a hasty gallows was slippery and wet. I remember cursing Quill as I stood there with the storm wind howling around me, the hempen noose around my throat like the chill, damp embrace of the grave. It is the last thing I recall, except for the blinding ag­ony of being wrenched apart, skin from muscle and sinew from bone."

The tears that had gathered in Fallon's eyes slipped over her lower lashes and coursed slowly down her cheeks. Through that shimmering veil she saw him cover his eyes with one hand. "For the love of Christ," he said, his hoarse whisper filled with emotion. "Don't pity me, Fallon. It is the one thing I could not withstand from you."

"It isn’t pity. It’s sorrow for the injustice you have suffered.  Sadness that you were so completely alone.”

He reached out and smoothed away her tears with gentle fingers. "In hiding the scar, I kept the truth of who I am a secret.  In secrecy was a small measure of safety—for me, and anyone close to me.”

“You could not trust anyone with the truth,” she said.  “Not even me.”

“It was too difficult to speak of, too raw a wound. I could not bear for you to know—could not risk having you recoil from me. And then there was the small matter of Randall Quill to be considered. I couldn't be sure of your feelings for him, your loyalties."

"Randall." Fallon sniffed, wiping the last of the moisture from her cheeks with the tips of her fingers. "He's the one part of this puzzle I can't seem to under­stand. If he's a Tory in truth, in league with the British, then why would he want to hang Sparrowhawk, a British operative?"

"I can only guess," Draegan replied, taking her hand in his and slowly drawing her down. She lay half atop him, her cheek pressed against his naked breast, her body close to his uninjured side. "But my theories on the subject of Randall Quill can keep awhile longer. Just now I have other, more pressing concerns."

Fallon lifted her head, and her face was very close to his. She could see the slight smudge of blue beneath his beloved green eyes, the coarse black stubble that shadowed his cheeks, jaw, and chin. "But if he should discover your true identity—"

"He already has." He kissed the point of her chin, the turn of her jaw, then took her soft, fragrant earlobe in his teeth. "After the incident on Kingston Road, Jacob discovered that someone had desecrated Major Youngblood's grave at the foot of the sentinel maple. The grave meant for me. Finding it empty was all the proof Quill needed."

He spoke with a deadly calm. Fal­lon sniffed again and would have buried her face against the hard, muscled wall of his chest, except that he cupped her chin in his hand, forcing her to meet his clear, bright gaze. "I must deal with him soon. You know that, don't you? And this time, the outcome will be different."

Fallon nodded gravely. What had begun more than a year before in the small stone church not far from Gilead Manor would have to be played out, she realized, though she found herself dreading the outcome. Randall was treacherous, and since he was in league with Sparrowhawk, he was capable of anything. "I wish it were otherwise—not for Randall's sake, but for your own. Twice, now, he's nearly killed you."

"Sweet Fallon," he said with a semblance of his old knowing smile, "is that caring I see in your bright, tigress eyes?"

Fallon would have risen then, would have turned away in an effort to hide her true feelings, yet Draegan held her fast. He was not as weak as she had supposed. "You know I care—" she began.

He slipped his hand under her arm and dragged her up against him. Fallon felt the heat of him through the sheet and the coverlet, felt the hard evidence of his desire hot against her hip. "Care," he said softly, threading his fingers through the soft strands of hair at her temple and watching her so intently with those penetrating pale green eyes. "Do you care, as any decent soul would, for a fel­low human being in dire circumstances? Or do you perhaps feel something more, something deeper, more difficult to resist—something that sends sleep to the devil and renders the flesh mere tinder to the fires of passion?"

Fallon wanted to deny she felt what he was describing. Yet all she could do was lie there, her heart beating madly in her breast, and hang on his every word, his every breath. "Tell me you feel it, Fallon. Tell me you feel what I feel."

"I don't want to feel it," she answered miserably. "I don't want to care for you. There have been so many others before me, women of experience, who've suffered heartache and worse at your hands. Lucy Greenhill, Lettice, and the legions of others..."

"Lettice?  Dear God." He frowned. "Would that my loos­ened tongue had strangled me in my delirium. It would have been kinder by far."

"You will not attempt to deny that there have been numerous others?"

"Yes, my love.  There have been many others. Tavern maids and wealthy young widows, Tory wives and a scullery wench or two, but I swear to you on my life, Fallon, there has never been anyone like you. Not a single maiden among them, and none that I've given my heart to."

Fallon's heart was in her throat. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that as incredible as it may sound, as hard as it is to accept, I love you. I'm saying that I need you. That I'll expire here in your bed and make an impossible situation even more difficult if you don't soon give me hope that there is the smallest chance for the two of us." He raised his body slightly, meeting her lips in a kiss that clearly conveyed that he meant every word.

Still she said nothing. "Fallon, I beg of you. If you can't give me back my life, then put me down quickly."

She answered him wordlessly, coming quickly into his arms. "As incredible as it may seem," she whispered against his carnal mouth, "I love you, too. But Draegan?"

"Yes, love?"

"Do you recall Lucy's pistol?"

He smiled, his green eyes glinting from under lowered lashes. "Without fail, every time it rains."

"Take it to heart. I would not miss."

He chuckled and lifted the coverlet. "Lie with me," he said, patting the soft feather mattress. "Be my lover in truth. I swear to you, you'll not regret it."

Fallon's face pinkened. He was naked, keenly aroused, and completely bared to her gaze. She knew that she shouldn't have looked but she couldn't look away. "Here? Now? Oh, Draegan, I couldn't! It's midday! And there's your wound to consider. You haven't the strength for what you have in mind."

"But I'm feeling much better," he countered with his secretive smile. "Think of it, Fallon. The two of us, here in your soft, scented, comfortable bed, sun­light streaming through the lace curtains gilding our skin. What could be more perfect? And I vow I'll be flat on my back. I won't move a muscle. Well," he said wryly, "on second thought, maybe one or two."

What he was suggesting was scandalous, despite all that had happened here this day. There was, after all, no marriage vow between them, no guar­antee of what would come later. His future was uncertain at best. If he got her with child and lost the final contest with Randall and Sparrowhawk, she would be ruined.

But if she denied him, turning aside for the sake of propriety their one chance at happiness, and lost him, she would never forgive herself.

It could happen, she knew.

Once he had left the sanctity of the manor walls, he would again enter his world of secrets and shad­ows, danger and death. And she might never gaze into his beloved green eyes, hear his laughter, feel his electrifying touch again.

The fear of losing him was enough to seal Fal­lon's fate. She would take what he offered; indeed, she would take all that he wished to give, and she would revel in it. Just this once, she vowed to be impetuous, to savor each moment they had to­gether, as if it were indeed their last.

With trembling fingers, she unhooked her bodice and slipped it over her shoulders and down, listen­ing as she did so to his soft exclamation, to his deep, appreciative male sigh.

The blush that had tinted her cheeks earlier deepened. She averted her gaze but kept on. The garment parted, and she flicked it away, reaching for the lacings that held her petticoat in place. In a moment, the laces were loosened. Fallon stood up, and the tawny silk pooled around her ankles, leaving only her stockings and thin lawn chemise.

Now she hesitated, catching her full lower lip in her teeth. Draegan only smiled at her reluctance and lifted the hem, slipping a hand beneath. "All, Fallon," he said seductively. "Leave everything there on the floor but your glorious innocence, and come to me."

At his gentle urging, Fallon removed the last re­maining shred of her modesty and stood before him blushing and completely unadorned. "God, look at you," he murmured. "You are exquisite, pure temptation ... every creamy inch."

Taking her hand, he drew her down beside him until she gingerly sat on the edge of the bed. "I have never—" she said. "I don't know quite where to begin."

He nuzzled the palm of her hand, took her small­est finger into his mouth and teased the whole with his tongue and his teeth. Fallon watched his lashes lower, sooty crescents against his cheeks. He breathed deeply, a sigh of contentment, and pressed her hand to his chest. He guided it down over the smooth tawny expanse of his chest and stomach, across the wrappings at his waist, to his belly and the proud swell of his manhood.

The sheath that enclosed his maleness was softer than satin, and with Draegan to guide her, Fallon eased aside the velvet foreskin to reveal the wonder within. Tentatively, gently, she touched him, marveling at the sensation of mirac­ulous pulsating life in her hand. "You are beautiful," she said softly. "Not at all what I imagined." She closed her hand around the tur­gid shaft and felt his answering throb. "This does not pain you? Your wound—"

"Wound? What wound?” He gave a shallow sigh. "Fallon? Have I told you that I love you?"

"Yes," she said with a coy little smile. "But if you like, you may tell me again. I doubt I will tire of hearing it anytime soon."

She was seated by his side on the mattress, the length of her thigh pressed against his thigh and hip. Slowly, he reached out and tested the weight of her breast in one hand, teasing the nipple to hardness with his finger and thumb. "Come closer, won't you? Being forced to lie here with so much distance remaining between us is torment. I need to feel you in my arms. I crave your sultry kiss."

Fallon leaned forward, kissing him, parting his lips with her lips, teasing his tongue with her tongue, just as he had taught her. Then she trailed her kisses down his cheek, his jaw, to the strong column of his throat, and listened to his heartfelt groan. Nibbling her way along the length of his collarbone, she paused to tease his nipples to hard­ness with her tongue and her teeth.

He tried to rise, but she placed her hands on his shoulders and pushed him back into the pillows. "Wound be damned," he said. "I grow desperate."

She slanted him a look from her glowing amber eyes but said nothing, choosing instead to trail the tip of her tongue along the thin strip of sable hair knifing down the center of his flat belly. When she reached his maleness, she paused and, lowering her lashes, bent to kiss the heart-shaped tip. She heard his breath catch in his throat, and she parted her lips, kissing him lightly, teasingly, before draw­ing him slowly in.

The hand that a moment before had been on an intimate quest now urged her wordlessly up and onto the mattress beside him, into his sinful, embrace. Parting her thighs, he wor­shiped her flesh, even as she worshiped his.

Shared kisses, shockingly hot, unbearably inti­mate ... evoking sensations that were half-­remembered yet keenly anticipated, wildly thrilling, delicious ... These feelings were all the sweeter to experience since she was certain that Draegan, her dark and dangerous lover, experi­enced them too.

Fallon felt his tongue pass the folds that pro­tected her womanhood, felt it delve deep, touching, caressing the passion-born ache that unfurled so deep in her belly. She heard a breath swiftly drawn, a sigh, and then he was urging her to re­lease him, drawing her up and up, until she sat astride his lean hips.

Her heart thundering in her breast, wanting des­perately to please him, Fallon rose above him. Still moist from his sensuous kisses, the soft folds of her woman's flesh slowly yielded before the insistent pressure of his male ardor, momentarily opening to him, then settling once again around him, grip­ping him tightly.

At that moment, Fallon paused, suddenly aware of the barrier of her maidenhead. A feeling of in­tense and slightly painful pressure centered in her belly, taking momentary precedence over the plea­surable ache. She grimaced and would have with­drawn, but Draegan took hold of her shoulders, preventing her retreat from the discomfort.

"No, don’t leave me.  It’s but a moment’s discomfort, and it will all be over," he whispered. "Just relax and let me fill you."

He released her shoulders; she settled into his embrace. The discomfort came again, but instead of pulling back, Fallon pressed against him, taking him fully into her. The pain was instantaneous but swiftly fleeting. The gravity of what she'd done left her shaken and weak, unresisting as he gathered her against him.

"You are brave to entrust your future to a rogue like me," Draegan said. "But I pledge to you, I'll never hurt you."

"I’m not brave," Fallon replied softly against the scar at his throat. "Not brave at all. I am afraid, so terribly afraid, of losing you."

"Don't say it, sweetheart," he said. "Don't let the world intrude. We're here together now, bound by a love that is more powerful than anything or any­one out there. Let's make the most of it, shall we?" He stirred inside her, insistent, strong.

Fallon felt it keenly, felt his life force fill her, and wordlessly, she moved against him. The ache, for­gotten in a moment of solemnity and pain, was re­born in that instant. It grew rapidly, filling her with a need, a desire, so intense that it blotted out all else. The world as Fallon knew it, the uncertainty of their future, swiftly retreated, moving farther and farther away, until nothing existed outside those bedchamber walls—indeed nothing at all ex­cept Draegan and the unholy passion he kindled within her.

The passion burned now, a huge conflagration, beyond all control, beyond all imagining. The old Fallon was quickly consumed by the white-hot in­tensity; her innocence and naivete turned to fine ash and fell away. Out of those ashes, phoenix-like, a new Fallon rose, a woman newly awakened to the wonder of the ways of man and woman, to aching, endless love and unbearable intimacy.

Slow thrusts and slower withdrawals. The flames raged high, roaring in her ears, licking, caressing, her naked woman's flesh. The heat intensified, her breathing grew increasingly ragged, the pressure built and built, and Fallon became desperate. She gave a mindless whimper, low in her throat, a wordless plea....

Her dark lover heard, and slid his wondrous hands down the length of her spine to her dimpled derriere, cupping the soft curves, urging her closer; until she held every inch of him tightly inside as he tilted her hips.

She felt rapture beyond all recounting, an explo­sion of physical delight. Fallon gasped as it swept over her, engulfing her beleaguered senses, drag­ging her down into a swirling dark mist.

She cried out softly, triumphantly, and Draegan dragged her down into his arms, surrendering to the shattering ecstasy, filling her virginal tightness with his scalding release.

Long after the initial glow had faded, he lay holding her lithe form against him. Worn from their lovemaking, Fallon softly slept, her bright head pillowed on his chest.

She was bound to him now, by love and by car­nal deed, by the divulging of secrets long kept. He swore he would do all in his power to strengthen that bond in the little time left to them. He prayed to whatever god was listening that it would be enough to sustain them through the difficult times that lay ahead.

The future looked shadowy and dark, and Drae­gan knew that the same sharing of ugly truths that had brought her trembling into his arms could well tear them apart.