Ariah forgot her state of near-nakedness at the sight of Bartholomew hurrying toward the lighthouse. She forgot her duties as lighthouse tender, forgot the painful throbbing of her bruised hip, her scraped knees, her lacerated hands. Oblivious to everything except her desperate need for him, she raced down the stairs and flung open the door. Feeling neither the chill wind nor the icy rain, she tore up the wooden steps to the top of the bluff.
He saw her and waved.
"Good hell," Bartholomew muttered as he stared at the disheveled woman racing toward him. What little she wore was tattered and filthy. Her hair was a riot of snarls flying out around her bare arms, tangled about her waist. One hip, where her chemise was torn, bore a reddish brown stain Bartholomew thought looked suspiciously like blood. “It looks as though she's fallen down the damn cliff and crawled back up it."
"Go to her," said the man beside him.
Bartholomew hesitated. "But you—"
"Right now, she sees only you. Go on, I'll wait here. I believe she's had more than enough shocks to deal with lately. We'll take this one slow and easy."
Ariah was running toward him, holding out her arms as she cried his name. Without another word of argument, Bartholomew ran to meet her. Apollo followed.
Ariah laughed out loud at the sight. Even muddy and unkempt, he looked so beautiful she wanted to cry. So big and brawny and alive. He hadn't deserted her. He was here, bringing solace and safety and joy.
Seconds later she threw herself into his strong, capable arms.
"Bartholomew. Oh, sweet heaven, it's really you."
"Aye, little nymph, it's me."
He hugged her tightly, his eyes closed as he let his body and soul absorb the warmth of her, assuring himself she was truly alive and well. Her arms were entwined about his waist, their fierce grip telling him her feelings for him had not changed. After a long moment, he gently disentangled himself and held her away so he could study her face. Tears mingled with the rain on her cheeks, but her smile was radiant. Apollo leaped up again and again, trying to lick her face, then Bartholomew’s. Ariah laughed.
Her smile faded. "Uncle Xenos came. We thought he was the new keeper. He shot Pritchard."
"I know, I know."
He hugged her again. Her chemise was soaked clear through. He could see her nipples pressed against the thin fabric and felt himself harden. Impatient with his body's inappropriate timing, he took off his heavy coat and wrapped it around her.
"We brought Dr. Wills with us. He and Cal are tending to Pritchard and Seamus now. Come on, let's get up to the house before you catch your death of cold."
He took hold of her hand. Ariah winced and jerked away. Tenderly, he forced her to let him examine her palms.
"Damn! Ah, Ariah, what in God's name have I done to you, leaving you here at the mercy of that bastard? That blasted husband of yours is as helpful in a fight as a—"
"He's not going to be my husband much longer." She put a silencing finger to his lips. "And he was wonderful, defending me against Uncle Xenos as best he could."
Bartholomew's heart stood still. "What did you say?"
Her smile broadened and he had a sudden impulse to kiss the impudent mole perched on her upper lip.
Though cognizant of what he wanted to hear, she couldn't resist teasing him as she slid her arms into the sleeves of the coat he'd put around her and inhaled his scent. "I said he defended me—"
"No, the other."
"You mean, that he won't be my husband much longer?" Cool as seawater, she laughed and bobbed up onto her toes to kiss him. "He's in love with someone else, Bartholomew. A girl in town. Her name is—"
"Nettie," he finished.
Ariah's smile faltered. "You knew?"
"How else could I have ignored the vows you exchanged with him and make love to you that day in the woods?"
Ariah's amazement switched to anger. Her eyes sparked like flint on steel. "Then why did you leave me? Why did you go away without a word in the middle of the night like a thief?"
Echoing her displeasure, Apollo barked and nipped at Bartholomew’s pants leg.
"I gave Seamus a letter to give you. Didn't he—"
"Oh, yes, the letter . . . A coward's way out. He gave it to me." She marched away, pivoted and pointed an accusing finger at him, barely visible inside the long sleeve of his coat. "You shredded my heart with that awful letter. I thought you loved me, I—"
In two strides he reached her and hauled her close to his body, muffling her words against his chest. "I do love you. Lord, nymph, don’t you know you're my heart and soul, my very life?"
Her arms snaked about his waist as she nuzzled into his warmth. "Yes, I know," she said with a sigh.
Bartholomew caught her chin on the edge of his hand and forced her to look up at him. "You know?"
"Marry me, Bartholomew. Promise you'll marry me."
Her unforgettable blue eyes pierced him straight to his soul. "Ariah, I—"
She gripped his shirt front and gave him a jerk. "No excuses, Bartholomew. You just said you love me, and I love you more than life itself. We're free now, both of us, and I want to spend the rest of my days with you."
Deep laughter rumbled up out of his chest. "I'm not trying to give you excuses, nymph. Don't you know it's the man who's supposed to propose marriage to the woman, not the other way around?"
"Only if she's too cowardly to take things into her own hands. I'm not taking any chances on letting you get away. Please, stop teasing me now and say you'll marry me."
He sobered as he stared into her bottomless eyes. "Aye, I'll marry you," he said huskily. "And I'll spend the rest of my days worshipping you."
He kissed her nose. "’An hundred years to praise thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze’." While his lips brushed hers, his hands slid inside the coat, up over her ribs to the fullness of her breasts. "'Two hundred to adore each breast, but—'"
A voice cleared loudly behind them.
Bartholomew's hands fell away and he turned to face the man he had forgotten was waiting his turn to greet Ariah. Apollo bounded over to the stranger, and raced back to Ariah.
"Sorry, Bartholomew, but it's getting a bit wet out here and I was growing impatient for my turn," the man said.
Beside Bartholomew, Ariah uttered a gasp. Hesitantly, she moved toward the man. "Papa?"
Scott Jefferson, alias Jeffrey Scott, smiled. "Yes, poppet, it's me." He held open his arms. "Do I get a hug, or do you save them all for this man of yours?"
"Oh, Papa." She threw herself at him. Tears streaked down her face.
For a long time, Scott rocked her in his arms while she stroked his beloved face and sobbed. The moistness glistening in the distinguished attorney's eyes lodged a lump in Bartholomew's throat. Finally, Ariah’s sobs quieted.
"I thought you were dead." Her voice vibrated with emotion. "Uncle Lou—"
"He knew you'd never leave me otherwise, Poppet. He held a funeral with an empty casket to throw Xenos off the trail and went along with your plan to come to Oregon so he could be sure you were safe."
Scott held his daughter away from him and stared down at her sternly. "Had he known about your idiotic scheme to marry a total stranger, he never would have let you go, however. Now, can we get in out of this rain?"
Unchastened, Ariah glared back at him, refusing to move. "He should have been honest with me. Do you know the agony I suffered, thinking you were dead? I could strangle him with my own hands. How could he do that to me, Papa?"
"We do strange, unaccountable things sometimes when we think we're protecting the ones we love." Over her head, his gaze met Bartholomew's. "Don't we, young man?"
Bartholomew, kneeling on the ground petting Apollo, nodded. "Aye, sir, that we do."
Ariah smiled, first at her father, then at Bartholomew. "Gracious Sadie, what am I whining about? Last night I wasn't certain I would even survive the night. Yet here I am. And, best of all, the two people I love most in the world have come back to me."
"Well," her father said in his best courtroom voice, "now that your world is all golden and glorious again, let's go to the house. While we walk, I expect you to explain to me why you're running around in your unmentionables, and why you look as though you've been dragged by a rope over ninety miles of hard ground."
"I'd like to hear the answer to that myself," said Bartholomew as he swooped her off her feet and started up the path.
"I can walk, Bartholomew," she objected lightly. "And, in case you hadn't noticed, it's even stopped raining."
"Aye, but the way you look, I'm not sure you'd make it all the way before you collapsed. Besides, I haven't yet had my fill of having you in my arms again."
From her safe, warm nest in Bartholomew's arms, she beamed at her father. "Don't be shocked, Papa. He may not be my husband yet, but I intend to live him the rest of my life."
Scott smiled indulgently as he walked along beside them. "Exactly where you belong, I would say. Your young man and I had a long talk on the way here. I told him he was a fool for going off and leaving you. When a man finds the woman he loves, no means are too extreme to make her his, even when he knows he may pay for that privilege some day. I know." His smile faded and his expression became wistful.
"Oh, Papa," she cried.
"Don't go getting all weepy again," Scott scolded. "The only regret I have is not being with you when you needed me most. Now, that's enough on that subject. I want to know what went on here after Xenos arrived, and I want to know now."
"So do I," Bartholomew said, "but talk fast because the minute I get you into that house, I'm taking you up to bed—"
"Bartholomew!"
"Let me finish. I want Dr. Wills to give you a thorough examination. After that, you're to get some rest."
"I'm hungry, and I'm not going to bed without a bath."
"Good hell, but you're a stubborn woman."
"I come by it honestly." She flashed her father a wicked smile.
"I refuse to be your scapegoat, young lady," Scott objected. "Your mother was the stubborn one. Now start talking. The way Bartholomew's long legs are eating up ground, we'll be at the house before you get even a sentence out. Pritchard and Seamus already told us what happened when Xenos showed up, and that you've been tending the light ever since. Start with what happened to your clothes."
So, in a precise description, she told them all she had endured in the past two days. She had reached the point when the clockworks had broken down and stopped turning the giant lens when Bartholomew carried her through the gate and headed for his own porch instead of hers.
"Bartholomew, this is your house."
"I'm aware of that," he calmly replied, not even winded after his rush up the gentle slope with her in his arms. "From now on it's also your house. You're not spending another night with Pritchard, and I'm not spending another night without you. In separate bedrooms, of course," he added for the benefit of the older man following them. Apollo, left outside, howled.
Scott gave Bartholomew an understanding smile and discreetly cleared his throat. "Why don't I fetch Dr. Wills while you argue it out with your future wife as to whether it's going to be a bath first, or bed?"
"It will be a bath, Papa," Ariah said, "so bring him in half an hour."
"Bring him now." Bartholomew's tone was dangerously soft.
As Bartholomew carried her into the house, Scott heard him say in husky wolfishness, "I am the eagle, remember, little nymph? Which means I am bigger as well as stronger." And she answered pertly, "But which of us is the most stubborn?"
That night, after Ariah's father retired to the garret room, Bartholomew let himself into his old bedroom and eased the door shut behind him. At the bed, he gazed down at the woman asleep beneath the covers, barely visible in the subtle light through the window from myriad stars that filled the clear, dark sky in the wake of the passing storm.
Dr. Wills had pronounced Ariah's wounds superficial. He proscribed a day or two of bed rest, and returned to his patients at the assistant keepers' house.
Seamus had suffered a concussion but was on the mend and would suffer no lasting results. The bullet had been removed from Pritchard's shoulder. His fever had ebbed, and he and Bartholomew had held a very satisfactory discussion about their respective futures.
Bartholomew sat on the edge of the mattress and lightly brushed the enticing mole on Ariah's upper lip. Her eyes opened and she smiled.
"Feeling up to company?" he whispered hoarsely.
Her smile broadened. "As long as it's you."
Anticipation curled pleasantly inside her as her gaze followed the movement of his large hands, unfastening each button of his shirt. Muscles rippled in his arms and under the dark hair of his chest as he removed the garment and tossed it to the floor. When he reached for the placket on his trousers, liquid warmth jetted through her. Her lethargy fled.
Bartholomew saw her eyes begin to smolder, saw her squirm beneath the bedclothes, and the smile curving his sensuous mouth became the primal grin of a predator who knows his mate is eager for him. A smile of possession, and of pride.
The breath caught in Ariah's throat as he kicked off his trousers and paused beside the bed, allowing her gaze to take in his savage beauty. When she could breathe again, she lifted the covers in silent entreaty and he slid in beside her.
For a long moment they stared at each other, her slender, pale body bared to the waist, graceful and glorious; his muscular, broad-shouldered form like some pagan god.
"Bartholomew," she whispered finally.
In answer, he placed an open palm over her breast to let her feel how he trembled. "I'm shaking, I want you so. I feel as though the gods are testing me, and if I fail, you'll vanish before my eyes, like the fairy nymph that you are."
Her voice came back, soft but sure, in the darkness. "I'm neither fairy, nor nymph . . . only a woman who has given her heart to a man and now wants to give him her body as well."
"Lord, how I adore you."
His lips found hers. His ears caught the throaty sound she made, like the contented purr of a cat, and he quivered deep in his loins as his body quickened in response. That light touch was all they needed to bring the coals of desire, damped for so long, into flame. The sensual memories and fantasies that had haunted their dreams since their idyll in the Upham's cabin—embellished and reinforced by their day in the woods more than a week before—now came alive as lips and hands sought, found, teased and pleasured.
Though in reality they had exchanged their hearts long ago, they belonged to each other now in a new way, openly, honorably, and because their love was no longer bridled by guilt or shame, the passion flaring between them seemed achingly new, and infinitely precious. For Ariah, it was the culmination of a dream, for she knew what she had won; she had a strong, compelling man sharing her bed, provider, protector, friend, lover, soul mate. Wherever Demetria Scott was at that moment, Ariah knew her mother was smiling.
For the man in the bed with her, years of loneliness, of unwanted entrapment, of frustration and need, fell away like the chaff that protects a seed until it is ready to germinate, to flourish and grow into something green, strong and beautifully enduring.
And as he sank himself into the heated haven of Ariah's welcoming body, he knew that life—that he—would never be the same again.
Bartholomew Noon had been reborn.