“Put your shirt back on,” she ground out.

“And freeze?” he asked, lifting one arrogant brow. “Malaria or no, I have no wish to catch a chill. Besides, it’s nothing you haven’t seen before.” And then, over her gasp, he added, “No, wait. I do beg your pardon. You haven’t seen it. I didn’t manage to get anything more than my trousers off last night, did I?”

“Get out,” she said, her voice low and furious.

He just chuckled and cocked his head toward the window, which was thrumming with the sound of the rain against the glass. “I don’t think so, Francesca. You’re stuck with me for the duration, I’m afraid.”

As if to prove his point, the small cottage shook down to its foundations with the force of thunder.

“You might want to turn around,” Michael said conversationally. Her eyes widened slightly in incomprehension, so he added, “I’m about to remove my breeches.”

She let out a little grunt of outrage, but she turned.

“Oh, and get off the blanket,” he called out, peeling off his sodden clothing. “You’re soaking it.”

For a second he thought she would plant her bottom even more firmly against it, just to defy him, but her good sense must have won out, because she stood and yanked the coverlet from the bed, shaking off whatever drops she’d left behind.

He walked over-it took only four steps with his lengthy stride-and pulled the other blanket off for himself. It wasn’t as substantial as the one she held, but it would do. “I’m covered,” he called out, once he was safely back in his corner.

She turned around. Slowly, and with only one eye open.

Michael fought the urge to shake his head at her. Truly, this all seemed rather after the fact, given what had transpired the night before. But if it made her feel better to grasp at the shreds of her maidenly virtue, he was willing to allow her the boon… for the rest of the morning, at least.

“You’re shivering,” he said.

“I’m cold.”

“Of course you are. Your dress is soaked.”

She didn’t say anything, just shot him a look that told him she did not plan to remove her clothing.

“Do what you wish, then,” he said, “but at least come sit near the fire.”

She looked hesitant.

“For God’s sake, Francesca,” he said, his patience growing thin, “I hereby vow not to ravish you. At least not this morning, and not without your permission.”

For some reason that made her cheeks burn with even greater ferocity, but she must have still held him and his word in some regard, because she crossed the room and sat near the fire.

“Warmer?” he asked, just to provoke her.

“Quite.”

He stoked the fire for the next few minutes, carefully tending it to ensure that the flames would not die out, stealing glances at her profile from time to time. After a while, once her expression had softened a bit, he decided to press his luck, and he said, quite softly, “You never did answer my question last night.”

She didn’t turn. “What question was that?”

“I believe I asked you to marry me.”

“No, you didn’t,” she replied, her voice quite calm, “you informed me that you believed we should be married and then proceeded to explain why.”

“Is that so?” he murmured. “How remiss of me.”

“Don’t take that as an invitation to make your proposal right now,” she said sharply.

“You’d have me waste this fabulously romantic moment?” he drawled.

He couldn’t be sure, but he thought her lips might have tightened with the barest hint ofcontained humor.

“Very well,” he said, in his most magnanimous tone, “I won’t ask you to marry me. Forget that a gentleman would insist upon it, after what happened-”

“If you were a gentleman,” she cut in, “it wouldn’t have happened.”

“There were two of us there, Francesca,” he reminded her softly.

“I know,” she said, and her tone was so bitter, he regretted having provoked her.

Unfortunately, once he’d made the decision not to taunt her further, he was left with nothing to say. Which didn’t seem to speak well of him, but there it was. So he held silent, pulling the woolen blanket more tightly around his barely clad body, surreptitiously eyeing her from time to time, trying to determine if she was becoming overchilled.

He’d hold his tongue, forked though it may be, to spare her feelings, but if she were endangering her health… well, then, all bets were off.

But she wasn’t shivering, nor did she show any signs of feeling excessively cold, save for the way she was holding up various sections of her skirt toward the fire, vainly attempting to dry the fabric. Every now and then she looked as if she might speak, but then she’d just close hei mouth again, wetting her lips with her tongue and letting out little sighs.

And then, without even looking at him, she said, “I will consider it.”

He quirked a brow, waiting for her to elaborate.

“Marrying you,” she clarified, still keeping her eyes on the fire. “But I won’t give you an answer now.”

“You might be carrying my child,” he said softly.

“I am very much aware of that.” She wrapped her arms around her bent knees and hugged. “I will give you an answer once I have that answer.”

Michael’s nails bit into his palms. He’d made love to her in part to force her hand-he couldn’t get around that unsavory fact-but not in an attempt to impregnate her. He’d thought to bind her to him with passion, not with an unplanned pregnancy.




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