"What did you forget, Patrice?"
She didn't reply at once. Instead, she hugged to her knees and gazed out into the darkness. "I forgot to tell you how sorry I was. It was such a shock. I cared for him, too. He was almost . . . almost a father to me."
For a moment, they were silent, sharing the thick sense of sorrow. Then she spoke again, her tone less steady, less sure.
"I wasn't able to speak to you after the service, but I wanted to know that you were all right, to tell you - to tell you I'm sorry." She ended lamely, words confusing the real issues.
"You didn't have to ride all the way over here in the middle of the night to tell me that." His tone chided, goading for the real reason as he dropped won to the step beside her.
"Yes, I did." Patrice fidgeted, fingering the fabric of her skirt. "I-I wanted to talk to you about some things the squire said to me before-before he died." She had his full attention.
"What things?"
She caught herself before the words formed. If she asked about the terms of the will, and he answered the way she expected him to, nothing would be the same between them again. Perhaps this would be their last time together. She moistened her lips and canted a glance his way.
He looked incredible. Rugged, slightly ragged, not nearly as forbidding when this close. Moonlight slanted across the narrow press of his mouth. Even as she watched, those angles softened. It was too dark to fix upon the subtle flickerings in his eyes. His stare was steady, unnerving, making her jumpy and tense and too hot inside her proper riding clothes. Yes, she would have to ask, she had to know, but not just now, not right at this very minute as emotions twisted and churned inside her.
"Can we go inside? I'm getting a little chilled."
Reeve quirked a doubtful smile but he didn't challenge her. He took her elbow to assist her and together they went into the big empty house. Patrice was surprised she couldn't hear the banging of her anxiousness echoing all around them. She needed more time. Shyly, she brushed his soiled sleeve.
"I'll wait if you'd like to clean up a bit."
All his earlier work outside left him a little less than presentable to a lady. The delay would give him a chance to plan out the words to begin his campaign upon the heart of Patrice Sinclair. "Be back in a minute. Make yourself at home."
He'd left a change of casual things in the back washing porch. Reeve hurried there, stripping off his offensive shirt as he went. Why was she really here? He heard serious business in her tone of voice and read pure promise in her sultry eyes. He tossed off his trousers, grabbing up a cloth and sudsing it up well.
Why had she come back, alone? For talk? Or touching?
Toweling dry, he cast about for a set of long underwear. Seeing none, he shook out a pair of freshly laundered denims and stepped into them. The waistband was just skimming over his bare buttocks when he heard a slight gasp behind him. After buttoning himself together, he turned, expecting to have sent her running.
She was still there. Her eyes glittered, sapphire bright, as her gaze rose from bared toes to bare belly, to his chest and finally to his face. He was still dripping wet, the towel hanging forgotten off one shoulder.
"I'll do that."
Boldly, she took the towel and stepped behind him, blotting the beads from his back. Then the loosely woven fabric began to move up and down, side to side, charting the broad terrain of his back and shoulders in slow strokes. It was all he could do to stand still for it. The towel moved down one brawny arm as her palm slid down the other. A shudder rode through him, settling heavy and low.
Patrice eased around until they stood toe to toe. She didn't look up into his eyes but instead focused on the vee his collar bone made in front, where she could see his sudden, jerky swallowing. She pushed the towel across his chest, fascinated by the moisture glistening in the bronze hair curled upon it. Her breathing labored apace with his. Then, the towel dropped to cover his bare feet.
Her hands continued their gliding exploration over taut muscle and tight midriff. She shivered hard as his palms rubbed up the sleeves of her jacket, capping her shoulders briefly before sliding up to encase the slender column of her throat. He lifted her chin with his thumbs, her gaze resisting for a moment, then rising as well.
He was lost the instant he looking into the pooling blue of her eyes. He bent.
They stood as almost a minute passed by, mouths locked, bodies pressed close, hearts thrusting in fervor and trepidation of what might or might not follow. Finally, Reeve twisted away. His hands shook where they supported her upturned face. His breathing was all out of control.
"Reeve-"
His fingertips brushed over her lips, quieting her as he said, "Thank you for coming. Maybe we'd better finish this conversation later." When it wasn't so dark, when he wasn't half dressed. When he wasn't feeling so unsettled inside, he needed something to hold on to. "I want to do this right."
"Do what?" she breathed, light-headed from his touch, lost to his intensity.
"Court you."
Her heart skipped a beat then hurried on frantically.
"I should talk to Deacon first-"
"No," she interrupted. She knew how Deacon would react. Her eyes squeezed shut as his tormented words replayed in her mind, calling upon her loyalty, her responsibility; those things that meant all to him and suddenly, not nearly as much to her as the promise of love.
"Talk to me first . . ."
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