It was hard not to stare at the low neckline of her shift, where the glinting silver chain complemented the smooth dark ivory of her skin. It was harder yet not to cross the room, lift her in his arms, and discover if his passion might ignite hers.

Remembering that she had asked a question, he managed to say, "The show went well. Unfortunately, everyone wanted to buy me a drink afterward, and I couldn't avoid accepting several of them."

Her smile faded, and she studied his face with a hint of wariness. "You're three sheets to the wind?"

He pondered. "Only about one and a half. With luck I won't have a hangover, but I will certainly sleep like a hibernating bear and wake up with great reluctance. You're in charge of pouring cold water in my face to get me moving tomorrow morning."

She chuckled. "Sounds like fun. I suppose we'll have to rise about six if we're going to leave at seven."

"I'm afraid so." Released from his temporary paralysis, he went to the screened tub and poured in the hot water. This was not the sort of dandified establishment that believed perfectly good water should be thrown out merely because it had been used once. Warming it was good enough for guests at the Drover.

Standing behind the screen, he removed his brown coat and laid it over the top of the screen. "Expect a long day. Drovers move slowly, but they travel for twelve hours or so."

Maxie rose lithely to her feet and began plaiting her hair into a heavy ebony braid. "Then I had better go to bed now."

She seemed a little uneasy. Guessing why, he said casually, "Strange how different it is to be in a bedroom."

"You're right. We've slept together quite peacefully the last few nights, but for some reason sharing a bed in a real bedroom is different" She bit her lower lip- her lush, sensual, dusty rosecolored lip-as she considered. "Not quite proper, in a way that I didn't feel before."

If she had given him the least encouragement, any honorable doubts he had about the wisdom of lying with her would have been out the window. But obviously she was not trembling on the brink of uncontrollable passion. "A pity we don't have a bundling board." He unbuttoned his shirt and draped it across the top of the screen. "I'll sleep on the floor."

Her glance flickered to his bare shoulders and the portion of his chest visible above the screen, then quickly away. "Nonsense. We have this room because of your performing skills, and I would be a poor sort of person to condemn you to a hard floor because of missishness. You've behaved yourself so far, and I trust that you will continue to do so. Besides," she added practically, "it's a large bed."

She would be less trusting if she knew what he was thinking. It was an extremely mixed blessing that women did trust him, because that trust bound him as securely as fetters of steel. "I can't imagine you as missish."

She slid under the worn counterpane and closed her eyes. "I think missishness is a luxury for those females who have the money and leisure to indulge in it. A woman who has to make her own way in the world hasn't the time for such things."

He finished undressing, then lowered himself into the tin tub with a happy sigh. The older he got, the more he appreciated simple creature comforts. Amazing to remember some of the conditions he had endured in his adventuresome days. Youth had the damnedest ideas of what was amusing.

By the time he had finished, dried himself, and put on the other pair of drawers that Maxie had washed and dried for him, his companion was asleep, her breathing soft and even. She looked very young in the flickering firelight, her face unlined and innocent. Yet even asleep she had the quality of fierce independence that was so much a part of her.

He spent a few minutes washing the rest of his clothing and hanging it by the fire. Then he climbed into the bed, carefully keeping to his side. Hard to imagine how the Americans managed bundling. Even wearing as many layers as an Eskimo wouldn't have been enough to protect Maxie's virtue. What protected her was a fragile thing called trust____________________

He would have liked to roll over and put his arms around her as he had the last two nights, but she was right: Being in a bed was different from sleeping in a hedgerow, and much more dangerous. Beds were for making love in a way that barns were not, not that a pile of hay couldn't be a delightful spot to dally on occasion.

He forced himself to relax, to ignore the knowledge that an alluring female body was just inches away.

On the whole, it would have been easier to sleep with a scorpion.

Chapter 13

Maxie was not surprised to wake and find herself snuggled up against Robin. The room had cooled as the fire died, and her companion's warmth had attracted her like a lodestone.

In her travels to isolated New England farmsteads, she had sometimes shared a bed with children or spinsters of the household. Nights contending with elbows, knees, and semiconscious struggles for the bedcovers had taught her that most people were not easy to sleep with.

Interestingly, she and Robin were natural bed partners in the strictest sense of the term. Through the night they easily shifted and adjusted to each other's movements, always close, always comfortable. More than that, she always woke happy and well rested, even on the night when they had slept on the hard cold earth. Robin seemed to sleep equally well.

It was first light, the sun still below the horizon. They would have to rise soon, but for a few minutes more she could drowse with her head on Robin's shoulder and her arm across his bare midriff. Under the blanket he was wearing drawers, which was the absolute minimum permissible for bundling. In fact, she thought sleepily, it was undoubtedly less than the minimum.

She pushed her braid back, then stroked an idle hand down his chest. The light, springy hair felt pleasant against her palm. Though Robin gave the impression of being slightly built, he was surprisingly well muscled. Or perhaps not surprising when she recalled how efficiently he had dealt with Simmons.

Low on his left side, below the blanket, her fingertips found the puckered ridge of an old scar. She considered it gravely; from the roughness and shape, it appeared to have been made by a bullet. What had Robin been doing to get himself shot? Something nefarious, she feared. He was lucky to have survived. Like a cat, he must have multiple lives. Thank God.

Under her palm, his heart beat with a strong steady rhythm. The room was now light enough to see his perfectly carved profile, relaxed and almost boyish in the pearly dawn. He made her think of angels, beings from another realm of existence who were bright and terrible in their beauty.

She wondered if the fellowship of angels contained a few rogues. Not the evil, arrogant entities like Lucifer who had rebelled against God and become demons, but ones that were simply different, too mercurial and unconventional to be content singing in heavenly choirs. Perhaps one such angel rogue had looked down and seen an earthly female who needed protection on a long journey, and come to aid her on her way.

She smiled, wondering what it was about Robin that inspired such whimsy. When they met in the glade with the fairy ring, she'd thought of Oberon. But he was quite human, which made him all the more appealing. Acting from pure affection, she raised her head and brushed his lips with hers.

Robin stirred at her light touch and turned toward her, finding her lips to return the caress. His prediction about drinking so much ale that he would have trouble waking must have come true, for he was even more asleep than she. The knowledge gave her a delicious sense of naughtiness. She could kiss him and pretend that it didn't count because he wouldn't remember.

When his tongue touched her lips, she opened them. The kiss deepened, developing the languorous richness of roses baking in the summer sun. His hand drifted down her back and hip, as deft at caressing as at conjuring. The thin muslin of her shift was an insubstantial barrier, and she felt the slow, sensual pressure of each individual finger. If she had known how, she would have purred like a pleased cat.

When her arm went around his neck, she knew it was time to stop. Her simple enjoyment of closeness was changing to a serious wish to continue what they had begun. He was bound to become fully conscious soon, and it would hardly be fair to turn suddenly prudish when she had been cooperating wholeheartedly.

She steeled herself to move away, but she had waited too long. Before she could summon the resolve to move away, he lifted his hand to cup her breast. She gasped as liquid fire flowed through her limbs. She needed more breath, yet could not bring herself to break off the endless, drugging kiss.

She was growing dizzy when he lifted his head away and murmured, "You are so lovely."

He had called her beautiful before, but that meant nothing compared to the husky passion in his voice now. As she drew a shuddering breath, he pressed his lips to her throat. The light rasp of his chin was a piquant contrast to his velvet tongue and the intimate touch of his breath.

He found the hollow at the base of her throat, then moved below the angle of her collarbone, over the swell of her breast He was like the sun, heated and powerful, bringing exuberant life to everything he touched.

Adrift in sensuality, she did not realize that he had nuzzled aside the shoulder of her shift until he drew her nipple into his mouth. She sucked in her breath, electrified. His tongue lapped the tip to aching hardness, moving in a rhythm that pounded in her blood. Arousing. Compelling. Intoxicating.