Near paralysis, he forced himself to look away. When his breathing was steady, he slipped into the pool. The warm water was as sweet as sin.

Sin seemed to be all he could think about.

He settled onto a rock that allowed him to submerge all of his body except his head. The heated water was wonderful, soothing the bruises he had received earlier.

Catherine's eyes opened lazily, the thick dark lashes sweeping upward like a raven's wing. "A good thing we must leave with the next tide, or I'd be tempted to spend the rest of my life soaking here."

"It's like the hot springs in Bath," he agreed. "Fit for a Roman emperor."

She uncoiled from her lounging position, her hair swirling and clinging to her slim neck. Then she bent forward and glided across the pool with a kick, settling beside him as lightly as a bird. "I want to look at that wound on your arm."

"Really, it's nothing." Acutely aware of her nearness, he tried to edge away.

Firmly she grasped his forearm and turned him so that his upper arm was illuminated. After gently examining the raw flesh, she said, "You're right, it's not much more than a graze. It won't even scar." Her fingers skimmed down his arm to the ragged mark left by one of his Waterloo wounds. "It's impressive that you've survived so much without becoming permanently crippled."

She traced the thin hard line where his ribs had been sliced by a saber. The scar arced downward toward his groin, and her touch triggered a fierce jolt of arousal. Hoping his state was concealed in the shadowy water, he tried to move away again.

Her hands came to rest on his waist so that he could not detach himself without using force. "You certainly got bruised fighting Haldoran and his men," she observed as her experienced gaze went over him. "It's amazing that you were able to move so quickly when we were haring around the island."

He felt sweat on his brow, and knew it was not from the heated pool. When her palm began to skim down over the saturated hair of his chest, he caught her right wrist. "Catherine, don't. Being merely a man and not at all a saint, I can't help but respond when you touch me."

The tendons in her wrist went rigid and the atmosphere changed, going from camaraderie to vivid physical awareness. She raised her gaze to his, her eyes smoky with desire. "I don't feel very saintly myself. Since we might not have a tomorrow, let us use well what time we have."

Her left hand dipped beneath the surface, flattening against his groin as it glided slowly downward. Then her palm curled around his heated flesh and fire seared through him. His control shattered. Catching her around the waist, he lifted her from her feet and swept her across the pool. The water buoyed them both, giving every movement the weightless grace of dancing.

He laid her along the angled stone and followed her down, covering her mouth with his. Her lips were damp and hotly welcoming. She made a rough, needy sound and her hands curled around his neck. The kiss deepened, became devouring as the terror of the day transmuted into pure sexual fire.

Finally he broke away, panting. His gaze went over her entrancing Siren's body, more hinted at than seen in the dim light. Her moist throat shimmered faintly, betraying the frantic tempo of her heart. He kissed the pulse point, then licked downward over smooth, flawless skin. Her back arched and rosy nipples broke the surface. He captured one with his mouth, the tender flesh hardening instantly under his tongue.

Her knees separated and he moved between them, cradling her buttocks while he suckled her. With her lower body supported by the water, she began moving her legs up and down restlessly, caressing his hips with her inner thighs. The heated water lent a liquid sensuality to every touch. He breathed, "You are more beautiful than I ever dreamed a woman could be." He moved his mouth to her other breast and tugged at the nipple with his lips.

She moaned, "Oh, Michael." Her legs locked around his waist, drawing him closer until his taut male flesh pressed against her with stark intimacy. She twisted her pelvis, trying to take him within her.

"Jesus! Not yet." Chest heaving with the effort of trying to restrain himself, he pulled away a little and braced his hands on the stone beside her shoulders. Then he hung above her and rocked his hips so that his engorged shaft rubbed up and down against exquisitely sensitive female folds. Rapturous, maddening. Heaven and hell merged into erotic torture. She writhed under the voluptuously carnal strokes, breathing in desperate sobs. Her hands moved convulsively up and down his arms, slipping frictionless over his water-slicked muscles.

When her whole body shivered on the verge of explosion, he drew back a little, touching her to guide himself. Under the feathery curls she was all hot, pliant yearning.

He entered her with one slow, possessive stroke. Silken heat enfolded him, the pleasure almost beyond bearing. She moaned and rolled her hips, triggering a fierce exchange of thrust and counterthrust. Water surged around their churning bodies. Then she cried out and her nails dug deep into his back.

Her chaotic contractions triggered his own release. He gasped, feeling as if his whole self was pouring helplessly into her. The culmination was searing, desperate with savage uncertainties.

Passion ebbed swiftly, but instead of repletion, he felt aching sorrow. Even now, when he was deep in her body, he could not escape the haunted echo in his mind. She is not for you.

Chapter 37

Though Michael's body pinned Catherine to the slanting stone, most of his weight was supported by the water that surrounded them. She savored his closeness and the blessed peace of fulfillment. She could have fallen asleep holding him, but all too soon he withdrew, leaving her empty.

"I don't know if that was wise," he said huskily, "but it was certainly good. For a few moments, the rest of the world didn't exist."

Though he brushed a kiss on her temple, she sensed that emotionally he was far away. She wanted to cling to him, to tell him how much she loved him, but she did not dare. Having grown up in the army, she recognized that Michael's formidable skills were focused on survival. Passion had been a pleasing diversion, but distracting him with agonizing personal issues would endanger them both. Forcing her voice to matter-of-factness, she said, "I'm ravenous. I wish we'd been able to bring a few of those apples."

"I wasn't joking about catching a fish. There must be some in the main pool, since it connects to the sea. I'll see what I can find for supper." He straightened and ran his hand over his face, wiping away droplets of moisture. "If you'll wait here, I'll get my shirt for you to wear. It was fairly dry."

She obeyed, content to drift in the warm water and watch him. He climbed from the pool and went to the fire. There he toweled himself briskly with the singlet he had worn under his shirt. His bare, beautifully proportioned body was godlike in its lithe power. Considering the scars, she supposed the god in question would be Mars. It still amazed her that a man who was supremely gifted in the violent arts of war could be so gentle.

After he pulled on his drawers, he returned to the pool with his shirt. She took his proffered hand and reluctantly emerged from the water. Now that she had been so thoroughly warmed, both outside and in, the air no longer seemed cold.

She used the singlet to sponge off most of the water before pulling his shirt over her head. The garment fell to her knees. When her head emerged from the voluminous linen folds, she saw that Michael was watching her with a dark, hooded gaze. Uneasily she wondered if he wished he had not succumbed to her brazen advance. Perhaps they should have talked rather than… doing what they did. Yet she could not be sorry. "How can you catch a fish without a hook or a line?"

"It's time to use the tickling technique I learned from my Gypsy friend Nicholas. All you have to do is let your hand trail in the water, moving your fingers a little. When a fish comes to investigate, you grab him."

She had to smile. "I'm sure that's harder than it sounds."

"It takes patience and speed," he admitted. "But I've done it before, and hunger is a wonderful incentive."

He went down to the tidal pool and lay down on a rock, then slid his arm into the water. She offered a fervent mental wish for his success as she went in search of fresh water. Soon she found a small spring that trickled down the cave wall and pooled in a stony basin before disappearing into the sand.

She drank thirstily, then returned to the fire. She was sitting by the flames, plaiting her wet hair into a single braid, when Michael gave a crow of triumph. He leaped up and came toward her, a fine fat fish still thrashing in his hands. "I'll clean this if you'll figure out a way to cook it."

She considered a moment. There weren't really many choices. "How about if I wrap it in seaweed and bake it in the coals?"

"Sounds excellent."

The cleaned fillets baked quickly, with delicious results. The fish could not have been fresher, and salt from the seaweed had steamed through the delicate flesh. Of course, Catherine was hungry enough to enjoy a rock-hard chunk of army biscuit.

After the meal, she leaned back and linked her arms around her drawn-up knees. Taking advantage of the relaxed atmosphere, she asked, "What made you decide to return to Skoal?"

He stared at the fire, the flickering flames casting a harsh light over his chiseled features. "My brother, mostly."