Curiously, the presence of his clothing against her own bare skin excited her as much as nakedness would have done. Perhaps more.

Desire pooled hot and sharp between her thighs. And she moved closer to him, pressing her breasts to his shirt while his hand moved lower, slid between her legs, and found that aching spot and caressed it.

He set his mouth to hers and his tongue came inside again and circled her own slowly before moving to the roof of her mouth.

“Turn onto your back for me,” he whispered against her mouth.

He was, she realized then, unbuttoning his pantaloons at the waist and opening the front flap.

She almost forgot his disabilities as he rolled on top of her and his legs pressed between her own, spreading them wide until she twined them about his powerful thighs encased in the warm fabric of his pantaloons. His weight was heavy on her. She felt him position himself against the sensitive opening to her desire and her womb and spread both hands over his buttocks as he slid his hand beneath her.

He came into her with one slow, hard, deep thrust.

And memory flooded every inch of her body.

She did not fight him. She did not call out or try to push him away. Her mind was sharply at work with a different message from the one her body was sending her. Her mind told her that he was Sydnam Butler, that he was filling her with himself because it was something they both wanted, that until the very moment of entry she had been filled with wonder and pleasure and the desire for more.

Her body was rigid with tension, she realized, and his was heavy on her. He was deep inside her-and holding still.

“Anne,” he said. “Anne?”

“Sydnam.” She had never spoken his given name aloud before, even to herself. But it saved her now, the knowledge that that was who he was. “Sydnam, it is all right. It is all right. Don’t stop.”

She moved her hands up his sides until she became suddenly, horribly aware that there was no arm on the right side.

But at the same moment he moved in her, withdrawing to the brink of her, pressing in again, smooth and hard against the slickness of her inner passage.

It was all terribly, terribly carnal, terrifyingly intimate.

Body and mind waged a war-and both won, both lost. She knew he was Sydnam, she recognized the beauty of what he did with her, she still desperately wanted it, she relaxed and opened to him.

And yet physically, sexually, she felt nothing. Not horror. Not pleasure. Only the mental satisfaction that this was happening to her again and that perhaps the memory of it would replace the memory of the other time.

His left hand took her right, twined fingers with hers, and lifted their joined hands over her head as he worked in her for several minutes until finally he sighed against the side of her face and she felt liquid heat at her core.

His fingers relaxed about her own.

She felt like weeping then. It had been beautiful, yet somehow she had missed the beauty. It had been intimate, yet she had hidden away from it in some deep, secret part of herself. She might have shared something deeper than their joined bodies with him, but she felt very separate from him.

He rolled awkwardly off her almost immediately and sat up on the side of the bed facing away from her without looking at her. He buttoned the flap of his pantaloons and got to his feet to cross to the window, where he stood looking out.

He was indeed beautiful, she thought, looking at his broad shoulders, his narrow waist and firm buttocks, his long, well-muscled legs. And he had just been inside her body. He had made love to her.

And he knew that it had not been good for her.

She knew what reason he would give himself for that.

She opened her mouth to assure him that it had not been so very bad, and that his disfigurements had had nothing to do with her lack of complete pleasure.

But how could she say that aloud? What reassurance would there be in such words?

And how could she tell him the truth-that the shadow of another man had come between them at the moment of their joining, that for that moment she had felt such a revulsion that she had almost fought him in maniacal panic?

How could she tell him that for a moment he had become Albert Moore to her?

What could she say to him?

She said nothing. She had not fought him after all or said or done anything that had shown open revulsion. And she had told him beforehand that she was inexperienced.

Perhaps for him their lovemaking had demonstrated no more than that fact.

But she had so wanted the afternoon to be perfect.

She had so wanted…

Ah, dear God, she had so wanted.



Sydnam stood at the bedchamber window looking out. It was still only late afternoon. Probably no more than half an hour had passed since they had come up here.