"You little fool," he said. "Are you trying to kill yourself?"

She looked up, her eyes widening at the sight of him. Turner suddenly remembered he was barely dressed.

"Bugger it," he muttered to himself, then shook his head in exasperation and hauled her to her feet.

Miranda snapped out of her daze and began to struggle. "What are you doing?"

"Shaking some sense into you."

"I'm perfectly fine," she said, though her shivers proved her a liar.

"The devil you are. I'm freezing just talking to you. Come by the fire."

She looked longingly at the orange flames crackling in the next room. "Only if you stay here."

"Fine," he said. Anything to get her warm. With a slightly less than gentle prod, he pointed her in the right direction.

Miranda stopped near the fire and held her hands out. A low moan of contentment escaped her lips, traveling across the room and punching Turner right in the gut.

He stepped forward, mesmerized by the pale, almost translucent skin of the back of her neck.

Miranda sighed again, then turned around to warm her back. She jumped away an inch, startled by the sight of him standing so close. "You said you'd leave," she accused.

"I lied." He shrugged. "I haven't the least bit of faith that you'll dry yourself off properly."

"I'm not a child."

He glanced down at her breasts. Her day dress was white, and plastered to her skin as it was, he could just make out the dark blush of her nipples. "Clearly, you are not."

Her arms flew to her chest.

"Turn around if you don't want me looking at you."

She did, but not before her mouth fell open at his audacity.

Turner stared at her back for a long moment. It was nearly as lovely as the front of her had been. The skin on her neck was somehow beautiful, and a few tendrils of her hair had escaped her coiffure and were curling from the damp. She smelled like wet roses, and it took all his strength not to reach out and slide his hand down the length of her arm.

No, not her arm, her hip. Or maybe her leg. Or maybe-

He took a ragged breath.

"Is something wrong?" She didn't turn around, but her voice sounded nervous.

"Not at all. Are you warming up?"

"Oh, yes." But even as she said that, she shivered.

Before Turner could give himself the chance to talk himself out of it, he reached out and unfastened her skirt.

A strangled yelp emerged from her mouth.

"You'll never get warm with this thing clinging to you like an icicle." He started to pull the fabric down.

"I don't think…I know…This really…"

"Yes?"

"This is a very bad idea."

"Probably." The skirt fell to the floor in a sodden heap, leaving her clad in her thin chemise, which clung like a second skin.

"Oh, my God." She tried to cover herself, but she obviously didn't know where to start. She crossed her arms, then moved one hand down to cover where her legs met. Then she must have realized that she wasn't even facing him, so she reached around and put her hands on her backside.

Turner half expected her to squeeze.

"Would you please just go away?" she said in a mortified whisper.

He meant to. Dear God, he knew he ought to obey her request. But his legs steadfastly refused to move, and he couldn't take his eyes off the sight of her exquisitely rounded backside covered by her slender hands.

Hands that were still shaking from the cold.

He cursed again, remembering just why he had yanked off her skirt to begin with. "Get closer to the fire," he ordered.

"Any closer and I'll be in it!" she snapped. "Just go away."

He took a step back. He liked her better when she was spitting fire.

"Away!"

He walked to the door and shut it. Miranda remained utterly still for a moment, then finally let the blanket around her shoulders fall to the floor as she knelt before the fire.

Turner's heart thumped loudly in his chest- so loud, in fact, he was surprised it didn't alert her to his presence.

She sighed and stretched.

He grew even harder- a feat he didn't think possible.

She lifted her heavy tresses off her neck and rolled her head around languorously.

Turner groaned.

Miranda's head spun around. "You knave!" she spat out, forgetting to cover herself.

"Knave?" He had to raise a brow at the old-fashioned word.

"Knave, rake, devil, whatever you want to call it."

"Guilty as charged, I'm afraid."

"If you were a gentleman, you'd leave."

"But you love me," he said, not sure why he was reminding her of it.

"You are horrid to bring that up," she whispered.

"Why?"

Miranda looked at him sharply, shocked that he'd asked. "Why do I love you? I don't know. You certainly don't deserve it."

"No," he agreed.

"It doesn't matter, anyway. I don't think I love you anymore," she said quickly. Anything to preserve her battered pride. "You were right. It was a schoolgirl infatuation."

"No, it wasn't. And you don't fall out of love with someone so quickly."

Miranda's eyes widened. What was he saying? Did he want her love? "Turner, what do you want?"

"You." The word was the barest of whispers, as if he could hardly bring himself to say it.

"No, you don't," she said, more out of nervousness than anything else. "You said so."

He took a step forward. He'd go to hell for this, but first he would have heaven. "I want you," he said. And he did. He wanted her with more power, more heat and intensity than he could even comprehend. It went beyond desire.

It went beyond need.

It wasn't explainable, and it sure as hell wasn't rational, but it was there, and it could not be denied.

Slowly, he closed the distance between them. Miranda stood frozen by the fire, her lips parted, her breath growing shallow. "What are you going to do?" she whispered.

"That should be obvious by now." And in one fluid movement, he leaned down and scooped her up.

Miranda didn't move, didn't struggle against him. The warmth of his body was intoxicating. It poured into her, melting her bones, making her feel deliciously wanton. "Oh, Turner," she sighed.

"Oh, yes." His lips trailed along the line of her jaw as he laid her gently and reverently on the bed.

In that last moment before he covered her body with his own, Miranda could only stare up at him, thinking that she'd loved him forever, that her every dream, her every waking thought, had been leading to this moment. He hadn't yet uttered the words that would make her heart soar, but just now that didn't seem to matter. His blue eyes blazed so brightly, with such intensity that she thought he must love her a little. And that seemed to be enough.

Enough to make this possible.

Enough to make this right.

Enough to make this perfect.

Miranda sank into the mattress as his weight settled atop her. She reached out to touch his thick hair. "It's so soft," she murmured. "What a waste."

Turner raised his head and looked down at her with amusement. "A waste?"

"On a man," she said with a shy smile. "Like long eyelashes. Women would kill for them."

"They would, would they?" He grinned down at her. "And how do my eyelashes rate?"

"Very, very highly."

"And would you kill for long eyelashes?"

"I would kill for yours."

"Really? Don't you think they'd be a bit fair with your dark hair?"

She swatted him playfully. "I want them fluttering against my face, not attached to my eyelids, silly."

"Did you just call me silly?"

She grinned at him. "I did."

"Does this feel silly?" He stroked his hand up her bare leg.

She shook her head, her breath leaving her body in mere seconds.

"Does this?" His hand closed over her breast.

She moaned incoherently.

"Does it?"

"No," she managed to get out.

"How does it feel?"

"Good."

"Is that all?"

"Wonderful."

"And?"

Miranda took a ragged breath, trying not to concentrate on his forefinger, which was tracing lazy circles through the thin silk covering her puckered nipple. And she said the only word that seemed to describe it. "Sparkling."

He smiled with surprise. "Sparkling?"

It was all she could do just to nod. The heat of him touched her everywhere, and he was so solid and heavy and male. Miranda felt as if she were slipping over the edge of a precipice. She was falling, falling, but she didn't want to be saved. She just wanted to take him along with her.

He was nibbling on her ear, and then his mouth was at the hollow of her shoulder, his teeth tugging at the thin strap of her chemise. "How do you feel?" he asked huskily.

"Hot." The one word seemed to describe every inch of her body.

"Mmm, good. I like you that way." His hand stole under the silken fabric and cupped her bare breast.

"Oh, dear God! Oh, Turner!" She arched her back beneath him, inadvertently giving him a bigger handful.

"God or me?" he said teasingly.

Miranda's breath was coming in short gasps. "I…don't…know."

Turner slid his other hand under the hem of her chemise and pushed it up until he felt her softly curved hip. "Under the circumstances," he murmured into her neck, "I think it's me."

She smiled weakly. "Please, no religion." She did not need to be reminded that her actions went against every tenet she'd been taught in church, school, home, and everywhere else.

"On one condition."

She opened her eyes wide in question.

"You must take off this blasted thing."

"I can't." She choked on the words.

"It's lovely and soft, and I'll buy you a hundred of them, but if you don't get rid of it now, it'll be shreds." As if to demonstrate his urgency, he ground his hips closer to her, reminding her of the intensity of his arousal.