“She felt abused, used, cherished, and pleasured.She despised him. She loved him. She mistrusted him. She had complete faith in him. “Ah!”

“Come on, Avery." Fresh tears stained her cheeks. Her voice shook. "Wake up,damn it!" She sobbed, rocking forward and back, her arms wrapping tightlyaround his big body. "Don't you want to shout at me for disobeying you, youoverbearing, domineering male?"She squeezed her eyes shut and bit hard on her lip. He couldn't die. He was toostubborn, too alive, too vigorous. And she couldn't lose him. She loved him toomuch."I… am a… gentleman," she heard him gasp. "I never shout at women.”

“I love you,” she whispered, gazing up into his pale gray eyes.He smiled crookedly, for a moment looking at her with a dazzled air. He had, she realized sadly, no experience hearing those words. He didn’t know how to react. “I figured as much.”This time, she didn’t hit him.”

“They locked him in the stockade for four days. No other prisoners occupied the other cells that ran the length of the room. He was alone, and that was fine with him. He needed to think, and that was best done in a place where he wouldn’t see Ginesse Braxton—Ginesse, not Mildred—because she did things to his thought processes, such as dammed them up completely.She acted and he reacted: viscerally, irrepressibly, and ruinously.She fell in the water; he dove in after her. She laughed; he smiled. She mentioned the beauty of the sunset; he saw colors in it he hadn’t ever noticed. She peeked at him from under her gold-tipped lashes; he grew hard as Damascus steel. Pomfrey said something derogatory; he wanted to kill the sonofabitch with his bare hands.Things like that.”

“He stopped. She heard the intake of his breath. “You are my country, Desdemona.” Yearning, harsh and poignant and she felt herself swaying toward him. “My Egypt. My hot, harrowing desert and my cool, verdant Nile, infinitely lovely and unfathomable and sustaining.”She gasped.His gaze fell, shielded by his lashes. An odd, half-mocking smile played about his lips. “You’ll never hear old Blake say something like that.”She swallowed, unable to speak, her senses abraded by his stimulating words, her pulse hammering in anticipation? Trepidation?“Remember my words next time he calls you a bloody English rose.”

“Why did you refuse to marry me then?” he demanded.She should be quiet; she should just stay mute. But she was angry and hurt. Only moments before he’d been saying such lovely things; now he was being horrible. “Why can’t you help yourself?” she countered, shouting back.“What?”“Why are you compelled to come after me?” she demanded, setting her hands on her hips.For a moment, he just stared at her as if she was daft.“Because I love you,” he finally said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.“What?” She’d waited to hear him say those words for what seemed like an eternity, and now he’d said them just as casually and unconcernedly as he might have said, “I like that dress” or “Spot is a good name for a dog.”“Because I love you,” he repeated. “Why else would I?”“I don’t know. Because you’re mad?” she suggested. How dare he say he loved her here, in such a manner, with so little fanfare?He was watching her carefully. “You seem upset.”“Oh. Do I?” she asked sweetly. Behind her, the horse shifted uneasily. Smart horse. “Perhaps it’s because I do not believe you.”

“The knowledge that she was needed by something living, that she could benefit another creature, produce happiness, or contentment, or just a feeling of security--somehow it filled a part of her as nothing else had.”