“It depends on your definition of harm.” She didn’t trust herself with him one little bit. He was too appealing. Even in sleep her body sought to get closer to him, and it wasn’t simply his body heat she wanted.
She’d never understood that part in the Bible where it said better to marry than burn. She didn’t understand, then, what it meant to “burn.” Now she did.
She burned, she yearned, she ached for him.
But it was impossible. She knew nothing about him. He knew nothing about himself. He could be married. She would not, could not seduce another woman’s husband.
Did infidelity count if you did not know you were doing it?
Even if she gave herself to him, what then? Would the burning cease, or would it intensify? A craving: once tasted, never forgotten. He could get his memory back at any moment, and go on his merry way, leaving her behind . . . burning.
Maddy used to pride herself on her sound common sense. She was the practical, the realistic, the dependable one.
That Maddy was vanishing fast. A lifetime’s common sense shattered by a pair of blue eyes that invited her to forget her worries and a smile that could melt her bones.
Five children depended on Maddy keeping her head. And her virtue.
A night on the cold hard floor would ensure that. And possibly bring her to her senses.
He frowned. “I’d never hurt you.”
“I know.” She believed him. He wouldn’t harm her. Not deliberately. Not knowingly. But harm was not always physical. Or deliberate.
“Then get into this bed.”
She shook her head and blew out the candle. “Good night, Mr. Rider.” The cottage was lit by the gentle glow of the dying fire.
“Then if you must be so stubborn . . .” He hopped off the bed and limped across the room.
“What are you doing?” She sat up, defensively clutching the bedclothes to her.
He held out his hand to her. “Come on.”
“No, I—”
“You’re sleeping in the bed,” he insisted. “I’ll sleep here.”
She didn’t move.
He gave an exasperated sigh. “If you think I’m going to allow a woman to give up her bed and sleep on the floor while I sleep in hers in comfort—” He snorted and again, held out his hand. “I won’t take no for an answer.”
It was what he’d said the other night. She knew there was no point arguing. “Very well, but I warn you, if you get back into bed with me—”
“I won’t.” It was blunt and to the point, surprising her. Where had the flirtatious rogue gone? Or was this another of his tricks?
Cautiously she put her hand in his and he drew her to her feet. He led her back to her bed and courteously helped her into it as though he were helping a lady into a carriage.
“Lie down,” he ordered, and when she did, he drew the covers up to her chin and tucked her in like a child. She didn’t feel in the least childlike.
He limped across to the makeshift bed but didn’t slide into it. Instead he poked a few more sticks into the fire, then straddled a chair and sat on it backward. With his elbows planted on the backrest and his chin resting on folded fists, he stared into the dancing flames.
“What are you doing?”
“Thinking. Go to sleep.” Firelight limned the silhouette of his face and gilded the long, hard horseman’s legs, inadequately covered by the vicar’s nightshirt.
Maddy tried not to think about the body hidden beneath it. She closed her eyes, but knowing he was sitting there, awake, was too tempting. Was he brooding again about his memory loss? Staring into the coals, wondering who he was?
He looked . . . lonely.
