Just last night, she'd lain in bed thinking about his body—all of his body, which she'd studied and touched—until she'd slowly unbuttoned her nightdress and bared her breasts. The meager breeze fluttering past the curtains had grazed over her heated skin, making her shudder, making her…long.

She'd never known what to call the urges she'd felt in the night—not lust, because they never had been focused on any one man. So she'd thought of them as longing, but not last night. She'd truly felt lust, and it had been so strong she'd finally run her fingers over her own breast and down her belly.

A noise had startled her—just the house settling—but she'd jerked her hand away, ashamed.

Not only was she one of those women, she was alone in the house with a man who knew it….

When she'd finally guided the shaking key into the lock of his door, she'd fled outside, hurrying in the direction of the meadow in front of her home.

Vitale met her on the path. "What has happened? You're white as a sheet."

"It's nothing. The Scot woke."

"He's a mercenary?"

"I'm almost positive, though I am convinced he's an obnoxious man." At least he'd be gone soon. She was sure that he'd be eager to return to indiscriminate killing and sharpening knives and practicing pistols and whatever else mercenaries did.

"Did he frighten you or threaten you?"

"N-Not exactly…"

"You never listen to me!" Vitale cried with a volley of Gallic hand gestures. "You've been too sheltered—can't comprehend that there are bad people in the world that shouldn't be saved! You're too…soft!" He said the word with disgust.

"I am not soft!"

"When I saved you from that footpad, you were too stunned to give him your choker and you quaked like a little girl."