She responded-tentatively; instead of the aggressive response she expected, his lips softened fractionally, encouragingly. She dared more, returning the pressure of his lips, the sensuous caress of his tongue.

Without even knowing it, she sank into the kiss.

Triumph streaked through Richard; he mentally crowed. He'd laid waste her starchy resistance; she was soft and pliant, pure magic in his arms. She tasted like the sweetest summer wine. The heady sensation went straight to his head.

And straight to his loins.

Staving off the burgeoning ache, he feasted, careful not to startle her, to let her wits surface enough to recognize his liberties. He wasn't fool enough to think she wouldn't break away if he gave her sufficient cause. She was no simple country miss, no naive maid-her three words, her attitude, had reeked of authority. And she wasn't young; no young lady would have had the confidence to command him, of all men, to "Put me down." She was not girl, but woman-and she fitted very well, supple and curvaceous in his arms.

How well she was fitting, how tempting her curves were, locked hard against him, registered, and raised his lust to new heights. The soft, silken sway of her heavy hair, a warm, living veil drifting over the backs of his hands, and the perfume-wildflowers, the promise of spring and the fecundity of growing things-that rose from the silky locks, converted lust to pain.

It was he who pulled back and ended the kiss-it was that, or suffer worse agony. For he would have to let her go, untouched, unsampled, his lust unsated; a snowbound churchyard in the depths of a winter's night was a challenge even he balked at.

And, despite the intimate caresses they'd exchanged, he knew she wasn't that sort of lady. He'd breached her walls by sheer brazen recklessness, evoked by her haughty command to put her down. Right now, he'd like to lay her down, but that, he knew, was not to be.