Returning to the basket, Gyles hunkered down, sliding each kitten in without letting any out. At the edge of his vision, he caught a flash of fur and pounced. Stuffing the runaway into the basket, he asked, “How many are there?”

“Nine. Here’s another.”

Standing, he took receipt of a ginger fluffball. He added it to the collection. “Can a cat have nine?”

“Ruggles obviously believes so.”

Another came tumbling through the grass. He was insinuating it into the furry mewling pile writhing inside the basket when he heard a twig snap.

“Oh-oh!”

He turned just in time to take a giant step and catch her as she tumbled from the branch. She landed in his arms in a jumble of velvet skirts. He hefted her up easily, then juggled her into a more comfortable position.

It took two attempts before Francesca managed to fill her lungs. “Th-thank you.” She stared at him, and wondered if there was something else she should say. He was carrying her as if she weighed no more than one of the kittens. His eyes were locked on hers; she couldn’t think.

Then those grey eyes darkened, turned stormy and turbulent. His gaze shifted to her lips.

“I think,” he murmured, “that I deserve a reward.”

He didn’t ask-he simply took. Bending his head, he set his lips to hers.

The first touch was a shock-his lips were cool, firm. They hardened, moving on hers, somehow demanding. Instinctively, she tried to appease him, her lips softening, yielding. Then she remembered that she was considering marrying him. She slid her hands up, over his chest, over his shoulders. Locking them at his nape, she kissed him back.

She sensed a fleeting hesitation, a momentary hiatus as if she’d shocked him-a heartbeat later it was wiped from her mind by a surge of fiery demand. The sudden pressure shook her. She parted her lips on a gasp-he surged in, ruthless and relentless, taking and claiming and demanding more.