His world is science, medicine, and what can only be witnessed and evaluated. He has no time for love . . .
“Is it just me that you have a problem with, Mr. Thurlowe? Or are you this way with all women?”
Her tone alone was enough to set his teeth on edge. He whirled around, not realizing that she was so close, he practically stepped on her toes—and again, caught the heat of her body beneath that nightdress.
In a blink his mouth went dry. His hands wanted to reach for her. He tensed, holding himself back. And then, calmly, enunciating clearly, he said, “It is just you. I like every other woman I’ve ever met.”
It was a deliberately hurtful thing to say. If she would back away, perhaps then some semblance of his sanity would return. She didn’t.
Instead, her chin rose in defiance, and he had a strong desire to kiss her. It would not take much effort. If he tipped his head down, she was right there.
He was startled at how easily their bodies would mesh together. She was just the right height. And while she accused him of not liking her, parts of his body liked her very much. In fact, he’d never experienced liking this hard—
“I believe you are a very poor sport.”
That was it.
A mountain of snow could not have cooled his ardor faster.
“Good night, Mrs. Estep.” He turned and walked out of the tavern.
She followed him. Of course she would. “Good night to you, sir.” She sounded almost pleasant.
And then she slammed the door behind him and threw the bar.
For a beat Ned stared at the door as if he could burn it up with his eyes. What was the matter with that woman?
He should fall on his knees now and thank the good Lord that he hadn’t surrendered to base impulses and attempted to kiss her, because he’d been close.
Close to opening himself to her. Close to letting down his guard. Close to making a fool of himself. A barred door was the only way to deal with her.
Of course, he was now standing alone out in the road. Hippocrates his horse had ambled home.
Swearing under his breath, Ned began the short march to his doorstep.
Her world is one of survival, of dreams, and of wanting more than any woman of her era could possibly want. She has no time for love . . .
Gemma fell against the barred door. Her heart pounded and her head throbbed. She couldn’t tell which was more disconcerting.
That man.
If she wasn’t careful she would once again fall for a handsome face. There had been a moment, when they were alone, when he’d sat so near to her she could detect the scent of horse and fresh air about him, when she could look into his eyes and see every shade of golden brown even in the candlelight, when she was tempted to reach out to him.
And true, earlier when he’d lifted her in his arms, she had never felt more safe. Never with Paul and not even as a child with her father. He was solid, strong, protective. She’d allowed herself to relax, and to momentarily trust.
Except, he was not her friend. She had no worse enemy in the world. He had just said as much. And she would bet all her possessions that he had some sort of role in the attack on her tonight. Oh, perhaps he didn’t plan it. He sounded genuinely surprised and quite angry at Fitz’s attack on her.
However, wittingly or unwittingly, he’d had a hand in it, or so she wanted to convince herself . . . because to think differently was dangerous.
