She covered his arm with her own. Her head was tucked just beneath his chin, the feminine curve of her back nestled snugly against his front, fitting so perfectly to his body it was an agony.

“You frightened me tonight,” she said.

“Did I?”

“A little.”

He nuzzled her cheek. “It seemed to me that you got right into the spirit of things.”

“I was frightened when you wouldn’t stop pummeling Fred. You looked quite wild. As if you’d kill him with your bare hands.” She frowned up at him. “And you had no care at all for your injury. I thought the pain of it might stop you eventually, but you didn’t seem to regard it.”

“No more than Fred regarded his wound. It’s often the way when a man’s blood is up.” St. Clare had felt it, of course. The stitches had pulled, and there was a burning pain, as if some of them had burst. It had been the least of his worries.

As for Fred, he had seemed to wince and grunt with extra vigor whenever St. Clare connected with his shoulder, but Fred’s arm had worked well enough. He’d had no difficulty throwing punches—and landing them, too. St. Clare would be lucky if he could move tomorrow. He was already aching in one hundred different places.

“Do you still hate him so very much?” Maggie asked.

“No,” he said. And then, grudgingly, “Yes. In that moment at the tavern, I did hate him. It all came back to me. The injustice of it. What he did to me—and what he’s done to you. I’m afraid I lost my head.”

An understatement.

When Fred had insulted Maggie in the taproom, something had snapped inside of St. Clare. He’d been overcome with the urge to spill Fred’s blood. To make him suffer the way St. Clare had suffered. The way Maggie had suffered.

“Yes. You did.” She turned her face to his. “It was rather thrilling.”

He smiled. “I thought you said you were afraid?”

“I was. Thrilled. Frightened. I do believe this has been the most exciting night of my life.”

A laugh rumbled in his chest. “You mad creature. What am I to do with you?”

But he knew precisely what to do.

He found her lips in the moonlight and kissed her softly, deeply. Her mouth yielded to his, lush and sweet. His heart thudded hard.

“I’m a Honeywell,” she said. The words were a mingled whisper of breath as she kissed him back with warm, half-parted lips, making his blood sing. “We can’t help enjoying a bit of danger.”