The scent of Gemma was wholesome and reviving, like the air of the dale, spiced with a hint of green, growing things and warm, wonderful woman.

She shivered slightly in her impractical gown and he pulled her closer. Their gazes held and he marveled at gray eyes gone silver by the light of the moon.

She kissed him.

He was surprised, and yet more ready for the touch of her soft mouth than he'd ever been for anything in his life.

Gemma's mouth. Gemma's lips.

Gemma.

His hands slid up her slim waist, lifting her closer still. She had her hands in his hair, tugging urgently. The sting only aroused him more fully. He wanted so badly to tumble her down into that tall grass, to kiss her throat, to tug her bodice down to taste her breasts, to slide those gossamer skirts up to find her hot and wet and ready to his seeking hand.

She moaned into his mouth and he nearly gave into his aching need.

The music changed to a sprightly reel and Lysander remembered why he could not drive himself into her warm and ready body in the concealment of high grass.

He would not embarrass her before her people. He would not walk her back into that gathering with grass stains on the back of her dress and on his knees, with her hair tumbled and the rash of his evening beard growth on her cheeks.

When he took Gemma Oakes, it would be in the privacy of the bedchamber, the light of a warm fire, and he would take his time, by God, to bring her as much pleasure as he knew how to give.

And he would know himself to be the most fortunate man alive — alive with the beating heart she had created in him again.

WHEN LYSANDER LIFTED HIS mouth from hers, Gemma tugged at his lapels, going up on the very tips of her slippers to follow those hot, tantalizing lips.

"No."

She stared at him. The word took a moment to penetrate her lust-fogged thoughts. "No?"

He stroked a breeze-blown strand of her hair behind her ear. "No. Your people wait. We should go back."

At that moment, Gemma didn't give a damn about the village or the assembly. He'd awakened the sleeping lover inside her, kissed it awake and driven it mad with that teasing tongue and that hot mouth. And then he said "no" and expected it to sleep again?

Abruptly, she was hotly, irrationally furious with him. Didn't he realize that she'd already given up so much? That she'd worked so hard and had never taken for herself?

She wanted this, this selfish thing. She wanted to feel like a woman again, to feel touch, to not be alone anymore!

She went to on tiptoe again and stared this unpredictable stranger in the eye.

"Kiss me now, Lysander Worthington. Or never kiss me again!"