Bronwyn didn’t know how long they ran, only that the duke’s shoulder felt safe and warm, and despite the rain, the jostling of his pounding strides, or the metallic scent of blood from his cravat, she rested her head against him, face to the sky, and closed her eyes. When they finally slowed and stopped, he slid her to her feet.

“Bronwyn, look at me. Are you well?” His words came through her in a low, dim echo, her ears still ringing from the blast and her brain still fogged with shock. The patter of raindrops hit the pine tree cover above them.

With one masterful, controlled shot, he had saved her bloody life.

“Don’t think we’re even now,” she whispered. “I saved you twice.”

His chuckle warmed her. Heart pounding and blood rushing in her veins like a storm tide, Bronwyn felt her body sway. Oh, dear Lord, she would not swoon. She wasn’t a swooner. She never swooned. To counter the ignominy, Bronwyn did the only thing she could as blood rushed like a river through her veins. She launched herself forward, grabbed his lapels, and yanked his head down to hers.

Seven

What could he do but succumb?

They weren’t out of danger, but no one would find them for the moment, shrouded under the cover of evergreens and darkness as they were. His sodden arms wrapped around her—this brave, wicked hellion who had turned his life upside down in a matter of days—and he pulled her close as her sweet mouth sought his. It slanted open, a brazen tongue courting his, licking inside his own mouth with frantic surges, her teeth almost grinding into his.

God, the taste of her was sublime.

The kiss itself was destructive. Chaotic. A gnashing of lips, teeth, and tongues as if they were desperate to climb inside each other. To celebrate the fact that they were alive! His hands roamed her back as hers wound and wrenched on his damp hair. Water dripped down his cheeks and warmed from the heat of his skin as passion flared, burning away any cold.

Blood, excitement, and primal desire tore through his veins on the heels of the fight, his cock surging painfully in his trousers. Valentine knew what she was feeling. After any kind of life-and-death situation, particularly in his line of work, he always felt the need to release. To fuck. It was a post-survival emotional trigger, rising from perilous conditions leading to a frenetic kind of lust. Sex was a natural outlet, and years ago, Lisbeth had been a willing enthusiastic partner. But this was Bronwyn.

“Wait,” he said.