Something twisted painfully in his chest and made him reach out to touch her wet cheek. She turned her face away, her body racked by shuddering.

Remorse squeezed his heart like a fist; her vulnerability pierced him as nothing else could.

His anger turning to tenderness against his will, Sloan slid his arms around her and gathered her into him, this time gently, wrapping her carefully in his strength. She leaned weakly against him and sobbed quietly against his shoulder.

The last of his defenses crumbled. She was soft and trembling against him; her tears seemed to soak through his shirt and into his heart.

He didn’t want to let her go. He wanted, he realized with dismay, to hold her and touch her, to keep her close and protect her. He wanted to make love to her.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured.

Hearing the rough contrition in his voice, Heather fought to hold back a ragged sob. The hand that stroked her back and smoothed her gown along the curve of her bottom was soothing, gentle. She couldn’t understand Sloan’s sudden compassion, yet she needed whatever comfort she could find.

Drawing back, she looked up into his eyes. Her tears arrested at his expression—three parts concern and one of tenderness.

The night trembled around them as Sloan brought his hands up to cradle her tearstained face. He pressed the lightest of kisses on her lips, then bent and lifted her into his arms.

Wordlessly he carried her from the kitchen and up the stairs to her bedchamber. The room was dark but warmed by the steady heat of the woodstove. Sloan set her on her feet and lit a lamp. In the sudden pale glow, Heather shivered.

Watching her, Sloan hesitated. Desire knifed through him, sharp and insistent; his body was hard with need. Yet seeing her standing there, looking so proud and vulnerable, gave him pause. She had wrapped her arms around herself, protecting herself from him. Her eyes were wary.

He knew she wouldn’t come willingly to him. He’d seen to that. He had pushed her away at every opportunity. He had made her cry. Her very gentleness had goaded him to hurt her. Now he was filled with the desire to offer solace, the need to comfort, as well as other primal feelings more basic and male. Still, he intended to give her the choice.

“Do you want me to leave?”

The air between them trembled, raw with tension.

“No,” Heather whispered.

His gaze heated to molten pewter. His hand came up to touch her, because he could no longer bear a moment of not touching her. The hell with waiting. He wanted her, wanted to lose himself in her body, the taste of her, the smell of her, the feel of her.