He closed his eyes, remembering the recent moments of raw torment and searing pleasure. He had been wild to have her, but the duchess had been just as wild for him. He was still stunned by the contrast of her cool, elegant image and the moaning, writhing woman in his arms. She was so astonishingly sensual, she had the power to shatter his hard-won control.

He was crazy to have let himself go so far, yet his relief to find her unhurt had affected his judgment disastrously. He’d needed to reassure himself that she was really okay … And then he’d wound up savaging her with his temper again.

“Heather?” His voice was a hoarse murmur. “If I was angry at you tonight, if I went over the line … it’s because I was afraid.”

“Afraid?”

He turned his head slowly on the pillow to look at her, his unreadable eyes sliding over her face. “I’ve already lost one wife. I was afraid I would find you …” He didn’t finish.

Dead, was what he meant, she realized. He was thinking of Doe. She could see the bleak sorrow in his eyes. A new coldness crept through her body.

She didn’t want the tragedy of the past to intrude on the peace of the moment, yet it was the first part of his inner self Sloan had shared with her willingly. The vulnerability he’d revealed to her was all the more shattering, because she knew how rare it was.

“You weren’t to blame for her death, Sloan,” she whispered.

At her murmur, the fingers stroking her arm suddenly went still. He was silent for so long, she thought he wasn’t going to answer.

“I was to blame,” he said, his tone devoid of emotion.

“No, you can’t condemn yourself for what happened.”

“You weren’t there. You don’t know.”

“Tell me about it,” she urged.

His gaze turned distant. He didn’t want to talk about it. He didn’t want to remember that day. Doe’s pain, his rage, his despair. He couldn’t save her… Guilt rose in his throat, almost choking him. “She died in my arms. Christ, there was so much blood…”

His voice had dropped to a husk of a whisper, but Heather heard the raw pain at its depths.

“The buckskin coat,” she said quietly, suddenly making the connection. “The one I tried to wash. You were upset at me for touching it.”

He heaved a shuddering breath before he nodded. “Doe was wearing it that day. I couldn’t bring myself to throw it away. I didn’t want to forget.”

He had saved the bloodstained coat like some grisly trophy—or worse, a reminder of his guilt. She stared into his eyes, absorbing his pain. Her throat hurt with the need to cry. “You must have loved her very much.”