Everything he wanted in a woman? That wasn’t possible. He didn’t know what he wanted in a woman, and he was a long way from making up his mind. Or had been.

That thought put the fear of God into him. That, and the uncomfortable suspicion that his mind had been made up for him the moment he’d opened his eyes and seen her dozing in the chair. Ridiculous. He hadn’t even known her then.

But he knew her now.

He couldn’t be in love with her. He watched as she tossed her hair back from her face with a flick of her hand, and his stomach tied itself into knots. Attraction, however outrageous, was acceptable. It wasn’t possible that he was in love. He could love being with her, love making love with her, laughing with her. He could care for her, find her fascinating and arousing, but as for love, that wasn’t an option.

Love, here and in his time, meant things neither of them could ever have together. A home, a family. Years.

As the kettle began to sputter, he let out a long breath. He was simply magnifying the situation. She was special to him, and always would be. The days he spent with her would be a precious part of his life. But it was essential for him to remember, for both their sakes, that his life began two hundred years after Libby no longer existed.

“Is something wrong?”

He glanced over to see her holding two plates, her head cocked a bit to the side, as it did whenever she was trying to work out a problem.

“No.” He smiled and took the plates from her. “My mind was wandering.”

“Eat, Hornblower.” She patted his cheek. “You’ll feel better.”

Because he wanted to believe it could be that simple, he sat down and dug in while she fixed the tea.

It seemed natural, Libby thought, for them to share tea and sandwiches in the middle of the night—just the two of them sitting in the cozy kitchen, with an owl hooting somewhere in the forest and the moonlight fading. The awkwardness she had felt—foolishly, she believed—before she’d tugged on her robe, was gone.

“Better?” she asked him when he’d downed half of his sandwich.

“Yes.” The tension that had slammed into him so unexpectedly had nearly dissipated. He stretched out his legs so that the arch of his foot rubbed over her ankle. There was something soothing in the contact, like a long nap on a rainy afternoon. She looked so pretty with her hair mussed and her eyes heavy. “How is it,” he murmured, “that I’m the first man to have you?”