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A STRID COULD FEEL THE heat radiating off of Michael, and the sadistic side of her wanted to see him suffer a little more.

She didn’t know how she knew it, but without a doubt she knew that the rigid man was berating himself for his actions last night.

Her bottom had stung in pleasure, and a new wave of giddiness rolled through her in remembrance.

He was uptight in public. But in private… she fanned her face.

“Are you all right Astrid?” his deep baritone embraced her heart.

“Perfectly fine, thank you.”

She couldn’t be the only one affected, so just before they were about to return to the group, she made a decision she knew he couldn’t refuse.

She needed more time with him. He was baffling.

One minute he desired her, the next he was holding her at arm’s length.

She needed him to make up his mind. And more importantly, she needed to make up her own mind about him.

He was devilishly handsome. Her body hadn’t ceased to make that observation.

“I just need to grab something from the bookstore.”

With a grumble, he followed her into the store.

“I’ll take this time to look for a few books myself.” She could practically hear him grinding his teeth as he said the few words.

He was mad at himself, that much she knew. But why that ire had turned its hostile face toward her, she wasn’t quite sure. He was grumpy no matter what she did. Or didn’t do.

When she left him alone, he glared at her from across the street. When they visited the apothecary, he fumed the entire time. And now…he was practically a simmering volcano.

Well, let the man be for now. He was already off to search the philosophy texts. She thought she heard him mutter something about Hume and Kantian ethics. The names meant next to nothing to her.

Instead, Astrid was just pursuing some books in one of the less frequented corners when she saw a book on the top shelf. It stood out for its deep pink color. Very few books were pink. Blue. Red. Brown. But pink…it looked delicious. As delicious as a book could look.

If only she could reach up and just nick it with her fingers, surely it would fall right into her hands—

A warmth encased her. His arm—Michael’s arm—was crawling up her limbs, bracketing her.

“That will fall on your head,” the murmur blew into her ear and seeped into her brain. Melting something. Probably reason.

His solid body was close behind her. Too close. She could feel his chest against her back. His chin in her hair. And his…hardness at the top of her bum.

She shivered. “Michael.” One hoarse word.

“Astrid,” he whispered, “what are you doing to me?”

“Me?” Gradually, she arched back into him. “What are you doing?”

His groan caused her nipples to tingle. “I could be doing so much more.”

A whimper escaped her lips.

“Sh. Someone might hear you.”

The book they had been reaching for was now tucked against her chest, pressed there by Michael’s strong hand. His other hand was on her hip, migrating north, up her ribcage. His thumb brushed the underside of her breast.

“Please.” What was she even asking him? For more? In a public place?

“Please, what?” The warmth of his breath was excruciating. He felt right. Protective. Attentive. But what did he really think of her? He had shown interest and then gone cold. And now, he was anything but cold. He was a natural hot springs, and all she wanted was to bathe in him.

“End this torture. What do you want from me?” she demanded.

He whirled her around, his lips an inch away from hers, his body pressing her into the shelf behind her.

Desire ridden eyes beheld her, while a tremble in his arms vibrated through her.

“I-I don’t know.” He dropped his forehead against hers and took a couple of deep inhalations.

Her heart was sawing through her, unaware of whether it was building or destroying something.

Yet a glance at his face revealed nothing.

Perfectly stoic, he was. She didn’t understand how he could so quickly turn his emotions off, like snuffing out a candle, whereas as she had a conflagration of inner organs to manage.

With that snuff of a candle, he led her to the counter and paid for the pink book along with a few of his resting atop it.

Neither of them noticed the curious look from the bookstore owner as he processed the payment.

Just as they were passing through the doorway and Astrid felt the burning imprint of Michael’s hand on her back, the shopkeeper called out, “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

Together they looked back at the sound. The man was pointing to something hanging in the doorframe.

Mistletoe.

Of course there would be mistletoe.

She looked up at Michael and caught sight of his knitted brows, thinking he would wave off the prompt from the store owner.

Knowing he couldn’t give her even a small kiss, she couldn’t hide the hurt. Hadn’t he mauled her the night before? She was a strong woman, but for some reason, this public (though small) rebuff, hurt deep.

Casting her head down, she moved to leave the store.

“Astrid,” he exhaled roughly and his hand cupped her jaw, “I want you, damn it.”

And then he placed the gentlest of kisses on her lips.

It was as though he returned to the man she had once thought he was. In a word: kind. She was spellbound by his passion, his intense emotional drive. But she needed his kindness.

The two left the bookstore with her hand tucked under his arm. That kiss, that small tender kiss, had shifted something into place. That kiss told her that he could still be soft with her. The thoughts hardly had a moment to settle into place before they approached the group.

“Michael, thank God you’re here.” The dowager was racing toward them, panic flared in her eyes.

“What’s going on?”

“Hope is gone.”

“What?” Astrid’s body froze.

“She’s missing. Isaac chased after her. I-I—”

“Don’t worry about anything.” Michael braced her with his hands. “Everything is going to be fine.” His authoritative tone and steely gaze had Mavis and Astrid transfixed.

“Listen to me, you need to go back to the house. I’ll find out what’s going on.” Then he barked out orders to the footmen present and had the guests packed up in the carriages to return home.

He spoke with such aplomb, no one questioned his instructions. He knew exactly what to do. He could be trusted.

Nothing terrified Astrid more.

She had hope that by the time they reached Snowick Abbey that some tranquility would have been restored. Surely Hope had only wandered off or taken a short ride with a friend. Alas, the frenzy only persisted upon arrival.

Mavis was a wreck, understandably so. Michael told her to go to her room and wait.

Servants were attending to her. A long bath, a meal, and tea were part of the instructions Astrid had overheard.

Michael had also taken care of the day’s activities by telling guests they were still welcome to take a stroll on the grounds and that meals would be served in the rooms out of respect for Hope’s absence.

It was the right decision. It would have been foolish to expect the guests to sit and converse under such duress.

Never had anyone she known been subject to such a crisis before, yet Michael had commandeered the party with the expertise of a weathered sea captain.

But when the dinner meal came, Astrid felt sick to her stomach.

Her brother was gone, and she prayed that he would find Hope. Her desire for comfort was consuming her. Before her courage could desert her, she snuck down the hallway to Michael’s room. A quick knock, a faster call to enter, and she was inside.

“Astrid?”

She pressed her palms against the closed door. She should have been expecting him in dishabille, but the sight of him in only a shirt (and open at that) and trousers was shocking to her system. But she wouldn’t flinch in front of him.

She didn’t waste any time in asking for what she needed. “Do you think Hope is all right?”

“Yes,” he said without hesitation.

“How can you be so sure?”

“Isaac is in love with her. He won’t let any harm come to her.”

“He might not be able to find her. How can you be so sure?”

“I just know.” It came out sounding harsh, and Astrid wanted to recoil, so vulnerable in the moment.

“He’s not perfect. He might not be able to—” she broke off, not wanting to speak the awful words. “No one’s perfect.”

Michael scoffed, but she didn’t know why. She had to ask him. “What? I suppose you think you’re perfect?”

“Far from it.”

Astrid stepped into the room. She sensed he was harboring something, but how could she make him divulge his secret.

It was probably something silly, like taking the last scone at tea.

The man was as virtuous as a monk. Her fragile state opted for a mocking tone.

“What has the great Duke of Tinsder done that’s so awful? ”

He leveled a withering stare her way, and there was no chance for her to prepare for the words he spoke. “I killed my brother and stole his inheritance.”

And that confession did make her wince. Never in a million years had she expected such a gruesome confession from the man who always held himself together. The rigid, principled man. The stoic saint. The mannered monk. “What?”

When he didn’t answer, she spoke again. “There’s no reason for me to believe that you could have possibly done that.”

“I may as well have. I knew that we were supposed to stick together. Hali, Jeremy, and I.” Michael sank into a chair and she cautiously joined him in an adjacent seat.

“What happened?”

She watched as his head fell to his hands.

“Stay together. That was the only rule when we went out. But,” he rubbed his hand over his forehead, “one day, we didn’t.

We had all been swimming and boating on the lake.

When it started to rain, I wanted to go in and eat, and Jeremy wanted to stay and swim.

I told him…I told him we should go in.” Michael’s voice broke.

“But he was insistent. He laughed at the rain. Neither of us expected the lightning. I never saw him alive again.”

“I’m sorry, Michael.”

“I learned my lesson.” He rubbed his hands over his thighs.

“What lesson was that?”

“To always do the right thing.”

“What was the right thing?”

“I should have been with him. I should have stayed. Or dragged him home.”

Astrid knelt before him and put a hand over his, still resting on his thigh. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Head down he muttered, “I know—”

“Michael.” She interrupted whatever casual agreeance he was making. “Look at me. It wasn’t your fault. You can’t control other people’s actions. He made a choice. If you had stayed you would have died in the water with him.”

“You don’t know that. I could have pulled him out.”

“Or died trying.” She gripped his hand. “It wasn’t your fault. He made a poor choice. He didn’t listen to your advice. Grieve the loss, but don’t bear misplaced guilt.”

“So what should I have learned from this? People should always listen to me?” He mocked her.

“No. I think the only lesson you can learn from this is that accidents happen. It’s terrible. You did the best you knew how to at the time.”

When he finally looked up at her, his eyes were moist. She pushed herself up on her knees and moved in between his thighs. Never had she expected to come to his room looking for comfort, only to be the one to provide it to him.

Gingerly, she placed her hand on his chest, and ran it up along his neck to caress his jaw. Then she bestowed a soft kiss on his lips. It was an exchange of tenderness.

And it was imprinted on her heart.