Page 118 of The Moorwitch

His face contorts; he glances at the doorway, a tear of Dwirra sap running down his temple. “As terrible as she seems, she is neither good nor evil, neither kind nor cruel. She justis. Like a force of nature, like a storm. My father even ... Fates, I think he loved her. I don’t want to betray her, but I had to choose, and I choose you and Sylvie.”

“Then let’s go. You and me and Sylvie. We’ll deliver this wretched branch to Lachlan, and then we will be free of them all.”

He gives a little laugh. “And where will we go?”

“Somewhere warm.” I give a half sob, half laugh. “Turkey, perhaps. Where your mother was born. We will sail the Mediterranean and live as pirates.”

“We’ll rescue stray children for our crew, and you can teach them to Weave.”

“Oh, yes. We’ll make terrible mischief.”

He smiles until both dimples flash. “I should like to commit mischief with you. I have a feeling you’d be very effective at it.”

“Well, itismy eighth fault.”

“Nonsense.” He shakes his head, his hands cradling my face. “To me, you are faultless.”

I tilt forward on my toes, as his lips part and his breath draws, about to speak, and I kiss him.

Just a touch, a brush of lips, a question asked.

I hesitate, waiting for his reaction. Will he pull away? Tell me I am too late?

He stares at me, his dark eyes startled, his brows lowering. He doesn’t breathe, and I fear the worst.

Then his hands close around my waist and draw me to him. His lips find mine, and I abandon inhibition.

I kiss Conrad North as if I am ice, and he the fire to melt me. I kiss him knowing that while I thought I had nothing more to lose, I find I could still loseeverything. Maybe the only thing that ever mattered.

My gloved hands are crushed between us, still gripping the branch, feeling his heart quicken. His lips are warm and yielding; they rove from mine to follow my jaw and the skin below my ear, sending chills shivering down my body.

It feels like channeling magic, only without the pain.

“They’ll be looking for us,” I whisper.

“Just one more minute” is his reply, his voice rough and yet as soft as velveteen, and I gladly relent.

He pushes me back, crushes me against the white wall, and presses his lean body into mine. I tilt my head, exposing my neck to his lips, and weave my fingers through his hair. His hand rises to cradle my head, and his other hand follows the soft skin on the underside of my arm, tugging my glove down to my wrist, then pulling it off altogether. He laces his fingers through mine; my palm conforms to his. I can feel his heat seeping into me, his smell—of saddle leather and open moor and clean hay—intoxicating. My soul cracks open like an ember, flaring hot and white.

His mouth returns to mine, opening for me. I meet it hungrily, every nerve in my body drawing taut, thrumming as if flooded with magic. His thumbs trace lines of fire over my breasts, leaving me dizzy with need. My knee rises, and I wrap my leg around his, then feel his hand on my bare calf, then gripping my thigh, grinding his hips to mine. My head spinning, I break from his mouth to gasp down air and moan into his ear.

The Dwirra branch slips from my hand, forgotten.

My fingers tear at the buttons of his coat, fumbling and clumsy. I let out a strained breath when it finally opens and my hands are on his chest, soaking his heat in through my palms. Our mouths meet again, tongues pressed together, my lip tugged between his teeth. He groans weakly as my hands trail down his muscled abdomen and my fingers tug at the waist of his trousers.

“Rose ...” he murmurs. “There’s no time. Fates, if I had time ...”

I claim his lips and stop his words, then his breath, as I dip my fingers below his belt.

Every sense I have is afire; every spot of bared skin he finds and kisses, down to my collarbone. But suddenly he stops, breathing hard, and rests his forehead against mine. Staring into his copper eyes, I feel I have known them all my life and yet no time at all. I want to keep going, to unravel him down to his core.

“Rose Pryor,” he whispers, his breath heavy, his chest heaving. He pulls my hand from his hip to his mouth. “I should have kissed you like that weeks ago, when the notion first crossed my mind.”

I run my finger along his rough jaw, then over his lower lip.

“And when was that?” I murmur.

“The moment you walked into that damned pond, your nose pointed to the sky like a proud wee empress.” He cups my face, tilting my lips to his for another soft kiss. “I could spend years kissing you. But it’s time to go.”