To be seduced?" He took his lips from hers, let them roam leisurely over her face.
"No, I don't." But her head tilted back as he skimmed his mouth down her throat.
"You're about to be."
He released her hands then to draw her closer. No fevered embrace this time, but an inescapable possession. Her arms seemed impossibly heavy as she wound them round his neck. She could do no more than cling as he stroked her hair, her face, with gentle fingertips that felt no more substantial than a whisper on the air. His mouth came back to hers in a moist, deep, sumptuous kiss that went on endlessly, endlessly, until she was as pliant as wax in his arms. He'd cheated both of them, Rogan realized as he laid her back on the bed. By letting only the fire take them, he'd kept them both from experiencing all the warm, waiting wells of tenderness. Tonight it would be different. Tonight he would take her through a labyrinth of dreams before the flames.
The taste of him seeped into her, stunning her, staggering her with tenderness. The greed that had always been so much a part of their lovemaking had mellowed into a lazy patience she could neither resist nor refuse. Long before he opened her blouse and skimmed those smooth, clever fingertips over her skin, she was floating. Limply her hands slid from his shoulders. Her breath caught and expelled as he laved his tongue over her, seeking small secret tastes, lingering over them. Savoring. Drifting on that slow sweep of sensation, she was aware of every pulse point he awakened, of the long, quiet pull from deep inside her. So different from an explosion. So much more devastating. She murmured his name when he cupped a hand under her head and lifted her melting body to his.
"You're mine, Maggie. No one else will ever take you here."
She should have objected to this new demand for exclusivity. But she couldn't. For his mouth was journeying over her again as if he had years, decades, to complete the exploration. The candlelight flickered dreamily against her heavy lids. She could smell the flowers she'd picked only that morning and had placed in a blue vase by the window. She heard the breeze heralding the Mediterranean night with the scents of blossoms and water in its wake. Beneath his fingers and lips her skin softened and her muscles quivered. How could he not have known he'd wanted her like this? All the fires banked, only glowing embers and drifting smoke. She moved under his hands helplessly, unable to do anything but absorb what he gave her, follow where he led. Even as the blood pounded in his head, in his loins, he kept the caresses light, teasing, waiting for her, watching her slide from one into the next melting sensation. When she trembled, when a new sighing moan slipped through her lips, he took her hands again, braceleting them in one of his so that he was free to urge her over the first edge. Her body bowed, her lashes fluttered. He watched as that first velvet fist took her breath. Then she went fluid again, languid and limp. Her pleasure welled inside of him. The sun sank. Candles guttered. He guided her up again, a higher peak that made her cry out weakly. The sound echoed away into sighs and murmurs. When her heart was so full that it, too, seemed to weep, he slipped into her, taking her tenderly while the moon rose.
Perhaps she slept. She knew she dreamed. When she opened her eyes again, the moon was up and the room was empty. Languid as a cat, she considered curling up again. But even as she nuzzled into the pillow she knew she would not sleep without him. She rose, floating a little as though her mind was dazed with wine. She found a robe, a thin swatch of silk that Rogan had insisted on giving her. It settled smoothly against her skin as she went to find him.
"I should have known you'd be here."
He was in the kitchen, standing shirtless in front of the gleaming stove in the brilliant white-and-black kitchen. Thinking of your stomach?"
"And of yours, my girl." He turned off the fire under the skillet before he turned. "Eggs."
"What else?" It was all either of them could competently cook. "I won't be surprised if we're cackling when we get back to Ireland tomorrow." Because she felt unexpectedly awkward, she raked a hand through her hair once, then twice. "You should have made me get up and fix it."
"Made you?" He reached up for plates. That would be a first."
"What I mean is, I'd have done it. After all, I don't feel I did my part before."
"Before?"
"Upstairs. In bed. I didn't exactly do my share."
"A bargain's a bargain." He scooped eggs into plates. "And from my point of view, you did very well indeed. Watching you unravel was an incredible pleasure for me." One he intended to experience again, very soon. "Why don't you sit down and eat. The moon'11 be up for some time yet."
"I suppose it will." More at ease, she joined him at the table. "And this may just give me my energy back. Do you know," she said with her mouth full. "I'd no idea that sex could make you so weak."
"It wasn't just sex."
Her fork paused halfway to her lips at his tone. There was hurt beneath the sharp annoyance, and she was sorry to have caused it. Amazed that she could. "I didn't mean it that way, Rogan. Not so impersonally. When two people are fond of each other—"
"I'm a great deal more than fond of you, Maggie. I'm in love with you."
The fork slipped from her fingers and clattered on the plate. Panic tore at her throat in sharp, hungry fangs. "You're not."
"I am." He said it calmly, though he was cursing himself for making his declaration in a brightly lit kitchen over badly cooked eggs. "And you're in love with me."
"It's not—I'm not—you can't tell me what I am."
"I can when you're too foolish to say so yourself. What's between us is far more than physical attraction. If you weren't so pigheaded, you'd stop pretending it was."
"I'm not pigheaded."
"You are, but I find that's one of the things I like about you." He was thinking coolly now, pleased to be back in control. "We might have discussed all this under more atmospheric circumstances, but knowing you, it hardly matters. I'm in love with you, and I want you to marry me."
Chapter Seventeen
MARRIAGE? The word stuck in her throat, threatened to choke her. She didn't dare repeat it. "You're out of your mind."
"Believe me, I've considered the possibility." He picked up his fork and ate with the appearance of sanity. But the hurt, unexpected and raw, scraped at him. "You're stubborn, often rude, more than occasionally self-absorbed and not a little temperamental."
For a moment her mouth worked like a guppy's. "Oh, am I?"
"You most certainly are, and a ma
n would have to have taken leave of his senses to want that sort of baggage for a lifetime. But"—he poured out the tea he'd had steeping—"there you are. I believe it's customary to use the bride's church, so we'll be married in Clare."
"Customary? Hang your customs, Rogan, and you with them." Was this panic she felt, skidding along her spine like jagged ice? Surely not, she told herself. It had to be temper. She had nothing to fear. "I'm not marrying you or anyone. Ever."
"That's absurd. Of course you'll marry me. We're amazingly well suited, Maggie."
"A moment ago I was stubborn and temperamental and rude."
"So you are. And it suits me." He took her hand, ignored her resistance and tugged it to his lips. "And it suits me beautifully."
"Well, it doesn't suit me. Not at all. Perhaps I've softened toward your arrogance, Rogan, but that's changing by the second. Understand me." She yanked her hand free of his. "I'll be no man's wife."
"No man's but mine."
She hissed out a curse. When he only grinned at that, she took a hard grip on her temper. A fight, she thought, might be satisfying, but it would solve nothing. 'You brought me here for this, didn't you?"
"No, actually, I didn't. I'd thought to take more time before tossing my feelings at your feet." Very carefully, very deliberately, he shifted his plate aside. "Knowing very well you'd kick them back at me." His eyes stayed on hers, level, patient. "You see I know you very well, Margaret Mary."
"You don't." Temper, and the panic she didn't want to admit, leaked out of her, leaving room for sorrow. "I've reasons for keeping my heart whole, Rogan, and for not ever considering the possibility of marriage."
It interested and soothed him to understand that it wasn't marriage to him that seemed to appall her, but marriage itself. "What are they?"
She lowered her gaze to her cup. After a moment's hesitation she added her usual three cubes of sugar and stirred. "You lost your parents."
"Yes." His brow furrowed. This certainly wasn't the tack he'd expected her to take. "Almost ten years ago."
"It's hard losing family. It strips away a whole layer of security, exposes you to the simple cold fact of mortality. You loved them?" "Very much. Maggie—"
"No, I'd like to hear what you have to say about this. It's important. They loved you?" "Yes, they did."
"How did you know it?" She drank now, holding the cup in two hands. "Was it because they gave you a good life, a fine home?"
"It had nothing to do with material comfort. I knew they loved me because I felt it, because they showed it. And I could see they loved each other as well."
"There was love in your house. And laughter? Was there laughter, Rogan?"
"Quite a bit of it." He could remember it still. "I was devastated when they died. So sudden, so brutally sudden ..." His voice tapered off, then strengthened again. "But after, when the worst of it had passed, I was glad they'd gone together. Each of them would have been only half-alive without the other."
"You've no notice how lucky you are, what a gift you were given growing up in a loving, happy home. I've never known that. I never will. There was no love between my parents. There was anger and blame and guilt and there was duty, but no love. Can you imagine what it was like, growing up in a house where the two people who had made you cared nothing for each other? Were only there because their marriage was a prison barring them in with conscience and church law."
"No, I can't." He covered her hand with his. "I'm sorry you can."
"I swore, when I was still a girl, I swore I'd never be locked in a prison like that."
"Marriage isn't only a prison, Maggie," he said gently. "My own parents' was a joy."
"And you may make one for yourself one day. But not I. You make what you know, Rogan. And you can't change what you've come from. My mother hates me."
He would have protested, but she'd said it so matter-of-factly, so simply, he could not.
"Even before I was born she hated me. The fact that I grew inside her ruined her life, which she tells me as often as possible. All these years I never knew how deep it truly went, until your grandmother told me my mother had had a career."
"A career?" He cast his mind back. The singing? What does that have to do with you?"
"Everything. What choice did she have but to give up her career? What career would she have had left as a single, pregnant woman in a country like ours? None." Cold, she shivered and let out a shaky breath. It hurt to say it aloud this way, to say it all aloud. "She wanted something for herself. I understand that, Rogan. I know what it is to have ambitions. And I can imagine, all too well, what it would be like to have them dashed. You see, they never would have married if I hadn't been conceived. A moment of passion, of need, that was all.