For their supper they ate turkey stew with the last of the bread and some cheese. The silence was heavier now, fraught with things that Lily wanted to say, but could not. How could she apologize for the truth? And yet she wanted to, because she did not like to see him unhappy. An odd pair they made, the two of them, each with tender secrets that could not stay hidden for long. Lily turned her face away from him when these thoughts came, lest he should see for himself what she would not say.

Simon did not tuck her in or kiss her cheek, and Lily was first surprised and then hurt and then angry at herself; she could not have things both ways after all. If she wanted . . . what? What was it she wanted from him? She turned over and tried again to sleep, without success.

It was the noise of her own thoughts that kept her awake, louder than the storm and just as relentless. On the floor beside the cot Simon was a great mountain of furs, absolutely still. In the dim she watched for the telltale white of his breath in the chill room, and decided in the end that he must have turned his face downward. Surely that was it; if she watched long enough he would shift in his sleep and then she could see that he was breathing. He was a healthy man in his prime, after all. He could not simply leave her here alone, no matter how angry he was at her.

She coughed into her fist to relieve the tickle in her throat, once and then again. Leaned over the mountain that must be Simon and coughed again.

He sat up so suddenly that their heads knocked, hard, and Lily fell from the cot, all flailing arms and legs, keening with surprise and embarrassment and pain too.

“What!” Simon half shouted. “What!”

He grabbed her by the shoulders and peered at her face and Lily realized first, that he was not completely awake nor was he asleep, and second, that she had put herself in a terrible position, for how was she ever to explain this?

Simon blinked at her and touched his own forehead where a bump must surely rise, and fell back into the confusion of furs.

“Christ, Lily,” he said, his voice hoarse. “You'll be the death of me. What do you mean by barking at me like that?”

“You weren't breathing,” she said. To her own ears she sounded more silly than defiant, and to his, too, for he sat up again and glared at her, his face painted red by the glow of coals from the hearth.

“I wasn't breathing?”

“You—you didn't seem to be.” She tried to get up and was defeated by the tangle of covers. Yanked at them furiously, near tears and angry with herself and mortified beyond all experience.

“I was worried,” she said, and then she dared to cast a glance at him, only to find that he was smiling.

“Lily Bonner,” he said. “Every night I've waited for you to ask me to share your bed. A simple word would have been enough. No need to bang me in the head first.”

By the time he had finished she was sputtering in anger, unable to find a curse hard enough to throw in his face. She would have cuffed him instead, if she had been able to find her hands, and so she settled for howling, putting back her head and howling to the rafters, which only made him laugh harder.

He reached to help her and she elbowed him as hard as she could, not hard enough to stop him laughing or even to stop his clever hands, moving fast and sure, and then she was free, her hair swirling around her head.

For just a moment she drew in breath, her chest heaving, and then she reached down deep to summon the memory of her mother in a temper, that look of hers that made the world tremble. Lily gave that very look to Simon Ballentyne.

Who grinned at her, and brushed the hair away from her face.

“Come, hen,” he said, catching her hand to bring her closer. “Come lay your head.”

“I will not,” she said. “I was not—not—”

“Of course not. It was gey wicked of me to say such a thing.” He crooned to her, soft and softer still. “I'm sorry I laughed, truly I am. Come, catch your breath. Breathe easy, love.”

“You—” she began. “You're—”

“Hopeless, aye, it's true.” Somehow she was lying beside him and he was bent over her, supporting himself on his arm. “A witless man. A fool in love.”

He kissed her then, softly and sweetly and with devastating effectiveness. His beard had already begun again and his cheeks were rough to the touch and cool, and in response something small and warm ignited deep in Lily's belly, something strange and oddly familiar at the same time.

“Will ye gang back tae your bed?” He was whispering against her neck, his mouth moving against the tender skin below her ear so that her flesh rose and shivered.

“Or will ye bide?” That damnable question she had hoped never to have to answer again. So she turned her head to touch his mouth with her own: an invitation, a demand, a plea for rescue from the decision he was pressing on her.

He pulled back to look at her. “Lily.”

“What?” She pushed out a great sigh. “What do you want me to say?” And bit her lip until it hurt, for she already knew what he wanted but now she must listen to him tell her.

He pursed his mouth in mock thoughtfulness and then rolled over to lie on his back, his hands behind his head.

“Repeat after me,” he began.

“Oh, no.” Lily pressed her face into the covers.

“‘Simon, please let me bide here with you, for I have no wish to go back to my lonely bed.'”

Lily summoned all the self-control she had. “I will not say that.”