She crawled over to where Christopher was half reclining, and stretched out beside him like a cat. His lashes half lowered as he surveyed her. His senses wanted to draw her in, to indulge in the feel of her soft skin, the supple firmness of her beneath him. But he resisted as she tried to pull him closer.

“Your family will suspect we’ve been doing something other than woodworking,” he said. “You’ll be covered with hay.”

“I’m always covered with hay.”

Her slightly crooked grin and lively blue eyes undid him. Relenting, he lowered to her, his mouth covering hers in a warm, lightly probing kiss. Her arms went around his neck. He explored her slowly, taking his time, playing with her until he felt the shy stroke of her tongue against his. The sensation went down to his groin, fueling a fresh wave of erotic heat.

She cradled him, her h*ps adjusting instinctively beneath his. He couldn’t stop himself from pushing against the feminine softness, a pulse of movement that beguiled them both. Murmuring his name, Beatrix let her head fall back on his arm, her throat exposed to the damp caress of his lips. He found sensitive places with his tongue, using the tip of it when he felt her squirm. His hand went to one of her br**sts, cupping the natural shape of her through the shirt and chemise, rubbing the tight peak with a warm circling of his palm. Small moans rose in her throat, abbreviated purrs of pleasure.

She was so exquisite, writhing and arching beneath him, that Christopher felt himself begin to drown in lust, his body taking over and his mind going hazy. It would be so easy to open her clothes, free his tortured flesh . . . let himself enter her, and find wholesale relief—

He groaned and rolled to his back, but she stayed with him, clinging.

“Make love to me,” she said breathlessly. “Here. Now. Please, Christopher—”

“No.” Managing to pry her away, he sat up. “Not in a hayloft, with someone likely to come into the barn at any moment.”

“I don’t care.” Beatrix dove her hot face against his chest. “I don’t care,” she repeated feverishly.

“I care. You deserve something far better than a tumble in the hay. And so do I, after more than two years of going without.”

Beatrix looked up at him, her eyes widening. “Truly? You’ve been chaste for that long?”

Christopher gave her a sardonic glance. “ ‘Chaste’ implies a purity of thought that I assure you does not apply. But I have been celibate.”

Crawling behind him, Beatrix began to brush at the straw clinging to his back. “There were no opportunities to be with a woman?”

“There were.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

Christopher twisted to glance at her over his shoulder. “Are you really asking for the details?”

“Yes.”

“Beatrix, do you know what happens to girls who ask such naughty questions?”

“They’re ravished in haylofts?” she inquired hopefully.

Christopher shook his head.

Beatrix’s arms slid around him from behind. He felt the light, stimulating pressure of her br**sts against his back. “Tell me,” she said near his ear, the moist heat of her breath causing the hairs on his nape to prickle pleasantly.

“There were camp prostitutes,” he said, “who were kept busy servicing the soldiers. But they were none too attractive, and they helped to spread any number of diseases through the regiment.”

“Poor things,” Beatrix said sincerely.

“The prostitutes or the soldiers?”

“All of you.”

How like her, he thought, to react with compassion rather than distaste. Taking one of her hands, Christopher pressed a kiss into her palm. “I also had offers from one or two of the officers’ wives who had traveled with the brigade. But I didn’t think it was a very good idea to sleep with another man’s wife. Especially when I might have found myself fighting side by side with him afterward. And then when I was in the hospital, there were a few nurses who were probably persuadable . . . the regular ones, of course, not the ones who came with the Sisters Of Mercy . . . but after the long sieges and rounds of grave digging . . . and then being wounded . . . I wasn’t exactly in an amorous mood. So I waited.” He grimaced. “And I’m still waiting.”

Beatrix kissed and nuzzled the back of his neck, sending a new rush of arousal through him. “I’ll take care of you, poor lad,” she murmured. “Don’t worry, I’ll break you in gently.”

This was new, this mixture of desire and amusement. Christopher turned and put his arms around her, toppling her into his lap. “Oh, you will take care of me,” he assured her, and crushed his mouth over hers.

Later in the day Christopher went with Leo to see the Ramsay estate timber yard. Although the Ramsay timber business wasn’t comparable in scope to the Riverton production, it was infinitely more sophisticated. According to Leo, the Hathaways’ absent brother-in-law, Merripen, was the most knowledgeable about estate forestry, including correct procedures for identifying profitable timber, thinning mixed woods, and planting for regeneration.

In the timber yard itself, several technological innovations had been made at the suggestion of Harry Rutledge, Poppy’s husband. After showing Christopher an advanced system of rollers and run planks that allowed the cut timber to be moved efficiently and safely, Leo walked with him back to the house.

Their talk turned toward the timber market and arrangements with merchants. “Anything to do with the market,” Leo said, “and sales by auction or private treaty, are handled by Cam. He has a better grasp of finance than any man you’ll ever meet.”