Waiting for the Moon

"Psst. Ian. You forgot to teach me to play croquet."

Ian blinked, came slowly awake. Grit burned across his eyes. "Wha . .."

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Selena was sitting on the bed beside him, hunched over so that her face was inches above his. Candlelight cast a golden net across her face. She was gazing down at him through those beautiful, liquid eyes, and her lips hinted at a smile that was seconds away.

"You promised to teach me to play croquet," she said again.

He frowned, rubbed his eyes. Some hazy part of his mind thought this was a dream, that he'd somehow willed her here beside him in the middle of a cold night. "Tomorrow."

"You said today. Soon it will be midnight, and Johann told me that at midnight the day is over."

"Johann the genius? What does he have to do with this?"

"He helped me to set up the game in the backyard."

Ian wedged up on his elbows and looked up at her. She sat blithely beside him, wearing nothing but a wisp of a lawn nightdress. "Go to bed, Selena." His voice was hoarse and thick.

She flipped back bis coverlet and pushed her small, bare feet in beside him. "All right."

He felt her slip into bed beside him. For a moment, he couldn't breathe, couldn't move, he was so stunned. He felt the heat from her body, the firm length of her thigh along his. His heart started pounding, sweat prickled his brow. No one had ever told her that a maiden doesn't crawl into bed with a madman.

Honorable man, Ian.

A promise to try.

He jackknifed up and threw the coverlet back. "Fine. We'll play croquet."

She didn't move.

Reluctantly he glanced down at her. She lay still, her hair a tangled red-brown mass on the candlelit-gold pillow, her breasts a gentle curve of white lawn. There was a serenity in her eyes that stole his breath. "I knew you

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would keep your promise," she murmured, her voice husky and soft.

Sweet Jesus, he wanted to touch her. In the flickering candlelight, her skin looked petal-soft. A desperate groan caught in his throat. He staggered out of bed and stood there, breathing hard. Finally he forced himself to look away from her. He went to the window and stared through the tarnished glass until his breathing normalized.

He heard the quiet creak of the bed boards and the whispered pat of her bare feet hitting the hardwood floor. She came up behind him and stood there, waiting.

He tensed. Don't touch me. Please . . . The plea winged through his mind, took on the strength of a prayer.

She touched his shoulder. "Shall we go?"

God help him, for a second, he leaned into her hand, felt its heat on his skin. With a muffled curse, he ducked and spun away from her. Yanking his pants off the chair where he'd thrown them, he stabbed his bare feet into the black wool and buttoned them up. Then he grabbed his wrinkled woolen coat and shrugged into it. He was careful not to look at her. "You'll need a coat."

She laughed, a low, throaty sound that aroused him as much as any touch ever had. "I shall get a rope ... a wrap and meet you in the yard."

Ian bolted from the room in front of her and hurled himself down the creaking steps. He burst onto the back porch and slammed the door behind him, drawing deeply of the fresh night air.

He buttoned his coat against the chilly night and walked down the sagging porch, onto the blackened new spring grass. He was so deep in thought, it took him a minute to notice what she'd done out here.

Squat, yellow candles dotted the squared perimeter of the lawn. There was no wind, and the burning pockets of light danced and pulsed against the velvet backdrop of the forest beyond. Overhead, the sky was thick with

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bright stars, and the moon was a scythe of blue-white light that reflected itself in the metallic wickets scattered across the lawn. The sea was a distant, humming murmur in the background.