Connor listened as Susanna explained about the instructions left by her father, and the corrupt auction to sell Circle Star. “I’m sure you won’t be left destitute,” he said harshly after she’d finished. “Some man or other will want to marry you.”

“But you don’t?”

The whiskey soothed the ache that had gnawed inside him every waking moment for more than thirteen years. He leaned back on the bed, eyes narrowing. Susanna stood a few paces away from him, reed slender. Her chest rose and fell, just the way he remembered it rising and falling that last time he’d seen her by the river. Her arms hung down her sides, her hands clenched into fists.

It enraged him that she stood there, even lovelier than he’d dreamed during all those lonely years, saying exactly the words he’d always wanted to hear.

Offering to be his.

But not for love. For financial gain. Fury unleashed inside him, fed by the discovery that the long years of hardship had been his own making.

If he hadn’t fled that afternoon, he’d have grown up with her. He would have protected her, cherished her. She would have had no choice but to love him then, and Christian Talbot would have stood by, encouraging him, blessing their union.

It was her fault. If she hadn’t threatened him, he wouldn’t have fled. He tipped the bottle to his lips and took another sip. “I need something to eat,” he growled.

Susanna frowned at him. “I’ll see if I can get food from downstairs.” Her skirts swished as she flounced away.

He watched her leave and lolled on the bed while he waited, already a little drunk because he hadn’t eaten since yesterday. Bitterness churned inside him, and he wanted to punish her for making him suffer all those years.

Susanna returned. She pushed the door shut and leaned against it, the key clutched in her fingers. “It will be a while,” she told him. “They’ve only just started cooking lunch.”

“The key,” he demanded, reaching out. She walked over and dropped it into his cupped hand. He rose and teetered to the door, locking it again. This time he didn’t leave the key in the lock, but clattered it down on the dressing table.

Once he was back on the bed, he took a long gulp from the whiskey. The burning liquid down his throat flamed his anger. “Take your clothes off,” he said, his hand clutching the bottle.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

She raised her head, and met his gaze. “Why?”

He saw her lips tremble, remembered how that tiny tremor had always softened him into giving her whatever she wanted. So she hadn’t grown out of it. In other ways, she’d grown. His gaze swept down her high breasts to the slim waist under the shimmering grey fabric that hugged her body, and heat pooled in his groin. “You’re offering yourself to me so that you can inherit Circle Star. A sensible man inspects the merchandise before striking a bargain.”

She stared at him, her eyes darkening. “All right,” she said quietly. “I’ll do it, if it’s what you want.”

His breath choked in his chest as he watched Susanna standing in the centre of the room, her back straight and proud, clad in a dress finer than he’d ever seen on a woman. In one instant, he was hard, with a throbbing that bordered on pain. “Get on with it,” he grunted, surprised that he managed any sound at all.

Her hands flew to her neck, where they rested a moment. Then her elbows rose high and her breasts jutted out, as she reached for the hooks high up at the back of the dress.

“No. Take your hair down first.”

She paused to look at him before her hands drifted up another few inches, to nimbly pluck a dozen pins from the coiled tresses. When she lowered her arms, a cascade of hair tumbled to her waist, like a black waterfall. She retreated to the dressing table, sliding her feet against the floor to feel her way as she moved backwards, not taking her eyes off him. He heard tingling sounds as the hairpins fell on the marble top.

“Stay there,” he said, his voice so hoarse it hurt his throat. He tried to swallow but found he couldn’t – not until he raised the bottle to his mouth and poured more whiskey inside. Where she stood now was further away from him, but with the mirror behind her, he had a view of her back as well as her front.

“Do you want me to continue with my clothes?” she murmured.

This time no sound would come past his lips. He nodded. His heart pounded with such force it felt as though the entire bed rocked with the beat.

Her hands reached behind, first high up, then at the waist. As she pushed the dress down her shoulders and past her hips, the rustle of silk sounded like thunder in his ears.

A flush covered her cheeks, and her hands fumbled as she unfastened the tapes on the petticoats. Then she stepped out of the froth of white cotton and stood upright. She looked straight at him, and he saw no fear in her green eyes, only pity and shame.

It was wrong.

He shouldn’t make her go through with it.

He wanted to tell her to stop, but his voice wouldn’t obey. Leaning back on the bed he watched, his eyes dark and narrow, as she dealt with the kid slippers and the plain white stockings fastened above her knees with garters.

She stopped, and regarded him with a look in her eyes that angered him – a soft, yielding look – not a look between two people who were enemies.

“Go on,” he told her, seeking refuge in his bitterness.

She crossed her arms and lifted the chemise over her head. Her body was as slender as he’d expected, but the white globes of her breasts jutted out full and firm. The skin on his fingers burned, as he imagined cupping his hands around them.

Then she lowered her head and untied the knot at the top of her flimsy cotton drawers. Carefully, she slid the delicate fabric down her thighs. Lifting one foot at a time, she kicked the garment away.

In the mirror, he could see the curve of her buttocks. Red welts covered the skin inside her thighs and at the base of her buttocks.

Through the alcoholic haze, rage boiled up inside him like he’d never known before. “Who did that?” he roared. “Who did that to you?” He knew that only part of the fury was for her hurt and pain. The rest was for the thought that another man had possessed her, even if by force.

“What?”

“At the top of your legs.”

“Oh.” A nervous smile flickered over her lips. “That’s from two days of solid riding. Saddle sores. My skin needs to toughen up.” She reached down and gently touched a fingertip to the raw skin at the top of her inner thigh. “It doesn’t hurt that much.”

That tiny gesture was the most seductive act he’d ever known. He’d had scores of women in the thirteen years since they parted, the first one within a week. There had been women who’d pursued him, women whom he’d paid for, and women he’d taken in passing without much interest at all.

But he had never wanted a woman the way he wanted her now. “Would you get into this bed with me if I asked you?” Somehow the words formed on his tongue.

“Would you marry me if I did?”

A trade. Circle Star for her, her in his bed for him. Fury propelled him off the bed. With a few quick strides, he crossed the floor and stood in front of her. He leaned closer, until her naked breasts brushed against his shirt.

“Go home, Susanna,” he rasped into her face. “I have nothing for you.”

“Yes, you do.” She stared at him, her lips trembling. A hint of a floral fragrance drifted up to tantalize him, and heat from her naked skin teased his heightened senses. When he glanced down, he saw the dark pink of her hardened nipples almost touching him.

“No.” With every ounce of willpower he possessed, he backed off, and returned to the bed. “Get your clothes on,” he grunted, picking up the bottle. Morosely, he focused on the whiskey, refusing to lift his eyes again, although he couldn’t stop his ears from listening to every rustle of fabric as she dressed.

He prayed that tomorrow she’d be gone, leaving him alone. One more day, and his resistance would break. Damn her. Damn Susanna Talbot. If she could do this to him now, what could she do to him if he allowed her to take him back to Circle Star, and awaken all the passion and need he’d spent thirteen years trying to bury.

He didn’t want to find out. The risk was too great, the pain cut too deep.

He tipped the bottle to his lips and drifted into a blessed oblivion.