He expelled a breath. She tensed, waiting for him to continue interrogating her.

“You’re going to be one of those,” he said.

“Those what?”

“One of those females who require time to bask in the aftermath of lovemaking.”

Her smile returned, relieved at his teasing tone. He was granting her a reprieve. “That’s done then, is it?”

“Hm-mm.”

“Then I suppose you may relegate me to that category of female . . . although I don’t care to think about the long line of females who’ve basked in the aftermath of your lovemaking.” She swatted playfully at his chest. She imagined with his prowess, she was one of several.

His fingers sifted through her hair. “I confess memories of anyone else are rather vague at the moment.”

She propped her chin on his chest and gazed into his eyes. The darker ring of blue circling the iris seemed more prominent, almost black. “You don’t have to do that.”

“What?”

“Say things like . . . that. I know you’re experienced . . . that this is simply . . .” Her voice faded away. Her face grew miserably hot.

“This is simply what?” he pressed.

She floundered before settling on a word. “Nice.”

He grinned, his arms wrapping around her to gather her closer against him. “You are remarkably adept at the art of the understatement. I think we both know this is more than nice, Annalise.”

A shiver chased over her skin. At his deep voice pronouncing her name, still so new to her ears. At his insinuation that he seemed to think this—what had just transpired between them—meant something. That it could be more than a simple tryst.

When she knew it could not.

It could not mean anything beyond the moment.

As his breathing deepened, she knew he was falling asleep. His body relaxed beneath her, lethargic and unsuspecting in her arms. A quick glance revealed his eyes had closed.

She felt the pull of sleep as well . . . her muscles soft and satiated. It would be so very easy to fall asleep in his arms.

She sighed and the sound captured all her longing. For a moment she allowed the notion of sleeping the day away with him to tempt her. To dream and ignore, forgetting the specter of Bloodsworth, lured her.

It was an impossible dream. She had never been one to run from reality. She must do the right thing even if that meant leaving this man who had come to mean something to her . . . everything. Even if it meant leaving someone who, unbelievable as it seemed, appeared to want her in turn.

Her eyes burned. She blinked them rapidly, hoping to dispel the sting. She’d never had that. She had fooled herself into thinking she would have such a thing with Bloodsworth, but deep in her bones she’d known it wasn’t real. He did not want her.

With great care, she lifted Owen’s arm from where it draped around her, pausing to look down at him, her heart aching. She watched him for several moments, assuring herself that he well and truly slept, but also memorizing him for the stretch of lonely days ahead.

She pressed her hand to the bed gently and scooted away, careful not to use so much pressure that he would notice the dip in the mattress. Easing from the bed, she stepped down to the floor, keeping a cautious eye on him. Nothing. He slept on, looking more innocent and vulnerable than she had ever seen him. Almost happy. Peaceful. Perhaps it was the lovemaking.

Perhaps it was you. Perhaps you gave him this.

She shoved aside the arrogant thought. Even if it were true, she could not let herself stay and risk him. What kind of woman would that make her? No doubt there were countless women eager to fill his bed. She was no better than any of them. One of them would make him happy and bring him peace and contentment.

One of them would give to him what she could not.

Owen woke to shadows, his head light and surprisingly clear, free from the echoes of nightmares he had long accepted as his penance.

He held himself still, listening, probing deep within himself. Nothing lurked there. He smiled slowly, cautiously grateful for the rare rest he’d been granted.

He did not have to wonder why. Of course it was her doing. Annalise. The female he had wanted to be rid of. The very one he had considered a burden. Astonishingly, she had turned out to be the antidote to all that had ailed him and kept him from peaceful slumber.

Grinning, he shook his head and rubbed his eyes awake. A bit fanciful, he knew. Perhaps not all, not everything, but there was no doubt she gave him other things to consider.

His body tightened in anticipation of taking her again, sliding himself into her heat. That would have to wait, of course, until she gave him some answers. Starting with who that bastard had been today to put such fear in her eyes.

The day had turned to dusk. Thin gray light filtered in between the part in the drapes. His arms stretched out beside him, reaching for her. Not finding her, he frowned and lifted his head. She was not in the vast bed.

Assuming she had left him to his sleep, he rose. No doubt she had wanted to bathe and refresh herself. A deep sense of satisfaction spread through his chest. He had introduced her body into the carnal act. His c**k hardened at the memory of how sweet she had been.

He rose in one swift motion, his frown returning as his gaze swept over the bedchamber. He did not care for waking to find her gone. The experience left a strange hollowness inside him. A foul taste rose to coat his mouth.

He would have to correct the matter of separate rooms. He wanted her in his room, in his bed—in his life. He couldn’t fathom that he had ever wanted or expected her to leave. The man he had been when he first returned home . . . the dead shell that had faced his brother and Paget was a distant thing. He felt alive. As though he had woken from a deep sleep. She had filled the hollow places inside him again. Sensations, emotion, flooded him.

He wanted, needed, to be able to reach for her in the middle of the night. To sink into her softness. To feel her thighs wrap around him as her nails scored his skin.

As untried as she was, she had satisfied him like never before . . . like no other. She had dispelled his demons. Her sweet body bewitched him.

Sliding his trousers on, he ignored the twinge of skepticism his thoughts elicited. He sounded like a romantic, and he had never been that. Even before the rebellion, he’d been more practical in nature. He had assumed he would marry Paget because he liked her, loved her even. Not because she burned a fire in his belly. It had never been this for him before.

He fastened his trousers, eager to find her and resume where they left off. He didn’t bother donning his shirt. He strode bare-chested to the adjoining door, opening it without a knock. The room was empty. He entered and glanced about before starting for the door leading into the corridor, ready to locate her within the house. However, he paused, the open door of her armoire catching his notice. Scowling, he moved forward and yanked the door wider, revealing . . . nothing inside.

The few garments Mrs. Kirkpatrick had obtained for her were missing. Gone.

His stomach sank, and he knew. Her clothes weren’t the only thing missing.

She was gone, too.

Chapter Twenty-five

It was pouring when she arrived at the inn. A boy rushed out to take her valise from the coachman. She knew the hour to be late. Her body ached from sitting long hours on a less than comfortable seat cushion.

Even as wearied as she was from a long day crammed into a coach with other passengers, she hurried to the building in the rain-shrouded night, her feet swift and eager to reach the hulking shape.

She lifted her skirts and avoided the worst of the puddles, but was still quite drenched by the time she entered the taproom.

The innkeeper’s wife greeted them, offering them warm, spiced wine and a place before the fire as their rooms were prepared.

Shivering, Annalise stared into the flickering flames and half listened to Mrs. Felham chatting merrily about the cousin she was journeying to see in the North country. She knew quite a great deal about Margaret Penderplast and her solicitor husband (who frequently missed church) and their twins: Rose (with the unfortunate lisp) and John (who terrorized Cook by hiding creepy crawling things throughout the kitchen).

Mr. Felham snored where he sat beside his wife, his head nodding upon his neck—much as he had since they departed Town.

Annalise had met the couple upon boarding the coach. Mrs. Felham declared that a young and unchaperoned lady was clearly in need of her vigilant eye. Annalise didn’t object. Especially when the other occupant of their coach, Mr. Snyder, spent a good portion of his time brushing against her. A fact Mrs. Felham noted with a deep frown.

“Mr. Snyder, be so good as to keep your person on your side of the carriage or I will have words with the driver.”

Mr. Snyder had glowered at the matron, angry color staining his pock-pitted cheeks. He muttered unintelligible words beneath his breath, but stayed on his side of the carriage. It seemed even busybodies served a purpose.

Last night Annalise had found a room to rent near the coaching station in Town. Not that she had slept a wink. She was quite certain her eyes were red from a combination of tears and lack of sleep. She was exhausted. Yet she could not stop her thoughts from returning to Owen. What had he thought when he woke to find her gone? He could never know how hard it had been for her to leave him—or that she had done it for him.

She had taken the notes he dropped on the floor. The measure felt mercenary, but she could see no other way to leave Town. A necessary sin to keep Owen safe. The funds would see her far from Bloodsworth. She did not have a specific destination in mind. She would simply travel north until she found someplace that felt right. Somewhere she could call home, hidden enough so Bloodsworth would never find her.

“Sleep well, my dear,” Mrs. Felham trilled as she was led from the room. “We’ll see you in the morning.”

Annalise could hardly keep her eyes open as she followed the innkeeper’s wife upstairs.

She nodded absently as she was shown to a small spartan room with a single bed, chair, and washstand. A narrow window overlooked the yard and washstand. It could have been a broom closet for all she cared. As long as she could be alone and catch a few hours of sleep.

Left alone, she did not bother to undress. She simply removed her boots and fell onto the bed, instantly falling into a dreamless sleep.

Owen rode hard through the night. Heedless of rain and the mud-filled ruts in the winding road. He could think only of Annalise. Of reaching her and holding her. And wringing her neck. He was not certain which urge was strongest.

He would not allow himself to consider that he would never see her again. That she had somehow slipped from his world as suddenly as she dropped into it. His stomach rolled at that unthinkable notion and he dug in his heels.

Of course, tracking her couldn’t have been a simple matter. He’d had more luck hunting rebels through inhospitable terrain.

A woman fitting her description had taken a coach last evening heading south to the coast. He had given pursuit, only to catch up with a female several years older and bearing little resemblance to Annalise aside from possessing brown hair. At that point he backtracked to Town and returned to the coaching station, where he learned that another woman of her description had taken a northbound coach earlier that morning. Since she had fled last evening, he had assumed she would catch the first conveyance out of town. His mistake. Apparently she had stayed the night somewhere.

Now he rode with a vengeance, trying to catch up with the northbound coach, hoping she had not gotten off at one of the posting inns along the way and gone in a different direction from there.

If that were the case, her trail was hopelessly lost to him. His only hope was to catch up with the coach that had a half day lead on him. If she wasn’t on it, then perhaps someone on it remembered her and even knew where she was headed next.

One thing was for certain.

He would not give up.

Annalise was still groggy from slumber when she woke to a room that had grown much colder than when she first entered it. For some reason, she resisted burrowing deeper into the small bed. An instinctual wariness held her motionless.