The Maiden's Hand by Susan Wiggs

not say such things.” Seeking a distraction, she began to tidy the area, folding the unused bandages and removing the basin of water. “I never did thank you and Kit, my lord, for enduring such trouble on account of me.”
    “What man would not lay down his life for a lady in peril?” he asked. “Happily, it did not come to that. In fact, I should thank you.”
    She emptied the basin out the door of the kitchen and turned to him, perplexed. “Thank me for what?”
    “As you pointed out earlier, you stopped me from killing a man. For all that he did provoke me, I should not like to have his blood on my hands.”
    “My foolishness almost cost you your life. I let him grab me from behind.”
    Oliver slapped his palms on the tabletop. “Ah, you did fight like a spitfire, Lark. Your quick thinking and courage are rare.”
    “In a woman, you mean.”
    “In anyone.” A lazy smile lifted a corner of his mouth. “When I remember that poor trot’s face…He didn’t expect to be stomped upon and jabbed by a mere slip of a girl.”
    Lark absorbed his words like a rain-parched rose. Never had she been praised before, not even for doing tasks of servile duty. Oliver seemed genuinely pleased with her.
    He lifted his shirt to put it back on. “Why do you suppose the leader of the brigands was so adamant about not harming you?”
    Lark ducked her head. After seeing the coin Kit had found, she had a very good idea indeed why the cutthroat had uttered the cryptic message. It was no coincidence that they had been waylaid en route to Blackrose Priory. The brigands were hirelings sent to stop them from reaching their objective.
    They could have killed Oliver, she thought with a nauseating wave of guilt. “I am so sorry,” she said softly.
    “Don’t be.” Oliver poked his head through the neck opening of his shirt, then winced as he tried to put his arm into the sleeve. Lark set aside the basin and hurried to help him.
    “Here, don’t twist around so,” she said. “You’ll pull at the wound.” She held out one sleeve and took his hand to guide it.
    Something strange happened. When their hands touched, there was an instant of deep connection, when she suddenly lost track of where she ended and he began, when she could feel her mind touching his, when such a profound sense of caring welled up in her that she could have wept.
    She caught her breath and looked up into his face.
    He had felt it, too; she could tell because she saw her own stunned expression reflected on his face.
    They were strangers, and yet they were not. Some part of her understood that even though they had only just met, she knew him. Knew the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, the way his throat rippled as he swallowed, the way his thumb felt pressing into her palm.
    “Oliver?” Her voice sounded thin and bewildered.
    “Hush.” His fingers brushed a wisp of hair from her cheek. “Let not words get in the way.”
    “In the way of what?”
    “Of this.”
    He moved his knees apart so that she leaned snug against him, and then he kissed her.
    The very idea that he would actually do such a thing so stunned her that she stood there, as rigid and unresponsive as a hearth broom.
    Until the heat started. It was a slow, searing burn that seeped through her body, warming the cold, empty places inside her.
    She gave herself up to sensation, not thinking, only wanting. The hand still clinging to his within the sleeve tightened, and she felt the answering pressure of his fingers. Her free hand crept up his bare chest. He wassmooth and hard there, and the hair was slightly coarse. He was warm, so warm, she wanted to melt against him. She hooked her arm around the back of his neck. His fine, silvery hair felt as downy as it looked.
    His lips were soft yet firm, and gentle, not grinding and demanding. They brushed slowly back and forth over her mouth, softening and moistening her lips until they parted. Then he did a most unsettling thing—he ran