Surrender the Wind by Elizabeth St. Michel Page B

mentioned a brother in Washington? Lucas. Tomorrow she’d wire Colonel Lucas Rourke in Washington and ask for his assistance. He would take his brother off her hands, wouldn’t he?
    A gentle breeze blew, and with it, all her fears evaporated. Quite pleased with her ingenious decision, she marched into her bedroom and tossed the quilt on the bed.
    “General Rourke,” she began, using his formal title. “You have to get rest and I have to get mine. Since I have only one bed, we have to share. Under the circumstances, I expect you to be honorable. You will continue to conduct yourself in a proper manner?”
    “Proper is my middle name, Miss Callahan.”
    She didn’t like the trace of sarcasm. Things had to end her own way. They just had to. After turning down the lantern, and grabbing a bunch of pillows, she stuffed a barrier between them. “Everything is appropriate. You stay on your side. And that’s an order.”
    She lay on her side of the bed. “General?”
    “Yes, Miss Callahan?”
    “You do know how to follow orders?”
    “Only when they come from a higher command.” He answered with imperturbable masculine logic.
    “Good, then think of me as your superior.” She turned on her side, presenting her back to him.
    “General?”
    “Yes, Miss Callahan?”
    “Are you still awake?”
    “Are you?”
    “Don’t be ridiculous.” She tugged at the quilt, turned over again, facing him in the dark. “Your mother was right.”
    He let out a long sigh. “About what, Miss Callahan?”
    “You should have had more appointments with the hickory stick.”
    She felt a rumble of laughter then he turned toward her, serious and with stealth.
    Silence loomed like a heavy mist.
    In the shadowed moonlight, the general’s eyes fixed upon her, predatory, a physical threat. She had not the slightest wish to embrace that threat, or to cultivate it. His wound did not bother him? No pain?
    He raised a hand and tipped her face up to meet his. “I promise to be ‘proper’ if you give me one kiss. You owe me.”
    Had he been out of bed when she wasn’t there? How strong was he? His touch was firm and persuasive. “How is it that I owe you?” She pretended not to be affected, her pulse beating wildly like the wings of a sparrow trapped in a cage.

    John tensed to break away, told himself he should, that he was obliged to. Her face expectant, radiant in the moonlight, captivated him. “You saved my life.”
    Her gaze lowered from his eyes to his lips. “That’s ludicrous,” she whispered. “How did you come to that conclusion?”
    John was through with a conversation that was leading nowhere when he had a specific direction in mind. He lowered his head, giving her sufficient time to pull back if she was inclined.
    She didn’t. She tipped up her face. His lips stroked hers, and then settled in the most proper kiss of his life. Her lips trembled under his. He sensed her innocence in his bones. The urge to consume was formidable, but he bridled his hunger, took only what she offered, and returned no more than that. It was a compromise, an exchange of something more tangible, more potent, than Rourke was prepared to admit…and he knew…she wasn’t prepared to admit it was something more tangible too.
    Ending the kiss took all the restraint John could muster. He could feel her warmth along his body through the pillow barrier. Slowly, deliberately, he forced himself to withdraw, the insinuation of what they had done drugging him with possibilities.
    “This won’t do. I apologize for my indiscretion—I mean your indiscretion. Oh, dear…” She placed her hands on her burning cheeks.
    He bowed his head. “The fault is mine.”
    “This is lust. It must not happen again.” She pushed away and fled the room.
    John folded his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling. He was playing with fire, ought to leave, head south, catch up with his troops and regain his command.
    But he’d never been afraid of fire.
    Sometime