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"Later. I'll explain it all later, I promise, anything ye want, but now—" He lay beside her and looked deep into her eyes. "Nay, not now," he whispered, kissing the corner of her mouth. "Not yet. Not until ye ask, I swear it."

"I—I'm not sure what you mean," she said with painful honesty. "What exactly am I supposed to ask? And when?"

He bit his lip, his eyes bright with something that looked like laughter. "Deirdre, don't worry about any of that now."

"But I want to—"

"Shh."

He drew one finger across her lips and the laughter faded from his eyes as he eased her down beneath him.

"You'll know," he whispered.

She nodded, not really understanding, and slid her arms around his neck.

"There's naught to be afraid of," he promised, bending to her.

Deirdre reveled in the heat of his body against hers, the strength of his arms enfolding her. But as his hands and lips moved over her with increasing urgency, the wonderful feeling of abandon began to slip away as she instinctively braced herself against the pain to come.

But she would not let him guess. This meant so much to him, and he was trying so very hard to please her. She deliberately relaxed her muscles and quickened her breathing to keep pace with his. When he kissed her breast, she allowed a tiny moan to escape her lips.

Alistair sensed that he was losing her. She returned his kisses eagerly, sighed at his touch, gave every show of pleasure. But none of it was real. Even as she pressed closer to him, he could feel her body vibrating with tension. He redoubled his efforts, using all his skill, every trick he'd ever tried or even heard of to kindle an answering response, as though somehow the mere force of his desire could make her want him. But the harder he tried to draw her with him, the more surely she slipped from his grasp.

"Now," she whispered. "Please, Alistair," and he knew it was not excitement that brought the tremor to her voice, but anxiety to have it over. And she was right to be frightened, for if he took her now, all unready as she was, there would be no joy in it for either of them.

Fool, he raged at himself. It was too soon; God damn him, he had known that, and he should never have come here tonight. But he had needed to see her, to talk with her, and now he had made a damnable mess of everything.

He wanted to tell her it didn't matter, they didn't have to do this now, that he would be content just to hold her while she slept. But the moment for that had passed. She was offering herself to him, at God knew what cost, and if he refused her now she would be humiliated beyond bearing.

Christ's wounds, how did this happen? I love her so much, but whatever I do now, she will be hurt. Never in his life had he felt so completely helpless. And looking into her eyes, he knew she felt the same.

But, then, he thought, seeing the faintest glimmer of light in the darkness, that was how Deirdre expected to feel when lying with a man. It was all she knew.

With a sudden movement he flipped over on his back and pulled her with him so she sprawled across his chest.

"What—?"

"Wait," he ordered gently. "Here, now..."

He raised her until she sat astride him. Then he fell back and rested his hands beside his head, palms upward.

"There we are," he said, speaking as though this was perfectly ordinary, the most common thing in all the world. "'Tis your turn, Dee."

"My—?" She bit her lip uncertainly. "What do you mean?"

"I mean 'tis up to you," he said easily. "Do what ye like with me...or nothing at all."

Just as he had begun to fear he had made things even worse, a smile touched one corner of her mouth.

"So I have you at my mercy?"

"Entirely. Go on, lass, do your worst. I can take it."

She traced a hesitant fingertip across his chest and down his belly, her smile deepening when he drew a hissing breath.

"So I can do that?"

"Aye."