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Ever so slowly, the fear receded from her eyes and was replaced by the light of reason.
"Conor?"
Here it comes, he thought, a speech about the sanctity of a closed bedroom door or maybe even a right cross, straight to the jaw.
"Conor," she said again, and before he could say a word, explain that she'd been dreaming, that he'd only come into her room to wake her, she launched herself at him, not to slug him but to wrap her arms around him, bury her damp face against his bare skin and weep.
His spine became rigid as a steel bar. Don't, he told himself, O'Neil, you damn fool, don't...
A groan burst from his throat and his arms closed tightly around her.
"It's all right," he whispered, "it's all right."
She held on, just as she had the other night, trembling in his arms as if he were all that stood between her and the hounds of hell.
"Conor," she said again, and her teeth chattered, "oh God, Conor."
"What?" She was cold, so cold. Her skin was icy to the touch. "What, baby?" he whispered, holding her close, letting his warmth fight the chill that he suspected had penetrated to the marrow of her bones. "What did you dream?"
"I dreamed—I dreamed..." The deep, rasping breath she took tore at his heart. She shook her head, so that her tousled hair moved like silk against his cheek. "I had a nightmare." She shuddered. "It was horrible."
Horrible was probably an understatement. No surprises there. She'd gone through hell the past couple of days and what had he done tonight but add to it by being so hard on her, saying ugly things he hadn't really meant.
"Hold me," she said, "just for a little while."
Don't do it, the voice inside him said again. Tell her you'll get her some warm milk. Some tea. Tell her anything but don't be a fool, O'Neil. The last thing you want to do is sit here in the middle of the night with Miranda in your arms.
"Hush," he said, and drew her even closer.
He stroked her hair and her back. He rocked her gently in his arms. He whispered softly to her and, finally, she stopped trembling.
"Better?" he said.
She nodded.
God, she felt so good in his arms. Another couple of minutes, she'd be okay. He'd hold her a little bit longer, for her sake, not his, just to make sure she was really over the dream. Conor closed his eyes and laid his cheek against her hair. The flowery, feminine smell of her was dazzling.
"You okay?" he whispered.
She gave a deep, shuddering sigh. "Yes."
"Can I get you anything?"
She shook her head. "No."
"Warm milk? A drink of water?"
She shook her head again. "No," she whispered, but she made no effort to move out of his arms.
Why would she, when she felt so safe? When Conor's skin was so hot against hers? He was shirtless; she hadn't realized that, not at first, but now that the dream was mercifully fading, she was becoming aware of everything about him. The strength of his arms, holding her. The heat of his skin, and the soft tickle of the hair on his chest against her cheek. The scent of him, warm and male and clean.
"Miranda?" he said, and she heard the huskiness in his voice and for the first time in more years than seemed humanly possible, she felt a sudden fluidity in her bones.
Her heart thudded. Nothing more had to happen. She could stop now, before it was too late.
Instead, she lifted her face to his.
"Conor," she said unsteadily, and it was all he needed her to say.
