My True Love by Karen Ranney

suddenly, to press his lips against her throat. Just that. A kiss to measure the pounding of her blood, the heat of her skin.
    She placed her hand on his chest, and he felt the texture and heat of her palm against his skin, as if his wet shirt were not there at all. He did not wish to touch her, because he knew, with an odd sense, that if he did, he would draw her closer until there was nothing between them at all. He would remove her wet clothes from her and offer her veneration for the beauty of her rain-drenched body. There would be nothing to guide him but this confusion that had ruled his life from the moment he’d seen her.
    She looked almost fragile with her head bent before him, her hand upon his chest. A bridge of flesh. A woman of stubbornness, talent, mystery.
    The boyish Stephen peered out behind responsibility and authority and wanted to demand of her why he felt as if he knew her. Pugnacious and stubborn, his childish self would remain until granted the answer. Then, after she’d told him, maybe he would know why he thought too much about her, not enough about those things listed on a scroll in his mind. All the various tasks that remained for him to perform were somehow made unimportant beside the enigma she offered.
    She startled him then by standing on tiptoe and placing a sweet and simple kiss upon the corner of his mouth. Here, it seemed to say, I have marked the spot, and this will be where my lips rest. Then she fingered the line of his jaw with her thumb, as if she tested the angle of it.
    He had never been a man of touch. He had about him, he believed, an almost iced reserve that warned others against coming too close or venturing too near. Even as men clapped each other on the shoulder or clasped a hand, they rarely did so with him. Yet he remained silent and still beneath her explorations.
    He disliked feeling helpless, wound together by the knots of all his wants and desires. But he was, unbelievably. There were men who were frightened of him, who saw his raised sword and blanched. Others knew of his reputation for good fortune and battle prowess and fled before they met.
    She simply stood and kissed him.
    She pulled back her hand and stepped away. He wanted to ask her to keep it there. Perhaps to kiss him again. But he was a man of sense and a fearsome strength of will. Duty. Honor. Loyalty. The doctrines of his life. He stepped back, away, a safe distance from her touch. But he was not protected from her smile, so sweet that it seemed to take the place of the absent sun.
    The wind had risen, and she was soaked clear to the skin, her trembling not strictly from the storm but from the cold. It kept her safe, that small shiver. Rendered her helpless and therefore someone to be sheltered, cared for, and defended. At that instant, he had fewer thoughts of seduction than of protection. He would see her back to her chamber, give Betty orders to cosset her if need be. Keep her safe and away from him until he left. For her sake, if not for his.
    His better impulses had him walking to the door at the base of the tower. Once there, he turned and looked at her. The storm had not abated, but it was as dangerous here. This place offered shelter, but with temptation.
    But because she was a woman under his protection and because she trembled from the storm and because a part of him still wished to remain with her, he turned to her and extended his hand.
    Silently, she walked to him, placed her hand against his. Palm to palm, the link they shared seemed an acceptance of another bond between them. One he could not decipher and did not truly wish to.
    He’d killed his share of men, because it was war and someone had decreed that they were his enemies. He was prepared to face death for his country, to give his life if that were necessary. A courage that came from necessity and in a sense from honor. But he suddenly found himself afraid in a way that labeled him coward and knave and fool. This woman with her small