She flashed him a radiant smile. “You’re nearly forgiven. So tell me—what took you so long? Is it that you think you’re not good enough for me, Grimm Roderick? Because you’re not titled, I mean.” When he didn’t respond, she hastened to reassure him. “I don’t care, you know. A title doesn’t make the man, and you’re certainly the finest man that I’ve ever known. What on earth do you think is wrong with you?”

His stubborn silence didn’t serve as the deterrent he intended; she scurried down an alternate route of inquiry. “Quinn told me that you think your father is mad and you’re afraid you’ve inherited the madness. He said it was nonsense and I must tell you I agree, because you’re the most intelligent man I’ve ever met—except for the times when you don’t trust me, which evidences a glaring lapse in your customary good judgment.”

Grimm stared at her, disconcerted. “What else did Quinn tell you?”

“That you love me,” she said simply.

He swept her into his embrace in one swift move. He buried his hands in her hair and kissed her urgently. She savored the rock-hard press of his body against hers, his teasing tongue, his strong hands cupping her face. Jillian melted against him, wordlessly demanding more. The past month without him, followed by hours pressed against his muscled body as they’d ridden, had begun a slow burn of desire within her. For the past hour, her skin had tingled at every point of contact with his body, and a trembling heat had gathered in her midsection, seeping lower, awakening shockingly intense feelings of desire. She’d been oblivious to the terrain, her mind fully occupied with imagining, in blush-inducing detail, the many different ways she wanted to make love with him.

Now she practically vibrated with need, and she responded wildly to his kiss. Her body was already prepared for him, and she pressed encouragingly against his hips.

He stopped kissing her as suddenly as he’d begun. “We must continue riding,” he said tightly. “We have a long way to go, lass. I doona wish to keep you out here in the cold any longer than I must.”

He pulled away so abruptly that Jillian gaped at him and nearly screamed with frustration. She was so heated from his kiss that the chill air was inconsequential, and she certainly had no intention of waiting even a moment longer to make love with him again.

She let her eyes flutter slowly closed and swayed a bit. Grimm eyed her intently. “Are you feeling all right, lass?”

“No,” Jillian replied, casting him a sidelong glance beneath her lowered lashes. “Frankly, I feel decidedly odd, Grimm, and I don’t know what to make of it.”

He moved back to her side instantly, and she prepared to spring her trap.

“Where do you feel odd, Jillian? Have I—”

“Here.” She swiftly took his hand and placed it on her breast. “And here.” She guided his other hand to her hips.

Grimm took several deep breaths and blew them out, willing his thundering heart to slow, to quit pumping so much blood to his loins and perhaps let his brain in on the bargain so he might entertain a coherent thought. “Jillian,” he said, exhaling a frustrated breath.

“Well, my,” she said mischievously, moving her hands over his body. “You seem to be suffering the same ailment.” Her hand closed over him through his plaid, and he made a low, growling sound deep in his throat.

They both spoke at once.

“It’s freezing out here, lass. I won’t subject you—”

“I’m not—”

“—to the cold for my own selfish needs—”

“—fragile, Grimm. And what about my selfish needs?”

“—and I can’t make love to you properly outside!”

“Oh, and is properly the only way you’ve ever wanted me?” she mocked.

His gaze locked with hers, and his eyes darkened with desire. He seemed immobilized, obtusely assessing the cold, considering all of her needs—except for the one that really mattered.

In a low voice she said, “Do it. Take me. Now.”

His eyes narrowed and he sucked in a harsh breath. “Jillian.” A storm gathered in his ice-blue eyes, and she wondered for a moment what she’d called forth. A beast—her beast. And she wanted him exactly the way he was.

The force of his passion hit her like a sea gale, hot and salty and primitive in its power, holding nothing back. They exploded against each other, driving their bodies as close together as they could. He backed her against a tree, thrust her gown up, and pushed his plaid aside, all the while kissing her eyelids, her nose, her lips, plunging his tongue so deeply into her mouth that she felt herself drowning in the man’s sensuality.