Her hair

*Zac*
Bloody damned hell. Why am I tormenting myself?

It isn’t her eyes, or her smile, or her spirit. It is her body. Lithe and supple with legs that stretched all the way up to her neck. I had wanted them wrapped tightly around my waist. I want them now.

I had lied. I have a damned good view. I have never known such sweet torture.

It has taken every ounce of strength I possess to sit there without revealing that I am aching with need, that my own body is rebelling. I wanted to snatch her out of that blasted water, water that is teasing her skin the way I want to, and carry her to the bed. If she hadn't just experienced a horrific nightmare, I damn well might have.

I rub the scar along the side of my face. I am just vain enough to wonder if she is repulsed by it, if she would be nauseated by the others that adornes my body. I had been aware enough during my own recent ordeal to know that she had touched them, wiped a damp cloth over them.

At one point she leaned forward and kissed some of them. My manhood had reacted as best it could under the circumstances, with a swift stirring. If not for the laudanum, I would have been as hard as stone. But it had kept me subdued. Maybe that is the reason she had poured so much down my throat.

She is wary of me, too wary. Women usually are quite eager to have me make love to them again, soon and often. Have I suffered injuries that made me clumsy in bed? Had she not experienced the full pleasure I offer all my women?

The hole of memories is a curse. I have no idea how I might have treated her, what we might have done. And I certainly am not going to ask her.

Stepping out of the changing room, she approaches, watching me warily like a virgin on her wedding night. It makes no sense. She knows what I am fully capable of delivering.

“Why does being with me frighten you?" I ask.

She darts a quick glance to the bed, then angles her chin defiantly. “It doesn't.”

“Then come sit over here." I slide my hand over the cushion beside me. “And have some more brandy."

“It’s frightfully late." She mumbles.

“It usually is when one awakens with a nightmare.” From the moment I met her, I have failed to question the heavy circles beneath her eyes, the weariness that shadows her face. I had simply assumed she is one of those women who always appeared tired, as though life were a burden too heavy to bear. But what I now know of her character, she is not one to be weighted down. I suspected she would frolic through green fields with the first hint of spring. “When was the last time you slept for any substantial length of time?”

She shakes her head. “I sleep in snatches. Zane … Zane does not yet sleep through the night."

I give her a pointed look. “Jeanette could relieve you of that duty. "

“But he's my son. He needs me." She says.

“Once in a while, you need to sleep through the night.”

“I can’t. If it's anything other than a quick nap ….” She shakes her head forcefully. “ …they come. All those I could not save.”

The reminder of what had initially brought me to her bedchamber curbs my desire. I pat the cushion. “Join me. I won't ravish you.”

“I never thought you would." She says softly.

I am not quite certain what to make of her tone. Is it disappointment or determination? And why would she ever think she is safe with me? Women are not. Oh, I would never force them, but I am damned skilled at persuading them.

Why does she not think I would take advantage?

The sofa dips slightly beneath her weight. She brings her feet up, the gown creating a tent over her legs. She wraps her arms around them, resting her chin on her knees, and stares into the fire. She reminds me of a petulant child. But the gown is thin and shadows tease me. No child there.

With one long swallow to refortify myself, I empty the brandy from my snifter. After refilling it, I offer it to her since she has left hers in the bathing room. I suppose I could have retrieved it, but I do not want to upset the balance that has settled in between us.

She sips gingerly, her focus on the fire in the hearth so great that I wonder if she even remembers I am in the room.

“Nineteen,” She says mulishly, her mouth drawn.

“Pardon?” I ask.

She smiles softly. “There are nineteen freckles. You must have missed one.”

“Then I shall have to recount them.” I tell her.

“Don't bother,” She states flatly. “Take my word for it.”

I do not answer. I will count them again. Before the night is over if I have my way.

For a heartbeat, she looks almost disappointed that I do not argue further. I can barely contain the relief that washes through me. She might pretend otherwise, but she wants me near, perhaps as much as I want to be close enough to enjoy her fragrance.

She grabs her stub of a braid, dragging her hand down it, and reaches empty air far too quickly. I wonder if she had forgotten that her hair is shorter. “How long was it?” I ask.

Twisting her head, she presses her cheek to her knees and stares at me.

“Your hair,” I say to her unasked question.

“Past my waist.” She mumbles.

Reaching out cautiously, the way I might approach a skittish filly, I unravel her braid, holding her gaze the entire time, challenging her not to stop me. She doesn’t. She sits frozen. I am not even certain she is breathing. I comb my fingers through the short strands that curl around her chin, curtains the length of her neck, toys at her shoulders.

“Was it difficult to cut it?” I ask.

“Not terribly. The scissors I used were quite sharp.” She says with a small shrug.

I flash a smile, before narrowing my eyes at her caustic statement. I suspect she can be a good deal of fun when her burdens are light. I want to be with her when they are, and want to be around when her hair once again cascades down her back.

“I meant and I know you know what I meant if it was hard to give up what many consider a woman’s crowning glory.” I say.

“It is hardly glorious with vermin crawling through it.” She feathers her fingers over it. “It's only been a few months since I last cut it. I don't know if I’ll ever bother to have it as long as it once was. It's much easier to care for short."

“I rather fancy it, but I would also like to see it grow long.” I arch my brow. “So I can compare. As we’ve already discovered, you don’t study yourself with as much effort as I study you."

She releases a short burst of laughter, straightens, and finishes off the brandy. I wrap my fingers around the bowl of the snifter to take it from her. She stills my actions by laying her hand over mine. Then she trails her fingers over a jagged scar that runs across two knuckles and nearly touches a third.

“You say you didn't know how you came to have all your scars." She lifts her whiskey gaze to mine and my gut clenches. Has any woman ever looked at me with such unbridled yearning? Is it the brandy? Has it relaxed her enough that she is able to cast inhibitions and proper behavior aside? “I know how this one came to be.”

“Do you?" I shouldn't have been surprised by my strangled voice. Everything within me urges me to hold more than the damned snifter.

She nods slowly. “You acquired it the night you saved me.”

“Saved you? From what?”