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Page 315
ing his face, she saw his own fear written there. "Is everything all right?" She needed to touch him for reassurance but didn't dare; the last thing he'd need to protect them both was a clinging woman.
He held up his hand for quiet, seeming to concentrate on their surroundings. Then he looked down at her. "Everything is fine," he said, "as long as you are unharmed."
His eyes moved over her, from head to foot, and the alarm written in them appeared to segue to another stormy emotion that Mariah did not, at first, understand. Not until she looked down at herself. She had forgotten, for a moment, the way her chemise clung, leaving her no secrets. Her breasts were boldly outlined, the nipples erect and straining.
"Oh," she said quietly. She felt a pulsation way below that made her sway on her feet, and the heat that flooded her had little to do with the sun that beat upon the water.
He grabbed her beneath the arm as though to steady her, and the supportive touch made her even more wobbly instead. She wanted to throw herself into his arms, to make him chase away her terrors, to kiss him until kissing was no longer enough. . . .
"Mariah, have you finished bathing?" His voice was hoarse, his British accent even more pronounced.
"Y-yes," she stammered.
"Good," he said. "Then it is time to return to the inn."
She grabbed her clothes from where she'd left them, neatly folded, upon the ground. She threw on her blouse and skirt, heedlessly bunching her petticoats under her arm. She stepped into her boots without bothering to don stockings first.
She stared into Thorn's face, finding his smoldering glance locked upon her eyes, as though he knew better than to look below, as though the blouse provided no barrier to his ability to see what was under it.
"Come," he said.
His arm was around her as they hurried, side by side, along the uneven dirt trail through the woods. Mariah's unsteadiness was balanced by the unerring pace of Thorn beside her, and she looked more at him than at where she was going.

 
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