He let go of her hand, and the wet cloth fell to the carpet with a splat. Sinclair continued to pull her hair loose, the mass of it flowing over her shoulders to her waist. Since Bertie had been living here, she’d been able to keep her hair clean, amazed at the different soaps the rich washed themselves with.

Sinclair’s short hair glistened with droplets of water, and the dressing gown, though it was fastened, held the warmth of the bare man beneath. Bertie’s knees went shaky as Sinclair’s large hands pushed back her hair then drifted to the buttons of her bodice.

Bertie could say nothing, do nothing, as Sinclair started sliding the buttons through the buttonholes, one by one, taking his time. Sinclair didn’t hold her—Bertie simply couldn’t move. Her body crawled with heat—she hadn’t been so warm all day. No need to run from this.

Sinclair’s blunt fingers opened the bodice in silence. The placket parted for his big hands, and he drew his fingers down the corset cover beneath.

Bertie’s breath hitched as Sinclair moved his touch down to the cuffs of her sleeves. He undid the faux pearl buttons there, then returned his hands to her shoulders and pushed her bodice open and off. Bertie now stood with bare arms in her corset and its jacketlike cover, and her skirts beneath it.

Bertie reached for the cloth fastenings of Sinclair’s dressing gown, her fingers trembling, but he gently pushed her hands aside. He ran his fingers up her wrists, back to her shoulders then down to unhook the clasps of the corset cover and push it away.

When his hands moved to the corset’s laces, he kissed her, his mouth insistent, lips opening hers. The laces at Bertie’s back loosened, Sinclair’s strong hand parting them, then his warmth came to her through the thin fabric of her combinations. He made a noise in his throat as he pulled her closer, his fingers splayed across her back.

Hot and cold sensations chased through Bertie’s body. She wanted to fold in on herself, and at the same time, she burned with energy. The corset came away, Bertie’s chest expanding as the restricting garment released her.

Sinclair fumbled with the clasps that closed her skirts, and the hooks tore off in his impatience. Bertie helped him push the skirts down, her shaking fingers bumping against his solid ones. Now she was bare to the world except for her combinations, her fine, new undergarments.

Sinclair lifted her into his arms and carried her away from her clothes on the floor. He laid her on the bed, which had been stripped and remade after Andrew was moved upstairs, the tight covers cool against her back. The photo of Mrs. McBride had gone from the bedside table as well, to keep Andrew and Cat company in the nursery.

Sinclair didn’t join her on the bed. He stood looking down at her for a long time, his gray eyes still, his breath swift. Bertie curled her fingers on the covers, waiting.

Without taking his gaze from her, Sinclair unfastened his dressing gown and let it drop. His body came into view, hard, tight, and beautiful. Bertie’s heart thrummed.

His wide shoulders were sunbaked, the red-bronze color fading to paler skin on the rest of his torso. Blond hair dusted his chest, and his navel was a deeper shadow in the dim room. Another swirl of hair, darker than that on his chest, curled between his legs.

His staff was hard and ready, stiff and long. No need for a lady to tickle him up, as Bertie had heard women say about their men. Sinclair looked down at her, paying no attention to his own nudity, his gaze all for Bertie.

He put his knee on the mattress and climbed onto the bed with her. His hands landed on either side of her head, but he didn’t kiss her again. Sinclair only looked at her, his eyes dark in the low light, the same light brushing gold into the unshaved whiskers on his face. He continued to hold her gaze as his hand went to the buttons of her combinations and began unfastening them.

Bertie’s heartbeat sped. Cool air touched her skin, the placket parting. Sinclair pushed the combinations’ sleeveless top down her body, then lifted her h*ps to slide the drawers from her legs.

There. Bertie was bare before a man for the first time in her life.

Sinclair nuzzled her cheek, then kissed it, his lips brushing so lightly it might have been a breeze. His hand went to her chest, moving to cup her breast, his thumb on her nipple, his touch a dart of fire.

“I never . . .” Bertie’s whisper was loud in the stillness. “I never been with a man before . . .”

“Shh.” Sinclair lifted away from her breast, leaving Bertie craving him, and touched her lips. “I won’t hurt ye, sweet.”

Any Englishness dropped away from him—Sinclair’s voice was all Scots. His arms were tight but his hands gentle, his fingertips skimming her face before he leaned in to kiss her again.

Fine heat—Bertie found hard muscle under Sinclair’s smooth skin, then the warm silk of his hair, the rough bristles of unshaved beard. The cuts on his face caught at her fingers, as did the swollen bruises. Jeffrey had hurt him.

The thought made Bertie furious. “He shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry.”

Sinclair raised his head, eyes glittering in the half-light. “I needed to fight him. We Highlanders like our vengeance.”

“But . . .”

“No more talking.” Sinclair’s voice turned to a growl. “It’s only you and me tonight, and the very bad thing I’m doing.”

“Not bad.” Bertie smiled. “It’s not bad at all.”

“Yes, it is.” Sinclair’s answering smile burned her. “But I don’t care.”