Free Moonlight Rebel by Marie Ferrarella Page A

knew it, frightened Jason. Yet he could not stop himself. Not if his very life demanded it. He kissed her neck, her throat, breathing words of endearment against her flesh and sending warm shivers cascading throughout his own body. With a near reverence that outstripped the fire burning within him, he touched her softly, stroking her breasts.
    Krystyna caught her breath, her pulse pounding with excitement. And fear. No one had ever touched her there —not with her permission. She had felt nothing but outrage when Andrej had tried. There was no outrage now, only a desire for more. The more he caressed her, the more passion surged within her.
    Everything was out of control again. She had never been so frightened before.
    "No!" With trembling hands that felt as if they belonged to someone else, Krystyna pushed Jason from her and then turned her face away.
    He felt frustrated, bewildered. She had brought him up to a crest and then had suddenly dashed him to the rocks below. Trying to steady his own racing heart, he stared at Krystyna. Belatedly, he realized that she was trying to muffle her sobs.
    Guilt licked at him as he reached for her. With an oath, she shrank away from his touch. "Hush now," he murmured. Lightly, he ran a hand over her hair. "I'd never hurt you, Krys."
    Her eyes were bright and icy blue as she turned to look at him. "You already have." For he had wounded her heart, had caused her to behave like some simple farm girl. He had made her forget who and what she was. She could not be ruled by passion, by heated blood, no matter how tempting his lips were.
    The accusation in her eyes left him utterly at a loss, and he nearly cursed the moment he had come to her rescue. Nearly.
    "I was just trying to comfort you." He reached for her in an effort to calm her down.
    "Comfort?" Krystyna swatted away his hand. Her fingertips stung his flesh. Jason stared at her in surprise, his anger mounting. "Is that the name for it here? It looked to me as if you rescued me from the others just to have me for yourself. Is that the American way?"
    "Don't flatter yourself, Princess. I saved you because you needed saving, not because I wanted you." Then. But oh, how he did now.
    "Then what were you just doing?" Inwardly she swore at the tear that trickled down her cheek.
    Tears. He had hurt her. His own damn needs had gotten in the way and colored his actions. Jason's tone softened. He hadn't meant to harm her. Or to frighten her. "You were having a nightmare and crying. I tried to get you to wake up."
    Did he think she was a fool? "By covering my mouth with your own?"
    He grinned easily. She had a short fuse, and for some reason, that tickled him. "One does what one has to, Princess."
    His words were met with more of her own. But this time he didn't understand them. She was peppering him with a barrage of accusations spoken in her native language, and Jason found himself grateful that his education was limited in that respect. He had a feeling that he would not have found her outbursts flattering.
    As her tirade continued, Jason moved away and eased himself back against the trunk of the tree. His body still hummed from needs that were left unmet. But there will be another time, he promised himself.
    He glanced in Krystyna's direction. For a ha'penny, he'd take her back into his arms and show her things he had a feeling she really wanted to be shown. But the frightened look in her eyes came back to him, and he held himself in check. She needed time. And, in a way, so did he.
    "You're going to wear yourself out," he warned, "Going on like that."
    She found it difficult to hold her temper in check, but her training won out. "I have brought dishonor to my family. I would deem it a great favor if you would not speak of this to anyone. On your word of honor. If you have any."
    Perhaps she was royalty at that. She certainly spoke like someone accustomed to giving orders. "Just what do you take me for? I'm not the type to talk about what