His jaw tightened.
“But every time I come near you, you behave as though touching me would be a crime.”
“Maeve.”
“The bed is big enough.”
He looked up.
Fear crossed his face.
Not desire alone.
Fear.
Real fear.
Maeve softened.
“You don’t want me?”
Callaway stood so quickly the chair scraped backward.
“Don’t say that.”
The force in his voice startled her.
He turned toward the fire.
Maeve watched his shoulders rise and fall.
“Then what is it?”
He said nothing.
She stepped closer.
“Look at me.”
He did.
Maeve’s heart beat harder.
She touched the edge of his vest with two fingers.
Callaway went completely still.
“You’ve spent months making sure I never feel bought,” she whispered.
His eyes darkened.
“Yes.”
“You’ve succeeded.”
“Maeve—”
“Do you want me?”
He exhaled through his nose.
“That’s not the question.”
“It is tonight.”
She stepped between his knees before he could retreat.
Callaway looked up at her.
The thunder outside seemed suddenly distant.
Maeve’s voice lowered.
“If I told you I wanted you in that bed with me tonight, would you still run to the cot?”
His gaze dropped once to her lips.
Then returned to her eyes.
“When you ask me something like that,” he said quietly, “you need to know exactly what you’re asking.”
“I’m thirty years old, Callaway.”
“I know.”
“I crossed an ocean alone.”
“I know.”
“I think I can identify when I’m asking a man to stop sleeping five feet away.”
Something almost broke in him.
He stood.
Now he towered over her.
Maeve’s breath caught.
His hand hovered near her waist but did not touch.
“If you want me,” he said, “you say it because you choose me. Not because you think food, shelter, passage money, or a roof bought me the right to touch you.”
Maeve’s anger softened into something aching.
She took his hand.
Placed it against her waist.
Callaway inhaled sharply.
“Then hear me clearly,” she whispered. “I’m choosing to have you closer.”
His thumb moved once against the fabric of her dress.
Maeve felt the tiny movement everywhere.
“And if I want you to stop,” she continued, “I’ll tell you.”
Callaway leaned closer.
Their faces were inches apart.
“Careful, sweetheart.”
The word from him made heat climb her throat.
“I’ve spent months proving I can keep my hands to myself.”
Maeve’s fingers curled into his vest.
“And?”
“And don’t make me tell you how many nights I wanted you to ask exactly that.”
Maeve almost smiled.
“Maybe I want you to tell me.”
His forehead nearly touched hers.
Then he stopped.
The change was immediate.
Callaway stepped away.
Maeve stared.
“What are you doing?”
He crossed the cabin toward the old wooden chest beneath the window.
“Something I should have done the first night.”
He removed a brass key from a cord beneath his shirt.
Maeve’s attraction vanished beneath a rush of dread.
Callaway knelt.
Unlocked the chest.
Inside were bundles of papers.
A leather ledger.
Letters tied with faded blue ribbon.
A small metal box.
And an old photograph.