Though desire remained, a hum at the edge of consciousness, Jenna’s closeness now warmed him in a different way, bonded her to him in an amalgam of affection and deeply shared experience. In her most desperate hour, she had turned to him.

And he was fiercely glad of it.

For long timeless moments he simply held her, listening as her sobs subsided and her breathing steadied, inhaling the soft scent of lavender and her skin.

Mrs. Anderson, with her condesas in Lisbon and her balls in London, could go to perdition, he decided. Jenna should stay right here. As his wife, in his arms.

Bend just a trifle and he might touch his lips to the bared nape of her neck. But that would surely fire him to want more, something not fitting for him to seek at this moment or in this place.

Later, once they were wed and her grief had eased… Ah, then, Garrett could work on bringing his vision of the water nymph to life.

Finally, with a sniff, Jenna straightened. “I do beg pardon, Garrett. I’m not usually such a watering pot.”

“Today is hardly a ‘usual’ day.”

“No,” she said on a sigh. “I suppose it is not.”

She looked so valiant perched on his lap, her dark eyes spilling one last tear as she took a deep breath, that Garrett’s chest tightened. Truly, she was the best of good soldiers.

And then he simply had to kiss her. Just one brief brush of his lips against her forehead.

She murmured as he did so and rubbed her cheek against his jacket. Chaste kiss or no, even so muted a response from her brought his every slumbering sense to full alert.

Before he could begin to decide whether to prudently lift her off his lap - or succumb to the reckless urge to kiss her again, a gasp of indrawn breath from the doorway interrupted him.

“Jenna Montague! And Major Fairchild! Whatever do you think you are doing?” Mrs. Anderson demanded.