endless kiss. His arms encircled her lower back, pressing their bodies together.

“Love, what did the last song say?” he mumbled against her lips.

She pulled back a fraction. “The Italian one?”

“Yes.”

She blushed, not wanting to answer.

“Tell me, Kat,” he urged. “You know you can trust me. You do know that, don't you?”

She met his eyes with a tender look. “I've never wanted to trust anyone before.”

“And now?”

She burrowed closer to him. “This is the safest place on earth, here in your

arms. Yes, Christopher. I trust you.”

He pulled the pins from her hair. “I'm so glad. Please, love, tell me what the

song said.”

She glanced away and took a deep, shuddering breath. Then she raised her eyes to his face. “It speaks of one who is so wonderful, so perfect, that he is

worth loving even though there is no hope of reciprocation. With him, even the pain of unrequited adoration is a kind of glory.”

“Were you… singing to me? It looked as though you were.”

“Yes.” Her cheeks grew even pinker, but her voice remained sincere and

steady.

He nodded and lowered his mouth to hers again, stroking his fingers over the

uneven flesh along her spine. She squirmed, trying to pull away, but he held her

fast. “Do you really think, foolish girl, that your love is unrequited? It's not. I love you, Katerina. I love your beautiful face, your tender heart and your lovely

body. I even love your scars.”

She didn't reply at all as the long moments passed. A tear trailed down her cheek, and then another. Her breathing grew ragged.

He placed his hands on her arms and turned her, sweeping her long dark hair

over her shoulder and giving himself an unobstructed view of the ruined flesh.

Now that all the injuries had healed, he was able to see the jigsaw puzzle effect

of overlapping whip marks cut indelibly into her skin from her shoulder blades

to her knees. “My God, Kat. How did you survive?”

“I don't know,” she choked. “I'm very glad I did.”

“So am I. Poor darling.”

The quality of her voice sharpened. “Don't pity me, Christopher. Please

don't.”

He shook his head. “No. I admire you. You're so strong, so brave.”

“You make me brave,” she replied.

“You chose courage so you could come away with me and be my wife,” he

told her, tracing one scar across her back from side to side. “I'm honored.”

“You chose me to rescue out of the sea of battered women,” she replied. “I'm

the one who's blessed.”

“Did you know the French word for wounded is blessée?” he asked, his

voice too nonchalant.

“Yes. I've always found that ironic.”

“It fits.” His tone wavered.

“Yes, I suppose it does,” she conceded, wondering what he was up to.

“Come here, love.” He led her over to the bedside table and urged her forward, so her hands rested on the wood.

She gasped and went utterly still.

Christopher had no way of knowing how deeply ingrained this posture was

for her, how many times she had been bent over a solid surface in preparation for

a brutal beating. Nearly every mark on her body had been received in such a position. The only way to keep the onslaught from turning even more violent was to submit in silence to each blow. The instant her hands touched the table,

Italy faded, Christopher faded, and Katerina was back in her father's home, trembling as she waited for the whip to fall.

Something hot and wet touched one deep, thick line, tracing it gently. The delicate caress, arousing despite the muting effect of the scars, confused her.

What is this?