His protective instincts were rearing again? She felt like smiling. Maybe Aunt Elizabeth’s pointers were working. She wanted to hear him say that he’d been worried about her, so she asked, “Why?”
“If something happens to you, then I have to waste time looking for your body.” And then he stared at the ribbon around her hips. “That’s a cute gun belt you’ve got there.”
Her cheeks lit up angrily on both counts—sheknewhe’d say something snide about her ribbon, but that remark about wasting time was the last straw. She marched off to the cabin, but she was too agitated—and dirty—to take a nap, and a few minutes later she came out with the bar of brown soap and her last set of clean clothes. Crossing the yard to the gate, she yelled, “I have the gun, so I donotneed your escort for this bath!”
All he did was yell back, “You’re bathing again already? You just did that yesterday.”
She growled under her breath. Had she really thought he might worry about her, the thorn in his side? Of course he wouldn’t. If anything, he’d probably hoped she’d get lost and not return.
She was laughing at herself by the time she left the little pool. Nothing like a cold dunking to put things in perspective. She didn’t need the man to like her; she just needed him to admit that the partnership he’d made with Charles should and would continue with the Mitchell heirs. The reasons he’d partnered with Charles were still valid and hadn’t been satisfied yet.
Good grief, for that very short time after he’d finally accepted that she was Violet Mitchell, they’d laughed and gotten along fine. She wanted that back. Then she could broach a plan to save her family’s home immediately. She needed Morgan to pay off the loan so she and her brothers could repay him instead of the bank. It would require coaxing the bear into being generous again. How hard could that be? Hadn’t he admitted he had a heart of gold? But she couldn’t ask him until he was in a more agreeable state of mind, and he wouldn’t get there if she kept arguing with him. What was wrong with her to keep deviating from Aunt Elizabeth’s advice?
Returning to the cabin, she unhooked the improvised screen so she could sit on the bed to redo her braid without the blanket getting in her way. She was longing to sleep in a nightgown tonight. Should she dare to do so with Morgan in the cabin? Or was he going to smelt tonight after dark? He hadn’t exactly said.
It was the first thing she asked when he returned to start dinner.
“No, I told you, only every four days. I’ll crush rocks every day, but I need enough ore to make it worthwhile to light the smelter. You didn’t wash your hair?”
She blushed a little. She hadn’t washed it because she didn’t want Morgan stirring her up again, as he’d done during the shooting lesson, by insisting he help her brush out the tangles. So she said, “I prefer not to wash it this late in the day, because if I braid it before it’s dry it will be all wavy tomorrow.”
“So don’t braid it.”
“It’s my habit to braid it before I go to bed, to keep it out of the way.”
“That’s a good idea, considering all the tossing and turning you do when you sleep.”
She was taken aback by his intimate observations of her. Had he watched her sleep? “How do you know that?”
“Couldn’t help noticing when we were on the trail.”
Oh, that. She was relieved until he added, “You talk in your sleep, too.”
She gasped. She did nothing of the sort! But she really didn’t want to get into another argument with him, which his observations were priming her for, so she clamped her mouth shut and looked away from his still naked chest. Why couldn’t he put on a shirt after he left the mine? But she figured maybe he wanted to bathe first, which he left to do as soon as he’d gotten the meal started.
She stared at the fire while he was gone, trying to calm herself. She shouldn’t let the man and his habits agitate her so. It seemed to work, because she was able to smile at him when he walked in, mostly because he was wearing his shirt now.
He brought the food to the table. She smirked to herself when he grabbed a towel and laid it on the table before setting down the hot pots. One contained some sort of meat in gravy, the other buttered carrots. The bread he put on the table smelled fresh, so she guessed he must have made it while she’d napped yesterday.
Once they started eating, he asked, “Who’s Elliott?”
She almost choked. She did talk in her sleep? She must have been beyond exhausted for that to happen—well, she had been yesterday. There was simply no way that Sophie, with whom she had shared a room all those years, wouldn’t have mentioned something like that if Violet did it regularly.
Morgan was looking at her expectantly, so she cleared her throat and said, “He’s the English lord I told you about, the man I plan to marry when I return to London.”
“He’s already asked for you?”
“No, but the London Season of endless parties was about to begin just as I had to leave to come home. I’ve been looking forward to the Season for years. I still can’t believe I’m missing it. And the balls—I do love dancing. Lord Elliott was immediately interested in me when we met, broke quite a few rules because he wouldn’t leave my side! So charming and debonair. He even told me he was looking for a wife, so I know he would have asked to marry me if I were there to enjoy the Season with him—instead of here sorting out this mess Papa left us with.”
“You blame Charley for dying?”
“No, of course not!”
“Sounds like it to me,” he said with a shrug. “And this Elliott you’re going to pay to marry you sounds like an idiot.”
“I told you, dowries are expected among the aristocracy, something you obviously know nothing about. So do us both a favor and finish your meal in silence, as I intend to do.”
She ended that with a glare. Why did that make him grin? Had he deliberately provoked her and was pleased he’d succeeded? But she refused to say another word to him while she was so hotly smarting, or she would certainly say something she would regret.
