He didn’t bother with the leftover coffee. He took the whiskey bottle from the shelf and leaned an arm upon the mantel, staring at her for a moment, then gulping down large swallows of amber liquid from the bottle, then staring at her again.
“You are my wife!” he grated out, emphasizing the last word as if it were a loathsome thing.
Skylar sat up, trying to smooth down her hair, trying to hold her robe together with dignity.
“I’m—sorry,” she murmured coolly. She lowered her eyes, realizing the truth of her predicament. Yet, surely, there was some way out of it.
Except, she realized suddenly, if there were, she couldn’t take it! She didn’t dare accept any way out—and back east. No matter what, she had to stay here in the Dakota territory. She had to remain Lady Douglas. For the time being, at least.
He sauntered toward her, the whiskey bottle still in his hand. He paused before the bed, then hunkered down before her, his green eyes riveted on hers.
Apparently, he was having different thoughts.
“Something could be done about this. If you were to ask for an annulment, I could see to it that you were escorted back east as quickly as possible with?—”
“No!”
“What?” he demanded.
He was too close. Almost touching her knees. He was dressed now, but she still wore only the robe. She leaped up, skirting around him, around the table. He stood, turning, watching her,his hands on his hips. She faced him from across the table. “I—can’t ask for an annulment.”
He arched a brow.
“Don’t you understand?” he demanded angrily. “You’re not a widow. You haven’t”—he hesitated— “you haven’t just inherited my father’s estates. I have been to his attorney, who was astonished I hadn’t given greater interest to papers when I put my name upon them. My father was actually out looking for a bride for me when he stumbled upon you. So, yes, you are Lady Douglas, but you don’t have to be. You can file for an annulment. You can go home with money in your pocket?—”
“No.”
“Dammit, what do you mean, no?” he demanded bitingly.
“No. I’m not going back,” Skylar repeated.
He just stood, staring at her. “I don’t want a wife,” he grated out.
The way that he had taunted her, half scaring her to death earlier, suddenly seemed possible to avenge in some small way.
“That’s your misfortune,” she said sweetly. Then she almost backed into the fireplace, she was so certain that he was going to come and do her bodily harm.
He did not, turning instead to slam a fist against the wall with such fervor that it seemed the entire place shook. “You intend to stay?” he roared.
“I have to stay!” she told him determinedly. He continued to stare at her with such leashed fury that she found herself hurriedly going on. “I will stay. I’ve come out here. I must stay. I won’t get in your way, I promise. I?—”
“How do you know?”
“How do I know what?”
“That you won’t get in my way?”
“Because I won’t. I?—”
He strode toward the table, slamming the whiskey bottle upon it as he leaned toward her. “What if there are women I choose to have in my life?”
“Then—” She faltered, her eyes falling. She raised them, meeting his cleanly. “Then you must keep them in your life.”
He crossed his arms over his chest, looking as if he liked her all the less the more she spoke.
“If you’d been about to take a wife, surely your father wouldn’t have married you to me,” she said hastily. “And as to anyone else…I’ll stay out of your way.”
“Really?”
