“I’ve nothing to tell you,” she informed him regally.
“Nothing?” he queried, a dark brow arched high.
“Nothing. You seem to know everything already. I wouldn’t dream of trying to correct the assumptions within that arrogant head of yours. If I’ve disturbed you again, I do apologize. It was not my intention. So if you’ll just excuse me…”
She started to move past him, but he caught her wrist. “I don’t excuse you. You came down to be by Father’s coffin. Saying your prayers? For his soul—or your own?”
“Perhaps I’m praying that a large pit will open up in the earth, and you’ll fall into it,” she replied sweetly.
He smiled. “That is a given.”
She narrowed her eyes, staring at him hard. “Perhaps I pray that Colonel Custer will lead an expedition against you, catch you in your war paint taunting some other hapless victim, and riddle you with bullets!”
To her amazement, he started to laugh. “Sorry, my dear.
“Old Curly may have learned Indian country, but he couldn’t trail me even if he had a map in front of him. But do go on. This conversation might become enlightening. For what else do you pray? And just what do your prayers have to do with your relationship with my father? What was that relationship?”
She wrenched her arm free. “I saw an elderly man. Being a mystic, I determined that he was more ill than he would let on, that I should marry him as quickly as possible. I have such powers of persuasion that I not only convinced him to marry me, I also caused his heart to stop by the sheer seduction of my smile. But I’m not a very good mystic, am I? I was unaware that Lord Douglas had a bitter, cruel mixed-race son who liked to dress up in war paint and attack stagecoaches. That is your assumption, isn’t it?”
“Have you something else to give me in its stead?” he asked blandly.
“I’ve told you. I’ll give you nothing!” she promised vehemently. She took another chance at getting past him.
He didn’t stop her this time, and she raced up the stairway to her room.
Still standing in the parlor, Hawk heard her slam the bedroom doors closed. He was certain that she had thrown the bolt.
He shut his eyes.
Why wouldn’t she talk to him?
Worse. Why did it seem that she had gotten so deeply into his blood?
Why did it seem, even now, that his body was wired, hot and burning, that his soul and mind were torn. That he wanted to stay away from her, that he wanted…
The soft flannel gown had hugged her body. The fire had given it the effect of light and shadow as it fell over her form,highlighting curves and movement. Curves he had touched. Movement he knew.
Damn her. He wouldn’t be so swayed.
Damn her.
He would.
She was here as his wife.
Skylar furiously wrenched the covers from the bed and was about to slide into it when the bedroom door suddenly burst open with a violent slam. Hawk stood there. She stared blankly from him to the doors and realized that his force had easily broken the flimsy bolt. He had snapped the wood that had surrounded the metal bolt.
His eyes on her, he stepped into the room, drawing the doors closed behind him.
“Can’t sleep, Lady Douglas?” he inquired politely.
“I think I will manage just fine now,” she informed him.
“We’ll see to it. I hadn’t meant to be remiss. Were you ready for bed, you needed only say so.”
He moved about the room, methodically blowing out candles, turning down the flames on the gas lamps. Only the firelight still glowed when he finished. He sat at the foot of the bed then, pulling off his boots. He stood, pulling his shirt over his head. Skylar remained dead still herself, standing as if frozen, just watching him.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded huskily.
