“If I do decide to kill you, it won’t be by poisoning,” he informed her dryly.
She still couldn’t move. She could barely swallow. She prayed that he could not see that, yet she was aware that the pulse at her throat was pounding.
He crooked a finger her way. “Can’t use a drink? I surely can,” he said pleasantly enough. But then the tone of his voice changed. “Get over here. I’m really not going to poison you, and I know damned well that you can really use a drink.”
She bit her lower lip, feeling again a rise of temper that nearly vanquished her fear, and walked carefully around the bed and halfway across the room, keeping as far away from him as she could manage while accepting the cup at the same time. She took a sip. The coffee was hot and delicious with just enough whiskey in it to add a reassuring warmth to her system each time she swallowed. She swallowed more quickly. Closed her eyes. Drank it down.
The cup was taken from her fingers, and a moment later given back, full once again.
Coffee. It seemed a touch of normalcy in the midst of insanity.
Or maybe it was just that the whiskey in it was blurring the madness of her situation.
She felt him staring at her again, studying her intently. She backed away uneasily. She didn’t really realize that she was doing so until her calves touched the edge of the bed. She didn’t think she planned to sit. It was just that her knees wouldn’t hold her upright anymore. She sank down, sitting on the edge of the bed as primly as possible. “I can’t begin to understand what’s going on here. I’ve done nothing to you! If you would just tell me who you are, explain?—”
“I’m asking the questions, remember?” he said sharply.
“Then tell me what you are!” she cried. “You pretended to be an Indian, a complete savage?—”
“Oh, I am an Indian. Sioux!” he interrupted, his tone deceptively soft. “And I suggest you not forget it. And as to being a complete savage…well, I have always found that some men are, by nature, savage, and some are not, race having no bearing on the issue whatsoever.”
She swallowed another sip of coffee, amazed—unnerved. Not only did he speak English, he was also a damned philosopher. How in God’s name had she fallen in his path?
“Perhaps you’d best change your behavior then,” Skylar suggested sweetly. “For so far, it has been completely detestable, heathen, and savage.”
“Really? I don’t think I stated that I was among the men who weren’t complete savages,” he informed her with a sardonic smile. “I was merely making the point that ‘savage’ is often how the whites choose to view a society different from their own, when often white behavior is far crueler and more heinous. And frankly, I don’t give a damn whether you consider me to be a savage or not. Now, back to basics. Who the hell are you, and why are you claiming to be Lady Douglas?”
Skylar warmed her hands around her mug, inhaling deeply. “I have told you the truth! I am Lady Skylar Douglas?—”
“Married to?—?”
“Lord Douglas, naturally.”
“Naturally?” he grated.
She drained her coffee mug, grateful then for the riveting warmth that seemed to put some steel back into her own limbs. “Naturally. Well, actually, I am a widow now. Lord Douglas—died.”
“After you married him?”
“Obviously,” she heard herself snap. “That is the way one becomes a widow.”
“When and where did you marry him?”
“That’s none of your damned business,” she informed him coolly.
But he started to take a step toward her, his green eyes sharply narrowed. “I ask you again, when and where were you married?” he demanded.
Skylar stiffened, afraid and indignant. She assured herself it didn’t matter in the least if she did or didn’t give him information that was actually public record.
“I married Lord Douglas a little more than two weeks ago in Maryland.”
“And then he died. How damned convenient.”
“How dare you?—”
“Easily. Now, you married Lord Douglas—Lord who Douglas.”
“What?”
