“What was your husband’s given name?”
“Andrew.”
“You’re certain.”
“The name is on my wedding license.”
“But your husband died.”
“Yes.”
“You’re quite certain.”
“I was there!”
“Ahhhh…!”
The drawn-out exclamation had a damning sound to it. As if he seemed to find it perfectly natural that Lord Douglas might have died—and that perhaps she might have had something to do with his death.
“Don’t you dare look at me like that. Don’t you dare sound like that!” she exploded, feeling pain welling up within her. “I was there with him, I was there—” she choked out.
“I’m sure you were!” he interrupted derisively.
“You heathen bastard!” she hissed. “How dare you?—”
“No! How dare you!” he breathed back through clenched teeth.
She leaped up. “You’ve no right to accost me like this. You’ve no right to make any judgments about me. You want to talk about not caring? Well, I don’t know who—or what!—you are anymore, but do you know what? I don’t care! I’m an American citizen. I don’t have to sit here and take this from you or anyone!”
She stood purposefully. She slammed her mug down on the table before the hearth, staring at him with daggers in her eyes. With her chin high and her heart hammering, only the whiskey giving her the courage she needed at the moment, she strode smoothly toward the door, determined that her manner alone would set her free.
But then she heard his voice. “Oh, Lady Douglas! I don’t think so!” And even as she opened the door, his hand reached over her shoulder, slamming it shut again. She spun against the door, only to find herself blocked there, the imposing size and strength of his body before her, a hand on either side of her head, his bronzed arms caging her in.
She stared at him with all the cool authority she could muster. “I grow weary of this game!” she insisted.
“You think it a game?” he inquired softly.
“I think you need to let me out of here!”
“I think not!” His hand upon her arm drew her back into the room and sent her spinning toward the bed once again. She caught herself before she could fall against it. The robe was slipping off her. She drew it back together, drawing the belt tighter. She placed a hand against the poster at the foot of the bed for support.
“The army is in residence out here!” she cried. “And when they finally come, I swear I’ll see to it that you are hanged!”
“They might just hang you.”
“What?”
“For murder. The murder of Lord Douglas.”
The night was insane. It was all insanity. Perhaps that’s what caused her to snap and, in a moment of sheer madness, pit herself at him again. Instead of running, sensibly keeping her distance, she flew across the floor, raising a hand to slap him. When he caught her right hand, she was ready with her left. When she was deterred from his face, she did her best to beatagainst his chest. Sobs shook her body. She was only barely aware that she was lifted from the floor. Her head was spinning now. He must have poured half the bottle of whiskey into her cup the second time he filled it. It had given her courage and strength. Now she was paying for that false bravado.
“Stop it!”
She dimly heard his voice. No matter how rough the command, it didn’t seem to penetrate to her mind. She couldn’t stop fighting or sobbing, hysterically pummeling him with a strength born of raw fear and rage.
“Stop it!”
Her feet were off the ground. She was lifted, flying—and suddenly on the bed again. He was straddling her hips, pinning her wrists high above her head to keep her from hitting him. She inhaled raggedly, trying to get a grip on herself. She could barely breathe. Her robe had fallen open. So had his. The ridiculous intimacy of their situation fueled her hysteria.
