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How dare he decide this for me?

How dare he assume I would accept such impropriety?

Jaw clenched, she twitched her fingers against the sheet.

Georgine tried to open her eyes and speak, but her mouth felt as dry as cold fireplace ash. No matter how she willed her lids to lift, they remained heavy, weighted by exhaustion and pain.

I am as helpless as a day-old lamb.

Frustration burned behind her breastbone.

For two years after her mother passed on to her eternal reward, Georgine had managed the household. Since her father’s passing ten years ago, no man had dictated her choices. She had decided for herself and her sister since she was sixteen, and done well too, thank you very much.

God above, she resented the sudden presumption that a man, least of all Robyn, had the right to speak for her now.

She had fought for every ounce of independence, ensuring her younger sister never lacked food, shelter, protection, or the right to voice her opinion. Not a simple task in a world dominated and governed by men.

Now, after mere hours in Robyn Fitzlloyd’s house, he had taken control of everything: her recovery, her choices, even her ability to move.

Trapped.

Dependent.

At the mercy of another’s will.

The very reasons she had never considered marriage.

She’d witnessed what her father’s absolute control and unrelenting imposition of his will had done to her mother.

No one ever breathed the words aloud, but Mama had never been happier than after Father died.

A different sort of panic washed over Georgine.

Material swished nearby again.

Matilda murmured something, then the door latch clicked.

She had left—left Georgine alone with Robyn Fitzlloyd.

Georgine could not be angry with her friend, but neither could she accept this situation.

A chair creaked, followed by a hefty sigh—Robyn settling in as though he intended to stay for the duration.

Heat simmered beneath Georgine’s breastbone.

Absolutely not.

She parted her lips and tried to tell him just that, but only a dry rasp escaped.

“Are you awake, Miss Thackerly?” Boots scuffed against the wooden floorboards, and the air shifted as his presence loomed closer again. “How is your pain?”

Godawful, you daft man.

But her thirst was worse.

“Thir…thirst…” She swallowed against the dryness, muting her. “Thirs-ty.”

Glass clinked against the nightstand, followed by the gentle pour of water cascading from a decanter, and then another soft clank she could not identify.