neither require your permission nor want your advice regarding my future," she snapped, shoving back her chair before she relented. "That sounded churlish. I—I'm sorry."
Max rose, too, and smiled at her, a crooked grin. "You nearly choked on that apology. Please, let me make my own for intruding into your private affairs. I have no right."
She could feel those green eyes probing her. He was standing much too close. The car was much too confining. "Considering you are my legal husband, most people would argue otherwise," she replied lightly.
"A marriage of convenience doesn't make me your husband, Sky." His voice was low, the accent less clipped, the tone warm.
"Surely you aren't arguing for a change in our agreement?" The moment the words escaped her lips, she stepped back, stunned at her monumental stupidity. How could I have asked that? "What I mean is...this conversation has become far too personal. You were right. Let us change the subject to our course of action when we reach Denver."
Max nodded as she walked over to the two leather chairs facing each other. "I'll ring for coffee," he replied.
After the porter removed their mostly uneaten meal and poured two cups of thick black coffee, Max laced his liberally with golden cream. Sky preferred hers black. "You'll have to forgo the luxury of that stuff on the trail," she said.
"I've had to forgo many things since leaving England," he replied enigmatically.
They discussed what information the saloon owner might have about Deuce and how they'd track him down. But in the back of his mind, Max turned over thoughts about how she'd withdrawn her hand from his with a flash of heat in her eyes, the startled confession he'd elicited about her desire for children, and the way she'd blurted out her confusion over whether he wanted a real marriage. All things considered, the signs were pointing to Lady Ruxton's willingness to renegotiate.
But two questions still remained unanswered. Did he want a wife and family? And, would she accept his proposal once she learned about the codicil?
Jump one hedgerow at a time, old chap.
* * * *
Sky stayed up and read for a bit after Max retired. He was drinking too much and it worried her. Would his tracking skills suffer? His hand had to be steady enough to keep him alive when he faced Deuce. She set aside the book, not having understood a word she read and admitted the real reason she was worrying about him. Her attraction to Maxwell Stanhope had grown over the weeks they'd spent together. Damn the man, she thought as she removed her robe, then lowered the lamps and climbed into her bed, which was separated from his by a high screen to afford her maximum privacy.
She lay awake, staring at the ceiling, praying for the car to rock her to sleep. But sleep would not come. Thoughts of Max filled her mind instead. He was far more than a well-educated and heart-stoppingly handsome man. Wit, courtesy and gentleness were not traits she would have assumed the Limey would possess. His mysterious nightmare and the way he avoided speaking about his past gave him an aura of vulnerability, adding to his appeal.
But he was still a hard, dangerous man with a bloody past, utterly different from Will. More like her brother Clint. Small wonder the two of them had quickly moved from wariness to friendship in a few short days.
She was just drifting off when Max stirred restlessly. Then the harshly issued commands and orders to fire on the advancing enemy again rasped out. He was having the nightmare. Sky lay with her fists clenched in the covers, trying to decide what to do. In London he had abruptly stopped and fallen back into bed. Would that happen again? Or, would he awaken and know that she had heard him?
Making a snap decision, she threw back her covers and darted around the partition between their beds before he began talking about the blood and gore. If she could either awaken him quickly or get him back to restful sleep, perhaps he would never
Max rose, too, and smiled at her, a crooked grin. "You nearly choked on that apology. Please, let me make my own for intruding into your private affairs. I have no right."
She could feel those green eyes probing her. He was standing much too close. The car was much too confining. "Considering you are my legal husband, most people would argue otherwise," she replied lightly.
"A marriage of convenience doesn't make me your husband, Sky." His voice was low, the accent less clipped, the tone warm.
"Surely you aren't arguing for a change in our agreement?" The moment the words escaped her lips, she stepped back, stunned at her monumental stupidity. How could I have asked that? "What I mean is...this conversation has become far too personal. You were right. Let us change the subject to our course of action when we reach Denver."
Max nodded as she walked over to the two leather chairs facing each other. "I'll ring for coffee," he replied.
After the porter removed their mostly uneaten meal and poured two cups of thick black coffee, Max laced his liberally with golden cream. Sky preferred hers black. "You'll have to forgo the luxury of that stuff on the trail," she said.
"I've had to forgo many things since leaving England," he replied enigmatically.
They discussed what information the saloon owner might have about Deuce and how they'd track him down. But in the back of his mind, Max turned over thoughts about how she'd withdrawn her hand from his with a flash of heat in her eyes, the startled confession he'd elicited about her desire for children, and the way she'd blurted out her confusion over whether he wanted a real marriage. All things considered, the signs were pointing to Lady Ruxton's willingness to renegotiate.
But two questions still remained unanswered. Did he want a wife and family? And, would she accept his proposal once she learned about the codicil?
Jump one hedgerow at a time, old chap.
* * * *
Sky stayed up and read for a bit after Max retired. He was drinking too much and it worried her. Would his tracking skills suffer? His hand had to be steady enough to keep him alive when he faced Deuce. She set aside the book, not having understood a word she read and admitted the real reason she was worrying about him. Her attraction to Maxwell Stanhope had grown over the weeks they'd spent together. Damn the man, she thought as she removed her robe, then lowered the lamps and climbed into her bed, which was separated from his by a high screen to afford her maximum privacy.
She lay awake, staring at the ceiling, praying for the car to rock her to sleep. But sleep would not come. Thoughts of Max filled her mind instead. He was far more than a well-educated and heart-stoppingly handsome man. Wit, courtesy and gentleness were not traits she would have assumed the Limey would possess. His mysterious nightmare and the way he avoided speaking about his past gave him an aura of vulnerability, adding to his appeal.
But he was still a hard, dangerous man with a bloody past, utterly different from Will. More like her brother Clint. Small wonder the two of them had quickly moved from wariness to friendship in a few short days.
She was just drifting off when Max stirred restlessly. Then the harshly issued commands and orders to fire on the advancing enemy again rasped out. He was having the nightmare. Sky lay with her fists clenched in the covers, trying to decide what to do. In London he had abruptly stopped and fallen back into bed. Would that happen again? Or, would he awaken and know that she had heard him?
Making a snap decision, she threw back her covers and darted around the partition between their beds before he began talking about the blood and gore. If she could either awaken him quickly or get him back to restful sleep, perhaps he would never
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