“That I do, mistress,” Dorrie replied, and that smug note was back in her voice. “That I do indeed.”

Bliss took a slice of bacon from her plate and shoved it into her mouth, mostly to keep from answering. Heaven knew, she’d made enough of a fool of herself as it was, writhing and moaning for Jamie McKenna like a wanton, then as much as admitting defeat to the woman he’d preferred over her.

Dorrie slipped out, leaving the new Mrs. McKenna to her singular miseries and her breakfast.

Jamie was hungry, and he knew the day ahead would be long and difficult, but he could not bring himself to eat. His throat closed whenever he so much as looked at the food lying untouched on his plate.

Images of Bliss spun in his mind, shifting and changing like the bits of colored glass in a kaleidoscope. Just remembering the way she’d entrusted herself to him the night before made him ache all over. He lifted his mug of coffee to his mouth and then set it down again, with a resounding thump, knowing that he would never be able to swallow the stuff.

His jaw clenched tight as he relived—for perhaps the dozenth time—his encounter with Bliss, on the stairs, earlier that morning. He knew that she believed he’d spent the night with Dorrie, and it took all the forbearance he possessed not to go to her and correct the misconception.

It would be better for Bliss, and much easier in the long run, if she went on thinking that he’d betrayed her. Jamie let out a long sigh and ran a hand through his hair. That hissing, spitting little hellcat probably wouldn’t appreciate the sacrifices he’d made over the past eight or ten hours, even if she knew about them.

On the far side of the dining room, Dorrie was flirting with Nils Stafford. Jamie smiled. He’d wondered what—or who—accounted for the girl’s bright mood that morning. Now he knew.

His smile faded to a scowl. It galled Jamie to know that Stafford had probably been in ecstasy all night while he’d tossed and turned in an agony of wanting. Lost in his various sufferings, he was unprepared for the sudden appearance of Alexander Zate on the bench opposite his own.

Zate looked haggard and rumpled, and there were deep shadows under his bulbous eyes. It was clear enough that he’d had no more sleep than Jamie, and probably for much the same reason.

A stubborn, hot-tempered, redheaded reason.

“I’ve often thought,” Zate began philosophically, “that whoever named that woman ought to have been shot for falsehood in the first degree.”

In spite of himself, and the hellish night he’d just passed, Jamie had to smile, though he said nothing.

Zate was clearly reading the signs of sleeplessness in Jamie’s face. “Perhaps, given the distinct pleasures of the marriage bed,” he said sadly, “the name ’Bliss’ is more suited to the lady than one might think.”

Jamie had been beginning to like Alexander Zate, at least a little. The presumptuous nature of the man’s remark forestalled that worthy emotion. “Is there a point to this conversation,” he asked coldly, “or are you just tired of livin’?”