And her mother. She didn’t doubt her mother’s affection. But she always realized it ran no deeper than any of Margerite’s interests.

There had been Peter, and that had been strong and true and important. Until they had tried to love as husband and wife.

But it wasn’t the love of a friend that Mikhail was offering her. Knowing it, feeling it, she was torn by twin forces of giddy happiness and utter terror.

With her mind still whirling, she walked into the kitchen to find him elbow deep in soapsuds. She set basket and bottle aside to pick up a dish towel.

“Are you angry with me?” she ventured after a moment.

“Some. More I’m puzzled by you.” And hurt, but he didn’t want her guilt or pity. “To be loved should make you happy, warm.”

“Part of me is. The other half is afraid of moving too fast and risking spoiling what we’ve begun.” He needed honesty, she thought. Deserved it. She tried to give him what she had. “All day today I looked forward to being here with you, being able to talk to you, to be able to share with you what had happened. To listen to you. I knew you’d make me laugh, that my heart would speed up when you kissed me.” She set a dry bowl aside. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

He only shook his head. “You don’t even know you’re in love with me. But it’s all right,” he decided, and offered her the next bowl. “You will.”

“You’re so arrogant,” she said, only half-annoyed. “I’m never sure if I admire or detest that.”

“You like it very much because it makes you want to fight back.”

“I suppose you think I should be flattered because you love me.”

“Of course.” He grinned at her. “Are you?”

Thinking it over, she stacked the second bowl in the first, then took the skillet. “I suppose. It’s human nature. And you’re…”

“I’m what?”

She looked up at him again, the cocky grin, the dark amused eyes, the tumble of wild hair. “You’re so gorgeous.”

His grin vanished when his mouth dropped open. When he managed to close it again, he pulled his hands out of the water and began to mutter.

“Are you swearing at me?” Instead of answering her, he yanked the dishcloth away from her to dry his hands. “I think I embarrassed you.” Delighted, she laughed and cupped his face in her hands. “Yes, I did.”

“Stop.” Thoroughly frazzled, he pushed her hands away. “I can’t think of the word for what I am.”

“But you are gorgeous.” Before he could shake her off, she wound her arms around his neck. “When I first saw you, I thought you looked like a pirate, all dark and dashing.”

This time he swore in English and she only smiled.