That much was true. Maggie hesitated because she didn’t want to leave the boys so suddenly, nor did she have any desire to go crawling to Reeve, entreating him to take her in. It would be better if she had time to wangle a second proposal. “I suppose you are, but—”

Just then Bridget rushed into the room, her face flushed, her gaze slicing Maggie to the bone before fixing itself on Duncan. “Reeve McKenna is here, Duncan,” she said breathlessly, “and he’s spitting nails. I tried to get him to leave, but—”

Duncan spread one hand in a generous motion and yawned. “By all means, send him in.”

Bridget didn’t need to go in search of Duncan’s unexpected caller, for Reeve suddenly appeared in the doorway of the room. He glowered at Maggie and then at his wounded host. “I’ve got a message here that says you might be about to hurt the lady,” he announced. His sea-green eyes took in Duncan’s bandaged shoulder and went dark with an expression of puzzlement.

“Who would send such a message?” Duncan asked sleepily. “Obviously, the situation is quite the reverse.”

Reeve took a folded paper from his pocket and tossed it onto the bed. The look he gave Maggie was not encouraging.

Laboriously, Duncan unfolded the message and frowned as he read it. “Hmmm. No signature.” His green eyes moved to Maggie’s face, filled with sleepy malice. “Must be from that sheepherder I found you in bed with,” he said. And while Maggie flushed, he shook his head regretfully. “Nasty business, that.”

Reeve’s towering frame was rigid, and he didn’t look at Maggie again. “What happened to you?” he asked in a tone totally void of compassion.

“Maggie stabbed me,” Duncan said, smiling at her fondly.

Reeve glanced back at her over his shoulder. “She must have had reason,” he said.

Maggie opened her mouth to protest her innocence where both the “sheepherder” and Duncan’s stab wound were concerned, but Reeve interrupted before she could speak.

“Get your things,” he ordered in a voice that brooked no argument. “You’re leaving right now.”

Maggie tossed Duncan a quietly triumphant look and left the room in a rush of gray wool. By the time she’d said tearful good-byes to both Jeremy and Tad and brought her reticule downstairs, Reeve was waiting.

His jawline tight, his eyes hard and oddly evasive of Maggie’s face, he took her arm and ushered her outside, down the front walk, and into his own carriage.

“What’s this about a sheepherder?” he demanded as the vehicle rolled away.

Maggie would have given anything to be able to tell Reeve about Jamie, but she couldn’t: She’d given her word. Too, Jamie had implied that there might be tragic consequences if the secret was revealed. “He was just a nice man who tried to help me.”