Reeve closed his eyes and let his head rest against the high, ornately cast back of the tub. He wished that he’d asked for brandy as well as a bath. Then, except for Loretta, of course, he’d have had all the comforts of home.

There was a second knock at the door, this time a timid one, and Reeve smiled. The steward was back; he would send for a bottle of the ship’s best and a good cigar as well.

“Come in,” he said, settling deeper into the hot water.

The door opened and instead of the steward’s voice he heard a distinctly female “Oh, dear!”

Reeve’s eyes flew open and he sat up very straight, his hands instinctively covering his private parts.

It was the Yankee, standing there in the doorway, her mouth agape, her hair freshly brushed and entwined about her head in a complicated coronet involving braids and curls and all manner of feminine fuss. Instead of fleeing, like any normal woman would have done, she simply turned her back, pushed the door closed, and whispered, “I am sorry.”

Reeve swore under his breath, more stunned than anything. If she was so damned sorry, he wondered to himself, why didn’t she leave him to take his bath in peace? “What do you want?” he demanded, after a struggle with his vocal cords.

With her back still turned to Reeve, she shielded her face with one hand. Suddenly, Reeve McKenna would have given all his considerable holdings to know whether or not she was having the good grace to blush. She gave a little shuddering sigh and babbled out, “I didn’t mean to interrupt your—your bath, Mr. McKenna. Truly I didn’t. It’s—it’s what you said about my Philip—or perhaps what you didn’t say—”

“Good God,” Reeve muttered, relaxing a little. Wait till he told Loretta about this episode. He studied the sweet curves of the lady’s bottom, her slender waist, the hint of rounded fullness visible beneath the upraised arm.

On second thought, he probably wouldn’t mention this to Loretta after all.

The little back straightened in a touching bid for dignity and the head lifted proudly, although the woman didn’t turn around to face the man she’d so brazenly intruded upon. “I did apologize,” she reminded him tartly.

The gall of the baggage! But then, Yanks were known for their nerve, weren’t they?

“What is your name?” Reeve demanded, both because he couldn’t think of anything else to say and because he had an intractable need to know what this snippet called herself.

“M-Maggie,” she said. “Maggie Chamberlin. About—about my betrothed, Mr. McKenna—”