Maggie had reached the limit of her endurance. She hurled her hairbrush at Reeve and it went wide of him, crashing against the woodwork that framed the door. “I despise you,” she said.

“I’ve asked for a priest,” he answered, unmoved.

“Good! He can perform your last rites!”

Reeve laughed. “Oh, Yank, you are full of fire. I’m looking forward to the warmth in my bed.”

Maggie picked up the pitcher from her bureau top and hurled it with a mighty effort. Unfortunately, she missed again, and the crockery shattered on the floor at Reeve’s feet.

“You must have been smashing as the shrew,” Reeve said, leaning one shoulder against the door-jamb. “I suppose the part came quite naturally to you.”

Maggie reached for the basin and held it high above her head, ready to throw. “Get out!” she screamed.

Grinning, Reeve scuffled through the shards of glass on the floor, his cane making that familiar thump-thump sound. With one hand he pulled the basin from Maggie’s grasp and purposefully dropped it. “I can afford a few bits of crockery, love,” he said, catching his hand under her chin and lifting her face for his kiss. “And,” he added when he’d stolen Maggie’s breath from her lungs and set her heart to hammering, “I can tame you.”

“You’ll spend the rest of your life trying!” Maggie sputtered.

“Open your nightgown, Maggie. I want you.” Maggie trembled, so great was the need to do as he said, even though it would mean utter defeat for her pride. “No.”

Reeve let the cane clatter to the floor, and his fingers were remarkably deft as he unfastened the tiny buttons. Maggie’s camisole was underneath, and he chuckled at this flimsy barrier.

Maggie drew in her breath and closed her eyes, the battle lost before it had even begun. She felt the camisole being lowered, and then the touch of Reeve’s tongue on the peak of her breast. He sucked freely for a while, and then, as easily as he had before his illness, he lifted Maggie up into his arms and carried her to the bed.

She landed hard on the mattress, knocking the wind from her. It was several moments before she managed to say, “You charlatan! You didn’t need that cane at all—”

Reeve grinned, kneeling beside her on the edge of the bed and rolling her nightgown up until nothing of her was left to his imagination. “I think it makes me look distinguished,” he said, caressing her.

Maggie was writhing now, helpless with passion. “And it—occurs to me—that you’re speaking—very easily—for a man—who was silent for so—long.”

Reeve chuckled. “You’ve caught me out, Yank,” he answered smoothly. “I’ve been practicing.”

“Oh!” Maggie gasped, and from that moment on, she was the one who could not speak coherently.