Reeve chuckled and looked her over. “You’ve worked up a bit of a sweat yourself. I didn’t know that was possible with embroidery.”

Maggie bit her lower lip and dropped her eyes. Her conscience smarted, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to confess that she hadn’t worked a stitch the whole of the morning. “Could I go back to the fields with you, just to see what it’s like?”

“No,” Reeve answered in a bland tone as he ate. “And mind you don’t go wandering through the cane to the sea either. There’ll be snakes aplenty, trying to escape the flames.”

Maggie had sweet memories of the white beach beyond those fields, and she felt color rise in her cheeks. She glanced at the black men sitting all around, some dressed in loincloths, and said, “I’d like to send for my friend, Tansy Quinn, if that would be all right.”

Reeve gave her a distracted look; it was obvious that he was thinking of other things. “Good idea. Someone for you to talk to.”

“We’d have to pay her wages—employ her as a servant—”

“Aye. I can manage that, I think. Send for the girl, Maggie, and give a man some peace.”

Maggie was stung. Tears welled in her eyes—she’d become overly sensitive in recent days—and she bounded to her feet. “I’ll give you all the peace you want, Reeve McKenna!” she hissed.

The Aboriginal men sitting around the table dipped their heads, studiously ignoring the drama going on under their very noses. Reeve got up with a long-suffering sigh, caught Maggie by the arm, and propelled her outside into the glaring sunshine.

“In the name of God, Yank, what is it that you want from me?” he asked patiently.

Maggie jutted out her chin. “A little of your attention, Mr. McKenna,” she whispered fiercely. “Every time I say anything to you, it’s ’give a man some peace, Maggie’! At night, instead of loving me, you just turn over and snore!”

Reeve grinned, his teeth startlingly white against his smoke-blackened face. “So that’s it. Maggie, I’m working long hours—when I get to bed, I want to sleep.”

“That’s obvious,” Maggie complained, folding her arms. “Don’t you love me anymore?”

“You know I do, Yank.”

Maggie looked in all directions before whispering, “Eleanor’s been gone to Duncan’s for a week. You haven’t touched me since the day she left!”

Reeve’s grin was gone. A glower formed in his features as dark and dangerous as the clouds before a Queensland storm. Taking an ominous step toward Maggie, making no effort whatsoever to keep the matter private, he roared, “By God, Yank, if you’re implyin’ that I’ve been flingin’ up that woman’s skirts—”