Eleanor led the way up the stairs, with Reeve following. She opened a door at the end of the hallway with a brass key and went in. The moment Reeve was inside, too, she closed the door again and leaned back against it.

He was looking at the bed. Fatigue and two stout ales notwithstanding, he knew an empty mattress when he saw one. Reeve turned to look at Eleanor, more in puzzlement than anger.

She spread her hands. “Duncan’s not really sick, Reeve,” she confessed in a very small voice. “He’s downstairs somewhere, playing cards.”

“Then why the hell—?”

Eleanor took the mug from Reeve’s hand and splayed her fingers over the front of his sooty, sweat-dampened shirt. “I want to be your mistress, not his.”

Reeve felt pity, though he tried to hide it. “Step away from the door, woman. I’ve got serious drinking to do.”

“I could make you forget Maggie.”

“Nobody,” Reeve replied soberly, “could do that. And for all that I’d like to wring the Yank’s stubborn little neck a lot of the time, I love her.”

For Reeve that closed the subject, but Eleanor’s midnight-blue eyes pleaded with him. “Don’t go, please,” she whispered.

Reeve removed her hands from his chest and set her gently aside. As he opened the door, she said, “I know your brother.”

He turned, disbelieving and a little angry now. “What?”

Eleanor lifted her chin. “That’s all I’m going to tell you, Reeve McKenna. If you want to know more, you’ll have to come to me on your knees.”

“Don’t balance a stick on your nose while you wait,” Reeve replied, though he wanted to grab the woman and shake some word of Jamie out of her. He closed the door, hurried down the stairs, and rode home. The fresh air cleared his mind.

Whether or not Eleanor really knew anything about Jamie’s whereabouts was a question he would consider later. For now he just wanted to be near Maggie.

She flung a basin at him when he opened the bedroom door, and it shattered against the wood-work.

Reeve chuckled, using the door as a shield of sorts. “Still angry, love?” he called sweetly. “Or are you hinting that you’d like to relive our wedding night?”

Something hard struck the door, and Reeve flinched.

“Now, there’s no sense in being difficult, Yank. I’ve come to tell you that I’m sorry.”

Silence. Was the little scoundrel appeased, or just preparing another volley?

“Maggie?”

Nothing.

“The moment I got to the inn,” Reeve went on, grinning, “Eleanor Kilgore tried to get me into bed.”

There were footsteps and then the door opened. Maggie was standing there, glaring up at him, her bare feet surrounded by shards from the broken basin. “Did she really?”