The lovely gown rustled as Kala took it carefully from the armoire and laid it on the bed. Its pretty crystal beads glimmered in the dim light of the lamps Reeve had lit before Maggie awakened from her stuporous sleep.

Behind a lovely changing screen of polished acacia wood, Maggie replaced her towel with taffeta drawers, a camisole, and petticoats. She would have worn a corset, too, but Reeve forbade that, considering them silly at best and harmful at worst.

“Are you coming to the party, Kala?” she asked as the servant came around the screen and held out the magical pink dress. Maggie stepped into it.

“No, missus,” Kala said in a tone that was almost indulgent. “No dark peoples at white party.”

Maggie felt sad. After all, Kala had worked as hard as anyone. She deserved to dance and wear pretty things too. “Oh,” she said.

Kala chuckled as she did up the tiny crystal buttons at the back of Maggie’s dress. “We have party of our own, missus,” she said by way of reassuring her mistress.

Maggie was heartened as she sat down at the dressing table to do her hair, which had been flowing free ever since Reeve had taken it upon himself to “tame” her. Before she could lay a hand on the brush, however, her husband came through the open door.

“Thank you, Kala,” he said, and though the words were said kindly, they were a dismissal nonetheless.

Kala went out on soundless feet and Maggie sat at the dressing table, stricken to stillness by the impact of this man’s presence. Not since the first day she’d seen him, aboard the Victoria at Brisbane, had that impact lessened. Each time she encountered Reeve McKenna, it was as though she were meeting him for the first time.

“Do you know,” he began in a smoky whisper, closing the door, “how incredibly beautiful you are?”

Maggie recovered herself and made a face. “You needn’t think that compliments will make me show you mercy, Mr. McKenna. I intend to have my revenge.”

Reeve laughed and, when she reached for her hair-brush, he was there to take it from her. He began brushing her hair as he had done that morning in his wagon, during the camp meeting at Parramatta, and Maggie closed her eyes for a moment, remembering.

“What sort of revenge will this be?” Reeve asked softly, a hint of laughter causing a corner of his mouth to twitch slightly.

“The unexpected kind,” Maggie answered, watching his reflection in the mirror and wondering how she could possibly have lived nineteen years without this man to love her, to enrage her, to pamper her.

Reeve chuckled. “That sounds ominous,” he said.