The first thing Maggie was conscious of was a soreness in her most private place, an innocuous, gentle kind of pain. She squirmed deeper into the covers, aware now of the blinding sunlight that turned her closed lids pink. It was much too warm beneath the blankets, so Maggie threw them off, delighting in the cool caress of a morning breeze along her naked skin.

It was then that she remembered, and her eyes flew open and she sat upright in the narrow bed. Reeve was gone, and her clothes had been carefully draped over a trunk in the corner to dry.

Cheeks crimson, Maggie scrambled out of the bed, snatched up her still-damp drawers and camisole, and shimmied into them. Then she put on her stockings and her shoes and the pink and white gingham dress that had been packed so carefully in her reticule. It was shamefully wrinkled now, and slightly wet, but Maggie got into it anyway.

She was just attempting to button the gown, when Reeve suddenly vaulted into the wagon from the back. Maggie flushed and averted her eyes from his face, afraid to see mockery there, or revulsion, or remorse.

He approached her from behind, his fingers warm as they did up the buttons she’d been unable to reach. When he’d done that, he pushed aside her flowing, snarled hair and bent to kiss the nape of her neck.

Maggie stiffened against him, against the terrible needs he stirred within her so easily. Without looking at Reeve, she found her reticule and brought out her hairbrush, trying to tame her hopelessly tangled hair.

Still silent, Reeve took the brush from her hands, sat down on the bed where they’d done such scandalous things the night before, and pulled a startled Maggie onto his lap. When she struggled to rise, he restrained her, his arm hard around her middle.

And then he began to brush her hair.

Maggie had never thought that having a man hold her on his lap and brush her hair could be a sensual thing; indeed, she’d never thought of a man doing those things at all. But it was an intimacy so tender as to almost take her breath away.

Maggie trembled slightly. His thighs were hard as granite beneath her own soft ones and a sweet, mysterious excitement shot through her.

Reeve paused, no longer working at the tangles and snarls in her hair. “Cold?”

“Yes,” Maggie lied, sitting up a little straighter.

Reeve chuckled and went back to his gentle work. “Your hair is just the color of moonlight on white opal,” he said thoughtfully after a few moments, all evidence of amusement gone from his tone.