Inevitably, it came time to retire for the night. Scully, despite his high spirits, looked drawn with fatigue, and Abigail had long since fallen asleep square in the middle of the big bed, accompanied by Hortense, as usual.

“You can stretch out right here, by the stove,” Scully told the old man, indicating the cot.

Evangeline stared at her so-called husband, but he merely put out the lamps and ushered her toward the bed. They undressed in stone darkness, though she could see the white of Scully’s long johns. Bold as brass, he lifted the bedclothes and crawled in on the opposite side.

It was simply too cold to stay up any longer, so Evangeline capitulated. Abigail lay snoring between them.

“Scully Wainwright,” Evangeline whispered furiously, “you are a scoundrel.”

Scully made no effort to keep his voice low. “Good night, honey,” he said. “I love you, too.”

CHAPTER

8

IT WAS STILL dark when Evangeline arose the next morning, snatched up whatever clothes came to hand, and rushed into the frigid privacy of the lean-to to get dressed. The floor, as usual, was cold enough to sting bare flesh, and the air brought out goose bumps all over her arms and legs. She was shivering violently, and of course that made the whole painful process take longer.

She made her way to the stove first, leaving the lamps unlit, opened the fire door to stir the embers with the poker, then added several chunks of dry, pitchy pine. The flames caught, crackling cheerfully and filling Evangeline’s nostrils with the pleasant morning-scent of wood smoke. She put coffee on to brew—there was still a good bit of water in the reservoir, thanks to the peddler’s efforts the day before—and after that she built up the fire on the hearth.

In all that time, she did not once glance toward Mr. Murdoch, snoring away on the cot she’d dragged in from the lean-to for Scully, lest she discover him in a state of undress.

“Good morning,” Scully said quietly, from behind her. His presence made the tiny hairs on her nape stir, as if to rise; it was a peculiar sensation, made up of anticipation and a sort of delicious unease, wholly different from anything she’d ever felt before.

“You shouldn’t be up,” she replied. “You may think you’re healed, but those wounds were serious—”

He didn’t move away, and he was so very near. It seemed, for one interminable moment, as if he might kiss the back of her neck, or even her shoulder. A sweet shiver went through her that had nothing whatsoever to do with the still-icy atmosphere of the room.

“Nonsense,” he said, his voice low and unusually gruff. “The more I lay around feeling sorry for myself, the longer it will take to get better.”

Evangeline wondered how well Scully had slept. She had rested fitfully, aware on some level, throughout the night, that he was lying within arm’s reach. Even Mr. Keating, for heaven’s sake, had had his own bed, in his own room across the hall, coming to her only when he wanted to exercise his husbandly rights.