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Don't think about it, she commanded herself. What she'd done with Justin had been a madness born of youth and the night, and that bit of whiskey she'd sipped from his flask. It had been a dream. In the light of day, she'd felt ashamed.
Liar, a voice inside of her whispered. You felt wonderful. She ignored the voice.
"I told you, I came to apologize.'' He paced to the bottom of the staircase that circled gracefully toward the second floor, then turned and glared at her. "God knows why I bothered. I should have remembered nothing is more important to Miss Megan Bartlett than what the rest of the world thinks."
It was a familiar argument, one they'd had countless times. "Not everyone enjoys flouting convention."
"Maybe, for once, you could figure out yourself what matters instead of letting other people tell you," he said.
She clenched her teeth together and unfastened her cloak. After setting it on a hook on the hall tree, she stepped in front of the mirror and pulled the pin from her hat. She could see the flush of anger on her cheeks. It reminded her that she could deal with Justin better if she stopped letting him think that his comments had any power over her.
"I form my opinions after reflecting on the Lord's, the laws of the day and dictates of society," she said calmly and set her hat down. She turned to him. "Despite your urg-ings, I don't believe I should place my opinions above theirs."
"That's always been your problem. You need backbone, Megan."
Her temper began to burn at the edges of her self-control. She firmly gripped the singed edges. "In your absence, I seem to have survived the loss of my father and kept the store running successfully. Rather large accomplishments for someone with no backbone, wouldn't you say?"
He stepped toward her. "But everything you do, every thought, every action is dictated by what other people think. What are you so afraid of?"
"Harming my reputation," she snapped. "Something you wouldn't care about, being a man. But I'm a single woman in a small town. If I expect to keep my place, I must concern myself with others' thoughts. If you don't share my concerns, you should at least understand them. After all, your mother had a bad reputation and look what happened to her."
The second she spoke the words, Megan wanted to call them back. She clamped her hand over her mouth, but it was too late.
Justin froze in place, halfway between her and the stairs. The flame from the lamp danced with some slight draft, casting shadows on his face. His mouth straightened into a grim line and the muscle in his right cheek twitched. Something dark and ugly stole into his eyes.
She stepped away. Not out of fear, but out of shame. "I'm s-sorry, ,, she stammered. "I didn't mean to say that. It was wrong of me. Completely wrong. I know you loved your mother and that she was a good woman. You made me angry/' She twisted her fingers together in front of her waist and shrugged slightly. "That's a stupid excuse, isn't it? It's not your fault and I shouldn't try to say that it is. Ifs mine. I'm sorry."
He blinked and it was as if he'd never heard her slight. His face relaxed into its original mocking expression. "Don't apologize on my account. I've heard worse in my time. Your comments weren't original, or even harshly spoken. I don't care enough about you to be wounded by your opinions."
He'd changed so much in the time he'd been gone. The young man who had taught her about kissing and passion had been replaced by a dark stranger. Just as well, she told herself. The old Justin would have tempted her too much. This man was unknown to her. If she kept it that way, she wouldn't be at risk.
"Wounded or not, I do apologize." With a sigh, she moved past him into the parlor. The last rays of afternoon light slipped through the drapes and outlined the large pieces of furniture in the room. She moved to a corner table and lit a lamp. She placed the smoldering match in a small metal tray, then turned to him.
As she'd suspected, he had followed her into the room. He rocked back and forth on his heels as he looked around at the furnishings. She followed his gaze, wondering how the parlor would appear to a stranger.
Overly furnished, she thought, glancing from the three settees, to the scattered tables and covered chairs. Her father had had a fondness for expensive things. There were
