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"It isn't necessary," she said.
Zac looked perturbed. "I don't expect you to carry your cases. You're tired and need rest."
"I didn't mean my cases," she corrected. "I meant it isn't necessary to take this marriage seriously. I am well aware of why you married me."
Zac's brow went up and his eyes widened. "You are?"
"Of course," she said, absentmindedly fussing with the white silk ribbon tied beneath her chin. "Any man staring down the barrel of a dozen rifles would marry me."
Zac shook his head in disgust and walked past her. "You have a lot to learn about me, Prudence Agatha Stewart."
Prudence followed, bewildered over his attitude and her name change.
They reached the hotel in minutes.
"Don't dare open your mouth to object," Zac warned her as they entered the hotel for the second time that day. "You are now legally my wife and will share my room."
"Did I say anything?" she answered defensively.
"You always have something to say," he said, dropping her cases at her feet before proceeding to the front desk.
He was back in minutes with key in hand. I’ve ordered supper to be sent to our room."
"I haven't eaten all day," Prudence said, just realizing the growl in her stomach had persisted since noon.
Zac picked up her cases and his saddlebags. "Food and rest, in that order. Now follow me."
After the events of this strange day, Prudence was too tired to argue. She trailed behind Zac all the way to the second floor.
The room wasn't large, but it was clean and the bed soft and comfortable. A small square table sat by the window, the pane covered with lace curtains. There was an oil lamp in the center of the table and one on the bureau next to the large pitcher and washbowl. A wardrobe stood open and empty.
She removed her bonnet and jacket, hanging them in the wardrobe where Zac had placed his waistcoat.
"Why don't you wash up first?" he offered, unbuttoning his vest.
"Will you turn your back?" she asked.
He walked up to her and took her chin between his fingers. "Do you forget you're Mrs. Stewart?"
His eyes were much too dark and cunning. She didn't trust him. "In name only," she reminded him.
He brought his face down nearer to hers. "I can rectify that. Quick and easy, or slow and exhausting."
Exhausting. Is that how his lovemaking would be?
The thought was spine-tingling and shockingly tempting.
"Interested, Mrs. Stewart?" he asked in a dangerously suggestive whisper.
He was teasing her. He wasn't interested in making love to her. He was playing a cruel game with her emotions.
"No. It wouldn't be proper," she said, refusing to let him know how much she was attracted to him.
A flash of resentment sparked Zac's brown's eyes. "I forget. A gunslinger isn't acceptable in Boston society."
He released her chin with a gentle shove.
The slight dismissal irritated Prudence. "Gentlemen are always accepted in Boston society."
Zac was about to turn away, when her words stopped him. "Are you telling me I'm no gentleman?"
"Precisely. You have much to learn before you can earn that title."
Zac pulled off his vest and threw it on the bed. "Your name fits you well."
"At least I have morals and convictions," she said.
Her eyes focused on his hands as they unbuttoned his shirt. They were large, yet slim and lean. And clean, with no dirt hidden beneath his well-trimmed nails.
Zac pulled his shirt from his pants and flung it to join his vest. "You don't even know the meaning of those words."
Prudence was startled by his accusation. "How dare you —"
"How dare I suggest your ignorance of life, or how dare I undress in front of you?"
"Both," she snapped. Her eyes helplessly focused on the thick muscles that spread across the wide expanse of his naked chest.
He grabbed her by the arms, pinning them to her sides. "I'm your husband, and if I wish to undress in front of you, I will. If you loosened that attitude and corset some, you might discover a part of life you've been missing."
Prudence grew flustered at the mention of a tightly strung corset she didn't wear and an attitude she most certainly didn't possess. "You, Mr. Stewart, are no better than the Indians the Army has locked away on the reservations."
Zac roughly shoved her away from him. Her backside hit the bed and she steadied herself.
"I would befriend and trust an Indian before a Bostonian any day. At least an Indian accepts a man for himself alone. He judges by character and strength, not by background and money. He doesn't concern himself with what a friend wears but with what a friend needs."
Zac advanced on her. "And he adapts to his surroundings, living with the land not clinging to stupid white gloves that have no place out west."
He reached for her hands, tugging at the gloves with every intention of removing them permanently.
