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"You instruct and I follow. Is that the way of it, Pru?" he asked softly near her ear.
Dangerously soft, and if Prudence's head hadn't been so muddled, she would have recognized the threat behind his words. "A good husband tries to please his wife."
"And does a good wife please her husband?"
"Naturally," she answered, amazed it was necessary to instruct him in such rudimentary behavior. But, then, he was a gunslinger.
She heard the menacing laugh. Low and strong, it rippled like a wave, growing in strength. And just when she thought it would burst, it ended, and she was snatched up into the air to land abruptly in Zac's arms. Her head spun and she had difficulty focusing on his face. "What do you think you're doing?"
"I don't think," Zac said, walking out the swinging doors to a round of approving applause.
"That's obvious," she said, refusing to place her arms around his neck and give him the satisfaction of her accepting his brutish assistance.
"I know exactly what I'm doing," he said, walking casually down the street and nodding politely to the startled and not-so-startled people they passed.
Prudence was mortified by the snickers and smiles she received. Lord, but this was outrageous. She was being carried down the street like common baggage, and she didn't even have her bonnet on her head.
"What precisely are you doing, Mr. Stewart?"
He laughed and hugged her closer to him. "I'm about to have my wife please me."
Two bright red spots colored her cheeks. "You . . . I . . . you . . ."
"You've got that right, honey. It's you and I and the long night that lies ahead."
Prudence was beside herself. He wouldn't take advantage of her in her besotted condition, or would he? He did whatever pleased him. He had no manners. He was barbaric. He was her husband. And, if she would admit it, she was truly attracted to him. She couldn't help it. He was the type of man women dreamed of and fantasized about. Perhaps she could live out one fantasy, just one.
Impossible. The word shot through her like a jolt of thunder. Don't be a fool, Prudence Agatha Win —Stewart. He's only teasing you. He doesn't desire you. Don't be an utter moron. You have disgraced yourself enough for one day.
Without thinking, she laid her head on Zac's shoulder. If nothing else, she would take this moment and remember it as the day Zac Stewart carried her down the street of Plattsmouth to the Hotel Lillian. She would leave the rest, for others who heard of it, open to speculation.
Prudence refused to open her eyes and look about when they entered the hotel lobby. It wasn't necessary, since the gasps and busy chatter were enough to tell her people were stunned and probably offended.
Well, she didn't give a hoot. He was her husband and it felt good being in his arms. His chest was the most comfortable pillow she had ever laid her head upon. And best of all, his heartbeat was strong and steady. He hadn't exerted himself at all by carrying her.
He even deposited her gently, not roughly, on the bed. She closed her eyes, attempting to control the dizziness, but it escalated as his all-male scent drifted around her. She allowed herself the luxury of a dream, pretending their marriage was real, born of love and desire. No one could rob her of her reverie. She would savor this moment in her memory forever and . . .
"Take off your clothes."
Prudence bolted up to a sitting position, immediately regretting her rash action. Her head spun and her stomach revolted. But she refused to be sick, absolutely refused. It just wasn't dignified. "Pardon me?" she said in her most affronted manner.
"Off with your clothes," Zac said slowly and sternly.
"I most—"
"—certainly will obey your husband," he finished for her, removing his waistcoat, vest, and shirt much too quickly for Prudence's way of thinking.
She folded her glove-covered hands primly in her lap and stiffened her spine. She pinched her legs tightly together beneath her skirt and crossed her feet as though bolting a lock. Then she prepared to speak, though her head throbbed unmercifully. She had every intention of delivering a scathing sermon to her husband on proper bedroom decorum.
"Forget it, Pru," he snapped. "You would only be wasting your breath. You will remove your clothes and that's all there is to it."
"I will not," she insisted. "And a proper husband wouldn't expect me to or demand that I do."
Zac hung his gun belt on the bedpost. Prudence stared at the muscles running across his chest and the hard thickness of his arms. They actually bulged as though he had swung an ax day after day. His gorgeous body seemed capable of tremendous power and promise.
Zac watched her eyes as they scanned his naked torso, much too suggestively and much, much too desperately.
