In between feeding the stove and feeding the hearth fire so that it could take the chill from the buckets of water she had arrayed on either side for her bath later, Jessica barely had time to deal with preparing any food.

«Blazes!» she muttered when the paring knife slipped repeatedly in her inexperienced hands. «Tonight I’ll surprise Wolfe. Tonight we’ll havericed potatoes, fried pork chops from his neighbor’s pig, and tinned cherries. Little enough could go wrong with that lot.» Jessica sighed. «Tonight I won’t have to listen while Wolfe sings the praises of that paragon of the culinary arts, Willow Black.»

Jessica continued talking aloud to herself while she worked. Talking helped to hold the sound of the wind at bay, but the sustained moans still ate away at her composure. She was grateful when the vigorously boiling water added its bit to the kitchen sounds.

Soon the smell of potatoes cooking drove out the pungent lye scent that lingered after the bricks had been so thoroughly scrubbed. The clatter of a cast iron frying pan as she hauled it onto the stovetop was almost cheerful, as was the sizzle of chops when the pan warmed enough to cook the meat.

Humming despite the numbing fatigue that was creeping through her body, Jessica primed the pump and filled a huge soup pot with water. She spilled about a quart on the way to the big stove, but barely noticed. The remaining two gallons were quite enough for her to lift. She opened the stove’s front gate, stuffed in several more lengths of wood and slammed the gate shut.

«What next?» Jessica asked, running through the list in her mind. «Ah, yes, the table must be readied. Another cloth to dirty, to wash, to hang out to dry, and then to put in that great pile awaiting the flatiron. Praise God, Wolfe hadn’t insisted that I iron another shirt after the first one. How was I to know cloth burned so quickly?»

Jessica went to the sideboard, ran her hand admiringly across its beautifully made top, and opened a drawer. To her relief, there was another cloth left. Last night’s cloth had been ruined when Wolfe had taken a swallow of coffee and then spewed it all over while swearing that she was trying to poison him.

Closing her eyes, Jessica reminded herself that someday she would find this all as amusing as Wolfe sometimes did. Until then, she must continue to smile and learn to do chores as quickly as possible.

There was no other choice. Every time her smiles faltered or she showed how weary she was becoming, she would turn around and see Wolfe watching her, cataloging each sign of weakness, waiting for the moment she gave up on being a Western wife.

Say the word, Jessica.

Wolfe didn’t even have to speak the command aloud any more. It was there in the line of his mouth, the scrutiny of his eyes, his predatory attention like a cold wind blowing through her. Yet she couldn’t give up, no matter how tired she was, no matter how strange her new life was, no matter how desperately lonely it was to be in a foreign land with no friend but Wolfe.

Wolfe, who wanted her out of his life.

«Never,» Jessica vowed aloud. «You will see, Wolfe. We will laugh again, sing again, read by the fire again. We will be friends once more. It will happen. It must. And if it doesn’t…»

Jessica’s throatclosed.Itmust happen.

«I’ll get stronger,» she vowed. «I’ll learn. Whatever happens to me as a Western wife can’t be worse than what my mother endured being married to a Scots aristocrat who wanted nothing from her but a male heir.»

The sound of the wind rose to an eerie cry, the wailing of a woman giving way to despair, screaming in agony. Jessica put her hands over her ears and began singing as loudly as she could. The wind howled unabated, for it blew only in her mind, not in the wild Western land.

With a stifled cry, Jessica hurried from the kitchen to check on the hearth fire. She added wood, then went into the bedroom and looked longingly at the big hip tub. The thought of it filled with hot water and laced with drops of fragrant rose oil madegoosebumps course pleasurably over her skin. Never had she understood what an extraordinary luxury a hot bath was.

Now she did. Since they had arrived at Wolfe’s home, Jessica had made do with French baths taken from the basin before she dressed. She had been too busy during daylight and too exhausted by nightfall to draw, heat, and haul bath water to the hip tub.

Tonight she would do all of that if she had to do it on her hands and knees. She simply couldn’t bear going without a true bath for one more night.

Jessica looked longingly at the soft invitation of Wolfe’s bed, but didn’t want to soil its exquisite fur covering with her grubby clothes. Grimacing, she sat by the hearth, leaning against the fire-warmed stone. The nights of broken sleep on her hard pallet by the hearth and the days of unaccustomed work had drained her. Very quickly she fell asleep.

The sound of Wolfe shouting from the front of the house startled Jessica awake. The first thing she saw was a layer of smoke hanging just below the ceiling and curling out an open window.

«Jessi! Answer me! Where are you?»

Her first attempt to come to her feet failed because her overworked arms refused to cooperate. Her second try was more successful.

«Wolfe?» she called, her voice hoarse with sleep.

The front door banged open and Wolfe leaped inside. His dark face was grim.

«Jessi, are you all right?» he yelled, looking toward the kitchen where smoke boiled thickly.

«I’m fine,» she said.

Wolfe spun and saw Jessica standing in the bedroom doorway, her hair half-unraveled and her eyes very pale against the dark lavender circles that surrounded them. He closed his eyes and let out an explosive breath as the urgency went out of him.

«Wolfe? What’s wrong?»

His eyes snapped open. They were narrowed and frankly dangerous. «I thought the house was burning down, and you with it.»

«Burning — oh, dear God, the chops!»

Wolfe followed Jessica’s rush into the kitchen. When she reached for the frying pan, he struck her hand aside.

«No! You’ll blister yourself!»

He went into the living room and returned with fire tongs. Using them, he managed to get the cheerfully burning chops outside. He placed the smoking pan in the dirt just beyond the back steps.

Behind him, Jessica sighed deeply. «Do you suppose the skunk will be any hungrier tonight than he was last night?»

Wolfe took a long time turning around, because he didn’t trust himself not to laugh out loud. He, too, had wondered if the skunk’s appetite would be up to the challenge of Jessica’s cooking.

But sharing laughter with his irrepressibleJessi was too enjoyable, too arousing, too…addictive. Each time he let her get past his guard, it encouraged her to believe she would ultimately win him over. He must not do that, for it wasn’t true. He would never accept the sham marriage, which meant that any kindness from him would be cruelty in disguise. Kindness would only draw out the painful process of getting Jessica to accept an annulment.

Wolfe didn’t want to extend the process by so much as one second. He didn’t know how much longer he could look at his frazzled aristocrat and not gather her into his arms.

When Wolfe turned around to face Jessica once more, his face was expressionless.

«What else is the skunk having for dinner tonight?» he asked in a carefully neutral voice.

Jessica smiled rather grimly. «Not a blasted thing. I put plenty of water in the potatoes and I haven’t opened the tinned cherries yet.»

«Canned.»

«What?»

«Canned cherries in the West, tinned cherries in England.»

«Oh.»

Wolfe could practically see Jessica’s agile mind noting the peculiarity of speech for future use. She was losing the last bits of her British accent and idioms as quickly as she had once lost her Scots speech patterns. Like Wolfe, she had learned as a child the survival value of camouflage. Being the daughter of a Scots commoner mother couldn’t be changed any more than the circumstances of Wolfe’s own birth could be altered. But clothing and patterns of speech could be changed, and were, depending on the people Wolfe found himself among.

Few people looked past the outward appearance, which suited Wolfe just fine. It allowed him to move freely where he pleased. He wondered if Jessica had found — and cherished — a similar personal freedom beneath the appearance of conformity. He suspected she had.

The thought didn’t please him. It would only make her fight that much harder against an annulment, for her continued freedom depended on the same marriage that so badly restricted Wolfe’s own freedom.

Jessica walked past her silent husband into the smoky kitchen. He followed her, noting the many gaps between the tiny buttons on her back. She hadn’t been able to fasten the dress herself, or had fastened it incorrectly.

This further proof that Jessica didn’t want Wolfe’s hands on her at all, even to fasten her impossible dress, made anger uncurl in him. Though he knew he should be grateful she wasn’t bent on seducing him into a real — and disastrous — marriage, he wasn’t the least bit pleased by her aversion to being touched by him in even the most casual way.

Bloody little nun. Why did you choose me to torment with that perfect body?

Throughslitted eyes, Wolfe watched while Jessica propped the kitchen door open to let out the smoke before she went to check on the potatoes. She lifted the lid and looked into the pot.

«Blazes,» she said unhappily. «Where did they go?»

«Where did what go?»

«The potatoes.»

Wolfe looked over Jessica’s head into the pot. Nothing resembling a potato was visible in the opaque water.

«Last night the potatoes were scorched on the outside and raw in the middle. Tonight they have no middle. No top, bottom, or sides, either.»

«I had no idea potatoes were such perverse vegetables,» Jessica muttered.

«No wonder people leave out milk and cookies for elves. The silly bastards would starve to death otherwise.» Wolfe shook his head and looked at Jessica with open curiosity. «What have you done to the canned cherries? Buried them in salt or soda?»

«It’s unreasonable to expect me to learn in three days a skill chefs spend years learning on the Continent,» Jessica said, keeping her voice level with an effort. «I’m doing my best to be a good wife, truly I am.»

«A frightening thought. What happened to the cherries?»

She grimaced and admitted, «I couldn’t open them.»

«For these small things, Lord, I am damned grateful.»

Wolfe grabbed a potholder, hooked his finger around the handle of the kettle of potatoes, and strode out the back door. Jessica heard a sudden hiss and explosion of steam as he poured the contents of the pot over the smoldering chops.

«Bonappetit, monsieurleskunk,» Wolfe said.

The sardonic words made Jessica flinch. She doubted the wee striped beastie would be any more interested in her cooking than Wolfe was.

Jessica discovered she wasn’t hungry either. Her stomach was in a knot, her throat ached, and her eyes burned with tears she would not shed. She suspected by the hard line of Wolfe’s shoulders and jaw when he stepped back into the kitchen that he was waiting for a sign of weakness on her part. There would be no relenting in him, no understanding of her predicament, no comfort when she tried and failed spectacularly.

He couldn’t wait to be rid of his unwanted wife.

With the last of her strength, Jessica straightened her spine, grabbed two potholders, and went to the stove. The first time she attempted to lift the big soup pot, her arms failed her before the pot was a half-inch off the stove. The pot banged back onto the black metal amid a hissing fury of spilled water. More by chance than anything else, Jessica avoided being burned by the boiling water.

Gritting her teeth, she shifted the potholders and reached for the big pot again, determined to have her hot bath no matter what. Before she had fully extended her arms, she was snatched off her feet, spun around, and found herself facing Wolfe’s furious indigo eyes at a distance of bare inches.

«Are you too stupid to know that boiling water will raise blisters on your aristocratic hide?»

At Wolfe’s words, Jessica’s eyes narrowed until they were splinters of pale blue. For a moment she didn’t answer, because she didn’t trust herself not to scream like a fishwife at him.