A lady should never leave home unprepared for emergencies. Generally it is best to bring a comb, a mirror, and at least one strong gentleman of good character and pleasant appearance who can be relied on to handle any other eventualities.

—MISS PENCE

Charlotte didn’t look back to see if Alex followed her. The fact that he’d come for her should have meant something, but all she could think of was his refusal to keep his promise regarding the annulment.

Unlike her leisurely trip to the foothills, Charlotte urged her horse to fly over the flat land. Soon, however, the rocky terrain near the river caused the mare to slow. Charlotte was forced to allow it, for as much as she wished to be rid of Alex Hambly, she did not wish to land in the icy water in the process.

She kept a tight grip on the reins and focused on the trail as the rising moon traced a crooked silver path down the center of the river. The mare’s breath was visible in the chill air, as was Charlotte’s own, but the borrowed leather jacket kept her from the cold.

She shrugged down into the warmth and allowed the hope that Alex had gone home by another way to take hold. Unfortunately, the sound of a horse echoed behind her. Resisting the urge to turn and face him, Charlotte kept her eyes on the trail ahead.

Until Alex rode up and blocked her path. Looking more like a member of Colonel Cody’s Wild West show than the nobleman she married, the viscount wore buckskins and boots and sat in the saddle as if he’d been born there. Add to this the fact that he obviously shot well enough—

“We’re not finished discussing this, Charlotte,” he said.

She tried to go around him, but he countered her move. Twice.

“Running is for children,” he said, as much a statement as a taunt, for the determination on his face was new, an expression she’d not seen in all their time together. Had she not been fiercely irritated, Charlotte might have found his continued persistence admirable.

“All right,” she said with a sigh. “If you insist on continuing this discussion, why don’t you start by telling me why you’ve chosen not to keep your promise?”

“Actually, I am keeping my promise.” An owl’s call split the evening air, and Alex paused to calm his skittish horse. “The same one you made. In the chapel.”

“The same one we both agreed was temporary.”

Alex sobered and glanced toward the horizon. “Can we talk about this back at the ranch house? It’s getting dark.”

Shadows did gather long and dark, and the blue sky wore a tint of deepest purple at the edges. But though the moon had risen above the horizon, there was still plenty of time to find home without losing the trail to lack of daylight.

Charlotte regarded Alex with narrowed eyes. Taking a stand might cause him to rethink his stubbornness. “What’s left to say, Alex?”

“Let’s go.” He turned his horse toward the ranch, expecting her to follow.

But Charlotte had a stubborn streak of her own, and the light was quite lovely here by the river. There was just enough illumination to paint the landscape and the beginnings of a starlit evening above.

She dismounted and led the mare to a tree. Using extra care, she secured the apt-to-flee horse, then reached for her paints and stool.

“What are you doing?” Alex demanded.

Ignoring him, Charlotte made short work of setting up a serviceable outdoor studio and began mixing tints.

Her temporary husband looked down from his horse and shook his head. “You’re a madwoman.”

Again, she ignored him. The stars were popping out by the dozens. Soon the night sky would be filled with the pinpricks of light she adored to capture on canvas.

“You are my wife, Charlotte, like it or not, and—”

“I don’t.” She met his stare. “I do not like being married.”

“To me or in general?” he asked.

She turned back to her work, unwilling to answer. Had she not been forced to agree to a sham marriage, Charlotte would have enjoyed life without Papa’s rules.

“I think you don’t like being told what to do.”

Charlotte’s gaze collided with Alex’s stare. He’d practically read her thoughts, but she knew she must protest.

“You don’t know anything about me, Alex,” she managed before returning to her work.

“I know you’re a menace,” he said. “And I know you’re quite talented at painting. And your persistence is legendary.” He looked to her for a response. When she offered none, Alex continued. “And then there’s your creativity. Goodness knows you’ve come up with some of the most interesting ideas.”

She continued to pretend to ignore the Englishman as he listed a few more of her positive traits and a few more of her negative ones. Through it all, Charlotte held her tongue.

“But one thing I do not know about you is where you stand with your faith,” Alex finished.

“Faith.” She stabbed her brush into the holder and turned to face him. “You too? Have you been talking to Papa? Because my faith is just fine.”

“I see.”

His tone alone told Charlotte that he didn’t, but she wasn’t continuing this discussion, especially now that it had turned far too personal.

“And I’ll thank you to keep your opinion of the matter to yourself,” she said.

One dark brow rose as Alex adjusted his leather glove. “I’ve offered no opinion on the matter, wife.”

The last word caused his lips to turn up into a grin, crinkling the corners of his eyes. A chill wind lifted his hair then skittered down Charlotte’s spine. She shuddered and shrank deeper into the heavy coat.

“You’re cold,” Alex said.

He climbed off his horse and reached for her paints, but Charlotte grabbed them first. In her haste to close the case, the entire thing tumbled from her hands and landed in a heap at the water’s edge.

“Oh no! Look what you’ve done.” She hurried after her treasure only to stumble on the sandy riverbank, fall, and roll past them.

“Charlotte?” Alex called. “Are you injured?”

“Only my pride,” she muttered as she climbed to her feet and swiped at her riding skirt. Charlotte took a step toward her paints and then another, edging around a rocky outcropping and across sand that was more shift than solid, carefully making her way up the bank. She could not lose her last link to her mother. She simply could not.

Almost within reach of the precious case, Charlotte heard the shriek of an owl.

Her mare skittered and kicked, causing Alex’s horse to bolt. He held tight to the reins just long enough for the animal to yank his shoulder hard and cause the viscount to cry out. His horse disappeared into the shadowy prairie.

“Alex?” Charlotte called. “Are you all right?”

She turned, intending to climb toward him, but her foot slammed against a rock, sending her reeling backward into the sand. As she fell, Charlotte’s arm knocked into the paint case, sending it skidding down the bank. She rolled to her side and grabbed for it, but she missed. Her fingers just brushed its edge as it plummeted toward the river. It landed with an awful plop and disappeared beneath the rushing waters.

“No!” she cried, still reaching vainly toward the water.

Alex somehow kept his footing as he hurried to her side. “Hold my hand and don’t let go,” he said as he scooped her into an upright position with his right hand. He held his injured left arm close against his side.

“My paints,” she said through the haze of her anger and grief. “They’re lost.”

“Forget the paints. You’ve done enough for today. Let’s go home.”

“No.” Charlotte pushed him away and started toward the river, determined to dive in if she must in order to retrieve her paints. “You don’t understand. The box. It belonged to my mother.”

Alex reached around her waist and once again hauled her against him. “I said forget the paints.”

Her protests fell on deaf ears as the viscount stood stock-still and allowed her to flail against him. Finally, when she’d tired herself out, Charlotte gave in.

“All right,” she said slowly. “Release me, and I’ll do as you ask.”

“Just like that?” he asked, his voice rumbling against her ear. He turned her to face him.

“Just like that,” she echoed.

But when Alex loosened his grip, Charlotte slipped from his arms and dove toward the river. She managed to get hip deep in the frigid water before her temporary husband stopped her progress.

“I will buy you more paints, Charlotte,” he said against her ear, “but I cannot buy you good health should you ruin it by catching your death in this river.”

“Nothing can replace the box. Nothing.”

Blind fury made her want to pummel his broad shoulders with her fists, but she knew it would have no effect. So she complied, once more allowing Alex Hambly to tell her what to do. She bit her bottom lip to keep from crying. She’d done enough crying in front of Alex.

He led her back to the spot where she’d left her stool and easel. Seeing where her paints should have been, Charlotte allowed the first angry tear to fall.

“Here,” came the gruff voice behind her.

And in spite of herself, Charlotte turned toward the sound. Alex Hambly stood behind her, half-soaked and covered in mud. The handkerchief he thrust toward her with his uninjured right hand, however, was pristine.

“It’s clean,” Alex muttered as he took her hand and closed her fingers around the handkerchief.

“Unlike you.” The words slipped from her lips before Charlotte could help herself.

“Thanks to you.” He stormed toward the rise.

“Your horse,” she called. “How badly did it hurt you when it ran?”

“I’ll be fine,” he said tersely. He folded her stool, then reached for the canvas and easel.

Charlotte watched as he loaded her gear with his uninjured hand. “You’re not fine.”

And yet when the time came to climb back into the saddle, he somehow managed to help her up.

“What will you do for a horse, Alex?”

He shrugged. “I figure that stubborn pony will get hungry and find her way home, won’t she?”

“They usually do,” Charlotte said.

“Then move up and we’ll share.” Before she could protest, Alex had unseated her from the saddle and fitted himself behind her. “I’ve a bit of a twinge in my arm,” he admitted as she settled in front of him. “You take the reins. Just remember that should I be sent plummeting from the horse, you’re going along with me.”

Charlotte took the reins but made no move to set the horse in motion. Rather, she looked back at the spot where her paint box had disappeared into the river.

“Don’t think of it,” Alex said. “It’s too dark to see now, and I imagine that river’s deep in spots. You’ll never know whether you’re looking in the right place.” He let out a long breath. “Tomorrow I’ll come back and look for it. How’s that?”

“All right.” She returned her attention to the trail and urged the horse toward home.

The feel of the Englishman behind her, of his good arm wrapped around her waist and his chin resting against her cheek, set Charlotte thinking about what it might be like if they had a real marriage. A marriage like Papa and Gennie had.

As soon as the thought appeared, Charlotte dismissed it. Never would she find anything resembling a real marriage with Alex Hambly.

It made no sense at all.