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because you were wounded. The war ended.”
    “Gideon guarded Napoleon all the way to St. Helena, and Reed is still one of Wellington’s aides.”
    When put that way, Alex knew he was right about his fanatical father, but what could she say?
    She was embarrassed that she had mentioned the man, but she was even more embarrassed when Bryceson slipped his hands up her leg to unhook her garters, and she shivered and squeaked, because she felt the lightning shock of his touch to her core.
    He looked up and quirked a brow. “I am not going to ravish you, Alexandra.”
    After a stunned, silent moment, she sighed with resignation. “I am sorry to hear that.”
    Bryce reared back, and after a similar moment, he shook his head. “Stand,” he said, and she understood why his men obeyed him, as did she. He untied the laces on her half-petticoat, slid his hands down her hips to push it to the floor, and she stepped out. Her second was a full-petticoat and he helped her out of that with entirely too much experience, in the same way he loosened and removed her stays, expertly and efficiently.
    At a knock on the outer door, he turned to leave her standing in her new lawn shift, and again like an empty-headed porcelain doll, Alex waited and hoped for more.
    When Bryce returned, he slipped her white gossamer nightrail over her head, down her arms then he helped her into her matching wrap. “You will surely catch your death without both,” he said, a hot, hard glint in his eyes. “Or worse.”
    The tardy promise in those last two words—along with his piercing gaze—shivered her to her trembling knees.
    When she was dressed in the nightrail made for her trousseau, Bryce neither stepped back to admire her, or his handiwork, nor did he comment further on the exquisite finery—a disappointment. He simply peeled back the bedcovers and urged her into its feather-filled warmth. Heart-pounding, Alex did as her husband bid, moving toward the center, expecting him to undress and slip in beside her.
    Instead, he pulled the covers up to her neck, sat beside her on the bed and waited, with a disapproving frown, as she freed her arms. Then he took possession of her hand. “I am afraid that this has been a long, tiring, and shocking day for you,” he said. “And I am sorry for all of it. Reed told me what he said. I am especially sorry that you heard, but perhaps it is best you know. Get a good night’s sleep now, for we have another long day ahead of us tomorrow, though hopefully, a much less alarming one.”
    “But what about you? Are you not going to sleep?”
    “I am having the settee made up as we speak. I will be fine there for one night. I have slept on worse.”
    Alex sat up and saw by his arrested gaze that the blankets had fallen away and exposed her breasts to his view. She did not cover herself and he did not look away, not for several pulsing beats. For the first time, she had her husband’s full and blatant male attention while she was conscious and could appreciate it, and she was glad.
    When he did look away, she sighed. “Bryce, this is your bed. You are too tall for that short sofa. Come, sleep beside me.”

CHAPTER FIVE

    Hawk cursed his trembling hands as he tucked Alex back into his bed and admired the cloud of cinnamon waves forming a silken halo upon her pillow. Had any man ever needed such willpower as he was compelled to call upon at this tempting moment?
    He regarded the siren for signs of the sprite who had, in turn, shadowed and vexed him through their growing up years. While he was grief-struck by the loss of that child, he was intrigued, no small bit, by the emergence of the woman. His first reaction was natural, his second, both unacceptable and a clear threat to his sanity.
    As he rose, he bent to kiss her brow. “Sleep. I command you.” Then he stroked her cheek, snuffed her candle and left the bedchamber, shutting the door behind him.
    In the sitting room, Hawk discarded his cane, his frockcoat, and