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voice. “Can you possibly speak three sentences without cursing?”
    “Where am I supposed to put my feet?”
    “In a stable, perhaps?” She sat back, and meeting his glare with a gracious smile, she added, “However, if the hatbox is such a bother, I am sure the others will be delighted to wait in this stultifying heat while you and Mr. Phelps—”
    “What’s in it?”
    “At the moment, nothing, but—”
    He yanked the box from beneath her feet and threw it out the door. Then before she could muster a thought, the coach rocked as he climbed aboard.
    “Watch where you step.” Maude jerked her skirts aside as he rooted around, knees and elbows wreaking havoc in the confined space. Finally he plopped down beside Ashford and across from Jessica, his spread knees imprisoning her skirts, his big feet taking up most of the floor space. With a deep sigh, he tipped his head back, his hat forward, and closed his eyes. By the time the coach hit its rhythm, he was snoring. It was quite a bit longer before Jessica could relax enough to unclasp her hands and take a full breath.
    Brady Wilkins was nothing like Mr. Bodine. He was much, much worse.
    As her nerves settled, exhaustion set in. She tried to doze, but the swaying of the coach and the movements of the baby upset her stomach, so she gave up.
    The baby. She. Victoria . It fit.
    Smiling, Jessica closed her eyes and traced her fingertips over her abdomen. Was it larger than yesterday? Flattening her palms against her body, she shaped the roundness. Definitely bigger. Firmer. Despite the concealing cape and being long in the waist, she wouldn’t be able to hide it much longer.
    “You still don’t have it right.”
    Her eyes flew open.
    Brady Wilkins watched her from beneath the brim of his hat. His gaze dropped to the fingers splayed across her abdomen.
    She yanked her hands away, heat rushing into her face. Had he guessed her condition? Judging by his speculative look, he had.
    “I didn’t curse. This time I used profanity.”
    The words were slow to penetrate. When they did, she stiffened. Hoping to discourage further conversation, she looked away, wondering why she had ever said anything in the first place.
    “Cursing would be like ‘sonofabi—’ ”
    “Don’t.” She whipped her head around. “Not another word.”
    “Just figured before you go correcting people, you ought to get it right.”
    She narrowed her eyes at him.
    He raised his brows.
    She gave up. Sometimes maintaining proper decorum was simply too difficult. With a weary sigh, she sank against the backrest. “You’re having fun with this, aren’t you?”
    “I admit I am.” His mustache quirked up at the corners. “You make it so easy.”
    She pressed her lips together to keep from smiling, fearing that would only encourage him. How tedious she had become—spouting quotes from her pamphlets, dressing down strangers—she could scarcely stand her own company; no wonder he found her so ridiculous. “I’m delighted to be able to entertain you,” she said dryly.
    “I’m delighted to be entertained.” He reached into his shirt pocket. “And by the way . . .” He leaned forward, an odd glint in those aqua eyes. In his fingers he held a copper coin.
    She tried to draw back, couldn’t, and in mute helplessness watched him take her hand in his and gently pry open her clenched fist. With great care he placed the coin into her gloved palm. “I don’t take money from women. No matter how grateful they are.”
    She forgot how to breathe. How to think, or move. He was so near she could smell sweat, horses, old smoke. She could see gray sprinkles in the dark stubble of his beard, a pale scar running through one dark eyebrow, a bruise forming under the new cut on his cheek. And at that moment, as she stared into the bright intensity of those startling eyes, she realized how badly she had underestimated this man.
    And to prove it, he did the most extraordinary thing.
    He smiled.
    Just that.
    Yet