Brushing her hands clean on her skirt, Loretta stared dismally at the fire. Merciful heaven, why had she asked for a fire? He'd be able to her, which somehow made the thought of undressing in front of him all the more horrid. Her skin prickled. He was staring at her, waiting, like a man expecting his supper to be served. And what was even more awful, she like his supper. A hundred thoughts raced through her mind, running away from him foremost, but her sense of honor forestalled her. She had him, and a promise was a promise. She wouldn't break her word. She'd see this through, with her head held high. She With trembling hands, Loretta tackled the long line of tiny buttons on her bodice. With each flick of her fingers, her cheeks grew hotter. The firelight cast too few shadows, making the interior of the lodge seem as bright as day. She tried to draw comfort from the fact that he had seen her nude the night of her fever, but that was a century ago and did little to ease her embarrassment as she slid the sleeves of her dress down her arms. He would at lease douse the fire. Or maybe have an attack of conscience and realize how barbaric it was to force a virtuous young woman into marriage. But he wasn't a white man, and conscience wasn't a word in his vocabulary. He her. Now they were married, even in the eyes of people. For forever.