He tugged on the flap. “Psssst,” he hissed. Then, when she didn’t answer. “Penelope.”

Penelope’s nose poked out of the fold. Her nose and one eye. One very bloodshot eye. It did not regard him favorably.

“Don’t,” she said stonily. “Just don’t.”

It took a moment for the implication to hit, and when it did, Alex rocked back on his heels. She couldn’t possibly think that he was there for . . . Oh.

“This isn’t about that,” he whispered hastily.

The flap opened a little wider, just wide enough for Penelope to give him a freezing stare.

“About what?” she said, in a tone designed to reduce to nothing anything between them that might ever have been a something. She followed it up with the equally chilling “Why are you here?”

Because I love you didn’t seem like the appropriate answer.

Alex could smell the brandy on her breath. It was the only warm thing about her. All the anger, all the self-loathing she had obviously been feeling had found an outlet. Him.

“I was worried about your well-being,” he said with dignity.

“Well, don’t be.” The tent flap started to fold down.

This was not how this was supposed to go. Alex made a quick move to block the fall of canvas. “Have you given any thought to that damn snake?”

Penelope looked at him with something akin to loathing. “What do you think I’ve been contemplating? My toenails? Of course, I’ve thought about the snake. Again and again and again. What do you want me to do, find an asp to clutch to my breast?”

“Um, no.” Taken aback by the unexpected attack, Alex hastily regrouped. “You might still be a target, Penelope. What if someone tries to pull a similar trick with you?”

In the uncertain light, Penelope’s face was all bones and hollows, like a skull. She smiled a singularly unpleasant smile. “And what if they do? Good night, Captain Reid.”

The tent flap swung emphatically down. The discussion was closed.

Only it wasn’t, damn it.

Alex tugged at the canvas. The flap held firm, clearly anchored by something on the other end. A flat voice emerged from inside the tent. “Do that one more time and I will start screaming. I mean it.”

Alex didn’t doubt she meant it.

Fine. She needed time alone. He could accept that.

“Just be careful,” he hissed, and crawled off to his own tent, checking first to make sure that the sentry he had planted near Penelope’s temporary lodging was well in place. That would have to do for tonight. By morning — well, surely by morning — Penelope would have seen sense. Alex couldn’t have produced a definitive definition of what he meant by sense, but he was fairly sure it had something to do with resuming speaking to him and taking elementary precautions for her own safety.

Penelope did neither of those things. When the morning dawned, she was there with the others, clothed in a habit that had been miraculously cleaned overnight by the staff, her hair brushed and pinned. She took her place at the front of the rank, between Fiske and Pinchingdale, both of whom treated her with an exaggerated solicitude that would have made Alex laugh if only Penelope had been laughing with him. Instead, she treated him just as her husband had once done; with the chilly indifference of the aristocrat to a subordinate, speaking to him only when necessary and, even then, addressing her comments past him rather than to him.

This wasn’t Penelope.

Watching her, straight-backed in the saddle, hair brushed and coiled, he remembered her with sweat streaking lines through dust on her face, profanely attempting to put together a fire under his tutelage, jumping into the river after a groom, stealing his horse and riding it, hairpins flying.

That had been Penelope. This was Lady Frederick as he had first met her in Calcutta, hard-edged, sharp-tongued, warding off the world from behind a shield of sarcasm and devil-may-care bravado, and desperately unhappy behind it. She was the first one in the saddle in the mornings and the last to dismount, leaping obstacles with a recklessness that smacked less of her usual bravado and more of a shattering lack of concern with whether she lived or died.

Alex gritted his teeth and bided his time, despising himself for his own helplessness. What was he supposed to do? Take her in his arms and — what? he mocked himself. Kiss her tears away? Remind her that she had never liked the rotter anyway? Offer her sex as a substitute for grieving? Charming behavior, that would be, worthy of Fiske at his best. Alex was only surprised that Fiske hadn’t tried it.

It drove him mad to think that their time together might have been nothing more than an interlude to her. A few days before, he would have been willing to swear that it hadn’t been, but the steady offensive of indifference drove him to distraction, and to decidedly ignoble emotions.

He was not, he discovered, nearly so self-sacrificing as he had believed himself. If he were, he would have been ready to nobly respect Penelope’s unspoken wishes, pretending that nothing of an intimate nature had ever occurred between them. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t just pack her off to England, to ballrooms full of Fiskes and Freddys. He worried about Penelope, about her health, her safety, but his worry wasn’t entirely unmixed with what Alex could only view as selfish self-interest. He couldn’t seem to help caring about her, and if she wanted to repudiate that, she would have to do it from her own mouth.

It was three days before Alex found an opportunity to speak to Penelope alone, free from the perpetual presence of her twin shadows, Fiske and Pinchingdale. They had paused to wait out the hottest part of the day in the shelter of an abandoned caravanserai, napping as their inclination and status required: Fiske and Pinchingdale in the tents their servants had scurried ahead to set up for them; the members of the caravan disported in whatever bits of shade they had managed to wrangle from their fellows.

Penelope’s tent had been set up with the rest, but she didn’t make use of it. As Alex rubbed down a profusely sweating Bathsheba, he saw Penelope disappearing around the side of the ruined building, the train of her abused riding habit dragging dustily in the earth behind her.

Without thinking, Alex tossed the cloth to a groom and followed.

There must once have been a courtyard in the center of the building, where tired travelers might refresh themselves. The fountain was empty, the foundations cracked and dry, and weeds pushed up between the flagstones. Rosebushes grew wild on one side of the courtyard, twining up the arched frames of empty windows, and wild herbs grew fragrant underfoot.

Penelope sat on the edge of the ruined fountain, the skirt of her habit flowing like water around her. With her hair fallen in a long, red rope over one shoulder and the unpruned rosebushes climbing all around her, she looked, thought Alex, like a princess in a story, waiting to be woken by a prince’s kiss.

Alex grimaced. If only it were that easy. With his finesse, he seemed to have turned her into a frog. A very angry, fighting frog.

Hearing the brush of his boots against the foliage, she looked up sharply. For a moment, Alex surprised her in an expression of open confusion; her face looked softer, younger than it had for days. She swallowed convulsively and hastily pushed herself up off her perch, pulling her skirts together to brush past him.

She couldn’t even muster a hello? One hello after all they had shared?

“Wait.” The word was torn out of his chest, less a request and more a command. Softening his voice, he said, no less urgently, “Damn it, Penelope. Why won’t you talk to me?”

“We’re talking now, aren’t we?” she said, as though it were a matter of supreme indifference to her, and made to brush past him.

Alex blocked her, feeling like a cad, but too desperate to care. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Fine,” she said flatly. She turned to pluck at a leaf on the rosebush, shiny and sharp-edged. “Talk.”

Having received his mandate to talk, Alex found that both his tongue and his brain had ceased normal function. He had held so many conversations with her in his head over the last few days that it was hard to know where to start — or what had actually been said and what hadn’t.

But since he couldn’t leave her standing there waiting indefinitely, “I worry about you,” he said lamely.

Wrong approach.

“You shouldn’t.” A thorn pricked her finger, leaving a crimson blot of blood in its wake. Penelope regarded the tiny dot of blood dispassionately. Rubbing her hand against the skirt of the habit, she shrugged. “I’m no concern of yours.”

That was precisely the opposite of what he had wanted to hear.

“Yes, you are,” said Alex urgently, wishing he had the guts to deploy something more than words. “I — ”

But he couldn’t say it. It was an impossible time to tell a woman he loved her, all but over the corpse of her husband.

“Captain Reid, Captain Reid,” said Penelope, in that tone of polite mockery he was beginning to learn to hate. It was the same one she used with Fiske and Pinchingdale, as delicately deadly as a stiletto. She wouldn’t even bloody use his first name. “There’s no need, you know. Just because we — ”

Alex flung up a hand in an instinctive gesture of negation. Whatever she was about to say, he didn’t want to hear it. He didn’t want what they had had together reduced to the most base of carnal terms. It had been more than that. Hadn’t it? His lungs ached as though he had been running a mile.

Penelope’s eyebrows lifted, but she respected the unspoken barrier. With a shrug — a shrug as dreadful as the words she had been prevented from uttering — she said, “I hold you under no obligation to me.”