The sound of Wolfe shouting from the front of the house startled Jessica awake. The first thing she saw was a layer of smoke hanging just below the ceiling and curling out an open window.

«Jessi! Answer me! Where are you?»

Her first attempt to come to her feet failed because her overworked arms refused to cooperate. Her second try was more successful.

«Wolfe?» she called, her voice hoarse with sleep.

The front door banged open and Wolfe leaped inside. His dark face was grim.

«Jessi, are you all right?» he yelled, looking toward the kitchen where smoke boiled thickly.

«I’m fine,» she said.

Wolfe spun and saw Jessica standing in the bedroom doorway, her hair half-unraveled and her eyes very pale against the dark lavender circles that surrounded them. He closed his eyes and let out an explosive breath as the urgency went out of him.

«Wolfe? What’s wrong?»

His eyes snapped open. They were narrowed and frankly dangerous. «I thought the house was burning down, and you with it.»

«Burning — oh, dear God, the chops!»

Wolfe followed Jessica’s rush into the kitchen. When she reached for the frying pan, he struck her hand aside.

«No! You’ll blister yourself!»

He went into the living room and returned with fire tongs. Using them, he managed to get the cheerfully burning chops outside. He placed the smoking pan in the dirt just beyond the back steps.

Behind him, Jessica sighed deeply. «Do you suppose the skunk will be any hungrier tonight than he was last night?»

Wolfe took a long time turning around, because he didn’t trust himself not to laugh out loud. He, too, had wondered if the skunk’s appetite would be up to the challenge of Jessica’s cooking.

But sharing laughter with his irrepressibleJessi was too enjoyable, too arousing, too…addictive. Each time he let her get past his guard, it encouraged her to believe she would ultimately win him over. He must not do that, for it wasn’t true. He would never accept the sham marriage, which meant that any kindness from him would be cruelty in disguise. Kindness would only draw out the painful process of getting Jessica to accept an annulment.

Wolfe didn’t want to extend the process by so much as one second. He didn’t know how much longer he could look at his frazzled aristocrat and not gather her into his arms.

When Wolfe turned around to face Jessica once more, his face was expressionless.

«What else is the skunk having for dinner tonight?» he asked in a carefully neutral voice.

Jessica smiled rather grimly. «Not a blasted thing. I put plenty of water in the potatoes and I haven’t opened the tinned cherries yet.»

«Canned.»

«What?»

«Canned cherries in the West, tinned cherries in England.»

«Oh.»

Wolfe could practically see Jessica’s agile mind noting the peculiarity of speech for future use. She was losing the last bits of her British accent and idioms as quickly as she had once lost her Scots speech patterns. Like Wolfe, she had learned as a child the survival value of camouflage. Being the daughter of a Scots commoner mother couldn’t be changed any more than the circumstances of Wolfe’s own birth could be altered. But clothing and patterns of speech could be changed, and were, depending on the people Wolfe found himself among.

Few people looked past the outward appearance, which suited Wolfe just fine. It allowed him to move freely where he pleased. He wondered if Jessica had found — and cherished — a similar personal freedom beneath the appearance of conformity. He suspected she had.

The thought didn’t please him. It would only make her fight that much harder against an annulment, for her continued freedom depended on the same marriage that so badly restricted Wolfe’s own freedom.

Jessica walked past her silent husband into the smoky kitchen. He followed her, noting the many gaps between the tiny buttons on her back. She hadn’t been able to fasten the dress herself, or had fastened it incorrectly.

This further proof that Jessica didn’t want Wolfe’s hands on her at all, even to fasten her impossible dress, made anger uncurl in him. Though he knew he should be grateful she wasn’t bent on seducing him into a real — and disastrous — marriage, he wasn’t the least bit pleased by her aversion to being touched by him in even the most casual way.

Bloody little nun. Why did you choose me to torment with that perfect body?

Throughslitted eyes, Wolfe watched while Jessica propped the kitchen door open to let out the smoke before she went to check on the potatoes. She lifted the lid and looked into the pot.

«Blazes,» she said unhappily. «Where did they go?»

«Where did what go?»

«The potatoes.»

Wolfe looked over Jessica’s head into the pot. Nothing resembling a potato was visible in the opaque water.

«Last night the potatoes were scorched on the outside and raw in the middle. Tonight they have no middle. No top, bottom, or sides, either.»

«I had no idea potatoes were such perverse vegetables,» Jessica muttered.

«No wonder people leave out milk and cookies for elves. The silly bastards would starve to death otherwise.» Wolfe shook his head and looked at Jessica with open curiosity. «What have you done to the canned cherries? Buried them in salt or soda?»

«It’s unreasonable to expect me to learn in three days a skill chefs spend years learning on the Continent,» Jessica said, keeping her voice level with an effort. «I’m doing my best to be a good wife, truly I am.»

«A frightening thought. What happened to the cherries?»

She grimaced and admitted, «I couldn’t open them.»

«For these small things, Lord, I am damned grateful.»

Wolfe grabbed a potholder, hooked his finger around the handle of the kettle of potatoes, and strode out the back door. Jessica heard a sudden hiss and explosion of steam as he poured the contents of the pot over the smoldering chops.

«Bonappetit, monsieurleskunk,» Wolfe said.

The sardonic words made Jessica flinch. She doubted the wee striped beastie would be any more interested in her cooking than Wolfe was.

Jessica discovered she wasn’t hungry either. Her stomach was in a knot, her throat ached, and her eyes burned with tears she would not shed. She suspected by the hard line of Wolfe’s shoulders and jaw when he stepped back into the kitchen that he was waiting for a sign of weakness on her part. There would be no relenting in him, no understanding of her predicament, no comfort when she tried and failed spectacularly.

He couldn’t wait to be rid of his unwanted wife.

With the last of her strength, Jessica straightened her spine, grabbed two potholders, and went to the stove. The first time she attempted to lift the big soup pot, her arms failed her before the pot was a half-inch off the stove. The pot banged back onto the black metal amid a hissing fury of spilled water. More by chance than anything else, Jessica avoided being burned by the boiling water.

Gritting her teeth, she shifted the potholders and reached for the big pot again, determined to have her hot bath no matter what. Before she had fully extended her arms, she was snatched off her feet, spun around, and found herself facing Wolfe’s furious indigo eyes at a distance of bare inches.

«Are you too stupid to know that boiling water will raise blisters on your aristocratic hide?»

At Wolfe’s words, Jessica’s eyes narrowed until they were splinters of pale blue. For a moment she didn’t answer, because she didn’t trust herself not to scream like a fishwife at him.

«Even you aren’t that stupid, my lord,» she said finally, softly. «Or have you managed to teach a boiling pot to come to your heel like a long-tongued hound?»

«What are you talking about?»

«Getting a pot of water from the stove to the bath,» she said succinctly.

«If you think you can soothe my ire over dinner by offering me a hot bath…»