In the Bed of a Duke by Cathy Maxwell Page A

horse, his earlier admiration vanishing. “She can’t do one thing I ask her to.” He started after her. The horse lowered his head and dragged his back feet, a sign he wanted to rest but had no choice other than to follow.
    She heard Phillip approach. Her step quickened. He stretched his legs and had no trouble catching up with her.
    Phillip walked alongside Miss Cameron for a bit before saying, “Homer.”
    Her chin came up. She didn’t ask about the word, but he sensed she wanted to.
    He waited.
    There was a long moment filled only with the sound of their footsteps and their breathing.
    “Homer what?” she asked at last.
    He smiled. He’d gambled on her curiosity, and won. “The name of the horse. I believe I shall call him Homer.”
    Miss Cameron shot him an irritated look out of the corner of her eye. “Why should you name him at all? What gives you the right?”
    “I have no right,” he said. “However, the old boy has carried us well and deserves to be calledsomething other than ‘the horse.’ Do you not agree? Or do you believe it better to ignore his hard work and courage?”
    “Is that a slap toward me?” she said, her back still stiff and unyielding, her eyes on the road ahead. “Are you saying I ignore you?”
    He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.
    And then, when he least expected it, she murmured, “Homer is as good a name as any.”
    “I thought so,” he quickly agreed. “Unfortunately, I believe Homer could care less. He’s exhausted. The poor old boy’s tail is dragging.”
    Miss Cameron couldn’t resist glancing at the horse to see if what Phillip said was true, and her gaze met his. The tension eased in her brow. Her proud, stubborn chin lowered enough for her to say, “He should be. It has been a long day.”
    “It has,” Phillip answered, slowing his step. Miss Cameron slowed hers also.
    And a truce, however unacknowledged, existed between them. One Phillip credited himself with negotiating although not even the Spanish ambassador had ever made him work so hard.
    This time, when he turned back in the opposite direction, she followed—but not without a dramatic sigh of resignation. They were both accustomed to being in charge, and he counted it a victory that she gave him this small trust.
    They walked a ways in silence. Phillip thoughtof her, of her stubbornness and her pride. Finally, he could no longer contain his curiosity. “Why did you do it?” he asked. “You didn’t have to, and you’d be a more welcome guest at Nathraichean than you would be now.”
    She pulled her hair forward, her fingers quickly weaving into a long braid that she let hang loose. “Have you ever seen a man beaten? I have. A gang like that beat my brother-in-law Alex until he was close to death. Your sex goes a bit mad in large groups like that. You can’t be trusted to use reason. I couldn’t stand by and let it happen again.”
    “You are talking about Haddon, aren’t you?” he said. The man Miranda had jilted him over. “Some men deserve their beatings.”
    “Not Alex.” She knew what he was thinking. “They belong together,” she reminded him quietly. “They would have been together years ago when they were younger. However, my father hated Indians, especially the Shawnee. You know Alex is a half-breed?”
    After his curt nod, she said, “He came to ask Father for Miranda’s hand. Alex is truly more white than Indian. His father was an English officer. He’d been raised with privilege. He understood how to ask for Miranda properly. However, all Father could see was the part of him that was Shawnee. He and three of his friends beat Alex tothe point where I feared they’d killed him. I helped Miranda cut him down from the tree where they’d tied him.”
    “Perhaps your father had just cause,” Phillip said, not wanting to empathize at all.
    “He did. The Shawnee killed my mother and my baby brother Ben.” She said this as a statement of fact, completely devoid of