I see the fury in his eyes and back off a step. Before he’d come home, I hadn’t really considered telling him. It’s not like spankings are a big deal. Or at least, I hadn’t thought so until Grace told me her father’s stance on capital punishment.

We’d had many deep talks and I found her a refreshing girl with a perspective on life that was much too old for her age.

“How do you know?” he says, his eyes so tired they’re fever bright. But the rage in them is unmistakable and I know I did the right thing by telling him.

“She told me that Gertie smacks her bottom when she’s not ladylike.” I sense he’s nearly shaking with anger, but it’s not terrifying. It’s not aimed at me, nor could I ever imagine him being upset at me. And even if he was, I realize, I can’t imagine being afraid of him. He’s not the kind of guy who’d hurt me.

And I realize something startling; I feel safe with him.

He stands up straight and I know he’s wrestling with his anger. “Thank you for telling me,” he says stiffly, and I nod.

“Go to bed,” I say gently as he stands before me, still internally fighting something I can only sense. “I’ve got things here.”

Finally, he nods and heads back toward the hall. I watch him go, hoping he didn’t notice the tears in my eyes when he’d come in. Despite the talks I’d shared with Grace and all the calming influence she’d had on me this morning while getting ready to go, I’d still found myself sinking back into that scary pit of despair once I was alone.

And even when I’d tried to distract myself, he’d still come creeping back to burrow under my skin and haunt the darkness in every blink.

Still, Clint is every bit as intense as he’d been from that first moment. And every bit as able to make my heart stumble in my chest. And able to make a curious warmth pool deep in my belly.

Then I hear him call my name from his room. With a sense of trepidation, I head back, hoping this isn’t about to get uncomfortable. At his door, I lift my knuckles to knock and he tells me to come in.

I do so and find him under the blankets. My cheeks sting red and I look toward the floor as he speaks. “Before I forget,” he says, sounding a bit drunk with exhaustion. “I need to ask you a huge favor.”

“Anything,” I say, my face flaming red hot. Please don’t ask me for something I can’t do. Please. Still, I can’t imagine anything I wouldn’t want to do with this man. Even the thought of him asking me to bed sends a warm tingling feeling through my pelvis.

“Can you pretend to be my fiancée?”

Jerking my head up, I meet his stare, shocked to my very toes. Never in a million years would I have expected anything like that. I feel my mouth drop open, but no words come out.

He stares at me like he’s expecting an answer now, but I can’t quite formulate anything.

“Why?” I ask, the word popping out like a cork from a bottle of bubbly.

“It’s a long story,” He says, “We’ll talk more when I get up.”

I nod and turn toward the door, but he stops me once more. “Thank you,” he says, and I look back at him, one hand on the door. He already looks like he’s sleeping, and there’s a peace to him that’s unexpected.

He’s so handsome. In sleep, there’s a boyishness to him that is gone in the harsh light of his wakeful self. I study him, thinking about his proposal.

I’d be safe if we went with a farce like this. But I’d be at his mercy. More at his mercy. And I don’t think I want to put myself in the mercy of any man, ever again. Not in a romantic sense. What would he expect of me with this farce? Nothing good, I’m sure. The kind of man who asks a woman to pretend to be in love with him is the kind that might do other evil, underhanded things.

Still, as I leave his room, I find myself curious. Everything I know of him says he’s not a cruel, underhanded man. But I also won’t lie to myself by pretending I know him.

It’s not like he can possibly be without prospects. He’s handsome. He’s successful. He’s got a kind heart, even if it might not look like it from the outside. He has to, or he wouldn’t have let me stay.

Then again, was it all just to get me in a position where I’d have to accept some hair brained plan to be his fake fiancée? Is he really not the man I’d thought him to be? Is my judge of character that messed up?

Then again, what kind of man asks something like that? And why?

Why does he need me to pretend to be his fiancée? And if it’s a good reason, will that be enough to sway my mind on it? Because there’s no reason I can think of that I’d be okay with it or willing to even play along. I’m not a liar. And it’s not fair of him to ask me to be.

With all these questions going through my mind, I head toward my room. My heart thunders in my chest as I think about what it would feel like to be Mrs. Quentin. Clearly, he doesn’t recognize me, but this is more than I’d ever dreamed of.

I watch the hustle and bustle of the men as they lock up horses, clean up the yard, and head into a building that I’m fairly certain the farm hand house.

As I stand, I see someone glance my way and I duck back to the side. I don’t want to draw attention to myself. I don’t want anyone to figure out who I am.

That would be very, very bad.