The Marriage Ring by Cathy Maxwell Page A

wrong.
    “Truly?” she asked softly. “How romantic is it to order a woman as you would a steak pie? I want her genteel, I want her conservative, I want her plump but not too plump. Maybe plump here and slender there. And her hair must be yellow unless I’m in the mood for something red, or purple, or green—”
    “Women don’t have green hair, or purple hair. And I didn’t talk about personal features but qualities of character. There is a difference.”
    “So you would marry a woman with green hair if she was boring?” She had to say it. She couldn’t help herself and was delighted when his jaw muscle tightened.
    “Boring was not on my list,” he informed her. “ You added it.”
    “Very well,” Grace said. “I will amend my statement. It’s not a concern if your wife has ten fingers and ten toes provided she goes to church every Sunday and prays at six on Tuesdays and never expresses an opinion other than the one you decide for her since intelligence wasn’t on your list—”
    “Why are you doing this?” He threw his paper to the floor. “Why are you spouting such nonsense?”
    “Nonsense? I’m not the one ordering up a wife, Mr. Lynsted,” she said.
    “No, there is something else at work here. You are attacking me, but it isn’t just me, is it, Miss MacEachin? This is something that has been on that female mind of yours a long time. You don’t like men very much, do you? You think we are fools.”
    She did, but had never had a man astute enough to notice or bold enough to call her on it.
    Edging back to her side of the coach, she said, “I don’t like being categorized, Mr. Lynsted. I’m calling you on a hypocrisy. You aren’t alone in your lists. Every man has them. The image of what his dream wife will be. They all want virgins while they chase me relentlessly. And once they do marry, they take on mistresses whom they treat better than those perfect wives.”
    “And you hate that, don’t you?” he said, leaning toward her, intimidating her with Truth. “You don’t like being left out, knowing you will never be the wife?”
    “I prefer my own company.”
    “Liar,” he accused softly.
    In that moment, the coach rolled over a rock or deep rut in the road. The wheels bounced, throwing his weight toward her but he went farther than that. Abruptly, he threw himself on top of her, his arm reaching across as if to hold her down.
    She’d not expected the move.
    Her first response was panic, just as it had been years ago, only this time she was wiser. She reached under the seat, felt the knife sheath and whipped out her dirk. She pressed the razor-sharp edge against his throat.
    Surprise crossed his face. He went still.
    Her heart pounded in her throat.
    His gaze held hers.
    Neither moved, their bodies swaying together with the motion of the coach.
    She swallowed. His weight was heavy on her body. “I’m not a plaything. I know men expect it, but I’m my own person now. I’m not that woman any longer. No matter what your uncle or anyone says. No one touches me.”
    Understanding crossed his face, and something else—compassion?
    It embarrassed her.
    He pushed his arm forward. She braced herself. She’d cut him if he tried to hurt her. He had to know she would—
    A blast of damp, frigid air enveloped them before he pulled his arm back and there followed the click of a door being shut into place.
    “The door came open,” he said, the muscles of his throat moving against her knife. “I don’t know why. It’s a new coach. However, I didn’t want you to fall out.” Raising his hand to show he meant no tricks, he sat back up.
    Grace didn’t move immediately. It took several moments for her heartbeat to return to normal, and she was all too conscious of the fact that she’d tipped her hand. She’d overreacted and exposed to him, her enemy, her innermost fear.
    He was such a strong man. A big one. An intimidating one. Now he knew how to frighten her.
    Instead of gloating, Mr.