The moment he stepped inside, India drowned his senses. He felt her presence as keenly as if she’d touched him, and every fiber of his being rose to attention, bristling with awareness. He allowed his gaze to stray to the bed, expecting to find her tucked beneath the quilts. Instead, she sat in his chair. The quilt from his bed cocooned her from neck to toes. She’d combed her long dark locks, and they tumbled about her shoulders. Sharp and accusing, her gaze locked with his. “How long have I been here?” The complete lack of warmth in her voice alerted him to her dark mood. He couldn’t say why the brittle edge to her words disappointed him—he’d expected nothing less. Nevertheless, regret for something he couldn’t name tightened his insides to uncomfortable limits. In search of escape from that damning stare, he turned his back and moved to the basin for his razor. “Three weeks and one full day.” He poured fresh water from the pitcher into the bowl and dunked the bar of lye.
