Her magnificent hair was tangled around her, and feathered over the velvet squabs like a spider’s web, glinting copper fire. He remembered the feel of it wrapped around his naked flesh, and the way her anger had melted to passion in bed. The rowdy reclamation of his bride had been arousing. What should he say? Should he threaten to lock her up, tie her to the bed, send her away? He would walk away from any other woman, but this woman was his wife. Every time they’d spoken so far, they’d argued. There was only one place they agreed, it appeared. He couldn’t let her off the hook for her treachery so easily. He would have to teach her who was in command. She was staring out the window, refusing to look at him. “There was a bet at White’s last night as to what color your hair was,” he said. “St. James reported that it was blond, like spun gold. I said it was red, and I was roundly accused of bedding you in the dark.” Her eyes swung to him at last, unwilling curiosity mixed with anger in their hazel depths.
