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Page 87
He turned. She followed him silently, on wobbly legs, back toward the inn.

Exhausted, Mariah peeled off her wrinkled dress. Now, finally, she could make out what had been hidden in the outhouse's dimness. No wonder she'd felt so stiff and warm; she wore a corset contraption with stays beneath it, plus a chemise and petticoats. All were trimmed in lace.
She'd examine her outfit further tomorrow. Maybe even borrow some of René's clothes; Thorn's would be too large.
Would they he scandalized by her donning men's clothing? That wasn't done, she was sure, in this archaic time. Too bad. She couldn't wear that pink dress forever, and she'd no idea where to find more feminine attire.
Hearing footsteps outside, she started. A door was closed, and she realized she'd heard René going to bed. With her emotions still overwrought, she felt vulnerable dressed in only her undergarments. Tiptoeing barefoot, she tried her door. It was closed tightly but had no lock. Still, though René didn't seem to like her much, he was unlikely to molest her. Besides, despite Thorn's protestations of unreliability, she doubted he'd tolerate anyone bothering her at his inn.
She blew out her candle and lay down, her eyes wide in the darkness. Despite her fatigue, she couldn't sleep. Her head no longer hurt, but her thoughts battered her brain like a loop of endless film clips: Pierce. Pittsburgh. The Blockhouse and fort. The river rapscallions. Hiring on as a servant in Matilda's place.
And Thorn. His miserable, unanticipated attitude. His searing, startling kiss.
He was so different from the story version.
He was still gorgeous.
Something about him drew her. Something else repelled her.
He was unreliable.
The straw that managed to stick through the blanket scratched at her skin beneath her flimsy shift, and she moved around as her mind swirled till she found a tolerable position.
Her eyes finally closed.

 
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