The Welcoming

own temper, he removed the tray.
    “No, I’m a miserable patient.” Furiously, she tossed aside her self-control, and just as furiously tossed a paperback at his head. Fortunately for them both, her aim was off. “And I’m tired of being stuck in here as though I had some communicable disease. I have a bump on the head, damn it, not a brain tumor.”
    “I don’t think a brain tumor’s contagious.”
    “Don’t be clever with me.” Glaring at him, she folded her arms and dropped them over her chest. “I’m sick of being here, and sicker yet of being told what to do.”
    “You don’t take that well, do you? No matter how good it is for you?”
    When she was being unreasonable there was nothing she wanted to hear less than the truth. “I have an inn to run, and I can’t do it from bed.”
    “Not tonight you don’t.”
    “It’s my inn, just like it’s my body and my head.” She tossed the covers aside. Even as she started to scramble out of bed her promise weighed on her like a chain. Swinging her legs up again, she fell back against the pillows.
    Thumbs hooked in his pockets, he measured her. “Why don’t you get up?”
    “Because I promised. Now get out, damn it. Just get out and leave me alone.”
    “Fine. I’ll tell Mae and the rest that you’re feeling more like yourself. They’ve been worried about you.”
    She threw another book—harder—but had only the small satisfaction of hearing it slap against the closing door.
    The hell with him, she thought as she dropped her chin on her knees. The hell with everything.
    The hell with her, He hadn’t gone up there to pick a fight, and he didn’t have to tolerate a bad-tempered woman throwing things at him, especially when he couldn’t throw them back. Roman got halfway down the stairs, turned around and stalked back up again.
    Charity was moping when he pushed open the door. She knew it, she hated it, and she wished everyone would leave her in peace to get on with it.
    “What now?”
    “Get up.”
    Charity straightened her spine against the headboard. “Why?”
    “Get up,” Roman repeated. “Get dressed. There must be a floor to mop or a trash can to empty around here.”
    “I said I wouldn’t get up”—she set her chin—“and I won’t.”
    “You can get out of bed on your own, or I can drag you out.”
    Temper had her eyes darkening and her chin thrusting out even farther. “You wouldn’t dare.” She regretted the words even as she spoke them. She’d already decided he was a man who would dare anything.
    She was right. Roman crossed to the bed and grabbed her arm. Charity gripped one of the posts. Despite her hold, he managed to pull her up on her knees before she dug in. Before the tug-of-war could get much further she began to giggle.
    “This is stupid.” She felt her grip slipping and hooked her arm around the bedpost. “Really stupid. Roman, stop. I’m going to end up falling on my face and putting another hole in my head.”
    “You wanted to get up. So get up.”
    “No, I wanted to feel sorry for myself. And I was doing a pretty good job of it, too. Roman, you’re about to dislocate my shoulder.”
    “You’re the most stubborn, hardheaded, unreasonable woman I’ve ever met,” he said. But he released her.
    “I have to go along with the first two, but I’m not usually unreasonable.” Offering him a smile, she folded her legs Indian-style. The storm was over. At least hers was, she thought. She recognized the anger that was still darkening his eyes. She let out a long sigh. “I guess you could say I was having a really terrific pity party for myself when you came in. I’m sorry I took it out on you.”
    “I don’t need an apology.”
    “Yes, you do.” She would have offered him a hand, but he didn’t look ready to sign any peace treaties. “I’m not used to being cut off from what’s going on. I’m hardly ever sick, so I haven’t had much practice in taking it like a good little soldier.” She idly pleated the sheet between her fingers as she slanted a look at him. “I really am sorry, Roman. Are you going to stay mad at me?”
    “That might be the best solution.” Anger had nothing to do with what he was feeling at the moment. She looked so appealing with that half smile on her face, her hair tousled, the nightshirt buttoned to her chin and skimming her thighs.
    “Want to slug me?”
    “Maybe.” It was hopeless. He smiled and sat down beside her. He balled his hand into a fist and