Page 10 of To Winter at Wildsyde

There was a sly, mocking tone to the question which Ruth ignored. Instead she pressed her mouth to his for a moment longer and then got to her feet with as much elegance as she could manage, which wasn’t a great deal as her knees seemed to be malfunctioning and threatened to give out. Still, she forced her head up and returned a cool smile.

“It seems a pity to waste the whole afternoon waiting,” she said, wondering how she dared, and praying he’d believe the flush in her cheeks was merely the sting of the icy air upon her skin. “But if you need time to prepare yourself for bedding me, I shan’t object, o light of my life. I know this is all very sudden and you must be nervous about it. Come when you’ve gathered courage enough.”

She gave his head a reassuring pat, like she might a small boy, which in the circumstances was akin to patting a snarling tiger as he looked ready to do murder. Good, she thought, climbing out of the carriage with a surge of satisfaction.

Ignore me now, you pig-headed numbskull.

***

Gordy watched his wife exit the carriage and enter the castle with a sweep of rustling skirts, carrying herself like a bloody empress, never mind the laird of some misbegotten castle at the arse end of nowhere.

“Hell slap it intae ye, ye damned fool,” he growled, breathing hard. “What the devil did ye expect, marrying an English wench of her kind?” Not that he knew what her kind was, nor what he’d got, he had to admit. The wretched creature kept wrong-footing him and setting him off balance. She had surprised him on the journey here and had damn near stolen his breath today. It had been beyond tempting to take what was his on the journey back to the castle, but he’d refused to allow it. He didn’t want to touch her, let alone kiss her, in case she got the fool idea he needed or wanted her. He’d bed her all right, but there was no point in letting her think there was anything resembling affection involved. It appeared she’d gotten the message, loud and clear, and sent one of her own.

She wasn’t having it.

“Adorable mooncalf,” he muttered, cursing obscenities as he climbed down from the carriage.

Aye, she’d like that no doubt, to have him running at her heels like one of his dogs, begging for any scrap of affection she cared to give him when she had a mind to be generous. Over his dead, mouldering corpse.

“Come when you’ve gathered courage enough,” he repeated, copying her English accent and feeling the need to hit something.

Hell and the devil, she’d pay for that.

Gordy stalked to his study as his dogs appeared to greet him and ran ahead. Once inside he slammed the door behind him, moving to the desk and leaning on it, taking a deep breath and letting it out in a slow exhale. He needed to get a grip on his temper. He acted without thinking once his blood was up, and he couldn’t afford that. This lass was a canny one, more than he’d bargained for. He’d assumed it would be an easy thing to send her running back to civilisation, he’d assumed he’d have to leap out of the way or be knocked down in the rush once she saw the reality of life with him at Wildsyde. It troubled him to realise he wasn’t so sure any longer. He’d caught a glimmer of steel in those soft brown eyes more than once now, and knew he’d underestimated her.

Well, she’d done more than a little of that herself. Let her simmer then. Tonight, she’d pay for that little performance and he would enjoy every minute of it. He’d have her on her knees, begging for him, and once he was done, he’d tell her a few hard truths about how things would be. He grunted, pleased by the idea, until he remembered those too short moments in the carriage and unease coiled a sinuous path down his spine.

She’d demanded a kiss, and he’d leapt to obey her. No, damn it. Not to obey her, to teach her a lesson. He’d been desperate to kiss her, but not with the tender little peck on the mouth she’d no doubt been hoping for. It had been hot and hard and urgent, his hands on her deliberately rough, and he’d expected her to shriek and slap him. He’d been wrong about that, too. The moment he’d touched her it had been like throwing whisky on hot coals, the rush of heat consuming them both in an instantaneous flare of desire. A moan caught in his throat as he remembered the soft curves under his hands, the generous proportions of a real woman, not some little slip of a female he’d fear crushing if he didn’t handle her with kid gloves. Miss Stone was built for a man like him and, God help him, but it wasn’t only her who’d be simmering all the long afternoon.

Suddenly he wondered why the hell he’d pretended he had better things to do than bed her. Who had he been trying to torture, exactly? At this moment the only one suffering appeared to be him. His body ached, his skin itched with anticipation and frustration, and his blood burned. Damn him to hell, and damn her too.

***

The afternoon was interminable, just as her wretched husband had no doubt intended. Still, Ruth occupied herself as best she could. The first carriages containing her clothes and belongings had arrived at midday, and the wide-eyed staff had muttered and cursed at the endless supply of trunks and chests that filled every available space in the entrance hall. There was more to come. Ruth had been well prepared by her father on the off-chance she’d manage to snare a duke. Everything from china to heavy rugs and chests of fine linen had been provided as part of her trousseau. As everything was intricately itemised and listed in her usual meticulous fashion, it was not so very difficult to find the items she required to prepare her room.

Her room, next to the laird’s, not the guest room she’d stayed in last night. Before she’d left that morning, she’d given instructions for the room to be cleaned and aired and the chimney swept before the fire was laid. On her return, she had Sheenagh and Flora help her put the new linen on the bed, lay rugs, hang pictures, and arrange her own belongings.

Once everything had been arranged to her satisfaction, Ruth ordered a bath prepared and soaked for a long time with the expensive perfumed oils she’d bought to indulge herself with on her wedding night. She remembered that shopping trip, laughing with Bonnie and Minerva, who’d teased her and made her blush. At the time, she’d doubted she’d ever get to use any of the frivolous items she’d bought that day, but it had been fun to giggle with her friends and act as though such a thing was an inevitable part of her future. It had been Bonnie who had talked her into the nightdress too, devil that she was.

Now, sitting at her dressing table and brushing out her thick, dark hair, Ruth eyed it doubtfully. It was the sort of thing a beautiful woman would wear, one who was confident in her ability to make a man want her. Would her husband laugh at her if she wore such a blatant item of clothing? Perhaps he’d taunt her for trying too hard. The words, silk purse and sow’s ear sounded in her ears with an unpleasant ring of truth.

He kissed you, she reminded herself with a surge of defiance, remembering the wild growl of pleasure that had shivered over her when she’d pressed closer to him. She had no illusions about her beauty, but he was a man and, according to her aunt, men had needs that ought to be met. This was just one of those needs, like a snug bed or a hot meal. She couldn’t expect him to fall madly in love with her, but perhaps if she showed him she could make his life more comfortable, he would give a little and allow her a part in it. Ruth spared a moment to send a silent thank you to her aunt and her blunt but oddly reassuring last-minute description of what to expect on her wedding night. Just as well, as Ruth’s mother had mumbled something about doing her duty and then burst into tears, which was not terribly helpful.

“Oh, what have you got to lose?” she murmured, before snatching up the sheer fabric of the nightgown and putting it on. A panicky snort of laughter escaped her as she considered just what she did have to lose tonight, and she hunted out the small flask of brandy she’d stolen from her father before she’d left home. She took several large mouthfuls, coughing and spluttering as the alcohol burned the back of her throat. Gasping, she held onto the bedpost until she could breathe normally again, and then regarded the flask with a smile as a little puddle of warmth glowed in her belly and eased into her blood.

She may as well make herself comfortable, she supposed. No doubt her bloody-minded husband would make her wait until midnight before he deigned to show his face. With that in mind, she climbed onto the enormous bed, arranged the copious pillows to her liking and lay back with a sigh, taking sips at the brandy and concentrating on not thinking about the coming night. If she thought about it, she’d be a quivering mass of nerves, and she refused to be any such thing before Gordon bloody Anderson. She smirked as she remembered how often Bonnie had referred to him in such a way, and all the things she’d said about him.

“He eats small children for breakfast, smells like a pig pen, and has as much personal appeal as a bout of typhoid,” Ruth repeated to herself aloud and then gave a bark of laughter before clapping her hand over her mouth, as it had been rather noisier than she’d expected.

With a sigh of regret, she put the stopper back on the flask and dropped it into the nightstand drawer. It probably wouldn’t be wise to be foxed on her wedding night. Understandable, but not wise.

The room was warm now, the huge fire she’d ordered built in the hearth finally chasing the last of the chill away. The thick curtains were heavy enough to stop the draught from the windows and a combination of brandy, warmth, and an excess of nerves over the past days conspired to make her feel sleepy. Ruth sighed and stretched, flinging one arm up over her head and turning her face into the downy pillow. It was probably a good idea to take a little nap now, while she had the chance. After all, it was barely eight o’clock and good old Gordy probably hadn’t even had his dinner yet. She hadn’t bothered to join him, knowing he’d not want her there, and wanting to save her energy. Besides, she was far too anxious to eat.

Drowsily, she wondered if the blasted man would keep her waiting until the early hours of the morning, and let herself sink into sleep.

Chapter 6

My dear Aunt Ethel,