Page 19 of To Winter at Wildsyde

The lad stared at him, mute and anguished, until Gordy realised the fellow hadn’t the faintest idea what he’d just said. He sighed, praying for patience. “Don’t talk unless ye have to,” he ground out.

“Oh, no, sir. As you wish, sir.”

Gordy cursed and then stared about his bedroom and cursed a bit more. “What the…?”

Every stick of furniture in the place had been polished to an eye-watering shine and reupholstered. There was also a quantity of furniture he’d never seen before in his life, plus thick rugs covering the floors, tapestries on the walls and gilt framed pictures. He was relieved to see the bed was the same, though it was barely visible behind the lush swathes of heavy velvet curtains in a rich dark blue, trimmed with thick green tassels: the exact same shades as his tartan. The bed was also dressed with a woollen throw in his tartan, warm and inviting against crisp white linen, a mountain of pillows, and cushions in varying tones of green and blue.

“What happened here?” Gordy demanded in outrage. He swung around to the fireplace to where his favourite chair had been. It had been battered, the stuffing hanging out of the worn fabric, and with a rogue spring that stuck him in the arse if he didn’t sit down at a certain angle. “Where’s my chair?” he bellowed, turning on the hapless Jenkins with perhaps more fury than the situation warranted.

Jenkins blanched and took a step closer to the door. “I-It’s there, sir, he said, pointing at a comfortable, perfectly upholstered chair by the fire. “M-Mrs Anderson said that there was a spring that—”

“Argh!”

Gordy picked up the nearest thing to hand—a glass bottle—and flung it against the wall where it smashed with a satisfying crash of breaking glass on stone. Jenkins fled. The overpowering scent of… of… something filled the room and made Gordy’s eyes sting.

Damn her to hell. She’d ruined everything.

He paced back and forth, his hand gripping his sword until his knuckles turned white and muttering every foul curse he could bring to mind. A few moments later, he swung around as there was a soft knock and the door opened. His wife walked in with an anxious looking footman in tow, carrying a laden tray.

“Put it down there, please, Roberts,” she said, directing the man to a table and chair set before the window. “And have someone come and clean up that glass before my husband cuts himself. Goodness, what a stench. I confess I have always liked the scent of bay rum, and I thought it would please you, but in such quantities it’s positively noxious. Poor darling, should you prefer to retire to my room until we’ve aired it out?” She sent Gordy a blinding smile alongside the polite enquiry and he felt his temper ratchet up another notch.

“Nae,” he growled, breathing hard. “I dinnae want to retire to yer room, I want my old room back!”

The footman followed the valet’s example, scurrying from the room at speed.

“Oh, dear,” Ruth said with a sigh, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “You don’t like it?”

“I do not!” he thundered.

She nodded, looking meek and regretful, which soothed him just a little. Aye and so she should, the interfering wench.

“Forgive me. I tried so hard to have it as you’d want it and was rather proud of the results, too. I mean, I was going to use a bright yellow on the bed hangings, such a sunny colour,” she said wistfully. “But then I decided perhaps you’d not approve of it, and I wondered what you’d like best and thought your tartan….” She trailed off, stroking the thick wool covering the bed with a wan smile. “Never mind. The yellow it is, then.”

Gordy blinked. “If ye clad the bed in yellow, I’ll set fire to it,” he said through his teeth, glaring at her.

“Oh,” she said, raising her eyebrows. “Well, then. You’d best choose for yourself. What should you like best, dear heart?”

Gordy opened and closed his mouth. “I liked it fine before ye came in and meddled!” he retorted.

“Oh, dear.” She bit her lip. “There was more hole than linen in most of the sheets. I think we set them aside for cleaning rags, but if they haven’t been torn up yet I’ll fetch them up at once, if that’s what you prefer? Do you also want that woollen blanket, the one the dogs have chewed? I mean, if it has sentimental value to you, I quite understand. When I was a child, I had a little piece of worn cotton all trimmed in satin which I took everywhere….”

A nerve began ticking in Gordy’s jaw.

“Fine,” he growled, knowing well enough when he was beaten.

“What was that, sweeting? Do you want me to fetch it?”

“I do not!” he roared, pacing to the window and glaring out at the freezing landscape beyond.

A taut silence pulled across the room between them.

“Gordy.”

He stilled. Ruth’s voice was soft and coaxing, with just a trace of something that lingered between amusement and chagrin.

“Gordy, I’m sorry. I won’t tease you anymore. I can’t help feeling you rather deserved it but… Well, I really did hope you’d like the room. You did tell me I could do as I wished with the interior of the castle, but I didn’t change it to annoy you, I swear. If you’d prefer something different though, I shall see it done, I promise. Now, come and eat, love, before it gets cold. I’ll be in my room if you want to shout at me some more after that.”

He didn’t turn, staring stubbornly out of the window until the soft click of the latch told him she’d left him alone. He turned and regarded the room again, noting the trouble that had been taken with the décor with fresh eyes. As he looked harder he realised all his things were still here, just carefully arranged instead of left where they fell in haphazard piles. It was still a very masculine room, with no fripperies or frills that would have revolted him. It was welcoming and comfortable and just as he’d have liked it done himself if he’d had the slightest idea how to go about it. She’d done this for him. He’d been an utter bastard and left her alone for weeks without so much as a word or even a letter, just hours after taking her virginity, and she’d done this. Damn her. He rubbed a weary hand over his face, feeling the rasp of his beard under his palm.