Page 20 of To Winter at Wildsyde

There was another knock and Roberts returned, sending him an anxious glance from the doorway.

“Mrs Anderson said to—”

“Aye, get on with it,” he muttered. Anything to get rid of the stench of bay rum or whatever the hell she’d said it was.

Roberts performed his clean up with speed and efficiency, and retreated with obvious relief. Gordy moved to the tray by the window and lifted the cover, the waft of gravy making his stomach growl as he regarded the loaded plate before him. Slightly mollified, he unbuckled his sword, flinging it on the bed, and sat down to eat.

An hour later, bathed and expertly shaved by Jenkins—despite the worrisome way the man’s hand had trembled on the razor—and Gordy was feeling a mite more civilised, and rather abashed at his outburst. Nonetheless he did not approve of having his home overrun with staff. Sassenachs, every last one of them. It was clear he needed to have a few words with his wife about what was and was not acceptable.

He decided to be magnanimous and forgive her for what she’d done to his room—he’d rather die than apologise, and so she could think herself lucky—but it was high time he set her straight on what he’d allow, and there was no time like the present. He strode into her bedroom after a perfunctory knock and then froze.

She was wearing the indecent nightgown again.

For a moment, the words he required skittered just out of his grasp, slipping away like greased pigs before he could grab them. “It’s two o’clock in the afternoon,” he managed finally, trying with all his might to drag his eyes from the shadowy curve of her splendid breasts, and trying harder still not to remember how it had felt to have his hands on them.

She gave him a sheepish smile. “I know, but you’ve been away such a long time, Gordy. I missed you.” Her voice became low and sultry towards the end of that pronouncement and the implication sent a bolt of lust directly to his loins with the force of a lightning strike.

Gordy groped around in what remained of his brain, searching for the reason he’d been so determined to have words with her. What had made him so furious? His gaze fixed on the place where her nipples pushed against the fine fabric of the nightgown and his thoughts grew increasingly hazy as his mouth watered and his cock twitched. The staff. The staff, damn his eyes. Focus, man.

“My castle is overrun with English. I feel like I’m being invaded.” The words were belligerent and sulky, but it was damned hard to concentrate when his body was screaming at him to avail himself of what was on offer forthwith.

“But they work for you,” she said, giving him a soft smile and then shrugging. “Besides, I’d have been lucky to be fed let alone accomplish anything if Mrs MacLeod and the others had their way.” She turned away from him, tracing her hand over the floral pattern on the chair beside her. “They don’t want me here any more than you do.”

His chest tightened at the words. There wasn’t an ounce of reproach in them, just a melancholy note, which was far more devastating.

“I tried to win them over,” she admitted, glancing back at him with a rueful smile. “But I’d forgotten how hard it was. Harder still when you are all alone with no family or friends to complain to. I don’t think I’ve been at my best with them.” She frowned, looking like she was berating herself internally. “I’ve been too distracted.”

Gordy watched her turn away, and considered how it must have been for her to wake up and find him gone, to be alone and far from everyone she knew and loved. He’d shamed her before his people, and for what—to make a point? It wasn’t her who ought to be ashamed, and he knew it.

The words burned on his tongue, but he couldn’t say them. He only watched her, noticed the rigid set of her shoulders and wondered what it had cost her not to rail at him and only tease him to death instead. She’d not even kept that up for long either, before she’d put her pride to one side and tried again to please him.

Damn her, this wasn’t what he wanted. Couldn’t she see what kind of man he was? He’d not bend, not submit to her will. He could not. She’d chosen badly, stubborn lass that she was. She ought to have listened to her friends, to Bonnie most of all. Bonnie knew what he was and what Ruth was condemning herself to.

Too late, he realised he’d just been glowering at her in silence. Her shoulders slumped and, when she spoke again, her voice was weary.

“I’ll get dressed and see you downstairs, if you prefer.”

“Why would ye think I’d prefer that?” he asked in confusion.

There was a delicate little snort of derision. “Well, there’s clearly nothing of interest to make you want to stay here.”

The soft, almost wistful note to the words damn near broke his heart and, as much as he knew it was in his interests she believed that was true, he couldn’t be that unfeeling.

“Ach, ye wee fool. Ye cannae believe that, surely? Not after—”

“After leaving me alone in my bed without a word, over three weeks ago?”

It was the first glimmer of reproach she’d shown him and he knew he deserved far worse.

“Aye, but ye must know it wisnae because… because I dinnae want ye in my bed.”

She turned back to him then, her expression unreadable. “No, only because you don’t want me in your life or your castle.”

Gordy sighed. “Hell, lass, ye knew what ye was gettin’ into, did ye nae?”

She nodded. “I did, but I wanted you so badly nothing else seemed to matter.”

Holy God. The words lit a fire under his skin and he closed the distance between them, spun her around and hauled her into his arms.