Page 21 of To Winter at Wildsyde

Chapter 10

Dear Papa,

Dear Matilda,

Dear

Whatever am I to say to them? What manner of madness has possessed me? I feel I am two entirely different people contained in the same body.

I think I may run mad…

― Excerpt of a letter from Mrs Ruth Anderson, never completed.

27th November 1814. Wildsyde Castle, Scotland.

Ruth’s breath caught as her husband’s arms went around her and he hauled her close. His mouth came down upon hers before she could steady herself and she clutched at his shirt as the world reeled. Relief surged through her, his lips chasing away the past weeks of misery faster than any words of apology or explanation ever could. She had learned enough about Gordy to know the giving of soft words was not in his nature, if he even knew any. His lips were soft, though, and despite the urgency of his kiss he was tender, the warmth of his large hands stroking down her back sending shivers racing over her skin.

She wrapped her arms about his neck and pressed closer, heat and need surging through her. Somehow, she could not get close enough to him and raised one leg, hooking it around his hip. He made a sound, somewhere between laughter and a groan and dropped his hands to her behind, lifting her with ease. It was one of the most marvellous things about him, she reflected. His strength and size were such that she did not feel so big and cumbersome as she did with other men. When she’d tried to imagine being intimate with some of the men who’d attempted to court her—lured by her fortune, of course—she’d felt a surge of humiliation, knowing she was taller and likely heavier too. With Gordy, she felt perfectly at ease in her own skin, almost fragile against his huge frame.

Her sex pressed against his arousal as she wrapped her legs about his hips and he groaned, pulling her tighter still.

“Ah, lass, I’ve thought of this every night since I’ve been gone.”

“You have?” she said, hardly daring to believe him.

He drew back and looked at her, the whisky colour of his eyes glinting amber and bronze, dark with desire. “Aye, against my will and in the face of enough drink to fell ten men.”

Ruth felt her lips curve into a smile and he snorted. “Ach, dinnae look so smug,” he warned her. “Now ye mun pay for tormenting me so, mo leannan.”

Despite the look in his eyes Ruth’s smile only widened, and she sighed happily, pressing kisses over his face. “Oh, yes, Gordy,” she said, sinking her fingers into his hair and pulling a little. “Make me pay.”

Her husband cursed, though she assumed it was Gaelic for she could not understand the words, but the tone was easy to interpret. Not that she cared as he dropped her on bed, tugging her towards him as he yanked the heavy folds of his kilt out of the way. Before she could prepare herself, he thrust inside her and Ruth saw stars. She threw her head back and gave a hoarse cry, clutching at his powerful arms as he braced them on either side of her. The huge bed jolted as he pounded into her, making raw, savage noises that only made her wilder still.

Gordy snatched at the nightshirt, tugging it up to expose her breasts. One large hand, cupped and squeezed and fondled until he lowered his head and sucked. Ruth could not stop the shriek that escaped her as sensation blazed through her. She sank her hands into his hair once more, holding on tight, holding him in place until she couldn’t stand not to kiss him and dragged his mouth up to hers.

“Neach-gaoil, mo leannan, mo chridhe.”

Ruth barely heard the words and certainly didn’t understand them as he spoke them against her mouth, her skin, but they were ardent and tender and that was enough.

“Oh, Ruth, oh, Christ….”

That, to her ear, was more eloquent as he moved harder and faster. She laughed, unable to contain her joy, tugging his shirt free to slide her hands up his back. The need to have her hands on his skin was like a drug, and she sighed as her palms glided up his broad back, the play and shift of powerful muscles beneath her touch so exquisite she never wanted to let go.

“Gordy,” she cried as her body tightened, chasing that illusive pinnacle, almost in reach. “Please, please…” she begged, incoherent though he understood at once. He reached between them and touched her and the world became blinding. Ruth closed her eyes and clung to him, powerless in the grip of the climax that shook her body. She moaned and trembled, holding onto him as though she feared to let go.

“Ruth….”

Her name was a choked sound and then the big body she clung to shuddered helplessly over and over as he spilled himself inside her.

For a moment, there was only the sound of their breathing, harsh and ragged in the aftermath of their passion. Gordy drew in a deep breath and let it out again, slow and uneven, the cool flow of air fluttering across her overheated skin, making her shiver. He pulled away from her and she gasped at the loss of him.

Uncertain now, she watched as he moved away and cleaned himself up before pouring fresh water for her and bringing her a damp cloth.

“Thank you,” she said, her cheeks blazing as she tugged her nightgown back down. He turned his back to give her privacy as she attended to herself and, when she looked up, he was staring out of the window. Suddenly, the distance that had vanished when they made love yawned like an unbridgeable canyon.

“I cannae give ye what ye want from me.”

The words were not unkind, but they were not gentle either. Not that they surprised her.