Page 53 of To Winter at Wildsyde

“Well, ’tis true, and nae wonder after a shock like that.”

Ruth gestured for Sheenagh to return to her room with her and then hesitated. Casting a quick glance around the kitchen to discover everyone was still occupied, she snagged the whisky and scuttled out with it hidden in the folds of her skirts.

Happily Sheenagh didn’t notice as she kept ahead of her all the way back up the stairs, or if she did, she was wise enough to keep her mouth shut. Ruth set the whisky on her dressing table like some oversized perfume bottle and allowed Sheenagh to fuss about. Once her bath was prepared to Sheenagh’s satisfaction, she left her alone. Ruth stared down into the steaming, scented water and undid the ties of her dressing gown. Then she glanced at the whisky bottle.

Whenever men were blue-devilled they tended to get wildly inebriated. Well, her husband did not have the monopoly on ridiculous behaviour, she thought with a burst of irritation. If she wanted to misbehave and get roaring drunk, that was her affair. It seemed, in that moment, a vastly appealing idea, and it wasn’t as if Gordy would give a damn. That lowering thought was enough to seal her fate. She grabbed the bottle and sank down into the hot water with an unladylike splash. It occurred to her then she’d left the glass down in the kitchen, but she was damned if a little thing like not having a glass would thwart her plans. Tugging the cork from the bottle with her teeth she spat it over the side of the bath, upended the bottle and took a large swig.

Mistake. Her eyes watered and her throat burned as she coughed and spluttered, fighting for breath. It took a good few minutes for the burning, choking, dying sensation to abate, but then the burn became a nice little glow and a pleasantly numb buzz eased through her brain. A little more cautious after that, she only took ladylike sips. Frequent ladylike sips. She decided she rather liked whisky.

Chapter 20

Dear Mr de Beauvoir,

I promised myself I would not write again, but it seems I have no self-control where you are concerned. Why did you not reply to my last letter? Do you have any idea how dull it is, always waiting for a reply that never comes?

I have been to balls and dinners and rout parties and made endless social calls and I am bored to tears. I wore the most glorious yellow gown the other night and everyone told me I looked very lovely, and I didn’t care a bit for you were not there. Their compliments mean nothing to me. I would rather hear you reprimand my wickedness for kissing you than endure another poem dedicated to my eyes. Won’t you at least reply and tell me what a wretched nuisance I am?

― Excerpt of a letter from Miss Minerva Butler to Mr Inigo de Beauvoir.

20th December 1814. Wildsyde Castle, Scotland.

Gordy shifted on the bale of hay he was sitting on, trying to dislodge whatever it was which was poking him in the arse. Mr Clugston sat beside him, equally morose.

“Gie me that,” Gordy muttered, snatching the whisky bottle from Clugston’s hand. He took a large swallow and wiped his mouth before handing it back again.

“Ye dinnae know what ye have got, Gordy, lad,” Mr Clugston said, shaking his head. “She’s the kind of woman ye dinnae find twice in a lifetime.”

Gordy glowered at him. Clugston had been hogging the bottle and had downed a deal more of it than Gordy.

“Ye think I don’t know that?” Gordy muttered, irritated.

He’d been astonished when his wife had run from the castle, dark eyes flashing fire, ready to do battle with two armed men. His stomach lurched as he considered what might have happened if they’d not noticed her, too wrapped up in their own fight to hold back in time. He pushed that thought away before it could disturb him further. Gordy looked back at Clugston, who had upended the whisky bottle, his throat working steadily.

“Ye are gonna regret that tomorrow,” Gordy observed.

“I regret today in its entirety,” Clugston said gloomily.

Gordy sighed. “Aye, well… I… I may have said some things I didnae mean.” He frowned as his companion snorted and favoured him with a narrow eyed glare.

“Ye are a fool.”

“I think ye mentioned that already.” He snatched the bottle back.

“I am nae trying to steal yer wife from ye, ye damn eejit. I couldnae if I wanted to for she is in love with ye—though God alone knows why,” Clugston added in disgust.

Gordy returned an equally dark look. “She isnae in love with me,” he muttered, striving to ignore the hollow ache the truth opened up in his heart. “What would she see in me?”

“Damned if I know,” Clugston replied, his voice increasingly thick. “If I was ye, I’d ask her.”

He belched, and the sour stench of whisky bloomed between them. Gordy grimaced and handed the fellow the bottle back. He considered asking Ruth and rejected it. He didn’t want to talk with her. Talking with Ruth always ended up with… with feelings, too many of the bloody things, making his chest all tight and squirmy. It was like that hot, uncomfortable feeling he’d had when he was a boy and he knew his father would tan his hide, for no other reason than he existed and the fact made the man furious.

He wondered what the chances were of being allowed in her bed after today’s behaviour. Not that she’d ever denied him his rights yet, and he’d been pretty bloody awful to her before now. The hot, squirmy sensation settled in his chest once more and he resented it. Irritated, he got to his feet. If he wanted to take his wife to bed, that was his right, was it not? Besides which, she liked it well enough, likely she’d missed him these last nights. He considered that appealing idea, wondering if she’d thought of him, if she’d longed for him to come to her as badly as he’d wanted to go.

Damn it.

“Tell her ye luff her.”

Gordy rolled his eyes and did not dignify the slurred suggestion with an answer but strode away from an increasingly inebriated Clugston and back to the castle. Feeling brutish and belligerent, he didn’t go to his room first to wash and make himself presentable, but headed straight to Ruth’s bedroom. He gave a perfunctory knock and walked in, closing the door behind him and then spent a full minute wondering why he couldn’t come through the damn door without having the breath knocked out of him.