Page 56 of To Winter at Wildsyde

Ye are more than I deserve, more than any man deserves.

As she couldn’t remember anything much after getting in the bath, she turned the words doubtfully in her mind. Had he been there? Had he said that? She considered the possibility and told herself she was a fool as she looked at him now, at the chasm between them that illustrated just how little he wished to allow her to get close to him. No doubt it was some whisky-fuelled dream.

“You wanted to see me?”

He nodded, staring at her and, for a moment, she thought she saw regret in his eyes, but then his jaw tightened and his expression hardened. “I wanted to know if ye would be well enough to travel tomorrow?”

“Travel?” she repeated, perplexed, though a tiny sliver of ice had pierced her heart, the cold spreading out as she considered what he might be planning.

“I know about the baby, Ruth. Our bargain is at an end. It’s time ye went home.”

Ruth stared at him, unsure of which error to correct first. “This is my home,” she shot back, as that seemed to be the most relevant.

“Nae, lass. This is my home, and ye are here only if I wish it. Ye have served yer purpose.”

Pain ripped through her at the cruelty of those words. “There is no baby,” she said, the words spoken quietly as she tried to keep her emotions in check. She would not cry.

“I’ll have Sheenagh pack yer things. She may go with ye if she chooses and ye wish it.”

“Gordy. I’m not pregnant,” she said again, her heart beating too fast. She felt sick and giddy. “Truly.”

“If there are things ye want sent on after, ye can write and tell me so, I’ll see to it.”

Ruth swallowed, feeling as though she was stuck in some dreadful dream. He was going to send her away, no matter what she said. He simply wouldn’t listen to her, would not hear the truth of this one simple fact.

“Gordy, please,” she said, her voice breaking. “I swear to you, I’m not with child.”

A look of impatient irritation flickered in his eyes. “Dinnae lie to me, Ruth. Ye told me yerself….”

Ruth frowned at that, how could he possibly… but the accusation of having lied about such a thing broke through any rational thought. Perhaps she might have delayed telling him the truth, but she would never have lied about the existence of a child if he’d asked. A strange, furious calm settled over her and she opened the door to the study.

“Out.”

She gestured to the dogs, who looked at her, then their master, and then hurried out of the door, one after the other, tails between their legs. Garrick appeared in the hall, watching the dogs and looking to her.

“Garrick,” she said. “Do not come in this room. No matter what.”

She closed the door on him, ignoring Gordy’s frown of confusion. He had to listen to her, and one way or another she was going to get his attention. If he wouldn’t have a conversation, wouldn’t listen to what she said, she’d have to shock him into it. Her heart was beating in her ears as she walked to the mantel, lifted the vulgar ormolu clock she loathed with a passion and smashed it to the floor. The spectacular crash illustrated her current frame of mind quite nicely.

Gordy jolted as the clock hit the floor and took a step back.

Ruth looked about the room, her eyes falling on a plaster bust of Robbie Burns. Perfect. With deceptive calm, she took it down off the bookshelf and let it drop to the floor. It exploded in a crash of white splinters, leaving a starburst pattern of white powder on the flagstones and dusting the hem of her dress.

“Ruth….” Gordy said, wide-eyed with shock and holding out one hand, his tone cautious. “Ruth, can we nae talk about this like civilised people?”

Her eyes settled on a glass decanter of whisky.

“Ach, no ye don’t!” Before she could get to it, Gordy had snatched it up, cradling it protectively against his chest. “Ruth, this is madness! D’ye not think ye ought to calm down. ’Tis nae good for the bairn,” he urged, sounding so damn reasonable she wanted to scream.

“Madness, is it?” she said, torn between tears and outright hysteria. “Good heavens if it is, you drove me to it. Why will you not listen to me?”

He’d put down the whisky decanter and was standing in the middle of the room, hands outstretched as if he was approaching a skittish horse. “All right, let’s talk about it,” he said, looking at her with concern in his eyes. Perhaps he really would have her committed. She’d given him reason enough now, no doubt.

“Talk? she said, holding on to what little remained of her composure and determined not to cry. “Very well. I shall talk, and this time, you shall listen. I am not having a baby, Gordy I was mistaken. My monthly courses began this morning. I’m sure Sheenagh can provide satisfactory evidence of the fact, if my word is not enough for you.”

He frowned, obviously perplexed.

“But last night…” he began, and all in a rush the memories came back to her.