To Tempt a Scotsman (32 page)
Looking away to fight that very temptation, she turned to the window, wide open to the cold night air. Her skin burned even in the cool of a hard frost, just as her eyes burned, dry and rough with the need for tears that would not come.
She was aware of his every move across from her—his gradual shift from anger to resignation, body easing back to slump against the seat; the occasional shift of his knee too close to hers. For some reason she did not want him to see her move, did not want to reveal even a breath to him. She was a statue, cool and rigid and utterly immune to his wild insults. She needed him to look at her and see nothing close to vulnerability.
Fighting even the rocking of the carriage, she thought her neck might snap at the next rut in the road. And perhaps that would be best for all involved, particularly her. What a mess she'd made of so many lives. This was what came of trying to do the right thing for once. At least when she did the wrong thing, she could expect the worst outcome, anticipate it and brace herself. But this . . .
Minutes passed. Then miles. The cold seeped into her as they rolled on, furthering her fantasy that she was made of stone. Smooth and hard and lovely, her skin froze in the caress of the bitter wind, and she hardened her mind as well, sculpted it until all her thoughts focused on the fascinating clouds of her breath escaping into frost.
Collin snapped the window shut with a crack and a curse and ruined that for her too. He leaned forward to rummage beneath his seat for a blanket, but the carriage was already tilting right, taking the hard turn that led toward home, no more than three minutes . . . maybe four in the pitch black of the moonless night.
Weight pressed her knee, drawing her eyes from their distance to see his hand on her leg. "We can't stay silent forever, Alex. Can we not discuss this?"
She stared at this hand, so wide and strong. So warm and deceptively gentle. She stared until he removed it from her person to clench it against his thigh.
A hot stove flared to life in her gut. She felt like herself again, like the self she'd hidden from him and his suspicions. Oh, and she had tried so hard to bury her hard-to-love boldness beneath layers of pleasantness, obedience. For him.
His hand rose again, hovering over her knee.
"Don't touch me." A sharp stop bounced her back against the seat. They were home. His home. "And find another bed tonight. I do not wish to sleep near you."
"Damn it—"
"Shut up." She darted out the door when it swung open, dragging her beautiful silver skirts against the carriage frame with not the least twinge of regret. She landed in a scrambling heap and pushed past the stunned groom to stomp her way up the stairs and into the gloom of West-more.
"Send a glass of wine to my chamber," she growled at a sleepy maid and stalked toward her room. Perhaps he would sleep with Rebecca tonight. Perhaps this would be just the excuse he needed to fall between that bitch's thighs. And Lord help her if she dared to bring Alex's wine herself. She'd finally get the slap that she'd been begging for these past weeks.
Oh, things had gotten worse on that front, as if the housekeeper knew of the failed attempt to push her out. Now she didn't even feign deference. She spoke to the other servants in Gaelic even when Alex was in the room. She smirked at her when they were alone.
Oh, yes, Alex hoped she would be the one to bring her wine. She would find a new Mrs. Blackburn awaiting her sneering face. Alex's palm itched at the thought but, in the end, Danielle pushed through the door, glass in one hand and decanter in the other. She clicked the bedroom door closed with a jut of one hip.
"How was your evening, Madame?"
"Tiring."
"We keep farmer's hours now," her maid replied with a huff. The woman must have something against farmers, Alex thought as she turned her back to offer the tapes of her gown.
Danielle undressed her in tugs and touches punctuated by smothered yawns. She was too tired to chatter tonight, thank God, as Alex couldn't think well enough to reply to even the most inane conversation, and she certainly wanted nothing to do with pointed questions. When she felt the strong bands of the corset loose their hold, she pulled in a great rush of air and let it out with a shudder. The new ease in her chest seemed to free up a pain deep inside her.
"I'll sleep late tomorrow, Danielle. No need to rise until I call you."
Once alone, she found that the ancient latch slipped easily into place, locked for the first time in God-knew-how-long. Not for the last time though, not if she stayed in his home.
She did not cry as she slipped into bed. She did not cry one tear for him.
Chapter 20
A bright, cheerful sound floated to her ears, scraping her sleep away before she was ready. Again—a musical pinging, steady as a tolling bell. Horseshoes . . . Adam was forging shoes again. Clang, clang, clang. Those shutters kept nothing out.
Alex opened her eyes to the knowledge that her heart was broken. Sleep had dulled neither the pain nor the memory of its cause. Indeed, it had brought a new facet to its brilliant hurt. St. Claire's letter.
She no longer felt guilty at keeping it secret. Indeed, it had been a wiser deception than she could have guessed. Tales of your talented lips. She'd only thought of kissing and the dozen or so men she'd pressed her lips to.
Yes, she'd kissed Damien and even his best friend a time or two, and had thought herself well and truly scandalous. And how naughty she'd been to let Damien touch her in private places and how wicked to touch him as well, to let him press himself into her open hand, to enjoy the little whips of pleasure that touched her at her daring.
Three times she'd snuck off to let Damien teach her what it meant to touch and be touched. Three times she'd let him pull her into a secluded room and push up her skirts, let him spend himself into her hand.
She had thought these things too forbidden to reveal to her jealous husband, and so she hadn't told him. But, oh, she'd had no idea the scenarios he would weave if left to his own devices. That he would think her capable of debasing herself to such lengths. She hadn't understood, but St. Claire had. Sad to think a murderer knew her husband so well. Perhaps they were all the same. All of them.
Alex pushed her aching body from bed and padded to the window to push aside the drapes and throw back the shutters.
The world moved on below her, people rushing to and fro. Horses ran in the paddock, heads thrown back to savor the bright cold of the day. A fine winter morning and no one the worse for her pain.
These people, these diligent, dedicated people . . . None of them needed her and half didn't even want her here. She had done something wrong or lacked something they expected from her. Just respect, perhaps, just the respect of their lord and leader. And the house servants followed the lead of Rebecca.
These people had jobs and families and why should they make room for a woman who could not even engender the respect of her husband?
She wanted to go home. To her home. She didn't belong here and she never would. She didn't even belong in her husband's bed.
"Bastard," she whispered. "Bastard." The fist that clenched her heart released, and the fingers that spread open inside her were tipped by claws. "You bastard." Her words were lost on a sob, a cry that had waited to escape all night.
Pain wracked her body, grief rode her soul. Her legs tried to curl up, tried to force her to the floor, but she fought it—fought it like she wanted to fight Collin. And she won. She suppressed the instinct to collapse. She forced her shoulders up and stalked to the door to throw it open and glare down the hallway to the swaying back of a girl with a broom.
"Send my maid," she bit out. "Now." Oh, the servants would be whispering today, enjoying the novelty of outrage at her high-handed behavior. It was her parting gift to them, the joy of justifying their dislike.
Alex turned the glare back to her room. Was there even one thing here that she needed? Warm clothes. Coins for food and shelter. What else? Nothing.
"Madame," Danielle panted from behind her. "What is wrong?"
Alex spun, reaching past her maid's shoulder to slam the door. Danielle gasped, alarmed by the noise and no doubt by her mistress's face. Oh, she'd caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror—sunken, wild eyes and pale lips framed by tangled curls.
"My lady, what is it!"
"I am leaving, but I need you to stay, Danielle. Can you do that for me?"
"Stay? What do you mean?"
"My husband . . . My husband has accused me of being a whore for the last time, do you understand?"
"Oui." She paled, stepped away. "Oui, of course, Mademoiselle . . . Madame."
"I am leaving. This morning. What time is it?"
"Nine."
"Nine, yes." Good. Dinner in three hours and he wouldn't come home for that, despite that he was only yards away. No, he wouldn't return till dark and she'd be miles gone even if he did notice her absence.
"I'll need breakfast first. A lot of it and extra napkins. Then . . . Then I'll pack just a satchel. Can you take it for me, hide it outside the gate? I don't want the groom asking questions."
"Oui. I'll go get the food, shall I?"
"Yes. And I will send for you as soon as I'm home, you understand? I can't take you with, you hate horses." Her voice broke on the last word and tears spilled over her cheeks.
Danielle cried out and tried to reach for her, but Alex pushed her hands back. "No, none of that. Get the food. I'll pack."
Her hands shook, but not one more tear fell.
Wool stockings. Wool scarf. Money. One of the plain dresses she'd worn for that long-ago tryst. An extra pair of gloves. What else? What else? There was room for the food and more, but she couldn't think. She stuffed in a candle, wondered how she'd light it. No matter. She would find an inn before nightfall.
Her knife. She pulled it from its hiding place under the bed and started to stuff it into the bag, then thought of St. Claire. He hated her now, and he had killed before. Alex eased the knife from the bag and stared at it. If he was watching the keep, if he followed her. . . Well, she'd do the best she could to draw his blood.
She set the blade on the dresser. She'd hide it in her boot once she'd dressed.
She couldn't think of anything else and her fingers twitched to do something, so she stripped off her nightdress and pulled on thick stockings, pantalettes quilted for warmth, a chemisette and a linen shift. She pulled out her boots, then spun around to yank another pair of stockings from the drawer. Layers. She laid her winter riding habit on the bed. Her fur-lined cloak and gloves. Another scarf.
A blanket? She rolled one as tight as she could and stuffed it into the bag. There, it was full. She could wedge a piece of bread in though. Some cheese and ham.
Danielle burst through the door, face blank with distress above the tray of piled food. Her eyes darted around, taking in the clothes draped across the bedspread, the bulging satchel.
Alex began sorting through the food before Danielle had even managed to maneuver it to the table. Salt stung the inside of her lip as she stuffed a piece of bacon into her mouth. A cut, she realized dimly. She must have bitten a hole through it sometime, trying not to cry. She didn't have that problem now. Her eyes were now dry as sand, barren as death. She wrapped food and chewed mindlessly.
"What. . . Where will you go?"
"Home."
"But. . . Take a carriage, Madame, please."
"No. I'm going now before he realizes. He would try to keep me here, try to do the honorable thing and apologize. I don't want his honor, his bastard replacement for love. I don't care to hear another apology."
"It is not safe—"
"Safer than staying here! He's likely to murder me some night when my eye falls too fondly on one of the grooms."
"But you're not. . . How will you find your way?"
"I remember the way. There's that town a day's ride from here, where we stayed the night."
As she stuffed the last of the roadworthy food away, her eye caught on Danielle's starkly drawn face. Her eyes were bright with a fear that Alex had never seen there before and her heart clenched at the sight.
"Danielle," she whispered, reaching to take her limp hands. "All will be well. I'll go home to my brother. I'll send for you and our life will return to what it was."
"But, Madame, you are married!"
"Pah." She let go her hands and reached for the habit. "Here. Help me dress."
Given something familiar to do, the maid sprang into action, muttering French in such a low tone that Alex could only hear the occasional punctuation. Monster. Idiot. Beast.
"Stay in the room as much as you can. I will not have you lie for me again and there is the occasional person here who'll ask after me."
"This is not a good idea!"
"I cannot make wise decisions even when I try, Danielle, so what is the point?" The last fold of her skirt fell into place, the cloak stirred the briar patch of her curls when Danielle swung it around her. She'd leave it unbound, it was warm that way, like wool batting.
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