The Winter Wife (6 page)

“
Stop it.”
Alicia turned away, blinking back hot tears.
This excruciating weight of emotion in her chest was only weariness. She refused to recognize it as the knowledge that all those years ago she’d sacrificed
something precious. “Tomorrow it will be as though this meeting never happened.”

Even in her own ears, the words sounded choked with regret. She’d thought when she finally
accepted Harold’s advances that she was over her inconvenient yen for her husband. How tragically wrong she’d been.
Tonight proved her as impressionable as ever.

In silent defiance,
she straightened her back against the chair. Kinvarra might be kind now, he might be considerate. But after all the pain between them, she could never let herself trust him again.

Kinvarra studied her with a speculative light in his black eyes.
A premonitory shiver chilled her. If she wasn’t careful, he’d have all her secrets.
And she’d have no pride left.

She attempted a brighter tone. “Are you keeping that wine just for yourself?”

He laughed softly and raised his glass in another silent toast, as if awarding her a point in a contest. “Here.”

He passed her the glass and bent to tug at her boot. She took a sip, hoping the claret would bolster her fortitude. It didn’t.

She hadn’t missed the way he leaned toward her as he spoke and

the burgeoning tenderness in his manner. Nerves and unwilling arousal

coiled in her stomach. Did he mean to attempt a seduction?
Although God knew why he’d be interested. If he’d wanted her any time, he could have sent for her. His long silence spoke volumes about his indifference.

His hands were brisk and efficient,
almost impersonal, as he pulled her boots off.
Automatically she stretched her legs out and wriggled her toes.
A
relieved sigh escaped her.

He looked up with a smile as he sat back. “Better?”

“
Better,” she admitted, taking some more wine.
The rich flavor
filled her mouth and slipped down her throat, washing away a little more of her bitterness.

Whatever happened tonight, she was unexpectedly grateful she’d had this chance to share a few hours with her husband. Hatred and rancor had dogged her since she’d left Kinvarra. Only now as those reactions ebbed did she realize how they’d soured her life. She inhaled, feeling as though she breathed fully for the first
time in ten years.

He laid one elegant hand on her ankle. Even through the stocking, his touch burned. “You always had cold feet.”

She closed her eyes. Imagine him remembering such a minor detail. Common sense dictated that she pull back, that she’d veered into dangerous territory. “I still do.”

“
I’ll warm them up.” “Mmm.”

She was so tired, and the cozy room and surprisingly cordial atmosphere sapped her will.
When Kinvarra began to rub her feet, gentle warmth stole up her legs. If his touch even hinted at encroaching further, she’d stop him. But all he did was buff her feet until she was ready to purr with pleasure.

“
Don’t stop,” she whispered, even when her feet glowed with heat and he had to reach forward to rescue the empty wine glass from her loosening hand.

He laughed softly and she struggled not to hear fondness in the sound. Kinvarra wasn’t fond of her. He’d never been fond of her. Family arrangement had foisted her on him, an English heiress to fill the coffers of his Scottish earldom. Her abominable behavior during their year together had only confirmed
his suspicions that he’d married

a brat.

“
Let’s have our supper before it gets cold.
You’re exhausted.”

She let him take her hand and raise her to her feet.
Who would have thought so much touching was involved when they agreed to share this room? But she was in too much of a daze to protest as he led her to the small table and slid a filled
plate before her.

She was so tired that it hardly registered that Kinvarra acted the perfect companion.
When she couldn’t eat much of the hearty but simple fare, he summoned the maids to clear the room.
Without her having to ask, he granted her privacy to prepare for bed.
Although she was too weary to do much more than a quick cat wash.
When Kinvarra returned from the corridor, she was already in bed, still wearing her clothes.

What happened now? Surely after all this time, he wouldn’t demand his marital rights, whatever frail accord they’d established. Still, apprehension tightened her stomach and she clutched the sheets to her chest like a nervous virgin.

He glanced across at her, black eyes enigmatic in the candlelight. Inevitably the moment reminded her of their wedding night. He’d been the perfect companion then, too. Her gentle knight, the beautiful earl her parents had chosen, the kind, smiling man who had made her

laugh and blush and thrill with feelings she didn’t recognize.
And who had taken her body with a painful urgency that had left her hurt and bewildered and crying.

After that, no matter what he did, she turned rigid with fear when

he came to her bed.
After a couple of weeks, he’d stopped approaching her.
After a couple of months, he’d stopped speaking to her, except to quarrel.
After a year, she’d suggested they live apart and he’d agreed without demur. Probably relieved to have his pestilential wife off his hands.

He’d left England almost immediately on a four-year grand tour. When next she saw him, he’d become a worldly, supercilious stranger who barely spared her a word, and the pattern for their rare future encounters was set. She stayed in London while he mostly managed his Scottish estates, hundreds of miles to the north.
When she’d left him, even that distance didn’t seem far enough. She’d never wanted to see

him again.

Alicia had spent their separation convinced that she bore all the injury in their marriage. Now, tonight, she wasn’t so sure that she was blameless for the disaster of their union.

She lowered her eyes and pleated the sheets with unsteady fingers.

“
Are you coming to bed?”

One eyebrow arched in mocking amusement. “Why, Lady Kinvarra, is that an invitation?”

Her color rose. How lowering to be a woman of twenty-eight and still blush like an adolescent. “It’s a cold night.
You’ve had a hard ride. I trust you.” Strangely, so quickly on top of her earlier uncertainty, it was true.

He released a short laugh and turned away. “More fool you.” Confused, she watched him set the big carved chair nearer to the

fire.
He undressed down to breeches and a loose white shirt. “It’s only a

few hours until dawn. I’ll do quite well here, thank you.”

She’d completely misunderstood him. Not for the first
time, she thought with the stabbing regret that seemed her constant companion tonight.
When he’d first
insisted they share a room, she’d wondered

if he had some darker purpose. Some plan to take the wife who so profligately
offered herself to another man.
To teach her who was her master.

But his actions now proved her wrong.

What did she expect?
That he’d suddenly want her after all this time? She was a fool. She’d always been a fool where Sebastian Sinclair was concerned.

The constriction returned to her throat, the constriction that felt alarmingly like tears. She lay back and forced herself to speak. “Goodnight, then.”

“
Goodnight,
Alicia.”

He blew out the candles, leaving only the glow of the fire.
On edge and preternaturally aware of his every move, she listened to him settle. He tugged off his boots and drew his greatcoat over him for warmth. There was an odd, familiar intimacy in hearing the creak of the chair and his soft sigh as he extended his legs toward the flames.

She stretched out.
The bed was warm and soft and the sheets

smelled fresh. She was weary to the bone, but no matter how she

wriggled, she couldn’t find
that one comfortable spot.

Recollections of the day tormented her. Harold’s craven desertion, which should have been a considerably sharper blow than it was. If her original plans had eventuated, she’d now be lying in his arms.

She should resent his weakness, his absence, but all she felt was vast relief. Her mind dwelled instead on Kinvarra’s unexpected gallantry. The fleeting
moments of affinity
in this room.
The powerful memories of their life together, memories that tonight stirred poignant sadness instead of turbulent resentment.

Kinvarra had turned the chair toward the hearth and all she could see of him was a gold-limned black shape. He was so still, he could be asleep. But something told her he was as wide awake as she.

“
My lord?” she whispered.

“
Yes,
Alicia?” he responded immediately. “Can’t you sleep?” “No.”

Their voices were hushed, which was absurd as there was nobody to hear.
The wind rattled the windowpanes and a log cracked in the fireplace.
He was right, the weather had worsened.

“
Are you cold?” “No.” “Hungry?” “No.”

“
What is it, then, lass?” He sounded tender and his Scottish burr was more marked than usual.
When his emotions were engaged, traces of

his Highland childhood softened his speech. She remembered that from their year together.

That hint of vulnerability made her brave. “Come and lie down beside me.
You can’t be comfortable in that chair.”

He didn’t shift. “No.” “Oh.”

She huddled into the bed and drew the blankets about her neck as if they could fend off the brutal truth. Hurt seared her like a branding iron. Of course he wouldn’t share the bed. He hated her. How could she forget?
Tonight he just played the gentleman to a lady in distress. He’d do the same for anyone. Just because
Alicia was his wife didn’t make

her special. Nothing between them had changed.

When they’d first
married, she’d attempted to establish a rapport between them in the daylight hours, some trust that she could carry with her into the nights. But when she’d rebuffed him in bed, he’d rebuffed her during the day. He’d made it blatantly clear that he didn’t

want her childish adoration. He wanted a woman who could satisfy him between the sheets, not a silly little girl who froze into a block of ice

the instant her husband touched her.

She blinked back more of the tears that had verged close so often tonight. She’d wept enough over the Earl of Kinvarra. She’d wept enough tears to fill
the deep, dark waters of Loch
Varra that extended down the glen from Balmuir House, his ancestral home.

“
Hell,
Alicia, I’m sorry. Don’t cry.”

She opened her eyes and through the mist of tears saw he’d risen to watch her.
The fire
lent enough light to reveal that he appeared tormented and unsure. Nothing like the all-powerful earl.

“
I’m not crying,” she said in a thick voice. “I’m just tired.”

His mouth lengthened at her unconvincing assertion. He reached out with one hand to clutch the back of the chair. “Go to sleep.”

“
I can’t.” She wondered why she didn’t let him be instead of courting further misery.