She had been childish. Lost her terrible temper. So much for her night of seduction. The dining room resembled a battle scene.
Unfortunately, Tristan was still alive, redolent of wine and honey like a character from the Psalms.
The servants, no matter how well trained, were probably right outside the doors, listening to every word. Sadie didn’t care. They should know that their master was an idiot. How could she have fallen in l—
Oh. God. No. She’d fancied herself in love once, with Dermot Reid, of all people. And that’s how she came to be sitting amidst broken china and crystal in the middle of Nowhere, Gloucestershire, sent here for her many sins. It was ironic that the one sin she hadn’t committed had caused her over half a decade of problems.
She’d been fifteen then. Practically a child, although she was already taller than most men at that age. Awkward as a spotted giraffe, with just as many freckles. She had been easy prey for an ambitious young man who’d abused her trust and lied to her father. Yes, Dermot had stolen kisses. Many of them. Groped her. Sadie might have gone further, because she was so, so needy. Lonely. It was rather miraculous that she’d exercised the good sense she really didn’t have and drew a wobbly line.
But Dermot, thwarted, had gone to her father with her foolish letters and his own twisted version of the affair.
Sadie had had six years of regrets. There had been times when she wished she’d tossed her virginity away, for she was being punished anyway. It was so unfair that a man could consort and cavort with as many women as he could get his hands on, but a woman had no such option.
“You can’t stay here,” Tristan said, making her remember he was still standing there like a great towering handsome lump and they were still fighting.
“I’m not leaving.” When she was calmer, she might think of a place to go, but she wasn’t calm yet.
“No, I mean here. The servants need to clean this mess up and go to bed at a decent hour.”
Sadie’s cheeks grew warm. It had been thoughtless to vent her spleen on forks and plates, and expect someone else to tidy up. “I’ll take care of it.”
Tristan’s wooly eyebrow rose. “You?”
“I can wield a broom as well as the next person.” To prove it, she got up and started picking up shards of glass with exaggerated fervor.
Oops.
She must have hissed, for Tristan was at her side in an instant with his dirty napkin.
“Now see what you’ve done. You’re bleeding onto the Aubusson.”
He would care more about the rug. “It’s nothing.”
“Nothing? You probably need stitches.” He grabbed her hand and tried to wrap the napkin around it.
“Where did you get your medical degree?” Sadie snapped. “And get that filthy thing away from me!”
“You need carbolic. A bandage. Watch your hand—you’ll drip on your dress.”
She could buy another dress now that she had access to her funds. A dozen dresses. Although she did like this one, even if it was four kinds of pink.
Tristan left her and opened the sideboard drawer. He came back with a clean lace-edged, embroidered linen napkin, which Sadie pressed on her wound to stanch the bleeding.
“We’ll get Mrs. Anstruther. She’ll know what to do,” Tristan said, throwing open the dining room doors.
Grimsby, a footman and a maid nearly fell into the room. “Fetch Mrs. Anstruther and her medical kit. We will be up in Lady Sarah’s suite.”
“We will not.”
“Oh, yes we will. What if you faint on the way up the stairs?”
“Over a drop of blood? Don’t be silly!”
“Stranger things have happened. Don’t fight me on this.”
“I will fight you on anything I choose!” Sadie cried.
Tristan’s response to this statement was to sweep her and her napkin into his arms and mount the stairs.
“I have feet!”
“Be quiet.”
She was jostled about like a sack of potatoes, and despite her halfhearted attempts to clout him on his ear with her good hand, he refused to put her down even when they reached her room.
Both Hannah and Audrey were there, and their efforts were distressingly evident. Candles burned, a sheer nightgown lay across the foot of the bed, and actual rose petals had been scattered among the pillows and sheets. A bottle of wine and two glasses rested on the bedside table. Sadie wanted to curl up and die.
Tristan didn’t seem to notice the preparations. “Where the devil is Mrs. Anstruther?”
Both maids rushed out. Sadie would have too, if he’d only put her down. Tristan was cradling her with competence, as if she didn’t weigh more than a kitten. She had to admit it was nice to be cosseted in a strong man’s arms, no matter how stupid he was.
“Let go of me at once!”
“Stop squirming. I will not be responsible if I happen to drop you. You are as slippery as an eel.”
“How you flatter me,” Sadie said through gritted teeth. Eels had fangs, didn’t they? Would she have success biting him? His chin was close.
“I don’t want to flatter you. In fact, I’d like to spank that ruffled bustle right off your charming derriere. You have been torturing me for days. Trousers! I ask you! I’m only human. Do you never think of the consequences of your actions? You may be accustomed to Marchmain Castle serfs cleaning up after you, but the servants at Sykes House will not be treated so shabbily.”
“There are no serfs! There are barely any servants at all.”
“You probably drove them away with your nonsense.”
How unfair he was being! He knew nothing of the straightened circumstances she’d lived with for too long.
She decided to take a different tack, and stilled her body. “Please put me down, Tristan. What will Mrs. Anstruther think?”
“She’ll think I’ve finally come to my senses and taken control of my wife.”
“Control?” Sadie, quite literally, saw red as she watched her bloody hand connect with Tristan Sykes’s firm jaw.
“Yow!” They tumbled backward over a table to the floor. Sadie was unable to continue her assault as her arms were now trapped under Tristan’s heavy body. He had somehow managed to slither and maneuver himself on top of her as they fell. Who was the real eel?
“Should I come back later?” Mrs. Anstruther stood at the door, a basket under her arm. Sadie could see she was trying very hard not to laugh.
“Not at all,” Tristan replied, as if he spoke from the floor regularly. “Lady Sarah has need of your nursing skills. She has cut her hand. There may still be a sliver of glass in the wound.”
“If you will just, um, release her, Mr. Tristan, I’ll take a look.”
“In a moment.”
Sadie looked up at Tristan’s flushed face. He shifted, and then she knew why he was not leaping straight up. She had felt that hardness before. Seen it with her own eyes.
He was aroused. Even after she’d screamed at him and threw things and hit him. She wiggled her hips and watched the agony flash in his eyes.
This more or less proved her supposition that men were pigs, yet she was glad she had an effect on her husband. Maybe the rose petals wouldn’t go to waste after all.
If she decided she wasn’t furious with him.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I shouldn’t have hit you. I—I promise to never do it again.”
“You’re probably crossing your fingers behind your back,” he said, gruff.
“I am not. If you will just raise yourself a little, I’ll roll out. While Mrs. Anstruther attends to me, you may compose yourself.”
“I have a feeling I’m never going to be composed again.”