CHAPTER FOURTEEN

 

 

On Sabella’s tenth day as a wife, she managed to cook dinner without burning a single thing. Not the venison. Not the potatoes. Not the gooseberries. In fact, when Alexander found her in the kitchen, she was grinning from ear to ear.

“Husband!”

“Aye.” He wiped his face with a towel. He’d recently shaved his beard, and, while she adored his handsome, hawkish features regardless, she’d been vexed that he hadn’t discussed it with her first. He was hers, after all. She should have a say.

He’d explained that beards itch in the heat, so he’d regrow one when it wasn’t “hot enough to turn my ballocks into Scotch eggs.” Then he’d demonstrated how lovely a man’s bare face could feel against one’s bosoms.

She’d forgiven him rather quickly after that.

“I made dinner.” She beamed and wiped her hands on her apron before gesturing to the feast she’d prepared: venison stew seasoned lightly with salt, pepper, and thyme; bread from Glenscannadoo’s finest (and only) bakery; a salad of lettuce, parsley, bacon, boiled eggs, and chives dressed in wine vinaigrette; and, finally, her rendition of Joan’s gooseberry pie. The pie was her first attempt with paste since the Dreadful Meat Pie Incident during her first week as a maid.

Grunting, Alexander dipped his towel in the bucket of well water and wiped his nape. “I see ye have, lass. Looks good.”

She poured him a cup of cider. “What was all that noise earlier? I thought I heard pounding.”

“Fence posts dinnae set themselves.”

She invited him to sit then fetched dishes from the cupboard. “Nora delivered three of my new gowns earlier. I left the bill for you in the study.”

He grunted.

“Oh, and Magdalene wants me to ask whether ye plan to compete in the Glenscannadoo Games this year.” Magdalene was helping to organize some of the Gathering’s events, such as the fair and picnic, during Annie’s absence.

A dismissive snort. “’Tis Rannoch who really wants to ken. He doesnae wish to be the only MacPherson competin’ in the heavy events.”

She frowned as she filled their bowls. A waft of thyme and savory meat hit her nose. Her stomach growled—a good sign. “Why would he mind? He’ll dominate every event he enters, as you did last year. MacPhersons are another breed, better in every way.”

He smiled. “Every way, lass?”

She set his bowl in front of him. “Every way.”

With a chuckle, he said, “That’s why. Rannoch likes to forget that he’s built the same as the rest of us. He prefers to be the likable one.” He took a bite of the stew. His brows went up. He hummed appreciation. “This is good, Duchess.”

Her eyes flew wide. “Really?”

“Very.”

She beamed and bounced on her toes. “Oh, I’m so pleased you like it, husband.”

He took another bite and raked her with a now-familiar look that said, “I have only one appetite, and ye’re the fare I want on my table.”

She scooted the salad toward him. “Try this one.”

He wasn’t as enthusiastic about eating leafy green things, but he gathered a forkful, popped the bite in his mouth, then nodded. “The bacon is perfect.”

“Don’t you think the chives are a good addition for summer? So light and refreshing.”

He drank his cider and ate more venison.

She clicked her tongue. “Very well, I shall stop trying to ‘feed you yer food’s food.’” He’d only complained once about her cookery, and that had been over a spinach salad she’d tried to serve him with beefsteak. He’d suggested she put it to better use either fertilizing her rosebush—which had miraculously survived the horned menace—or “fattening up the deer for yer stew pot.”

“Might ye give the pie a chance?” She twisted her towel between her hands. “I’m hoping to improve my paste.”

He immediately reached for the gooseberry pie. A bite later, she couldn’t tell whether she’d been successful because his expression didn’t change.

“Is it … good?”

Holding her gaze steadily, he took another bite.

She blinked. After portioning out a piece for herself, she took a taste. Sour, sharp, and bitter vied for dominance in her mouth. The paste was tough, but that was the least of her problems. She wasn’t certain she could swallow this. After a single bite, her eyes were watering.

Her husband, meanwhile, calmly finished his portion bite by bite.

She finally managed to swallow, guzzling cider to wash away the horridness. “How did you …?” She coughed. More cider. “Alexander.”

“Aye, Duchess.”

“You needn’t eat my failures.”

“I ken.”

She set aside her towel and rounded the table to stand between his sprawled knees. Cupping his jaw, she bent down to kiss him. “I don’t know why you do this. You’re going to make yourself sick.”

His hands closed around her waist, pulling her closer. “Whose hands made that paste?”

“Mine.”

“Whose hands made the stew?”

She paused. “Mine.”

“Stew’s better than last time, aye?”

She nodded.

“There ye have it. These arenae failures, lass. They’re wee stops on the road to mastery. Every inn has lessons to teach a weary traveler.”

“Hmm. And horrid meals to offer an unsuspecting husband, apparently.” His answer was sweet—and a great lot of nonsense. He ate her food because it pleased her. That was obvious. Still, she didn’t want to make him sick, so she would work on improving her cookery. “I shall add more sugar to the gooseberries next time. I followed the receipt to the letter. I don’t know where I went wrong.”

“Is that Joan MacDonnell’s gooseberry pie?”

She nodded.

“That’s where.” His smile turned sardonic. “Joan hates gooseberries, but her man, Adam, loves ’em. He kept after her to make him a gooseberry pie like his mam makes, so Joan made sure he stopped askin’.”

“Why would she give me such a dreadful receipt?”

“Dinnae ken. Are ye certain ye read it right?”

“Well, I was in my cups when I wrote it down. Perhaps I missed something.” She moved to the sideboard to examine the slip of paper again. Some of the instructions were muddled by drips of strong cider. There were no mentions of sugar, apart from the following admonition: Gooseberries are vile; sweeten until tolerable. She’d initially read this as Gooseberries ate whilst seated still adorable. The grammar had been puzzling, but she’d shrugged it off as the result of Joan’s accent and her own intoxication.

She sighed. “Perhaps we should hire a cook.”

His chair creaked. “I thought ye didnae want one.”

She didn’t. He’d offered to hire a full household staff—footmen or “lads,” as he called them, maids, a housekeeper, a cook—but Sabella enjoyed having her husband all to herself. She liked being able to kiss him in the kitchen or seduce him in the stable or importune him in the drying yard whenever she pleased. She liked swimming naked with him in the river. She liked feeding him breakfast and mending his shirts and making their bed.

“I also don’t want to poison you,” she said, laying the receipt in the tray of useless items she kept on the sideboard because she couldn’t bring herself to toss them in the rubbish bin.

“Mighty generous of ye, lass.”

A little smile broke through her despondence. “It’s selfish, really. I need you hale and vigorous for all the tupping.”

He cursed under his breath. “Ye’re beggin’ to get tupped again right now.”

Was she that obvious? She turned to lean back against the sideboard. “Oh, dear. I’m not much of a lady, am I?”

His chair creaked as he widened his legs—a sign she’d learned to watch for. An aroused Alexander needed more room.

Fortunately for her, an aroused Alexander was a frequent occurrence. She didn’t know whether it happened as frequently as her arousal, of course. That was embarrassingly constant. Every time he ate her food, every time she glimpsed him from the kitchen window, every time she caught him watching her from a doorway, her body readied to be taken.

“Perhaps you were right about my harlotry,” she murmured, “though my tastes are quite specific.”

Another creak.

“I prefer Highlanders, ye see. Big ones.”

His chair scraped as he pushed to his feet and came slowly toward her.

“Black hair and eyes.” She licked her lips. “A beard is preferable but not required.”

He bracketed her between long arms, hands braced near her hips.

She inhaled his scent—earthy skin and evergreen. “He must be able to set a post hard and deep—”

A hard hand gripped her nape, and a hard mouth slammed down on hers as a hard staff ground against her belly. On his tongue, she tasted hard cider and sweet lust. He hoisted her up onto the sideboard, yanking her skirts past her thighs with fevered motions. “Six times, woman,” he growled against her. “Six bluidy times today. I promised I wouldnae take ye a seventh.”

“A foolish promise,” she panted against him. Clawing at his fall, she spread her thighs wide and licked his lower lip. “Why would ye limit yourself?”

“Because ye willnae be able to walk if I tup ye as often as I want.”

“A novel idea. Let’s try it.”

She freed his hard, beautiful cock. A moment later, he slid inside with a rough, deep thrust. Two moments later, he was driving into her like a man setting a fence post. Every stroke rattled the sideboard harder, clanging crockery and slamming the wall. He ate at her mouth and drove into her body at a furious pace. Heat and triumph and desire filled her to the bursting point.

Her peak came with such stunning sharpness, she screamed his name and thrashed wildly as the concussive force broke through her in waves. Crockery crashed to the floor. A tray went flying. The loud clatter of falling things blended with her ecstatic cries, his peaking groans, and the rhythmic slam of a large, heavy object against the wall.

The cacophony sounded glorious to Sabella.

In the aftermath of the frenzied storm, she felt half drunk. He often had the same effect on her as strong cider or champagne—sweet euphoria, head-spinning pleasure, and blissful relaxation. He lifted her down, making sure to place her in an area free of debris.

“Heavens,” she chuckled. “We made a mess, didn’t we?”

He grunted and fetched a broom while she wandered over to pick up the wooden tray that had landed near the hearth. Her random assortment of useless items had scattered everywhere. She swiped up Joan’s gooseberry pie receipt and a button she’d saved from one of Alexander’s waistcoats. When she spotted the pendant Mrs. MacBean had given her smoldering among the coals, she reached for it without thinking.

White-hot pain seared her hand. She cried out and reared back. Her momentum sent her crashing into a hard, bellowing wall. The wall gripped her wrist and plunged her hand into a bucket of cold water.

“Bluidy hell, woman!” he roared. “What were ye thinkin’?”

“I—I wasn’t.”

“Obviously!”

Wincing at the throbbing burn, she shook her head. “Ye make me drunk, husband. After we tup, I can scarcely function.”

Chest heaving, he lifted the bucket onto the table then dragged a chair closer with his foot and sat down with her in his lap, all while keeping her hand immersed. Then he gently cupped her head and kissed her temple. “How bad is it, lass?” Though his hands were steady, his voice was frayed thin.

“It’s fine.”

He pulled her hand from the water. She was still clutching the pendant. He tossed the thing on the table and examined her fingers. Red. Blistering. “Ye’re nae fine,” he growled, plunging her hand back into the bucket. “I cannae bear for ye to be injured. Ye must be more cautious, ye ken?”

Hating that she’d caused him distress with her carelessness, she reached up to stroke his jaw. “You mustn’t worry. I’m well accustomed to pain. More so than most lasses.”

The arms surrounding her went from warm muscle to rigid stone. “Accustomed?” The word thrummed with dark tension.

“Aye. Cold water helps. A comfrey poultice when it’s bad. After a few days, the bruises don’t even hurt, really.”

“Bruises.” He handed her his cup of cider to drink. “Where did ye acquire such knowledge about bruises?”

She drained the cup then let her head loll into the solid crook between his upper chest and neck. “Kenneth lost patience with me from time to time. If I planned to appear in public, I’d wear my gloves. Dreadful in summer, but it’s important not to let them see.”

His shoulder flexed against her head. “Who’s ‘them,’ lass?”

“Anybody.”

“Why mustn’t ye let them see?”

“We’re Lockharts. They’d think us quite low, wouldn’t they?”

With his strong arms around her and the worst of the burning sting soothed by the water and the cider, she began to feel pleasantly sleepy.

“Annie saw us once,” she murmured. “Kenneth and I were meeting friends at an inn near Parliament Square. His temper was sore that day.”

He’d been unusually erratic, snapping at her over every wee thing. Kenneth rarely lost his temper in public, but that day, he’d done so in unprecedented fashion. Months later, after his crimes had come to light, she’d realized what had set him off: Broderick MacPherson’s release from the Calton Hill Bridewell, where he’d arranged for Broderick to be first imprisoned then tortured and killed.

Above all things, Kenneth couldn’t tolerate being thwarted. Little wonder he’d behaved so aggressively on a day when he felt powerless.

Sabella squeezed her eyes shut, remembering how he’d punished her as he sometimes did at home. While his friends stood mere feet away, he’d seized her wrist in a grinding, bruising hold. Sabella didn’t even remember what she’d said to provoke him, only the shift from annoyance to fury. A flare in his eyes had signaled an imminent explosion. Then had come pain. And finally, the humiliation of having others witness what she could ordinarily hide.

“Annie recognized me,” she said. The brash, fiery-haired lass had charged in to disrupt Sabella’s argument with Kenneth as if she and Sabella were old friends. At the time, they’d scarcely qualified as acquaintances, having spoken for less than a minute the previous autumn.

“She told me to poison him like the rats in the larder.” Sabella smiled now, but at the time, she’d been shocked down to her slippers to hear a young woman say such things. “I envied her boldness, her strength. Annie said if I ever had a need, I should take the mail coach to Glenscannadoo and ask for her. She offered to feed me venison with onion gravy.” They’d become friends over the ensuing months, primarily through correspondence.

“Annie mentioned seein’ ye there,” said Alexander. “It’s what made her suspect yer brother.” His voice was deeply calming as he stroked her wrist with his thumb.

“Aye. She told me.”

“She didnae think it was the first time he’d been cruel to ye.”

Old, familiar embarrassment surfaced to heat her skin. She burrowed against him, wishing she could shrink down to nothing. But she wasn’t nothing. She’d never been able to make herself small enough. Always, the answer had been not today.

He held her calmly, patiently. They breathed together while birds sang outside and water dripped from the table.

“I vexed him sometimes,” she whispered.

His thumb moved in soothing circles on her wrist, round and round.

“He was careful not to crack bones. Just twisting.” Just agonizing pain. “The physician always assured me I’d be fine.”

“Physician.” Alexander’s thumb moved round and round.

“Aye. Dr. Phillips. He’s English. Bit of a peculiar man. Kenneth seemed to think very little of him, yet he was the only doctor he’d summon.”

“I’m surprised he bothered with a physician at all. Only twistin’, and all that.”

She hummed agreement. “Breaks take too long to heal. His aim was punishment, not damage. Dr. Phillips diagnosed my broken ribs during our last week in Edinburgh—”

“Yer ribs were broken?”

Sabella found it remarkable how still Alexander could hold his body. It gave her comfort to know he was calm. “Aye, but apart from that, Kenneth only ever left bruises, and even the sight of them would vex him all over again,” she said. “I found it best to keep them covered. Long sleeves. That’s the key. Gloves for when the sleeves are insufficient. Never red, of course. He disapproved of red for unwed lasses. He disapproved of many arbitrary things. Feathered hats. Syllabub. Frenchmen.”

“Frenchmen can be vexin’.”

She huffed out a dry chuckle. “So can Scots.”

“How’s yer hand, Duchess?”

She tugged and he released her wrist immediately. She examined the puffy red blisters forming. “I shan’t be playing the pianoforte for a few days, but I expect I’ll be fine.”

When the burns started to sting again, she wetted a towel and wrapped it around her hand like a bandage. Alexander, staring from his chair with that calm, inscrutable expression, suggested, “Ye should eat. I’ve some work to do yet before the day is done. Might be late to bed.”

She nodded and pasted on a smile.

When he left, she noticed the pendant lying discarded on the table. A shaft of light was hitting it just so, deepening the shadows along the queer ridges Mrs. MacBean had carved into the wood. Sabella peered closer, dangling it by the leather cord. No, it wasn’t light or shadows. The highest points of the relief had been charred, and the roughness in the lower points had been smoothed by the fire. She ran her thumb over the surface of each whorl, each petal, each cupping leaf.

The pendant had transformed from a vulgar oddity into something quite extraordinary. It was a pair of blooms. Roses, to be precise. Like densely-petaled centifolias entwined in an embrace, the lushness drew the eye deeper. Fire, ash, and smoke had colored the interior as if every shade and line was painted by a Dutch master.

Later, after she’d managed to clean up and feed herself, she carried the pendant upstairs to the dressing room and looped it over her head. The roses settled neatly into place over her breastbone. She wondered how the pendant would look with her new gown. Quickly wiping it down to ensure none of the char would transfer, she gingerly donned the lovely confection of green silk crepe overlain by creamy French lace.

Pleasing, she thought, brushing a finger over the wee pendant. Quite pleasing. When she noticed the leather cord was leaving a line of ash on her skin, she removed the necklace and placed it on her new dressing table.

Just then, a flicker of movement caught her eye outside the window. Fury prickled through her very soul. “Red spawn of unholy pestilence! Get yer furry arse away from my roses!”

She flew down to the kitchen, fetched the broom, then ran outside pell-mell to rescue her beleaguered garden. Rounding the southeast corner, she startled the dratted beast by waving the broom and screaming insults. She wasn’t sure which one worked, but the deer leapt away with her wee, uprooted rosebush dangling like a thorny thistle from its pestilent jaws.

Sabella chased the beastie past the house, along the drive toward the stables, then past the yard to the pumphouse. From the pumphouse, she crossed the footbridge arching over the river then veered into the thick woodlands beyond. She rarely came to this side of the river. There was nothing here but trees and pestilence.

“I ken ye’re here!” she shouted, heaving to catch her breath. Her bandaged fingers stung where they gripped the broom handle, but nothing stung so keenly as the loss of that dratted rosebush. She couldn’t even say why, precisely. She didn’t know the breed. It wasn’t as if roses were particularly rare. Alexander had agreed to let her purchase and cultivate as many as she wanted.

But it was hers—something she’d planted, something she’d nurtured, something she’d grown. It didn’t deserve to be uprooted and unceremoniously stripped of every hopeful leaf.

She bent forward and rested her hands on her knees, trying to get her bearings and catch her breath. That’s when she heard the sounds. Deeper into the wood, they sounded like a ram colliding with a wall, a resonant, thudding crack. Several blows later, the crack lengthened. Then came louder, windier crackling and an enormous whump.

She blinked as birds exploded into the sky. The day had suddenly brightened. Why had it brightened? Spinning around, she finally spotted what had changed. The trees. One of them was missing.

Frowning, she started toward where it stood before the whump. The cracking thuds started again. Through the underbrush, she glimpsed russet red tartan. It draped over the heavy, powerful muscles of an enormously tall, devilishly braw Highlander.

Who’d apparently lost his mind.

The man wore no shirt, only his russet plaid wrapped haphazardly around his waist. His right fist dripped blood. His veins stood in high relief. Heaving with exertion, he hauled back and struck a birch of middling size directly in the trunk. The thing shivered at the force. Thud-shiver. Thud-crack. Thud-CRACK! Thud-crackle-crackle. Whump.

What in dratted blazes was her madman of a husband doing felling trees … with his fists?