The Heiress Bride (Sherbrooke Brides 3)

der her. She said nothing more to her husband. At least he hadn’t attacked her again before they’d left Kinross House. She was sore, very sore, but she would never admit it to him. She would ride and she wouldn’t say a word, not if it killed her, which she hoped it wouldn’t.

An hour later they had debarked from the Forth Star and were on their way to Kinross land and Vere Castle, their valises strapped on the backs of their saddles.

“Perhaps later in the summer we can travel into the Highlands. The scenery is dramatic. It is like going from a calm lake into a stormy sea; everything is churned about, its civilized trappings stripped away. You will like it.”

“Yes,” Sinjun said, her voice abrupt. She hurt from the horse’s gait. She was an excellent rider but the pain was something out of her experience, and no matter how she shifted her position, the saddle seemed to grind into her.

Colin looked over at her. She was staring straight between her horse’s ears, her chin high, as it had been now for the past two days. She was wearing the same dark blue riding habit she’d worn since she’d begun riding beside him during their elopement, a beautiful, starkly fashioned outfit that suited her, for she was tall and elegant, this wife of his, and pale-skinned, her hair tucked neatly beneath the matching blue velvet riding hat, the ostrich feather curling gently around her right cheek. It was dusty and looked a bit worse for wear, but still, he liked it. Now that he had money, he would be able to buy her lovely things. He thought of her long white legs, the sleek muscles of her thighs, and his guts knotted.

“We will stop for lunch at an inn near Lanark. You can have your first real taste of our local dishes. Agnes at Kinross House has always fancied herself above all our native dishes. Her mother was Yorkshire-bred, you know, and thus it is English beef and boiled potatoes for her, quite good but not Scottish. Perhaps you can try some broonies.”

He was trying, she’d give him that, but she didn’t care at the moment. She simply hurt too much. “How far is the inn?”

“Two miles or so.”

Two miles! She didn’t think she would make another two feet. The road was well worn, wide, surrounded by rolling hills and more larch and pine trees than she could begin to count. There were farms and carefully tilled lands, reminding her of England, and grazing cattle. They were riding northward through the Fife Peninsula that lay between the Firth of Forth and the Firth of Tay, Colin had told her earlier, a region protected from the Highlanders from the north and the English invaders from the south, which had thus been the historical cradle for religion and authority. Again, she recognized that the land was beautiful, and again, she simply didn’t care.

“Over there are some strange-looking hills—they’re basalt thrown up by old volcanoes. They become quite thick soon and they cover a lot of land and go quite high. There are even lochs scattered in amongst them. There is some good fishing to be had in many of them. We haven’t time today, but soon we’ll ride to the coast. It’s rugged, strewn with rocks, and the North Sea batters against the land with the fury of an enraged giant. There’s a string of tiny fishing villages, many of which are very picturesque. I’ll take you climbing up West Lomond, the highest point. It’s shaped like a bell, and the view from the top is spectacular.”

“Your lectures are very edifying, Colin. However, I should prefer hearing about Vere Castle—this dumping ground you’re taking me to.”

“West Lomond is just southwest of Auchtermuchty.”

Sinjun yawned.

His jaw tightened. “I am rather trying to entertain you, Joan, to teach you something of your new country. Your continued sarcasm doesn’t sit well with me. Don’t make me regret our alliance.”

She twisted about in her sidesaddle to stare at him. “Why not? You have certainly made me regret it.” She saw the anger build in his eyes, and she felt her own anger building apace. She urged her horse forward into a gallop, away from him. She regretted it instantly, for she slammed up and down on the saddle. The pain rocketed through her. She bit her lip. She felt tears sting her eyes, but she didn’t slow down.

The Plucked Goose—surely an odd name for an inn—lay in a small village at the base of some of those damned steep basalt hills. The large, freshly painted sign that swung from its chains was of a large goose with a small head and a long neck and utterly bare of feathers. The inn was quite new, which surprised Sinjun, who thought every inn in England and Scotland must go back at least to Elizabeth I, and the yard was clean. She heard Scottish coming from every window and door in the inn, but this was a different accent, and despite her misery she smiled.

She pulled her horse to a halt and just sat there for a moment, trying to calm her body from its assault. She looked over to see Colin standing beside her, his hands outstretched to lift her down. Normally she would have simply laughed and jumped from her horse. Not today. She allowed the courtesy. He eased her down the length of his body as he lowered her. And when she was finally on her feet, he said, “I’ve missed you,” and he leaned down to kiss her.

He felt her stiffen and released her. They were, after all, in the public yard of a very public inn. The innkeeper’s wife, Girtha by name, who welcomed Colin as if he were her long-lost nephew, exclaimed how thin he was and how pretty Sinjun was, how sleek their horses looked even though they were obviously rented hacks, commented on how the blue of Sinjun’s riding habit matched her eyes, all without taking a breath.

The taproom in the inn was dark and cool and smelled of ale and beer, very pleasant really. There were only a half dozen locals drinking there, and they were quietly talking, paying the earl and countess no heed.

Colin ordered broonies for himself and for Sinjun. When they came, he watched as she bit into the oatmeal gingerbread. They were wonderful, and she nodded her enthusiasm to the hovering innkeeper’s wife.

“Now,” he said, “let’s have some haggis.”

“I know what’s in it. I asked Agnes. It doesn’t sound very appetizing, Colin.”

“You will accustom yourself. Everyone around you will eat it and enjoy it. Our children will be weaned on it. Thus, I suggest you try it now.”

Their children! She stared at him, her mouth open. Children! Good God, they’d been married less than a week.

He grinned at her, understanding her reaction. “I worked you too hard, very true, but I did spill my seed in you three times, Joan. It’s possible you are already carrying my child.”

“No,” she said very firmly. “No, I am too young. Besides, I’m not at all certain I want to do it yet. When poor Alex was pregnant she vomited all the time, at least at first. She would suddenly turn white and simply be sick. Hollis, our butler, had a sick pan placed discreetly in every room at Northcliffe Hall.” She looked pained at the memories and shook her head again. “No, I won’t do it, Colin. No, not yet.”

“I fear you have no choice in the matter. It is many times the result of lovemaking and—”

That got her attention. She dropped her fork and stared at him. “Lovemaking. What an odd way to refer to what you did to me. Surely there is something else more appropriate to call it. Like your infamous tupping.”

“There are many words that are used to refer to the sex act,” he said in a pedantic voice, ignoring her sarcasm. “However, in my experience, ladies prefer poetry and euphemisms, so lovemaking is the more accepted form of reference. Now, you will lower your voice, madam. If you haven’t noticed, there are people around us and they may be savages in your aristocratic English eyes, but they are my people and not at all deaf.”

“I didn’t ever say that. You’re being—”