The Winter Wife

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.

“Damn it, Alicia…” He drew in a shuddering breath and the hand on the chair tightened until his knuckles shone white in the flickering firelight.

“I’m not…I’m not attempting to seduce you,” she said, and suddenly wondered whether that was the truth.

What in heaven’s name was wrong with her? Surely she couldn’t want to revisit the messy humiliations of her married life. Memories of those fumbling, painful encounters had tormented her since she’d left him.

Kinvarra’s long, lean body was as taut as a violin string. Tension vibrated in the air.

He closed his eyes as if he was in agony. “I know. Dear God, I know.” His chest rose as he sucked in a shuddering breath. He opened his eyes again and stared at her, his gaze blazing across the distance between them. “But if I get into that bed, there’s no way I’ll keep my

hands to myself. And I don’t want to hurt you again. I couldn’t bear to hurt you again.”

She was appalled to hear the naked pain in his voice. This wasn’t the man she remembered. That man hadn’t cared that his passion had frightened and bewildered his inexperienced bride.

This man sent excitement skittering through her veins and made her burn for his touch. She’d never felt like this. It was like balancing on the edge of a cliff over a wild sea. Dear God, was she likely to end up smashed on the rocks below? The answer didn’t matter. It was too late for caution.

On unsteady arms, she raised herself against the headboard and

drew in a breath to calm her rioting heartbeat. Another breath. She took