Captain Amberton's Inherited Bride (Whitby Weddings 2)

Mrs Gargrave gaped open-mouthed as he stormed past her and back out to the hallway. His mother had designed the entrance to resemble a medieval great hall, with wooden beams across a high ceiling, oak floorboards and a matching oak table in the centre, a selection of antlers and coats-of-arms around the walls, and a perpetually crackling fireplace, in front of which Miss Harper now stood warming her hands.

She’d removed his greatcoat, he noticed, though not that ridiculously flimsy cloak. She hadn’t even pulled the hood back from her head. Was she ever going to take the damned thing off? He’d barely caught a glimpse of her face and what he had seen had been cast deep in shadow, as if she were trying to hide from him on top of everything else. The thought, aggravated by brandy, made him suddenly furious.

‘Come with me.’ He seized her hand as he limped past.

‘Where?’ She almost tripped over her skirts as she spun after him. ‘Your housekeeper said...’

‘My housekeeper had no business saying anything.’

He tightened his grip on her fingers as he mounted the staircase. There was no carpet here either, so that the hard tread of his footsteps echoed loudly around the cavernous hallway. Generally, he preferred to climb stairs on his own, or at least without an audience, but he was too angry now to care what she thought of him or his leg. If she was offended by his infirmity, then the sooner she got used to it, the better.

‘Where are we going?’

She tugged against him as they reached the half landing, but he held tight, hauling her up the right-hand branch of the staircase and down a wood-panelled corridor.

‘You can’t hold me here against my will!’

She sounded more defiant than frightened and he felt an unwonted flicker of admiration. He would have expected most women to burst into tears by now.

‘I’m offering you hospitality in a snowstorm, Miss Harper. Or would you prefer to be out on the moors by yourself?’

‘Better than being trapped here with a beast like you!’

He gritted his teeth. Was that how she thought of him, then, as a beast? Admittedly he wasn’t behaving much like a gentleman, but if that were the case then he’d show her just how much of a beast he could be!

‘Then let’s say I’m protecting you from yourself.’

He hauled her towards the furthermost door at the end of the corridor and took a rusty iron key from a hook on the wall, pushing it into the lock and twisting it around with a loud scraping sound. He doubted that the door had been opened more than a handful of times in the past ten years. The octagonal tower had been his mother’s sitting room, though after her death his father had covered the furniture in dust sheets and never set foot inside again. No one had found any use for it since, but for some reason it seemed particularly suited to Miss Harper. Hadn’t he once thought she belonged in a fairy-tale tower?

The lock clicked at last and he turned the handle, ramming one shoulder up against the door as an icy draught whistled past them.

‘Make yourself at home.’ He released her hand finally and gestured inside. ‘I’m sure you’d like a rest after your busy morning.’

‘In here?’ She sounded shocked and he felt a moment of misgiving. In truth, the place looked even more cold and cheerless than he’d expected.

‘In here.’ He hardened his heart mercilessly. ‘I think you’ll still find it preferable to the mines at Rosedale.’

‘But...’ She took a tentative step forward and then twisted her head sharply, sniffing the air as she did so.

‘You’re drunk!’

He caught a flash of sapphire from beneath her hood and let his temper get the better of him, lifting a hand and wrenching it back to reveal a pair of enormous blue eyes in a small, outraged-looking face. He stiffened in surprise. It was the same face, even the same expression she’d been wearing when they’d argued five years ago, as if time had stopped and she hadn’t aged a day. He’d thought of her first as a kitten, then as an ice maiden, and yet he seemed to have remembered every detail of her face perfectly, as if they’d been imprinted on his memory. There’d been enough women, too many women, in his life before and since, and yet hers was the face he remembered... How was it possible for her to have changed so little, while he felt as though he’d aged decades?

‘I’ve been drinking,’ he corrected her. ‘That doesn’t make me drunk.’

‘Really?’ She gave him a look that would have made Mrs Gargrave proud.

‘I take it that your father never drank in the daytime?’

‘He never drank at all.’

‘Of course.’ He adopted what he hoped was a suitably scathing expression. ‘I forgot what a paragon of virtue he was, but I’m afraid you’ll need to lower your standards here. I drink every day. Sometimes for breakfast.’

Her chin jutted upwards. ‘It’s not something to boast about.’

‘I’m simply stating a fact. You’ll need to get used to it when we’re married.’

‘I won’t marry you! It doesn’t matter how long you keep me here, I won’t change my mind. I don’t want to marry anyone, especially not a man like you!’