To Tempt a Scotsman (Somerhart 1)

"I am not asking for anything. If I want to beg protec­tion from a man, I will go to my brother and send him after you. You are the only man who has done me injury, my lord. You have revealed yourself." Her words stirred laugh­ter in her mouth. Revealed yourself. She saw again the red jut of Dixon's manhood. A giggle escaped. The sound seemed to wound her husband. He cringed, rubbed a hand hard over his eyes.

"Alexandra. Wife. I'm sorry. I don't know why—"

"The same reason you always have, I suppose. Your sus­picion of my very nature. Your hatred of me."

"Oh, God. I don't hate you. I love you. It is eating away at me."

"You love me?" Those precious words twisted from her lips like the vilest poison. "How dare you."

"Caitein, I'm sorry. I just, I feel mad with you some­times, as if I have no control over my life."

Thank God for her anger. She could feel terrible things lurking beneath it, not yet revealed. Some piece of her had broken off in a jagged chunk that scraped and wounded. My God, could she never make a wise choice in her life? She had given everything to this man. Everything. And he thought her no better than a rutting cat, rubbing herself against every male in her reach. Caitein, he called her. Caitein.

"When I saw you with that man, and I knew there was something between you. . . Please, will you forgive me my words?"

"And what of your thoughts? Shall I forgive those also, do you think? A lot of forgiveness for how often you think them."

The familiar heat of his fingers took h

er hand and pulled her toward him. She yanked away.

"Don't. And don't speak anymore, I can't stand to hear it." She met his eyes dead on and saw a twinge of panic spark from their silver depths. "Tomorrow perhaps," she hissed when his lips parted, "when I don't wish to scratch out your eyes."

Looking away to fight that very temptation, she turned to the window, wide open to the cold night air. Her skin burned even in the cool of a hard frost, just as her eyes burned, dry and rough with the need for tears that would not come.

She was aware of his every move across from her—his gradual shift from anger to resignation, body easing back to slump against the seat; the occasional shift of his knee too close to hers. For some reason she did not want him to see her move, did not want to reveal even a breath to him. She was a statue, cool and rigid and utterly immune to his wild insults. She needed him to look at her and see nothing close to vulnerability.

Fighting even the rocking of the carriage, she thought her neck might snap at the next rut in the road. And per­haps that would be best for all involved, particularly her. What a mess she'd made of so many lives. This was what came of trying to do the right thing for once. At least when she did the wrong thing, she could expect the worst out­come, anticipate it and brace herself. But this . . .

Minutes passed. Then miles. The cold seeped into her as they rolled on, furthering her fantasy that she was made of stone. Smooth and hard and lovely, her skin froze in the caress of the bitter wind, and she hardened her mind as well, sculpted it until all her thoughts focused on the fas­cinating clouds of her breath escaping into frost.

Collin snapped the window shut with a crack and a curse and ruined that for her too. He leaned forward to rummage beneath his seat for a blanket, but the carriage was already tilting right, taking the hard turn that led toward home, no more than three minutes . . . maybe four in the pitch black of the moonless night.

Weight pressed her knee, drawing her eyes from their distance to see his hand on her leg. "We can't stay silent forever, Alex. Can we not discuss this?"

She stared at this hand, so wide and strong. So warm and deceptively gentle. She stared until he removed it from her person to clench it against his thigh.

A hot stove flared to life in her gut. She felt like herself again, like the self she'd hidden from him and his suspi­cions. Oh, and she had tried so hard to bury her hard-to-love boldness beneath layers of pleasantness, obedience. For him.

His hand rose again, hovering over her knee.

"Don't touch me." A sharp stop bounced her back against the seat. They were home. His home. "And find an­other bed tonight. I do not wish to sleep near you."

"Damn it—"

"Shut up." She darted out the door when it swung open, dragging her beautiful silver skirts against the carriage frame with not the least twinge of regret. She landed in a scrambling heap and pushed past the stunned groom to stomp her way up the stairs and into the gloom of West-more.

"Send a glass of wine to my chamber," she growled at a sleepy maid and stalked toward her room. Perhaps he would sleep with Rebecca tonight. Perhaps this would be just the excuse he needed to fall between that bitch's thighs. And Lord help her if she dared to bring Alex's wine herself. She'd finally get the slap that she'd been begging for these past weeks.

Oh, things had gotten worse on that front, as if the housekeeper knew of the failed attempt to push her out. Now she didn't even feign deference. She spoke to the other servants in Gaelic even when Alex was in the room. She smirked at her when they were alone.

Oh, yes, Alex hoped she would be the one to bring her wine. She would find a new Mrs. Blackburn awaiting her sneering face. Alex's palm itched at the thought but, in the end, Danielle pushed through the door, glass in one hand and decanter in the other. She clicked the bedroom door closed with a jut of one hip.

"How was your evening, Madame?"

"Tiring."

"We keep farmer's hours now," her maid replied with a huff. The woman must have something against farmers, Alex thought as she turned her back to offer the tapes of her gown.