The Winter Wife

She let him take her hand and raise her to her feet. Who would have thought so much touching was involved when they agreed to share this room? But she was in too much of a daze to protest as he led her to the small table and slid a filled plate before her.

She was so tired that it hardly registered that Kinvarra acted the perfect companion. When she couldn’t eat much of the hearty but simple fare, he summoned the maids to clear the room. Without her having to ask, he granted her privacy to prepare for bed. Although she was too weary to do much more than a quick cat wash. When Kinvarra returned from the corridor, she was already in bed, still wearing her clothes.

What happened now? Surely after all this time, he wouldn’t demand his marital rights, whatever frail accord they’d established. Still, apprehension tightened her stomach and she clutched the sheets to her chest like a nervous virgin.

He glanced across at her, black eyes enigmatic in the candlelight. Inevitably the moment reminded her of their wedding night. He’d been the perfect companion then, too. Her gentle knight, the beautiful earl her parents had chosen, the kind, sm

iling man who had made her

laugh and blush and thrill with feelings she didn’t recognize. And who had taken her body with a painful urgency that had left her hurt and bewildered and crying.

After that, no matter what he did, she turned rigid with fear when

he came to her bed. After a couple of weeks, he’d stopped approaching her. After a couple of months, he’d stopped speaking to her, except to quarrel. After a year, she’d suggested they live apart and he’d agreed without demur. Probably relieved to have his pestilential wife off his hands.

He’d left England almost immediately on a four-year grand tour. When next she saw him, he’d become a worldly, supercilious stranger who barely spared her a word, and the pattern for their rare future encounters was set. She stayed in London while he mostly managed his Scottish estates, hundreds of miles to the north. When she’d left him, even that distance didn’t seem far enough. She’d never wanted to see

him again.

Alicia had spent their separation convinced that she bore all the injury in their marriage. Now, tonight, she wasn’t so sure that she was blameless for the disaster of their union.

She lowered her eyes and pleated the sheets with unsteady fingers.

“Are you coming to bed?”

One eyebrow arched in mocking amusement. “Why, Lady Kinvarra, is that an invitation?”

Her color rose. How lowering to be a woman of twenty-eight and still blush like an adolescent. “It’s a cold night. You’ve had a hard ride. I trust you.” Strangely, so quickly on top of her earlier uncertainty, it was true.

He released a short laugh and turned away. “More fool you.” Confused, she watched him set the big carved chair nearer to the

fire. He undressed down to breeches and a loose white shirt. “It’s only a

few hours until dawn. I’ll do quite well here, thank you.”

She’d completely misunderstood him. Not for the first time, she thought with the stabbing regret that seemed her constant companion tonight. When he’d first insisted they share a room, she’d wondered

if he had some darker purpose. Some plan to take the wife who so profligately offered herself to another man. To teach her who was her master.

But his actions now proved her wrong.

What did she expect? That he’d suddenly want her after all this time? She was a fool. She’d always been a fool where Sebastian Sinclair was concerned.

The constriction returned to her throat, the constriction that felt alarmingly like tears. She lay back and forced herself to speak. “Goodnight, then.”

“Goodnight, Alicia.”

He blew out the candles, leaving only the glow of the fire. On edge and preternaturally aware of his every move, she listened to him settle. He tugged off his boots and drew his greatcoat over him for warmth. There was an odd, familiar intimacy in hearing the creak of the chair and his soft sigh as he extended his legs toward the flames.

She stretched out. The bed was warm and soft and the sheets

smelled fresh. She was weary to the bone, but no matter how she

wriggled, she couldn’t find that one comfortable spot.

Recollections of the day tormented her. Harold’s craven desertion, which should have been a considerably sharper blow than it was. If her original plans had eventuated, she’d now be lying in his arms.

She should resent his weakness, his absence, but all she felt was vast relief. Her mind dwelled instead on Kinvarra’s unexpected gallantry. The fleeting moments of affinity in this room. The powerful memories of their life together, memories that tonight stirred poignant sadness instead of turbulent resentment.