By this reck’ning he is more shrew than she.
—Act III, Scene 3
Gray fog, like wet wool, cloaked the roads and valleys, bearing with it a biting chill, a harkening of winter’s approach. For several miles, and what seemed like eons, Elizabeth held herself erect and silent, paying little heed to St. Ryne’s inane observations concerning the countryside and crops, or his body’s offering of warmth and shelter. Her attempts to ascertain their destination, or even their direction, were foiled, for St. Ryne assiduously avoided the main roads, taking a circular route that soon had Elizabeth lost. Time hung as heavy as the fog surrounding them.
Eventually even St. Ryne grew silent as they plodded across fields and along old cart trails. They rode for three hours—time enough for the ache in her back to become an agony then return to a dull throb. At some point she slipped closer to St. Ryne, feeling the warmth of his body on her back. She ceased to care, for such was the stuff of pride that she would exchange full measure for the warmth and dryness of a comfortable chair bya blazing fire. It was thus that their approach to Larchside went unnoticed, until the tired horse responded to his master’s pull on the reins before the steps of a feebly lit manor house.
Dazedly, Elizabeth raised her head to look about her, scarcely noting when St. Ryne encircled her slim waist to lift her down. She rested her hands on his shoulders for balance and briefly closed her eyes in relief, grateful they had reached their destination.
St. Ryne felt a surge of compassion for his beleaguered bride. She looked so frail and exhausted. He glanced up at the rundown manor, and a twinge of conscience swept over him for bringing her to Larchside. Gently he set her down before him.
“Ah-h!” Cold water shocked Elizabeth to her senses. She glanced down at the icy puddle in which St. Ryne had set her. “Fool!” she gasped. Her skirts, acting like a candlewick to oil at touching the water, were drenched, her thin shoes soaked. Shivering, she carefully picked a path to the steps.
St. Ryne closed his eyes briefly and ground his teeth in vexation. Why was it that whenever she was complacent and he felt remorse for his actions, some incident would occur to rekindle her temper?
“I wouldn’t be at all surprised if I caught pneumonia from this jaunt of yours,” she said through clenched teeth. “Where are we? What is this place?” She looked up at the unpretentious building.
“Larchside,” St. Ryne said as he splashed toward her.
“Larchside?”
“Yes. Your settlement.” He stooped to pick her up.
“Justin! What are you doing? Put me down!”
“Never, for we progress,” St. Ryne replied, carrying her up the steps. “That is the second time you have called me by name. Henceforth I shall live for the day it comes trippingly off your tongue,” he said blithely.
The front door of Larchside creaked open, and any scathing comments Elizabeth would have returned died aborning. She tightly compressed her lips and turned her head away from St. Ryne’s mocking countenance.
“Thank you, Atheridge,” St. Ryne said, as he carried Elizabeth into the hall, setting her down gently. “This is my wife,” he said, with a curious smile on his face. “The Viscountess St. Ryne.” He removed the sodden cloak from around her shoulders, handing it to Atheridge.
“My lady,” Atheridge returned dutifully, bowing before her.
Stunned, Elizabeth scarcely paid heed, her mind reeling from the scene before her. From what she could see, there was dirt and dust everywhere. She took a hesitant step into the hall, running a shaking finger over a side table. Its surface was sticky with grime. She wrinkled her nose at the close, musty smell of the house and the acrid odor of the cheap candles sputtering in their sockets and leaving soot streaks on the wall. At her feet, the colors of what was once a magnificent Aubusson carpet were indistinguishable. A look of horror and disgust captured her features.
St. Ryne noted her reaction with satisfaction. He relaxed, leaning back on his heels. He glanced at the waiting butler. “Is there a fire laid in the library? Good,” he said as Atheridge nodded. “We shall repair to that room for the moment. Be so good as to have Mrs. Atheridge step up here, please.”
“Yes, my lord,” Atheridge replied, his thin nose fairly twitching as he backed away quickly. Hurrying toward the kitchen, he scratched his head at the strange homecoming of the Viscount, wondering if Tunning could make any sense of it.
“All right,you have had your joke,” Elizabeth said, rounding on him as he closed the library door behind him. “What is it you expect me to do? Faint? Cry? What is your pleasure, my lord?” The title fairly dripped acid. She spun away from him to flick back Holland covers from chairs, coughing at the billows of dust she raised.
St. Ryne watched her in silence for a moment, then a slow smile crossed his face. “But, Bess, this is your home. Did you not see the marriage settlement? A property called Larchside was deeded to you. This is it.”
“This?” Elizabeth gasped out, her eyes streaming from the dust she raised.
St. Ryne nodded, a crooked smile twisting his features to sardonic amusement.
“How dare you! You make a mockery of-of?—”
“Tradition?” St. Ryne offered softly as he walked toward her. Elizabeth took an involuntary step backward, suddenly very nervous before the stranger who was her husband. Determined not to show it, her temper flared hotter.
“Yes, tradition, if you will. My father, in a mistaken idea of what was in my best interests, negotiated this miserable alliance with you, and you have, at every turn, made it a mockery. You, sir, are an insult to your rank!”
“And are you any better?” St. Ryne asked with a laugh. “Like to like, my dear,” he said, cupping her chin in his hand and forcing her to come closer to him and look up at him.
Elizabeth’s eyes blazed at hearing her father’s words echoed. She knocked his hand away. “Swine!” she hissed, then turned to continue removing dust covers. Behind her St. Ryne laughedaloud, and she cringed at hearing it, knowing she had not the power to put him in his place. He seemed to have an impenetrable hide.
At the sound of a knock at the door, St. Ryne turned away from watching his infuriated beauty. “Enter.”
