She showed him the master chamber coldly, watching him inspect the bed and wardrobe. Her father’s clothes were still in the cabinet and he gestured to them.
“These will be removed immediately to make way for my possessions,” he said. “We will have to move another wardrobe in here for you. There is not enough room in this one for both of us.”
She looked at him. “My things are in my room. We will not share a wardrobe.”
“Nay, we will not, but we will be sharing this chamber and it will prove bothersome for you to constantly be moving from one room to the other to retrieve your belongings.”
She gazed at him as if the thought of sharing a chamber with him had never occurred to her. “I do not intend to share this chamber with you. You may have it to yourself.”
He slanted her a glance. “You will be my wife and you will share my chamber. This will be our chamber.”
“I do not want to share your chamber,” she repeated, her jaw ticking stubbornly. Marrying him was one thing, but sharing his chamber was entirely another. “I will demand my privacy, my lord. Husband or no.”
“And I will demand my wife, whenever I please. We will not discuss this, my lady. I have made my wishes known.”
“As have I,” she backed away from him, her hatred blooming. “I do not wish to share your chamber. I will not.”
“Aye, you will.”
She turned on her heel and marched from the room. Quick as a flash, Alec bolted after her, throwing her up over his shoulderand hauling her back into the bedchamber. Tossing the kicking, shouting bundle onto the mattress of the oversized bed, he threw himself atop her.
Peyton fought and twisted and beat at him, but it was like striking iron. His hands captured her wrists as his body pinned her firmly to the bed and he waited patiently for the tirade to die down. Movements lessened as Peyton exhausted herself, although Alec was surprised to realize how strong she was. As petite and fragile as she appeared, her strength was amazing.
When her movements diminished to hard panting and angry grunts, he cocked a reproving eyebrow.
“That will be enough of that,” he rumbled. “The future is dictated to you and all of the protesting in the world will not change what is to be. The sooner you accept it, the better.”
She refused to meet his eye. She could feel his hot breath on her cheek as he spoke, his voice low and quiet. But the power behind the tone was unmistakable and she was frightened and infuriated further.
His reaction to her confession in the painting room stayed with her, his cold response. She tried to tell herself that it did not matter, that she was merely marrying him because she was being forced to and that the chances for emotional attachment were impossible. Yet there was a small part of her that wanted to hear a word of sympathy, to let her know that he understood her loss just the slightest. The idea of spending the rest of her life with a man as cold as the Welsh snows was depressing.
“Are you rational enough that I might let you up?” he asked quietly, breaking into her tumultuous thoughts.
She nodded once. Promptly, he pushed himself up and Peyton bolted from the bed, straightening her gown as Alec resumed his position before the wardrobe. “Now, as I was saying. Before we leave here today, I will set the servants to clean out this wardrobe and….”
“I hate you,” she whispered, interrupting him.
He paused to look at her. “What did you say?”
Peyton turned her gaze to him then, the sapphire blue eyes blazing. “You heard me. I said I hate you. I shall always hate you. I hope the reward of St. Cloven is enough to balance the animosity of your wife.”
He stared at her, reading her anger and a great deal of pain, although he wasn’t sure where the pain was rooted. Was it because he had asked about her betrothed? Because he had forced her to speak of a tragedy she was still coming to grips with? He wished he could tell her of his own brush with sorrow, but he simply wasn’t ready to. Not yet.
Strangely, he felt a genuine twinge of remorse at her negative declaration. He did not want her to hate him, just as he did not want to hate her.
“Time will tell, my lady,” he replied softly.
She left the room and he let her go.
*
The ride toBlackstone was silent. Ivy sat before Ali, quiet and befuddled while Peyton and Alec all but ignored one another. The birds in the trees twittered noisily and an occasional rabbit scuttled through the underbrush, but astride the massive chargers, the four riders were as still as stone as each one was lost to their own thoughts.
Peyton wasn’t particularly concerned with Alec’s thoughts at the moment, merely her own. The whole world was unbalanced; she was to marry a cold, unfeeling man whom she loathed. Ivy had not spoken since Ali had carted her from the ale storehouse, adding more troubles to her confusion. Fretting over what had happened between her sister and the black soldier set her headaching again and she was eager to be alone with Ivy if only so they could commiserate their miserable futures.
She found herself damning the satchel of valuables that had been left behind on their hasty retreat from Blackstone. Had they been careful enough to count their baggage, the mistake would not have been made. Alec Summerlin would not have been forced to return their parcel, and their grand scheme to disillusion Baron Rothwell would have succeeded.
The uncomfortable silence stretched into endless miles. Then, somewhere in the midst of the silence Ivy’s voice could be heard. Much to Peyton’s surprise, she realized that her sister was making an attempt at conversation with Ali. She cast her sister a curious glance and was shocked to note a smile on Ivy’s lips as she spoke.
