“… only one-third of our wheat crops and the barley never sprouted more than a couple inches from the dirt.” Tavish ran a hand over his head, a tuft of snowy hair sticking straight up in back. “Tempers are running high, even among our tenants. People are getting hurt in these riots.”
Sin pounded his fist into his thigh. “What do they think fighting with each other will do? It’s the bloody weather. Only God can change it.”
The older man shrugged. He’d been in the Dunkeld’s service for three generations of marquesses. A young page with Sin’s grandfather, head footman then steward under his father. He knew about the running of the Dunkeld estate than Sin could learn in three lifetimes. There was no one whose judgment he trusted more.
“When ye have only a wee bit, your neighbor having even jus’ a cupful more seems unfair.” Tavish shook his head. “Unless the sun shows her face soon, it will only get worse.”
Sin dropped his boots down to the floor. He was skilled at hunting enemies of the state, stopping plots, eliminating threats. But crop failures? Famine? There was fuck all he could do about that.
His impotence burned a hole in his gut.
Sin stared up at the portrait of his father that hung behind the desk.Hewould have known what to do.
“I can’t make the sun shine, but I’ll try to alleviate its effects on my people.” He stood and paced the room. “Write to my man in London. Tell him to start sending shipments of grain to Kenmore. Apples. Whatever he can get his hands on that will survive the journey. I’ll contact Montague. With his shipping company, he should be able to help.” He rested his forearm on the top sill of the window and stared out onto Loch Munro. His friend would help. Sin throwing blunt at the problem would provide a bit of relief, as well. And that was the extent of his power. He fisted his hand until it went white. “Tomorrow, I’ll speak to the tenants. See what I can do to ease the tension.”
A thread of panic wrapped around his chest and squeezed. He was the fourth Marquess of Dunkeld. He’d been given much: a thriving estate, enough wealth to keep an army of bankers happy, tenants who had formed a real community. What would he leave to his children? He was supposed to be the steward of his inheritance, and he didn’t know the first thing about how to preserve it. Hundreds of people would suffer if he failed.
He knocked his fist against the wall and took a deep breath. It would help no one if he showed his fear. Even if he deferred his decisions to Tavish, Sin would at least have to appear to be in control. The people depending on him expected it. He might never be the marquess his father was, but he could damn well make it look as though he knew what he was doing even as the walls tumbled down.
If it wasn’t for Winnifred, Sin would jump on his horse and manage the food shipments from London himself.
Winnifred. His mind filled with thoughts of her. Taking a wife was one duty he had managed to fulfill as a marquess.
There was another duty he had yet to undertake. His reflection in the window smiled back at him. That was a duty that was easily accomplished. One he had been looking forward to for ten excruciating nights. This was one thing he could control, one part of being a marquess, being a man, that he understood. Satisfying a wife; making her round with his child.
It was the first responsibility he’d had as marquess that he not only felt fully competent to handle, but greedy to take on.
There was nothing more he could do for his tenants today.
But he sure as hell could fuck his wife.
Chapter Seven
He hunted her down in the kitchen.
Winnifred stood, bent over a large wooden table, and his gaze landed on her round arse. She truly was a fine figure of a woman. Well-proportioned and large enough where he wasn’t afraid of crushing her beneath him. And beneath that arse were two pale and plump thighs, and betwixt those thighs was the sweetest—
“Milord!” The cook caught sight of him first and sketched a quick bow curtsy. “Welcome home.”
Sin nodded to the man, but didn’t take his eyes off of Winnifred.
She tucked a strand of honey-brown hair behind her ear. “Husband, I was just preparing a tray of food to be sent up to you. I didn’t know how late you and your steward would be working.”
“Most thoughtful of you.” He stepped close to her and inhaled. Between the odors of raising bread and cooked meat, he scented her. Citrus and warm women. “I do have quite a hunger.”
A light flush crawled up her neck, and she shifted her weight.
She was as hesitant as a young doe faced with a wildcat for the first time. Not knowing if it were friend or foe. If she was protected … or prey.
His heartbeat thrummed through his body, echoing in his ears. That dark place in him, the one he’d worked hard to tame, blinked awake. God help him but he liked her this way. Nervous. Unsure. Waiting for him to pounce. He grinned, showing his teeth. He didn’t want to disappoint her, so pounce he would.
Grabbing the tray of food with one hand and her elbow with the other, he drew her out of the kitchen and up the stairs to their bedchambers. He pushed the door to his room open with his boot and kicked it shut behind them.
Winnifred clasped her hands together, her knotted fingers hovering over the vee between her legs, and paced to the center of the room. She slowly twisted in a circle, examining her surroundings, before facing him, her face expressionless.
“Are you frightened?” Sin set the tray on the low table before the fireplace. He rolled up a thin slice of venison and placed it on his tongue. He watched her as an explosion of flavor burst on his tongue.
She didn’t pretend to not understand him. “We are married. You need heirs. I am nothing if not practical about the necessity of procreation.”
