Her sheath clutched at his length, heat spreading throughout her body. She fisted her hands, digging her own nails into her skin, fighting to control the rising tide of sensation. That feeling of breaking apart he’d given her two days ago had been lovely, but it shouldn’t be replicated. It had left her too open when she needed her walls. She would take a moderate enjoyment as her husband found his pleasure in her, and it would be enough.
Sinclair grunted and hooked his arm under her knee, pushing her leg high. The angle changed, his manhood stroking along a new set of nerves, and a moan tumbled past her lips.
“That’s it.” He held himself tight to her pelvis and ground his pubic bone against her sensitized bud. “Get there.”
Shudders wracked her body. Turning her head, she pressed her cheek into the cool satin of the pillow. He’d have to finish soon. She only needed to hold out a little longer.
He growled. “Why are you fighting this? Fighting me?” He yanked on her hair, pulling her head up to his. He crushed his lips to hers, the kiss savage, stealing her breath. He drove faster, harder. Every time he bottomed out, she felt a pinch deep in her core, the bite of pain swirling with her pleasure until she could decipher which was which. Her husband was relentless. A force of nature she struggled to resist.
Her body spiraled tighter and tighter until there was nothing left to fight. The orgasm bordered on pain the relief was so great. Pulses rocked her body, the pleasure spiraling outward until it reached her curled toes. She cried out as he bit down on the tendon where her neck met her shoulder. Heat flooded her core as he muttered profanities in her ear.
The pleasant haze around her brain lifted, the sounds of their ragged breathing intruding. His weight was heavy against her, his heat her only warmth as her body rapidly cooled. She released her hold on her husband, realizing that she was digging her nails into his back hard enough to draw blood.
Which he only deserved. Her body felt bruised, from the inside out, pleasure and soreness warring with each other for dominance. Her muscles were limp with fatigue from the pleasure he’d unwillingly wrung from her.
She’d lost control. Again. Tears burned the backs of her eyes. Was this how it started for her mother? The beginning of the end?
Sinclair pulled out of her body, the feeling as foreign as it was good. He rolled to sitting, planting his legs on the ground off the side of the bed. Looking over his shoulder, his dark blue gaze pinned her in place.
“Wife. We need to talk.”
Chapter Eight
Winnifred tucked her cloak more tightly about her thighs, but the damp still crept through. The umbrella she held above her and Sinclair’s head was next to useless when the very air was heavy with moisture.
“This mist might help the crops at least,” she said, injecting cheer into her voice.
Sinclair grunted and slapped the reins onto the back of the cart horse soundly.
She smothered her sigh. He’d barely spoken all day. Ever since she’d answered his inquiries last night with bland placations. She’d been tempted, so very tempted, to tell him her fears She knew her marriage didn’t have a chance of being a truly happy one unless she was honest with her husband.
But an average marriage, where the husband and wife were merely civil companions, was far better than most alternatives.
Sinclair drove their cart down the next drive, a stone cottage rounding into view. The thatched roof was worn thin in a couple of spots and a bare-footed child chased chickens in the yard. The girl caught sight of the cart. “Mam! Da! Someuns comin’.”
A middle-aged couple emerged from the cottage, both looking as faded as unpicked hay. The woman’s eyes opened wide and she dropped a deep curtsy as they pulled to a stop. The man gave a brusque nod.
Sinclair jumped from the cart, landing heavily. He reached up and grasped her waist, swinging her down. “Farmer Beattie. How fare you?”
The man spit into the dirt, his saliva dark and thick, turning Winnifred’s stomach. “Aboot as well as ever’one else.” He looked Sinclair up and down and turned his gaze on Winnifred. “Not as well-fed as some.” The disgust in his look had Winnifred taking a step back.
So many of the tenants they’d visited today had shown the same anger. Nothing that could be classified as outright disrespect, but nothing polite in their manner, either.
Sinclair shifted his body partway between her and the farmer. “I’m sorry to hear that. This is my new bride, the Marchioness of Dunkeld.”
Winnifred nodded to the couple, and the man, grudgingly, returned it.
Sinclair swept his hand out, indicating the cart. “I’ve ordered supplies to be sent up from London but until they arrive, my cart is full of food from Kenmore. Take what you need.”
Beattie huffed. “From London, ye say. We dunnae want the help of the English.”
His wife elbowed his side. “Hush. The marquess is bringing us food.” She dipped another curtsy. “Thank’ee, milord. We’re ever so grateful.”
Her husband harrumphed, but followed Sinclair to the rear of the cart.
Sinclair flipped back the canvas covering the baskets and crates of goods they’d brought. The farmer’s shoulders unbunched when he saw the array of goods in front of him. “Fresh bread? And meat pies?” He grabbed a crate. “Thanks,” he said roughly.
Sinclair handed his wife a bag of oranges. “The fruit isn’t fully ripe, but they can still be a good treat.”
