It was indeed dangerous information to hold, and the fact he shared it with her sent a flutter to her belly. She licked her lips. But did it make her situation more dangerous or less? The information could be used as a bargaining chip. something to hold over his head in case he ever decided to be rid of her.
Or a reason to make locking her away more attractive. In Bedlam, no one would believe her ravings.
If only she knew if she could trust him.
She pulled her hand from his and circled behind the settee, putting distance between them. “Even knowing this, I’m uncertain what can be done on your part to stop the riots. They seem to be happening all over Scotland. It’s too widespread to be coordinated, surely.”
“I disagree.” The filtered sunlight limned his wide shoulders. “One person or a small organization can coordinate a great deal, have tentacles in many places. If there is a power behind the violence, I intend to find him and put an end to it.”
To him. She saw the violence in his eyes. The hard set of his jaw. If her husband caught this person, he would kill him. Had he killed before? Was that the job of a spy?
The knowledge of such violence in Sinclair didn’t shock her. She should be horrified, but she wasn’t. He had a moral code. She hadn’t mapped it fully yet, but she knew he wouldn’t kill on a whim. That violence was carefully meted out on his part.
Others might not be so discriminating.
“You could get hurt,” she blurted out. Dear Lord, her husband was a spy. Under constant threat of harm. A pit opened in her stomach. She might not have to worry about her husband controlling her. She could be a widow at any moment.
The thought should be comforting. A widow had the most freedom of any woman in society. She ran her gaze from the toe of his muddy boots to the wrinkle in his cravat where he’d tugged on it. No, not even to assure her own safety could she wish harm to him.
“I’ll be fine.”
She huffed. “No man is invincible. Not even one as brawny as you.”
Sin shot her a cocky grin. “Don’t you worry, wife. Your husband hasn’t been bested by any man yet. This soon married, you won’t be getting rid of me so quickly.”
Such arrogance. Everybody was subject to injury, illness, and decay. Burly highlanders were no exception. “That is a myopic opinion.”
His smile faded. “Nevertheless, I’ve made my decision to investigate. The discussion is at an end.”
Of course, it was. Her jaw went stiff from clenching it. He asked for her opinion but didn’t truly wish to hear it. Why had she expected her husband to be any different?
“Of course, my lord.” She inclined her head. “Anything you wish.”
“Damn it!” He kicked the low table, the scones and sandwiches tumbling from their tray. “I didn’t mean it like that. And you don’t have to look at me like I just kicked a wee kitten. Even though I’ve made my decision, I don’t want you buttoning yourself up, hiding yourself away. What is going on in that perverse head of yours?”
A lump rose in her throat, choking her, until the words either had to burst out or she’d choke on them. “You said you wanted a partner in this marriage. That you wanted me to speak my mind. But it’s a lie. You want me to agree with you, not make trouble, never be a cause for embarrassment. I know what happens when a woman dares express herself.”
He stalked towards her and she backed away, trying to keep the settee between them. “What is it that happens, Winnifred? What has put it into your head that you have to hide your true self away?”
The back of her knees hit a corner table and buckled.
Sin leapt forward and grabbed her biceps, pulling her upright. He gave her a small shake. “Tell me what you’re so afraid of?”
“That you’ll send me away.” Her voice broke. “Like my father did my mother.”
A crease appeared in his forehead. “Your father said your mother died a decade ago.”
“She did.” Her pulse pounded in her ears, memories of the last time she’d seen her mother crashing through her brain. “In Bedlam.”
Sinclair stilled. “Your mother was in an asylum? Why?”
Winnifred yanked from his grip. Tears burned behind her eyes, but she’d had years of practice of never letting them fall. “Because she’d become an inconvenience to my father. She laughed too loudly, danced when there was no music, liked to throw feasts in the middle of the night.” She remembered the nights when her mother had come into her room. How she’d held her hands and spun and spun until they’d both fallen down. Even then, she’d known her mother hadn’t been quite right; but had she been so bad as to deserve banishment and death?
“She was high-spirted. Lively.” Until she wasn’t. After days of laughter and cuddles and running through the streets without her shoes, her mother would cave in on herself, become a shadow who wouldn’t leave her bed. The dramatic highs and lows had taught Winnifred the importance of controlling her spirits, of being measured in all things. She balled up her fist and pounded it onto her thigh. “She might have been unwell, but she didn’t deserve to be sent away. I could have looked after her,” she whispered.
Sin closed his eyes, his nostrils flaring. “Sweet mother of God.” When he looked at her, pity was heavy in his eyes. “Your father should have told me this.”
It wasn’t something her father liked to remember. He was riddled with his own doubts. He’d told Winnifred her mother would get better in an institution. Become fixed, as though she were one of his experiments he merely had to tweak to get the desired result.
