He pressed a finger to her lips. “Hush.” One side of his mouth curved up. “I like it when you fight dirty.” He leaned closer, his breath caressing her cheek. “I like it when you fight. Full stop.”
The hunger in his gaze made something deep within her unfurl. This man could consume her, strip her restraint as easily as he did her dress. Part of her thrilled at the abandon he evoked; another part, the one she’d listened to all her life, wanted to run away in terror.
Turning back to the desk, she put away her pen and paper and stacked her outgoing correspondence with military precision. She gathered up the letters she’d received and reached for a ribbon to tie them together.
Sin inhaled sharply and grabbed the bundle. He pulled the top-most letter from the stack and read the return address, his jaw clenching.
“You said you hadn’t spoken since he called here.” He flicked his wrist, and the paper snapped open.
Her stomach clenched, and she gripped the edge of her desk to resist the urge to snap her letter from his hands. He had no right to read her correspondence.
A husband had all the rights in a marriage.
“We haven’t spoken,” she said, proud that her voice sounded so even. “That is a letter I received just today. And as you can see, contains nothing but banal pleasantries and well-wishes for the future.”
“Have you received other communications from him?”
“A few.” Letters laced with regrets and fond memories of their time together in London. Winnifred had contemplated tossing the letters. His remembrances were tainted with his last proposition. But it seemed disrespectful to someone she had once cared for.
Sin held out his hand, palm up. “I will take those now.”
Her back stiffened. “I didn’t realize my correspondence were subject to inspection.”
He held the back of her chair, his knuckles going white. “When my wife is receiving letters from a former beau, and a suspect in treason, everything is subject to inspection.”
She clenched her hands. “He was never a beau.”
“The letters.” He held out his hand.
Hand trembling, she yanked open the top drawer of her desk and found the two missives from Donald. She threw them at her husband’s chest.
He read them quickly, his face darkening. “What does he mean? He wishes that circumstances were different and implies you made an incorrect decision. Did he ask you to marry him?”
Was that outrage or disbelief in his voice? Winnifred told herself it didn’t matter. Her husband had certain rights, and knowing the history of his wife wasn’t remarkable. She would remain calm.
“No.” She was proud of how steady she sounded. Her dispassion was familiar territory. A refuge that was second-nature.
A defense that numbed her to her soul. “He would never have considered marrying a woman who wasn’t Scottish.”
“Hmm.” He tossed the letters on the desk. “Still closer to you then I like. It’s fortunate for me that you aren’t the sort of woman to embolden such behavior.”
Heat crawled up her face. Slowly, she pushed to her feet. No, she wasn’t a beauty eligible bachelors had vied for. Nor the sort to flirt or engage men with her wit. And definitely not the sort of woman to make a fuss over an insult from her husband.
She turned, her heart beating quicker. Oh, but how she wanted to be. “No, Donald didn’t ask for my hand in marriage. He asked me to be his mistress.”
The shocked silence gave her a grim sense of satisfaction. When Donald had asked her that in her father’s laboratory those years’ ago, she had been shocked, too. He had made his affection clear, his desire for more, and as a woman of science, she knew what it was he wanted. She’d thought his desire would lead to a marriage proposal, however. That he couldn’t think her so reckless as to accept.
“He also didn’t think I was the type of woman who would receive many proposals.” Her pulse raced beneath her skin. “That I would be grateful to accept the alternative.” And she’d thanked him.Thanked. Him. Before politely refusing. She hadn’t let herself become agitated. Couldn’t show her distress because bad things happened to those who did.
Two points of color rode high on his cheeks. “Repeat that,” he growled.
“What?” She flexed her hands but the itch, the tremble in them remained. “That you were correct, your wife is completely lacking in attractions to the opposite sex that you were my first marriage proposal.” She shoved at his chest.
He blinked, but didn’t move otherwise.
“That all a woman like me is entitled to is an offer to tup in the back of her father’s shed?” She put all her weight into it, pushing against him as hard as she could, needing to be able to move him. Nothing. She hit him instead, pounding her fists into his unflinching body. “Yes, you are fortunate indeed that you need never worry that your wife will dally with another, as no man will have her. Her appearance won’temboldenanyone to impropriety.” She’d always been too tall, too sturdy, too charmless to make an impression on men, and it had never mattered to her. Being plain had been a blessing in her need to fade out of sight, not bring attention to herself and make herself a target.
But she had hoped her husband would look at her differently, thought that he had, that he’d found her appearance pleasing. Pleasing enough to ravish every night.
