Sin tilted his head. “Why 1810?”
“There was another eruption the year before. Not on the scale of this past year’s one, but large enough in Mr. Raguhram’s estimation to provide similar effects, that an episode half a world away could drop ash in Spain.” She played with the lace cuff on her glove. “Environmental effects have been known to alter the flavor of wine. Grapes grown next to a lavender field will display elements of that flower. And grapes grown in an atmosphere of ash, should likewise develop its flavor. My father was to taste the wine, see if he detected any such thing on his palate, and then taste wine made from this year’s harvest. As I said, purely anecdotal evidence.”
Sin pursed his lips. The idea was intriguing. He was more a Scotch drinker, of course, but Summerset and Montague swore they could taste a myriad of flavors in a glass of wine that were undetectable to Sin. He tasted red or white.
“Your father wasn’t the one who tasted the wine.” Why he felt it necessary to poke at her, discover the woman behind the façade, he didn’t know. But they were man and wife now. A married couple shouldn’t be subject to artifice and polite pleasantries. He wouldn’t go through life with only the barest acquaintanceship with the woman bound to him.
A slight stain pinkened her creamy complexion. “I was thirsty.”
Sin huffed. “And? Did you detect traces of ash?”
She stared out the window again. “I wouldn’t know. My familiarity with spirits and wine is limited.”
“Hmph.” Sin glanced out his window and shifted position. Carriages weren’t made for men his size.
Winnifred slid to the side of her seat. “If you’d like, you can stretch your other leg up on the bench.”
Sin did so, his leg muscles singing with relief. “Aren’t you accommodating?”
She blinked. “Shouldn’t I be so?
He pinned her with a look. “I don’t know who you should be. I’m wondering who you are.”
The lace edge of her glove crumpled under her fingers. “I don’t understand. If I’ve displeased you, you only need to tell me how you’d like me to behave.”
What the …? Sin slammed his boots down to the floor. “I don’t know how ye English ladies like to behave when wed, but in Scotland, we like our women to have minds of yer own. I don’t want to be telling you how to behave. You’re my wife, not my dog.”
“I see,” she said faintly.
He doubted that. “You haven’t asked me one question. Not about the home I’m taking you to, my family who lives there, your duties as marchioness. Aren’t you curious?”
She fiddled with that damn lace, and Sin clenched his fists to keep from ripping the blasted frippery off her gloves.
“Yes,” she finally said. “Yes, I am curious. Tell me about my future home. Please. Where is your estate located?”
Settling back into his seat, Sin crossed one boot over the opposite knee. “About thirty miles north of the English border. Dunkeld lands used to extend all the way down, but”—he cleared his throat—“circumstances changed. We still have roughly three hundred acres, and Castle Kenmore is about midways between Glasgow and Edinburgh. It’s a damn drafty place in the winter but otherwise comfortable enough.”
“Do you spend much time there?” She cocked her head. “Your accent hardly shows. Except when you’re impassioned. It … it showed a bit when you were yelling.” She gave him a tentative smile, a true one this time, and the pressure in his chest eased a bit.
“That wasn’t yelling, wife.” The edge of his lip curled up. “And I’ve spent most of my life in England. First in school, and now with my duties in the House of Lords. But never doubt that I’m a Scot, through and through.”
She scooted forward in her seat. “Does it bother you having an English wife? I had a Scottish friend when I was younger, and he said his parents would have shunned him had he come home with a Sassenach.”
He bit back a grin at her pronunciation of the Scottish word. “English, Scottish, French, it doesn’t matter. You’re mine now.” Something velvety slid through his veins at those words.
Her lips parted. The bottom one was full, plump, and the desire to scrape it between his teeth gripped him.
Winnifred cleared her throat. “What will my duties as marchioness be? Gentlewomen have been raised to be noblemen’s wives, but I have not. I will need some time to learn.”
Sin considered. Between his steward, butler, and his mother, the Dunkeld estate ran smoothly. With very little interference on his part, as he liked. He didn’t rightly know what his wife’s duties would be. “We’ll have to ask my mother.”
She nodded. “What are your major crops and what are their yield? And what type of irrigation system do you have?”
“Trench irrigation, and the usual crops. Barley, wheat, potatoes, that sort of thing.” Had they added the corn his steward had talked about last year? Sin couldn’t remember.
“And your yield?”
He hardened his jaw. Perhaps having her ask questions hadn’t been the best of ideas. He glared at his boots. His father would have known the answer to any question about Kenmore. Would have known which crop was their biggest producer, which tenants perhaps needed a little more help. Sin could help bring in the harvest with the best of them, but he would never have the acumen to run the estate like his father.
