Which was why he liked being a spy. Hunting down an enemy was straightforward. Stopping them as easy as a hammer pounding a nail.
Managing an estate of 30,000 acres, with over 600 people, servants, tenants, and their families, all depending upon him, was a wee bit outside of his ken.
Winnifred worried the lace. “I apologize. My father’s work on botany has given me an especial interest in agriculture. I’ve learned a bit about it from him. But your business is your own.”
“It’s fine.” Leaning forward, he captured her hand, stilling her agitated movements. The sleeve of her jacket rucked under his hand, and warm skin met his palm. Her pulse leapt beneath his fingers, and Sin realized this was the first time he’d actually touched her flesh.
He stroked her wrist with his thumb, that small patch of skin an enticing tease.
She sucked her bottom lip into her mouth and let it out with a pop. “You did wish me to ask questions.”
“Aye. Be yourself with me, that’s all I ask.” Unlike the tenants of Dunkeld. Always simpering, bowing, and scraping to their marquess, telling him how great his ideas were, how generous, even though he had nothing to do with them. Even his mother couldn’t be counted on to tell him the truth. She refused to say what Sin had always known.
That he’d never be the marquess his father was.
“I’ve never been married before, either,” he said. “I am as ignorant as you as to the proper form of conduct between husband and wife. But if we’re to make it a success, we’ll need to be honest with each other. Tell each other what our needs; help each other to flourish.”
“A partnership?” She narrowed her eyes, and he could tell she didn’t believe him. Didn’t trust him although he’d given her no reason not to.
But they’d known each other all of eight days. Trust took time to develop. Trust and affection and, if they were fortunate, love.
He slid his fingertips from her skin, missing the contact instantly. Desire for his wife wouldn’t be an issue, at least.
She inhaled, her bosom rising.
Sin averted his eyes.
No, the only problem would be how to keep his hands off his wife until they reached Kenmore. Damn traditions.
He pounded on the ceiling, and the carriage rocked to a halt.
“Why are we stopping?” She leaned toward the window, looking outside. “There’s nothing here.”
“I need to ride horseback.” He pushed open the door and hopped down, avoiding the steps. “Call out if you need anything.” He shut the door on his wife, cutting off the sight of her soft skin and the faintest scent of oranges that surrounded her.
It was going to be a blasted long ten days.
Chapter Four
Winnifred took her husband’s hand and stepped down from the carriage. She arched her back, hearing a pop, and sighed. After eight days of travel, she never wanted to pack a trunk again. And there were still two more nights before they reached Sinclair’s home.
Her home.
He led her into the public house, a squat building at the intersection of two roads. Settling her at a table in the corner of the room, he left to make arrangements for their room and keep. As he had every night. And in that room, they’d sleep side-by-side, her under the covers and him atop, never touching.
She peeled off her gloves and dropped them on the table, her stomach a bundle of knots. While she’d been trepidations about the marital bed, the fact that her husband seemed to hold no interest in it was even more worrisome. She knew he’d felt honor-bound to marry her, but was she so unappealing to him that this would be a marriage in name only?
Sinclair returned, followed by a man and a woman bearing large platters of food and a jug of ale. Her husband sat across from her. “I hope you’re hungry. This establishment actually has some decent food. Black pudding and eels.” He rubbed his hands together. “I do miss good Scottish food living in London.”
The barkeep set plates of food down between them. “This close to the border you’ll find many of the public houses serve Scottish food. And you can enjoy it here without risking yer neck in the northern troubles. But none as good as my Bertha makes.” He beamed at the woman and took the platter from her hands.
“Troubles?” Winnifred poked her fork at the pudding, not liking the look of it.
“It’s nothing, I’m sure,” her husband said. “There have been some reports of fighting breaking out in cities. Public property being destroyed. But with us having such a poor growing season, tempers will spike.” Sinclair ripped the end off a loaf of bread and used it to hold a bit of eel in place as he speared it. He swallowed and tossed back a swallow of ale. “Very passable. My compliments to the cook.”
The woman pinked. “It’s not often we have one as fine as yourself to cook for, Lord Dunkeld.” She dropped into an inelegant curtsy. “A marquess and marchioness eating my food.” She dropped another curtsy. “It’s an honor, milord.”
“Now, Bertha, let’s let the happy couple eat in peace.” He took her elbow. “Jus’ holler if you need anything else, milord.”
