Sin nodded and tore off another hunk of bread.
Dust from the road dirtied his cravat and coat, and tendrils of hair had escaped his queue. Her husband looked rough, uncivilized, yet utterly confident and content, like a man who knew he could control every space and situation he found himself in. Each day, even after hours in the saddle, Sin would tease one of their young footmen into a race, his exuberant shouts drawing her head out the carriage window to watch the men play. Every evening he ate his meal with gusto, satisfaction making the edges of his lips curl up. Her husband was a man of large appetites.
Except, it appeared, for her.
He took another swallow of wine. “You’re not eating. I can have them bring you something more English, if you’d prefer.”
Picking up her knife, she forced a smile.Never appear upset. Never give cause for concern. “This is fine. Besides, I’ll have to become accustomed to Scottish food.”
He stared at her, unblinking. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” She placed a bite of the foreign sausage on her tongue and smiled around it, like it was the most delicious thing in the world. Her throat rebelled but she forced herself to swallow. Dear Lord, she would never become accustomed to this.
“I thought we’d agreed to honesty.” He pushed his plate away. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
She set her silverware down and clasped her hands on her lap. He seemed so sincere about wanting to hear her thoughts. But a woman who freely expressed herself was a dangerous thing. No matter how earnest her husband seemed, she could never let her guard down. Only bad things happened to those who did.
“Winnifred? I’m waiting.” And he didn’t sound patient about it.
“It’s truly …” The word ‘nothing’ died on her lips under his withering glare. She sucked on her bottom lip. Would voicing this particular thought truly be so bad? This was a concern that most wiveswouldprobably raise with their husbands. She wouldn’t be considered queer for raising it. She hoped.
She made fists under the table. “It’s only, we’ve been married for eight days now.” Eight days and seven empty nights.
“I’m aware of that.”
“And you haven’t … we haven’t …” She glanced around the room but no other patrons were within hearing distance. Still, she leaned forward and whispered, “Don’t you wish to produce heirs?”
He pressed his lips flat. His eyes, as deep blue as a sapphire, went as hard as that gem. A small muscle ticked in his forehead.
Sweat gathered at the small of her back, dampening her gown. “Any wife would wonder. My question is perfectly common.”Never appear different from the crowd.
“I didn’t say it wasn’t.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “And I should have spoken of it before. But speaking of the act wouldn’t help my situation.” He cleared his throat. “There is a custom among the Archer family. Every Marquess of Dunkeld has bedded his wife for the first time in the ancestral bed.” A delicate flush pinkened his cheeks. “Perhaps it seems foolish, but I didn’t want to be the first one to break that tradition.”
“Oh.” A tradition without a reason was as illogical as a superstition to Winnifred, but at least it answered her question. Her husband intended to have an intimate marriage.
Which left her with two more nights to fret over that particular marital duty. She wished it were over and done with. Lying next to her husband, wondering if he was going to touch her that night, dreading it yet always somehow disappointed when he didn’t, was its own form of torture. He was a big man. A strong man. And one who didn’t seem to care about the niceties. Yet he held her hand ever so gently. His contradictions intrigued her, and she couldn’t help but wonder how he would behave when he took his husband’s privilege.
Heat swept from her chest up to her cheeks. She needed to redirect her thoughts to something less impure. She landed on something he’d said. “What situation wouldn’t it help?”
His gaze locked onto hers. “The one where I’ve thought about taking my wife every which way and can barely restrain myself from rutting into you every time we are alone together.”
Her mouth went dry and she sucked on her bottom lip. That hadn’t helped to purify her thoughts at all. But she’d asked. It wasn’t Sinclair’s fault she didn’t know what to do with the answer.
But her husband seemed to have an idea. “Are you finished with your meal?”
She’d barely touched the dish, but was happy for any excuse not to finish it. “Yes.”
Standing, Sinclair held out a hand and pulled her to her feet.
“Where are we going?”
He picked up her gloves and tucked them into his pocket. “Even though consummation must wait, I do believe it is time I took care of my neglected wife.”
***
He pressed the door to their rented chambers shut and leaned against it.
Winnifred stood by the bed, clenching and unclenching her hands.
