“I see. He will get something to eat, won’t he?”
“Of course, Mrs. Andrews.” The butler almost bristled.
“And he has gone to a different room?” Arabella suddenly felt that the piece of goose she was putting on her plate weighed a thousand pounds.
“I will show you to his bedchamber after dinner, Mrs. Andrews.”
“That’s not necessary. The doctor knows where my bedchamber is.” She returned the serving forks to the platter and turned away from the butler, not wanting to see his reaction.
“Mrs. Andrews?”
She turned back to the butler. “Yes?”
“In case you change your mind, he is in the third room on the left in the other wing.”
“I won’t change my mind.”
The dinner was dull. The guests felt the lack of exercise, the sense of being trapped. But the snow had mercifully stopped falling.
Alasdair had been glad to eat alone. He had taken the shirt off again when he realized how messy the job of eating with just one hand would be. He could cut nothing. He sat on the floor, cross legged, naked from the waist up except for the sling and swathe and leaned over and forked up the meat from a plate and tore off pieces with his teeth.
He was quite wild with not seeing Arabella now for half a day and was pleased to eat in this primitive way. It quite matched his mood.
And then a knock.
He got up quickly, thinking it might be Arabella. He looked down to make sure there was no gravy on his chest or the swathe. No. Good.
He opened the door.
It was Arabella. She averted her eyes from him when she saw how he was dressed. Or not dressed. His heart sank. Down deep, into his abdomen.
“Will you put on your shirt before I come into the room?”
“Aye.” Alasdair retreated, found his shirt and managed to get it over his head, then the left arm through the sleeve. He came back to the door, which he had left ajar. She met his eyes now. She had such a serious expression. He did not think that boded well, and his heart sank further. To about the level of his knees.
Arabella came in the room and sat in a chair. He sat in another one and faced her.
He ached for her. His shoulder had an ache too, but it was a tolerable ache. He wished he could have a nip of whisky before having this conversation, but he had none at hand. And he knew it would be a mistake. It would be a weakness.
“I want to speak to you about what happened this morning in the drawing room.”
“Aye.” He was surprised. He had anticipated that she would want to discuss what he had said to her about lust in her bedchamber. He was ready to admit he was wrong and that, of course, women felt desire. He had even hoped that she might be willing to kiss him again in that wild and unrestrained manner as she had when his shoulder was still out. For her to demonstrate her desire to him. Because if her desire matched her fiery temper and it was for him, what a lucky man he would be.
But she wanted to discuss his own temper.
“Why did you attempt to strike Giles, Dr. Andrews?”
She used Lord Morpeth’s first name while addressing him as “Dr. Andrews.” He felt the sour taste of bile rising in his throat.
“He touched ye.”
“Yes, and he should not have. And I would have made it clear to him that he should not have. And since you are my friend, you could have done the same.”
Her friend. Five days ago, she had said that she counted him among her friends and he had been filled with such joy that he could barely stammer a reply. But now, with two days experience as her husband, he wanted so much more.
Arabella went on. “But with words, Dr. Andrews. We were in a room, filled with people. What could he have done in that room,against my will,” she laid heavy emphasis on this last phrase, “that would have merited violence? With all those ladies and gentlemen present?”
“I dinnae like the way he looked at ye.”
