Despite Alex’s regrets over confiding in Gwen, Aideendidbelieve forewarned was forearmed, and after being kidnapped last year, she never travelled anywhere without certain…accessories.
She also knew how to shoot a pistol and how to whack a man in at least five extremely painful places – perhaps she should make a list.
“Erm. I can swim. I learned in the River Suir.”
His shoulders visibly relaxed. “Ah, you can cross that off then.”
“So, the list is…adaptable?”
The shoulders stiffened, his narrowed eyes as dark as ivy this morning. She could tell he wanted to say no, but it seemed they were both seeking to foster the trait of patience. “It depends,” he finally bit out.
“So, if I cross out those which I think are” – absurd, outrageous, suffocating – “not applicable, and then give it back for your perusal, maybe we could…compromise?”
The unpleasant word stuck in her throat and she had to slosh it down with tea.
“There are not many I would…compromise on,” he said tightly, also gulping chocolate, she observed.
“I see there is no rule about learning to defend myself.”
“Unnecessary if you are not placed in a potentially hazardous situation. Which this list precludes.”
“But, Alex, what this list doesn’t take into account is that Icanshoot. I can also wield a knife and over winter, Uncle Seamus taught me how to defend myself if need be.”
He stiffened further. “My wife shouldn’t need to–”
“Too late. You have a wife that can. Your mother was right, this list is for a schoolgirl. I wouldn’t even give it to Cordelia.” She mentally apologised to her friend. “Some are sensible, but…Number fifteen – Don’t stand by windows?”
“Maybe that is–”
“Alex, I will take every precaution, but I would drown under such rules. Can we at least talk about–”
Abruptly, he rose, and she didn’t like the way his eyes deadened, the green ivy frosting with the encroaching cold.
“Perhaps we will have to revert to our previous marital arrangement then. Separate.”
The blackmailing dullard.
She also stood, leaning forward, hands on the table. “And to be sure, that wassosuccessful.” Desperately she tried to recall Mrs Beckford’s advice on patience but never was it mentioned how one acted if one’s husband was a controlling, obstinate mule. “Can I amend the list and we’ll discuss it tonight?”
“No,” he thundered. “The list is–”
That was it. Patience be damned. She’d tried, she really had, but enough was enough. “Listen to me, husband,” she said, hands now on hips. “If you wanted a milksop wife then you should have married one, but I believe you like my fiery nature. Am I right?”
No answer. He just glared that glare he typically cast upon pallid debutantes, causing them to quake and quiver.
“Am I right?” she repeated, only quivering with sheer temper. “Or heaven help me I will curse you to hell and mean it.”
Finally, a nod.
Stalking over to him, she grabbed hold of his immaculate cravat and yanked him close, fisting the material. “Then don’t smother it, Alexander. For it will go out.”
She released her grip and stomped from the room with the dratted list clutched in her fingers.
Rakecombe scowled into the large mirror above the mantel.
Creases. Goddamn creases.
Did she not understand how long it took Thorn to fold the bloody neckcloth, despite his preference for this simplest form? Not only that but there was now a small splodge of bacon grease on it from his wife’s grubby fingers.
