Page 32 of To Winter at Wildsyde

“No,” Ruth replied, and he could tell she’d gained confidence from his devouring of the first course. “But Mrs MacLeod is practising her skills, and this is the kind of meal one would expect in a place such as Wildsyde. There is no need to eat like this all the time if you do not wish to, but cooking is an art form, and artists need challenges.”

“Yer calling Mrs MacLeod an artist?” Gordy demanded, his eyebrows going up in astonishment. He snorted and then gave a bark of laughter.

Ruth bristled. “Could you have produced such a variety of dishes? Could Mr Clugston or Jessie or Sheenagh? No, they could not, because they do not have the skills nor the knowledge. You do her a disservice expecting her to do nothing but provide stew every night for years on end. No wonder the poor woman is bad-tempered; she must be bored out of her mind.”

Gordy stared at her, stung that she should blame him for the woman’s lack of imagination. “I didnae demand she cook the same thing over and again.”

“No, but did you ever thank her or take the slightest bit of interest in what she did cook for you?”

There was challenge in her eyes and he was momentarily distracted by the way they glittered at him, his wife’s passionate nature showing itself in the quick rise of her temper. He considered telling the footman and the butler to go to the devil and pulling her onto his lap. He could have her. She’d not refuse him, he was sure of it. Heat prickled down his spine, and his body stirred, but she looked away from him, not bothering to await his reply as she instructed the footman to fill his plate again.

Plagued by hunger of a different sort, Gordy applied himself to his dinner, hoping to distract himself, and found his plate refilled as his wife fed him from a variety of delicious dishes. The final course to be brought to the table was no less impressive than the first two, and he couldn’t hold back an exclamation.

“Good God, the woman must have been working all hours!”

“She was,” Ruth agreed, smiling contentedly. “And I’ve never seen her in a better humour. She’s been teaching Jessie some of her secrets, and she’s even allowed some of my staff to assist her. Finally, she’s becoming mistress of her own domain in the manner in which it ought to be done, and no matter what you think of me or my efforts, if you don’t go and tell her how marvellous it all was, I shall never forgive you.”

These last words were spoken quietly but with such force that Gordy was quite taken aback.

“Well,” he said, uncertain of how to respond to that. “Credit where credit is due, aye?”

“I should think so,” his wife replied with a nod as she instructed the footman once again on what to serve him and then dismissed the staff.

The butler refilled their glasses and melted away, leaving them alone. Gordy ate everything put before him and then pushed his empty plate away, praying she’d not fill it again. He was ready to burst.

He eyed her warily. “It was a fine meal, though if I eat like that every night, I’ll nae be able to make the stairs,” he muttered, rubbing his gut with a sigh.

“A hardworking man like you should have no trouble keeping the weight off. Though I’m sure we could find some extra activity for you should you feel the need of it.”

He stared at her, heat scalding the back of his neck as the implication of her words sank in. She looked back at him, bold as brass and sipped at her wine.

“Why, Gordy, you’re blushing,” she said, the words warm with amusement as she set the glass down again.

“Don’t be daft,” he muttered, throwing down his napkin. “And if ye are wantin’ me to bed ye, why do ye not just say so?”

She shrugged, her gaze too direct still, and he struggled to meet it. “You are the one who wants me breeding and out from under your feet, yet I’ve not seen you for over a week.”

He looked away from her, aware there was a trap here, but she’d have a long wait if she was hoping for an apology, or for him to admit he’d been too ashamed to return to her. She knew it, anyway, damn her.

“You may come to me tonight, if you wish to,” she said, folding her own napkin and laying it down on the table. She stood up and Gordy knew he should stand too, out of respect. In fact, it was the hardest thing to keep his arse in the chair, but some antagonistic part of him would not allow otherwise.

He watched as his wife left the room, straight backed, head held high, looking like a blasted empress and making him feel like the roughhewn oaf he knew he was. God damn, he should have stood for her at the very least. He wasn’t so bloody ignorant that he didn’t have any manners. He didn’t know what drove him to pretend he was so ill-bred. The old laird had expected him to know how to the act the gentleman and punished him if he made a mistake. He’d learned his lessons thoroughly enough. It just galled him to use them, as if the old bastard had won somehow. It was stupid and didn’t make the least bit of sense, but it was true all the same.

Gordy got to his feet, taking his wine glass with him back to his study. He opened the door and winced as the pink hit him all over again. No matter how many times he entered the room the shock of it hit him anew each time. He still hadn’t taken her to task for it, though he wasn’t certain why. Liar. He deserved it, that was why, and though she’d never punished him in any other way—her one furious outburst aside—he thought the least he could do was live with this one, for a while at least. He hadn’t even touched the blasted ribbons. The truth was they made him smile.

He glowered at the hideous clock for a moment and then leaned on the mantel, kicking at a log in the fireplace with the toe of his boot. Sparks glittered and flew up the chimney, and he remembered the glitter in Ruth’s eyes. She burned as hot as the coals in the hearth, hot enough to consume him if he didn’t have a care. He groaned and leaned his forehead on his arm, feeling the heat blaze against his legs and face. Any other woman would have taken one look at Wildsyde and run away screaming. Hell, any woman with any sense would have never made it to Wildsyde at all. They’d have run screaming from him if they’d had any notion of self-preservation. Not Ruth. Ruth had wanted him from the first moment she’d seen him, and she loved Wildsyde, too. She must be out of her damned mind, but he knew it was true. It was obvious.

He suspected anyone with an eye for colour could decorate a room well enough, but to make it a home, that was surely a gift. Every day he came back, curious to know what she’d been up, itching to investigate but too stubborn to allow her to see his interest. Instead, he lurked about the castle late at night, inspecting her work. During the day, he spent his time away from Wildsyde, with his tenants, fixing roofs and mending fences and working until he was too damn tired to do anything but fall into bed, praying he was too worn out to dream of her. It never worked, and he was consigned to walking about and spying on what she’d been up to. Every time he discovered something new, something she’d altered or improved, he wanted to rage at her to stop, but found he could not.

Despite the sea change she had wrought upon the place in such a short time, she had in no way diminished or spoilt what it was he loved about Wildsyde; she only made it shine brighter. He did love it too. Regardless of the misery of his childhood, he’d fought tooth and nail to keep the place, to hold on to it and try to stop it falling to bits around him, and sometime during that fight he’d come to love it for its own sake.

Memories be damned. The castle had seen lairds come and go, love and heartbreak, life and death, and it was still here, and it was a part of him. Wildsyde was where he belonged, and the only thing the changes made him fear was that Ruth was weaving herself into the fabric of the place too. Wherever he looked, there she was; whether it was the damned stuffed heads with their gaudy garlands, or the way she arranged the chairs and rugs just so, inviting a body to sit down by a fire and bide awhile, or the tartan blanket on his bed which made him long to lay her down upon it. Would it still feel like his home when she left it?

He was aware of an uneasy feeling in his guts, and he didn’t think he could blame Mrs MacLeod or overindulgence for it, though he’d give it a try. Damn the woman. Why, of all the females he might have married, had he to marry the only one who wouldn’t be frightened away?

Cursing, he kicked at the huge log in the fireplace again and then swore as a spark settled on his calf, singing him. Enough of this. He would not hide in this god-awful room when there was a willing female awaiting him upstairs. It was high time his wife was breeding, and he’d not achieve that by spending time in the pink pit of purgatory, as he’d named it.

She was ready to do her duty by him, the least he could do was return the favour.