Page 6 of To Winter at Wildsyde

Gordy watched the English woman covertly from under his lashes. She had been silent today, the endless questions she’d insisted on peppering him with since they left having dried up. Her one-sided conversation had also ground to a halt. A pity, that. It had been amusing to hear her cool English accent try to round and soften the words to approximate his Scottish brogue. He’d been hard pressed not to laugh, but he was determined things remained formal between them. With luck she’d have scurried back to England and her idea of the civilised world by Christmas. The way her mother had fallen into a swoon at the mere sight of him only confirmed his suspicions that Ruth Stone was far too fine to survive at Wildsyde, even if he wanted her to, which he did not.

He’d not wanted to marry her. Well, no more than he’d wanted to marry Bonnie, or any woman, sly, deceitful creatures that they were. He’d no doubt at all that this one would cause him trouble, but he was ready for her, for whatever lies and tricks and wiles she would use to wind him around her finger. No woman had managed it yet, and she’d not be the first to have tried. Fifty thousand pounds, though? His heart still leapt at thoughts of the enormous fortune. He was rich! It seemed impossible, improbable at best. Yet, he’d seen the marriage settlements himself.

Anticipation thrummed beneath his skin as he considered everything he could do with the money, all that he could build and mend and create. For the first time in his life he’d be able to look his tenants in the eye without feeling weighed down with guilt and shame. The Highland clearances had sent displaced families pouring towards the coast, searching for work in the fishing villages around Wildsyde. He’d been impotent to do anything before, only the fertile land about the castle keeping them afloat as he poured every penny into repairing what fell apart before his eyes. It was never enough though. No matter how hard he worked to patch things up there was never enough money to do the job as it ought to be done. Not so now. He wondered if this woman had the slightest idea what she’d done in marrying him. The gaudy opulence of her home, the sheer scale of the fortune her father must have amassed for such a display had staggered him and left him bereft of words. He’d stood in the gilded, fussy hallway feeling every bit the heathen she no doubt believed him to be.

And she’d asked him to marry her.

He still couldn’t believe it. If he’d seen her in the street, he would have expected her to turn her nose up at him, to blush and scurry away as many of her ilk would do. It was his good fortune that she’d been the other sort, the kind who looked at him from under their lashes and wondered what it would be like to bide in the dirt a while. He had no illusions about how such a fine English lady would view him, about what she wanted from him, and it wasn’t refined conversation or an arm to lean on to escort her to the opera. No. He’d read the look in her eyes with no difficulty. Well then, it was a fair deal. He’d have her money, and he’d pay her in kind, do his husbandly duty until she was with child. That should be long enough for her to have had her fill of him and all he could offer her. There was nothing else she could want from him. He knew that well by now.

Though he’d given her free rein with the staff and the castle, he had no expectation of her staying, and had no desire for her to stay. The sooner she grew weary of him and of living in such a remote part of the world and returned to her own kind, the better. Then he could get on with his life. He’d have done his duty by his name and the title that would one day be his and they could both live as they wished. He smiled inwardly, beyond satisfied at how everything had worked out. Well then, if she wanted to try to manage him in the meantime, let her. She’d soon learn her mistake. Besides, he had his own managing to do, and by the curiosity burning in her eyes when she looked at him, he’d fare a great deal better than she would.

He studied the rapt look on her face as she stared at the rugged landscape beyond the window. At least she was a fine, healthy looking lass, not some milk-and-water miss. He liked her height, liked that he’d not have to fold himself in half to kiss her, and he liked too the generosity of her breasts and hips. Soft, plentiful, comfortable. Yes. Her body was well made, sturdy and generous. Christ, she’d need to be to bear his bairns. A swell of heat rose as he considered bedding her, considered showing her what that look in her eyes would lead to.

Keeping his distance had not come easy during the journey. He never dallied with those that worked for him, nor anyone who might feel beholden to him, but that meant an hour and a half—in good weather—travelling into Wick to find a willing bedmate, and he had little enough time for such self-indulgence. Now, though, he had a wife to keep such frustrations at bay. On hand, willing, warm and soft. He let out a long, slow breath, imagining it. Careful, he warned himself. Bed only. It would not do to grow too familiar, too accustomed. She would leave. They always left.

For his own sake, he had best make sure it was sooner rather than later.

The English woman made an exclamation, a soft gasp of wonder, and Gordy lifted his head, watching the smile that curved her mouth. She leaned closer to the glass, her breath clouding her view, and she wiped it away at once, impatient. He frowned, wondering why she looked so delighted and then the carriage turned a little, showing him what she saw. Wildsyde. He’d been so lost in thought he’d paid no mind to the familiarity of the landscape, had not realised how close they were.

There it stood though, shabby but proud, like a warrior, scarred and exhausted but willing to fight still, to the death. A sudden rush of something akin to pride rose in him, warmth and pleasure that she approved of it. He shook it off at once. He did not need nor want her approval. She was not staying.

***

Ruth stared, enchanted. The landscape had been entrancing her for hours now. She’d forgotten her battle with her husband and let go of her determination, her desire to talk that warred stubbornly against his implacable silence. She’d remembered the quote by Marcus Aurelius then: Be like the cliff against which the waves continually break; but it stands firm and tames the fury of the water around it. To her frustration she’d realised she was the furious wave, and likely to remain so, battering herself against his impenetrable façade. She’d grown quiet, deciding she must take another tack, and then she’d seen what lay around her and her resentment had ebbed away, replaced by wonder, by awe at the beauty on all sides of her. A foreign land, like the man before her, harsh and rugged and wild, and utterly breathtaking. The landscape was stark, open plains stretching out to far horizons of immutable hills. Each peak and slope gave an intriguing new vista as it rolled and crested in the distance, like those crashing waves, yet frozen by some earthbound deity, covered in green and trapped beneath the ground. Stunning.

Then she saw it. She didn’t need Mr Anderson to tell her it was Wildsyde, though she’d seen so little resembling life she doubted there was another dwelling for miles around, certainly not a castle. Her breath caught, a strange, sweet, aching swell filling her chest as she gazed upon it. The building was haughty still, proud despite the ravages of time, and time had indeed taken its toll, softening once sharp edges, crumbling stone and allowing ivy to scramble over walls. Yet Wildsyde glowered, alone and lonely, darkly furious against a soft pink sky where the sinking sun painted pastel colours behind it. She smiled, imagining the castle had turned its back on the pretty scene, refusing to look lest it was tempted to soften further than it already had and, just like that, she tumbled headlong into love and felt at once she had come home.

She knew it was foolish, incomprehensible, but the yearning she had harboured for as long as she could remember—the desire for her own home, a place to belong, to be a part of something—looked like this. A crumbling castle in the wilds of the Highlands was unlikely to be most people’s idea of home, yet the peace and beauty surrounding her called to Ruth louder than any glamourous address in Mayfair. Though she had never pictured it in her mind with any clarity before, she knew now this was what she’d wanted in her heart. This was it. Home.

Her romantic epiphany was short lived.

There was no one to greet the laird and his bride-to-be, unless you counted three huge shaggy grey dogs. They bounded in, barking and leaping, wagging whip-cord tails which beat against her skirts as their nails scrabbled on the thick flagstones beneath them.

Mr Anderson muttered a sharp word she did not recognise, and the three subsided at once, their backsides hitting the stone floor as if they’d been tugged on a string. They gazed up at their master, doggy adoration glinting in their dark eyes. Now the cacophony was over, Ruth dared to approach them and patted the dog closest to her with trepidation. It huffed and poked its wet nose into her palm, giving her glove a swift lick. She smiled.

“What are their names?” she asked, pleased to see the man had affection to give to his hounds at least as he greeted each one in turn.

His gaze shifted to her, and she thought he looked cautious, as if sharing the names of his dogs might give her some insight or power. After a protracted silence, he jerked his head to the dog closest to her.

“Minnie,” he said and then pointed to an identical dog. “Morag, and this is their husband, Murdo.”

Ruth raised her eyebrows. “Two wives?” she murmured, amused. “How courageous he is, when some men seem afraid to manage one.”

He didn’t rise to the comment and strode off, bellowing “Mrs MacLeod!” at the top of his lungs, and with such force Ruth almost jumped out of her skin. The dogs got up and followed him, but Ruth refused to do likewise. She would not trail after him like a meek little lamb. Instead, she sat upon one of her huge travelling trunks, all of which had been hefted unceremoniously inside the hall by the coachmen and abandoned.

The sound of raised, agitated voices reached her, as though from a great distance. The sound swelled, getting closer. There was a sharp word, which sounded rather like the one Mr Anderson had favoured the dogs with, and then a taut silence. A few minutes later a stout, middle-aged woman followed him back out again. She had a prodigious scowl, highlighted by thick, dark eyebrows over sharp blue eyes. Her hair was likewise dark and pulled back in a severe bun. She took one look at Ruth and her eyebrows shot up as she exclaimed in shock, though what the exclamation was, Ruth had no clue. The woman turned on Mr Anderson, and they appeared to take up the same argument which she’d heard from a distance. The word Sassenach, which Ruth had learned meant English person was repeated more than once. It did not sound complimentary.

Ruth bore it stoically enough for a few minutes before she decided she’d had quite enough.

“Mrs MacLeod,” she said, her voice loud and sure, ringing through the echoing great hall. Mr Anderson and Mrs MacLeod turned to stare at her, apparently indignant at the interruption. “Thank you kindly for your warm welcome.” Ruth gave them both a sardonic smile and folded her arms. “As Mr Anderson seems to be unable to make an introduction, I am to be Mrs Anderson. After our marriage tomorrow, management of the castle and staff will be mine, so I suggest we become used to each other as soon as possible. Now, however, I am tired. I would like someone to show me to my room. A guest room will suffice if I am to assume nothing else is yet ready. You may send tea and something to eat, and I would like a bath as soon as one can be prepared. I shall expect to meet all five of the castle’s staff in this spot in precisely two hours from now.”

Mrs MacLeod gaped at her as if she had grown a second head. Mr Anderson narrowed his gaze a fraction, as if reassessing a situation that was not quite as he’d anticipated. Good, Ruth thought bitterly. The urge to break down and sob was a weight in her chest, a hot prickle behind her eyes, but she was damned if she’d show any weakness in front of him, or fail at the first difficulty. She was a Stone through and through, as her aunt had pointed out. It was time Mr Anderson got a glimpse of what that meant.

“Is there a problem, Mr Anderson?” Ruth demanded, putting up her chin. “If there is, I am quite willing to take myself and my money back to London.”

He stared back at her, his expression unreadable. “Nae problem, Miss Stone. Mrs MacLeod, you’ve met your new mistress. I suggest ye do as she says.”

Without another word nor a backwards glance, he strode away, his dogs at his heels.