Page 9 of To Winter at Wildsyde

How strange it sounds. Shall I ever grow accustomed to it? I must remember that no matter my name, I am a Stone. I am not to be manipulated and moulded to another’s will, nor shoved aside and forgotten, pushed into the dark and out of sight, out of mind.

Just you try to ignore me, Gordon Anderson.

I’ll be the pebble in your shoe.

― Excerpt of an entry by Miss Ruth Stone, to her diary.

7th November 1814. Wildsyde Castle, Scotland.

Ruth stared out of the carriage window. A glittering sea filled the expansive view like a thick strip of blue silk on the horizon before her, jewel-bright and lovely in the sunshine. The sun shone upon her face too, warm through the glass, though every other part of her was chilled, aching with it. Her toes hurt with the cold, the hot brick beneath them having long since lost any last vestige of warmth. She imagined herself as some tragic fairytale princess, frozen to ice. She felt like ice, not just from the lack of warmth, but as if she were brittle and fragile inside and out, and if she put a foot wrong, she’d fall and shatter into sharp little pieces.

Mrs Ruth Anderson.

Woken at six by a sullen Sheenagh with tepid tea and water to match, Ruth had retaliated by giving her a lengthy lesson on the proper preparation of tea, a reminder that she preferred chocolate for breakfast, and an offer to give her a demonstration of either or both if the girl was still unsure how to do it correctly. At least the bannocks had been hot and tasty. For all her faults—and Ruth was willing to grant Mrs MacLeod her full measure of them—the woman could cook. Once she had washed, Sheenagh had helped her dress without submitting to the desire to strangle her with her own stockings, and had even done a reasonable job with her hair, so Ruth had counted that part of the morning a success, at least. It had gone rapidly downhill.

The service at the kirk had been brief and perfunctory and, besides a grudging good morning before they’d left the castle and then the words of the service itself, her husband had not spoken a word to her. Damn him.

Anger, hot and unexpected, surged up inside her and the ice that had held her immobile since she’d left the little kirk melted away. He would not ignore her. Not today of all days. She deserved a little attention on her wedding day, did she not? It might not have been so awful if he hadn’t looked so magnificent in his tartan. She couldn’t complain that he’d not made an effort for her. The sight of him had taken her breath away when she’d first seen him, to the point she’d been grateful for his silence, terrified she’d babble with nerves if given the chance to speak. Now, though, his beauty galled her, and she resented it, resented that he was not the least bit moved by her presence, that he could ignore her with such ease. Well, perhaps he needed a reminder of who he’d just married, then.

They were over half-way home already, and she’d vowed not to allow him to sit the rest of the way in silence, even if she had to stab him with the little knife she’d noticed tucked into the thick hose he wore. Not that she’d been staring at his legs again. Much. Turning towards the opposite side of the carriage and her husband, she levelled her gaze upon him, unblinking.

“Shall I call you Gordon or Gordy?” she asked, sheer determination the only thing keeping her tone pleasant. All she wanted was to put her hands about his neck and throttle him.

He glanced at her for a moment and shrugged. “As ye wish.”

“You have no preference?”

“None.”

“Are you quite certain?” Ruth pressed, struggling to keep the irritation from her voice. “You don’t care in what manner I address you?”

“Na,” he returned, not bothering to hide his own impatience.

“Excellent,” Ruth said, giving him a broad grin, not that he was looking at her. “Well, then, my adorable mooncalf, I believe it is customary to kiss the bride on her wedding day.”

His head snapped around, those tawny eyes wide, though whether it was outrage at being called an adorable mooncalf, or her demand for a kiss, she was not entirely sure.

Ruth bit her lip, struck with the urgent desire to laugh, though she feared it was likely the hysterical kind which would lead to tears, so she refrained from indulging herself.

“A kiss, is it?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at her, the tenor of his voice setting off an odd combination of clammy heat and cold shivering over her skin.

It took her a moment to realise she wasn’t breathing and forced herself to take an uneven gulp of freezing air.

“I know this is far from a love match, my sweet, but I see no reason for there to be no affection between us. We share a common goal, surely? You wish to see Wildsyde restored to its former glory, I wish to help you.”

“If ye wish to help me, ye may allow me to go about my business unhindered, and I’m nae yer sweet, nor any other fool name ye think to bestow on me. Ye were warned what manner of man ye were marrying, ’tis a bit late in the day for regrets.”

“My, how dramatic you are,” she said, smiling a little. “I regret nothing, dear one, but you are feeling all at sea and it’s only to be expected. It is no doubt frightening to find yourself married at long last, but there’s no need to take it so hard, my heart, I will ensure all goes smoothly. Now,” she added, ignoring his look of appalled incredulity. “About that kiss.”

She knew she’d pushed him too hard, but she was damned if she was leaving the carriage without a kiss. He’d just married her, curse him. Was it so much to ask? She was no beauty, she knew that, but she wasn’t so very monstrous, surely?

Before she could consider the wisdom of her demand any further, he’d moved across the carriage to her side. Ruth let out a little shriek of alarm as he lifted her up and put her on his lap with as much ease as if she’d been a rag doll. Before she had a moment to consider that or collect herself, one large hand grasped the back of her neck as the other grasped her waist and his mouth slammed against hers. She gasped in shock and his tongue swept in, hot and sinful, stroking the inside of her mouth, seeking her tongue as Ruth could do nothing more but hang on. Her hands were clutching his shoulders, and she had the strangest feeling she would plummet if she let go, but the slide of his tongue was beguiling, inviting, and she could not help but return the gesture. A little daunted, but determined, she touched her tongue to his, tentative at first, but then with more surety.

Slowly, like a fire catching tinder, Ruth uncurled her fingers from his coat and slid them up his neck, into the thick warmth of his hair, and something hot and demanding uncoiled inside her. Yes. This. This was why she’d lost her mind and proposed to a stranger. A stranger no more, she told herself, no matter how much he wanted to remain one. She would not allow it, though he seemed less inclined himself as Ruth sighed and pressed herself closer to him. A low, feral sound escaped him, which made a thrill of anticipation run down her spine. She’d drawn that sound from him. Unwilling it might have been, but she’d done it. Elation burned through her and she kissed him back with more confidence, voracious now, and then the carriage rolled to a stop.

He put his hands upon her arms and pushed her away a little.

“Christ,” he said, breathing hard. He stared at her for a moment, as though disorientated, and then his expression hardened. “We’re here. I have things to attend to, but have nae fear, wife, I shall see to yer needs tonight. Ye will have nae complaints, if ye can bide till then?”