The Winter Wife

by Anna Campbell

  ***

  Kinvarra suffered Alicia’s hate-filled regard and wondered what the hell he was going to do with his troublesome wife out in this frigid wilderness. The insolent baggage deserved to be left where she stood, but even he, who owed her repayment for countless slights over the years, wouldn’t do that to her.

  It seemed he had no choice but to help.

  Not that she’d thank him. He had no illusions that after she’d got what she wanted—a warm bed, a roof over her head and a decent meal—she’d forget any promises of gratitude.

  In spite of the punishing cold, heat flooded him as he briefly let himself imagine Alicia’s gratitude. She’d shed that heavy red cloak. She’d let down that mass of gold hair until it tumbled around her shoulders. Then she’d kiss him as if she didn’t hate him and she’d—

  From long habit, he stopped before the flaring images became too interesting. A thousand fantasies had sustained him the first year of their separation, but he’d learned for sanity’s sake to control them since.

  Now they only troubled him after his rare meetings with his wife.

  This was the longest time he and Alicia had spent together in

  years. It should remind him why he eschewed her company. Instead, it reminded him that she was the only woman who had ever challenged him, the only woman who had ever matched him in strength, the only woman he couldn’t forget, desperately as he’d tried.

  He smiled into her sulky, beautiful face. “Poor Alicia. It seems you’re stuck with me.”

  How that must smart. The long ride to his Yorkshire manor on this desolate night suddenly offered a myriad of pleasures, not least of which was the chance to knock a few chips off his wife’s monumental pride.

  She didn’t respond to his comment. Instead with an unreadable expression, she stared after her absconding lover. “We’re only about five miles from Harold’s hunting lodge.”

  The wench didn’t even try to lie about the assignation, blast her impudence. “If he manages to stay on that horse, Horace should make it.” Fenton showed no great skill as a bareback rider. Even as Kinvarra recognized the wish as unworthy, he hoped the blackguard ended up on his rump in a muddy hedgerow.

  “Harold,” she said absently, drawing her cloak tight around her slender throat. “You could take me there.”

  This time his laughter was unconstrained. She’d always had nerve, his wife, even when she’d been little more than an untried girl. “Be damned if you think I’m carting you off to cuckold me in comfort,

  madam.”

  She sent him a cool look. “I’m thinking purely in terms of shelter, my lord.”

  “I’m sure,” he said cynically.

  Still, in spite of his jaded view of the world and its inhabitants, he couldn’t completely stifle his rankling surprise that Alicia had at last chosen a lover. In spite of their lack of communication, he’d always known what she was up to. Since leaving him, she’d been remarkably chaste, which was one of the reasons he’d allowed the ridiculous separation to continue. Clearly living with him for a year had left her with no taste for bed sport. A bitter acknowledgement for a man to make, by God.

  Recent gossip had mentioned Lord Harold Fenton as a persistent suitor, but Kinvarra thought he knew enough of his wife to consider the second son of the Marquess of Granville poor competition. Bugger it, he should have listened to the gossip.

  By all that was holy, her taste had deteriorated since she’d abandoned her marriage. The man was a complete nonentity.

  Perhaps one day she’d thank her husband for saving her from a disastrous mistake.

  And the bleak and stony moor around them might suddenly sprout coconut palms.

  “No, my love, your fate is sealed.” He slapped his riding crop against his boot and tilted his hat more securely on his head with an arrogant gesture designed to irritate her. “Horatio travels north. I travel south. Unless you intend to ride the other carriage horse or pursue the clodpole on foot, your direction is mine.”

  “Does that mean you will help me?” This time, she didn’t bother correcting his deliberate misremembering of her suitor’s name.

  She was lucky he didn’t call the toad Habakkuk and skewer his kidneys with a rapier. Alicia was his. Kinvarra had known that from the first moment he saw her, slender, unsure, but full of a wild vitality that still beckoned him, whatever else divided them. No other damned rapscallion was going to steal her away. Especially a rapscallion who lacked the spine to fight for her.

  Kinvarra strode across to his bay mare and snatched up the reins. “If

  you ask nicely.”

  To his surprise, Alicia laughed. “Devil take you, Kinvarra.”

  He swung into the saddle and urged the horse nearer to his wife. “Indubitably, my dear.”

  Her suddenly cavalier attitude made it easier to deal with her, but it puzzled him. Her lover’s desertion hadn’t cast her down. If she didn’t care for the fellow, why in Hades accept his advances? Yet again, Kinvarra realized how far he remained from understanding the

  complicated creature he’d wed with such high hopes eleven years ago.

  He extended one leather-gloved hand and noted her hesitation before she accepted his assistance. It was the first time he’d touched her since she’d left him and even through two layers of leather, he felt the burning shock of contact. She stiffened as though she too felt that unwelcome surge of response.

  He’d always wanted her. That was part of the problem, God help them. He’d often asked himself if time would erode the attraction.

  Just one touch of her hand on a snowy night and he received his

  unequivocal answer.

  She swung onto the horse behind him and paused again before looping her arms around his waist. He’d always been hellish aware of her reactions and he couldn’t help but note her reluctance to touch him.

  Good God, what was wrong with the woman? She’d been ready enough to do more than touch rabbit-hearted Fenton. Surely her long- suffering husband deserved a little friendliness after coming to her rescue. With damned little encouragement, too, he might add.

  Compared to the cold night, she felt warm and soft against his back. His lunatic heart dipped at her nearness, even as he told himself that the warmth and softness were lies. Alicia Sinclair was made of stone. Or at least she was when it came to her husband. If he forgot that, she’d drag his soul through the razor-sharp thorns of hell again.

  But the warning fell on deaf ears. When she touched him, he could think of little else but how long it was since he’d held her in his arms and shown her how strongly she inflamed his unruly passions.

  The mare curveted under the double weight, but Kinvarra settled her with a curt word. He never had trouble with horses. It was his wife he couldn’t control.

  “What about my belongings?” she asked, calm as you please. The lady should demonstrate proper shame at being caught with a lover. But of course, that wasn’t Alicia. She held her head high whatever destiny threw at her.

  It was one of the things he loved about her.

  He quashed the unwelcome insight. “There’s an inn a few miles ahead. I’ll get them to send someone for your baggage.”

  He clicked his tongue to the horse and cantered in the opposite direction to the one Fenton had taken. Which was lucky for the weasel. If Kinvarra caught up with Fenton now, he’d be inclined to reach for

  his horsewhip. What right had that bastard to interfere with other men’s wives then scuttle away leaving the lady stranded?

  Alicia settled herself more comfortably, pressing her lovely, lush body into his back. She hadn’t been this close to him in years. He was scoundrel enough to enjoy the contact, however reluctantly she granted it.

  Maybe after all, he should be grateful to old Harold. He might even send the poltroon a case of port and a note of appreciation.

  Well, that might go too far.

  “Is that where we’re heading?” She tightened her arms. He wished

  it was b
ecause she wanted to touch him and not just because she sought a more secure seat. He also wished that when she said “we”, his belly didn’t cramp with longing for the word to be true.

  Damn Alicia. She’d always held magic for him and she always would. Ten long years without her had taught him that grim lesson.

  The reminder of the dance she’d led him made him respond in a clipped tone. “No, we’re going to Heseltine Hall near Whitby.”

  “But you can leave me at the inn, can’t you?”

  “It’s a poor place. I couldn’t abandon a woman there without protection.” He tried, he really did, to keep the satisfaction from his voice, but he must have failed. He felt her tense against his back, although she couldn’t pull too far away without risking a fall.

  “And who’s going to protect me from you?” she muttered, almost as if to herself.

  “I mean you no harm.” For all their difficult interactions, he’d only

  ever wished her well. “You didn’t come all the way from London in

  that spindly carriage, did you?”

  “It’s inappropriate to discuss my arrangement with Lord Harold,”

  she said coldly.

  He laughed again, against all sense, enchanted with her spirit. “Humor me.”

  She sighed. “We traveled up separately to York.” Her voice melted into sincerity and he tried not to respond to the husky sweetness. “I truly didn’t set out to cause a scandal. You and I parted in rancor, but I have no ambition to damage you or your name.”

  “Whatever your attempts at discretion, you still meant to give

  yourself to that puppy,” Kinvarra bit out, all amusement abruptly fled.

  Alicia didn’t answer.

  Chapter Two

  THE WEATHER HAD worsened by the time they reached the inn. Alicia realized as they approached the ramshackle, rambling building that it was indeed the rough place Kinvarra had described. But just the prospect of shelter and a chance to rest her aching body was welcome. Surely Kinvarra couldn’t intend to ride on to his mysterious manor tonight when more snow fell every minute and their horse was blowing with exhaustion.

  The earl dismounted and lifted her from the saddle. His hands were firm around her waist and she struggled to ignore the thrill that sizzled through her traitorous body. The lamps that lit the inn yard revealed that he looked tired and strangely, for a man who always seemed so indomitable, unhappy.

  As he set her upon the cobblestones, his hands didn’t linger. She tried not to note that she’d touched Kinvarra more in the last few hours than she had since she’d left him. Nor did she wish to remember that hugging his strong back, she’d felt safer than she had in years.

  “Let’s get you into the warmth.” He gestured for her to precede him inside as a groom rushed to take their horse.

  Alicia had expected her husband to spend the journey haranguing her for her wantonness—or at the very least her idiocy in setting out for the wilds of Yorkshire in the depths of winter so ill prepared for disaster. But he’d remained quiet.

  How she wished he’d berated her. She dearly needed to remember why she hated him. She’d spent a decade convincing herself

  that leaving him had been her only choice of action. A moment’s unexpected kindness shouldn’t change that.

  While his body offered a warm anchor and his adept hands

  unerringly guided their horse toward sanctuary, resentment had proven fiendishly difficult to maintain. And when she wasn’t constantly sniping at him, it became impossible to ignore his physical presence. His clean, male scent—horses, leather, soap, fresh air. The muscles under her hands, hard even through his winter clothing. His lean strength.

  Kinvarra had been a handsome boy. He’d become a splendid man. She’d forgotten how powerfully he affected her. And the pity of

  it was that she’d need far too long after this to forget again. He made

  every other man pale into insignificance.

  It was vilely irritating.

  The rotund landlord greeted them at the door, clearly overwhelmed to have the quality on his humble premises. The tap room was jammed to the rafters with people bundled up for an uncomfortable night on chairs and benches. A few hardy souls hunched near the fire drinking and smoking. One table of revelers even defied their circumstances and sang some carols in honor of the season.

  Apart from a couple of serving maids, Alicia was the only woman present. Self-consciously she drew her hood around her face as she shifted closer to the blaze. The heat penetrated frozen extremities with painful force. Even molding herself to Kinvarra’s big, strong body, the ride had been frozen purgatory.

  For all that she remained standing, she’d drifted into a half doze when she became aware of Kinvarra beside her. He spoke in a low voice to save them from eavesdroppers. “My lady, there’s a difficulty.”

  Blinking, striving to regain alertness, she slowly turned to face him. “I’m happy to accept any accommodation. Surely you don’t plan to go on tonight.”

  He shook his head. He’d taken off his hat and light sheened across his thick dark hair. “The weather will worsen before it improves. It would be cruel to force my horse back into the blizzard. And there isn’t another village for miles.”

  “Then of course we’ll stay.”

  His saturnine face was shuttered. “Are you sure?”

  His hesitancy aroused misgivings. Her husband was never hesitant. “What is it?”

  “There’s only one room.”

  One room? Dear heaven. What a catastrophe. Aghast, she stared at him. “Surely…surely you could sleep in the tap room.”

  The moment she made the suggestion, she felt like the world’s most ungrateful creature. Her husband had rescued her in extremely good spirit, given the compromising situation he caught her in. He’d made

  a few cutting remarks, but she’d deserved much worse. Like her, he was tired and cold and hungry. It wasn’t fair to consign him to a hard floor and the company of a parcel of rustics, not to mention the vermin flourishing on their unwashed persons.

  His lips twisted in a wry smile. “As you can see, there’s no space. Even if there was, I won’t leave you on your own with the place full of God knows what ruffians.”

  What on earth was going on here? He sounded protective. When she knew he despised everything about her. “We can’t share a room.”

  She’d suspect him of some trick, if she wasn’t sharply aware that he too recalled the misery of their time together at Balmuir House. He must be as eager as she for this night to end so they could both return to their separate lives. Kinvarra would never plot the seduction of his wife.

  So what was his game?

  His eyes glinted with sardonic amusement. “I don’t see why not. We’re married. It’s too late to play Miss Propriety. After all, you were about to hop into bed with Herbert.”

  “Harold,” she said automatically, avoiding his gaze. Sick

  humiliation twisted her belly into knots. Here with Kinvarra, she didn’t feel brave and daring for taking a lover. Instead she felt grubby and small.

  His features tightened into harshness. “Whatever the bugger’s name, I hope to hell he hasn’t sampled your favors already, or I’ll think even less of his stalwart behavior on the road.”

  “We hadn’t…we didn’t…” She stopped and glowered at him, furious. “That is none of your concern, my lord.”

  But it was far too late. Triumph lit Kinvarra’s face. Curse her for confessing that she was still to all intents faithful to him. The cad didn’t deserve her fidelity. He never had.

  “Can’t we hire a gig to take us to your manor?” she asked on a note

  of desperation.

  Now the prospect of staying at the inn wasn’t so welcome. And not just because she’d have to share a room with her husband. Tonight’s events left her too exposed to painful memories and present confusion. Easy to play the indifferent spouse when she met the earl for five minutes in a crowded ballroom. Much more
difficult when she’d just spent an hour cuddled up to him and he sounded like a reasonable

  man instead of the spoiled, petulant boy she recalled from their brief cohabitation.

  At least, thank heaven, he wouldn’t touch her, whatever silly suspicions entered her mind. She was safe from that. The last time they exchanged more than bland public greetings, he’d made it obvious that he’d rather have a crocodile in his bed.

  He shook his head. “There are none. And even if there were, I’m not going to risk my neck—and yours—on a night like this. Face

  it, madam, you’ve returned to the bonds of holy matrimony until tomorrow. I wager you’ll survive the experience.”

  She wasn’t so sure. Leaving Kinvarra had nearly destroyed her. All this propinquity now only reopened old wounds that had hardly healed since. But what choice did she have?

  She raised her head and studied his striking face. The black eyes were veiled. His expression indicated impatience with her havering and no hint of amorous intent. Of course there wasn’t. He didn’t want her. And nor, it seemed, did Harold. She’d been alone for so long. She’d never felt as alone as she did at this moment.

  She didn’t try to hide her reluctance. “Very well.”

  Kinvarra’s lips twitched at her lack of enthusiasm. “I’ll tell the landlord that we’ll take his last chamber.”

  Shock held her silent as she realized how much he’d changed. The man she’d married would have caviled at her unmannerly acceptance. Heavens, the man she’d married would have thrown a tantrum if she’d as much as glanced at another man, let alone eloped with him. Kinvarra hadn’t just grown into his looks, he’d grown into his power.

  He bowed briefly and strode away with a smooth, confident gait. As a youth, he’d been almost sinfully beautiful with his black hair and glittering eyes, but the man of thirty-two was formidable and in