The Winter Wife

by Anna Campbell

  command of himself in a way his younger self had never been.

  She watched him go, wanting to turn away but unable to shift her gaze. What would she make of him if they met for the first time now? Honesty compelled her to acknowledge she would probably like him. She’d certainly notice him—no woman could ignore such a handsome man with his air of authority and competence.

  While admitting the fact made her skin itch with pique, she was glad Kinvarra had arrived to rescue her from that ditch. If she’d relied on Harold to solve their problems, she’d still be standing by the roadside.

  ***

  Given the shambles downstairs, the bedchamber was surprisingly clean and wonderfully snug to a woman shivering with cold. Silently Alicia removed her gloves, then slid her dripping red cloak from her shoulders, folded it and placed it on top of a carved wooden chest.

  It seemed ridiculous to feel shy in the presence of the man she’d married eleven years ago, but she did. Across the room, Kinvarra removed his muddy outdoor clothes, revealing a plain blue coat and buff breeches.

  A troupe of maids delivered hot water and a substantial supper, then disappeared, leaving Alicia standing in a bedroom with her husband for the first time in ten years.

  She tried not to focus on the massive tester bed in the corner. Out

  on the moors, she’d have scoffed at the idea of letting him touch her in passion, even if he wanted to. But with every moment in this room, a strange tension built between them, a tension that whispered of desire long denied.

  Did Kinvarra feel this tremulous awareness too? Or was it all her imagination? Was he hoping to join her in that bed? And if he was, what would her response be? Last week, yesterday, an hour ago, it would have been a contemptuous refusal.

  Now? Now, she wasn’t so sure what she wanted. She had an unwelcome inkling that she might want her husband.

  She shivered, but whether with nerves or anticipation, she couldn’t have said.

  Kinvarra poured a glass of claret from the decanter on the sideboard. He took a mouthful, then turned to watch Alicia lower herself gingerly into an oak chair near the fire. Frowning with concern, he strode toward her. “You told me you weren’t hurt.”

  Again, that protective air. She fought to strangle the warmth curling in her heart. And failed. Heaven help her, she needed to remember the last time they’d been alone together or she risked making an awful fool of herself.

  She shook her head, even as she relished the blessed relief of sitting on something that didn’t move. “I’m bruised, and stiff from cold and riding, but, no, I’m not hurt.”

  “You were lucky. The curricle is beyond repair. I know the road was icy, but the going wasn’t hazardous, for all that. Was Henry driving too fast?”

  “Perhaps.” She paused before grudgingly admitting, “We were arguing.”

  “You? Arguing with a man?” Without shifting his gaze from her face, Kinvarra dropped to his knees before her. She guessed that he meant to help her remove her boots. It was an act familiar from their short intimacy, before everything went wrong. “I find that hard to believe.”

  “Shocking, isn’t it?” Her lips curved upward in a reluctant smile as she stared down into obsidian eyes alight with sardonic amusement.

  Nobody else had ever teased her. Even Kinvarra when they’d lived together had been too intense at first, then too angry. To her surprise, she found she enjoyed his playfulness. He’d been angry with her earlier, but she sensed no rage in him now. Instead, beneath his humor, he seemed watchful, waiting. Another anticipatory shiver rippled through her.

  He extended his glass and she accepted it. His attention didn’t waver from her face when she raised it to her lips. Heat bloomed inside her. From the wine and from the unspoken intimacy of drinking from the place his lips had touched. It was almost like sharing a kiss.

  Stop it, Alicia. You’re letting the situation go to your head.

  “What were you quarrelling about?” Kinvarra asked with an idleness that his grave attention contradicted.

  She returned the glass, her hand slightly unsteady. “I decided I’d been reckless to take up Lord Harold’s invitation to visit his hunting lodge. I was trying to get him to turn back to York.”

  She braced for gloating, a repeat of his triumphant reaction downstairs when he discovered she was still chaste. Kinvarra mightn’t want her, but she’d always known he didn’t want her sharing her body with anyone else either.

  Her husband’s regard held no smugness. How astonishing. “I’m glad to hear that,” he said quietly.

  She tried to sit up and scowl at him, summon one of the sharp- tongued responses that had come so easily out in the snow, but the

  effort was beyond her. Instead she tilted her head back against the chair. She closed her eyes, partly from weariness, partly because she flinched from reading messages that couldn’t possibly be true in his dark, dark stare.

  “He wasn’t worthy of you, Alicia.” Kinvarra’s soft voice echoed

  in her heart, as did his use of her Christian name. He hadn’t called her Alicia since the early days of their marriage when they’d both still hoped to create something good from their union. “Why in God’s name choose him of all men?”

  Shock held her unmoving as Kinvarra’s bare hand slid over hers where it rested on the heavy arm of the chair. His palm was warm and slightly callused. Harold’s hand had been softer than a woman’s. She berated herself for making the comparison.

  She opened her eyes and stared into her husband’s face. Into the black eyes that for once appeared sincere and kind.

  And she chanced an honest answer.

  “I chose him because he was everything you are not, my lord.” Even more shocking than the touch of his hand, she watched him

  whiten under his tan. In all this time, she’d never realized that she had the power to hurt him. The knowledge pierced her like a blade, left her shaken.

  He jerked back on his heels, removing his hand from hers. She tried not to miss that casual, comforting touch. The distance between them gaped like a chasm of ice.

  “I…see.” His voice firmed. “At least I’d never leave a woman alone

  to face down an angry husband with a blizzard about to start.”

  Shamed heat stung her cheeks. She’d felt so strong and free and self- righteous when she’d arranged to go away with a lover. After ten barren years of thankless loyalty to a man who hardly cared she was alive.

  But in retrospect, her behavior seemed shabby. Ill-advised. Despite her doubts, bravado and pride had kept her to her course until she’d reached York and that journey across the moors with no company but Harold and her howling conscience. She’d fought against feeling guilty about betraying Kinvarra, but it was no use. It seemed her marriage vows still held her fast, despite her long misery. With every mile they’d covered, she’d become more convinced that succumbing to Harold’s blandishments had been a horrible mistake.

  Damn Kinvarra. He’d scarred her soul and she’d never escape him. “You wouldn’t hurt me,” she said with complete certainty.

  “No, but Harold didn’t know that.”

  She noted that he was upset enough to use Harold’s correct name. She tried to make light of the subject, but her voice emerged brittle and too high. “Anyway, no harm was done. I’m still the impossibly virtuous Countess of Kinvarra who doesn’t even sleep with her husband. You may rest easy in your bed, my lord, sure that your wife’s reputation remains unblemished.”

  An emotion too complex for mere anger crossed his face, but his voice remained steady. “Why now, Alicia? What changed?”

  “I was lonely.” Her face still prickled with humiliation and she knew from his expression that her shrug didn’t convince. “I needed to do something to mark my permanent break from you. It was, in a way, our ten year anniversary.”

  A muscle flickered in his cheek and his stare was uncompromising.

  “And you wanted to punish me.”

  Did she? Even
after all this time, turbulent emotion swirled beneath their interactions. What amazed her was that they seemed finally capable of holding a conversation that wasn’t composed entirely of spite and insults. Apparently they’d both changed in their years apart.

  She spoke with difficulty, even as she wondered why she confided

  in her husband of all people. When they’d been married, he’d used any vulnerability as a weapon against her. “I haven’t touched a man since I

  left you. I’m twenty-eight years old. I thought…I thought it was time I

  tested the waters again.”

  “With that cream puff?” He released a grunt of contemptuous laughter and made a slashing, contemptuous gesture with one hand. “If you’re kicking over the traces, my girl, at least pick a man with blood in his veins.”

  “I’ve had a man with blood in his veins,” she said in a low voice. “I

  didn’t like it.”

  That couldn’t be regret in his face, could it? One thing she remembered about Kinvarra was that he never accepted he was in the wrong. But when he spoke, he confounded her expectations.

  “You had a selfish, impulsive boy in your bed, Alicia. Never mistake

  that.”

  Astonished, she stared at him kneeling before her. “When we parted, you blamed me for everything. You said touching me was…was like making love to a log of wood.”

  This time it was his turn to flush and glance away. “I’m sorry you

  recall that.”

  Even now, the snide remark made her flinch. Perhaps because there

  had been an element of truth in his sneer. “It was rather memorable.” When he looked back at her, she read remorse in his eyes. “No

  wonder you hated me.”

  She shrugged again, uncomfortable with the candid turn of the discussion. Because the agonizing truth was that she hadn’t always hated him. Far from it. During most of their year together, she’d believed she loved him. And every nasty word he’d spoken had slashed her youthful heart.

  His unexpected honesty now forced her to recollect that she’d hardly been an angel in that particular argument. She’d called him a filthy, rutting animal and barred him from her bedroom.

  Only now did she admit that he’d had provocation for his cruelty. And he’d been young, too. At the time, his four years seniority had seemed a lifetime. Now she realized he’d been a boy of twenty-one coping with a difficult wife, immature even for her seventeen years.

  No wonder he’d been glad to see the back of her.

  She struggled to swallow what felt like a boulder stuck in her throat.

  If they’d spoken like this after their marriage, perhaps they might have stayed together. But of course, neither of them had been capable of setting aside pride and vanity to face why their union failed. Now it was too late.

  Too late—the saddest words in the language.

  Her voice emerged as a husky whisper and her hands tightened on the arms of the chair until they ached. “There’s no point revisiting all this history. Really, tonight we’re just chance-met strangers.”

  Kinvarra’s lips tilted in the half smile that had made her seventeen- year-old heart somersault. To her dismay, her mature self found the smile just as beguiling.

  “Surely more than that.” He raised his glass. “To my wife, the most beautiful woman I know.”

  “Stop it.” Alicia turned away, blinking back hot tears. This excruciating weight of emotion in her chest was only weariness. She refused to recognize it as the knowledge that all those years ago she’d sacrificed something precious. “Tomorrow it will be as though this meeting never happened.”

  Even in her own ears, the words sounded choked with regret. She’d thought when she finally accepted Harold’s advances that she was over her inconvenient yen for her husband. How tragically wrong she’d been. Tonight proved her as impressionable as ever.

  In silent defiance, she straightened her back against the chair. Kinvarra might be kind now, he might be considerate. But after all the pain between them, she could never let herself trust him again.

  Kinvarra studied her with a speculative light in his black eyes. A premonitory shiver chilled her. If she wasn’t careful, he’d have all her secrets. And she’d have no pride left.

  She attempted a brighter tone. “Are you keeping that wine just for yourself?”

  He laughed softly and raised his glass in another silent toast, as if awarding her a point in a contest. “Here.”

  He passed her the glass and bent to tug at her boot. She took a sip, hoping the claret would bolster her fortitude. It didn’t.

  She hadn’t missed the way he leaned toward her as he spoke and

  the burgeoning tenderness in his manner. Nerves and unwilling arousal

  coiled in her stomach. Did he mean to attempt a seduction? Although God knew why he’d be interested. If he’d wanted her any time, he could have sent for her. His long silence spoke volumes about his indifference.

  His hands were brisk and efficient, almost impersonal, as he pulled her boots off. Automatically she stretched her legs out and wriggled her toes. A relieved sigh escaped her.

  He looked up with a smile as he sat back. “Better?”

  “Better,” she admitted, taking some more wine. The rich flavor filled her mouth and slipped down her throat, washing away a little more of her bitterness.

  Whatever happened tonight, she was unexpectedly grateful she’d had this chance to share a few hours with her husband. Hatred and rancor had dogged her since she’d left Kinvarra. Only now as those reactions ebbed did she realize how they’d soured her life. She inhaled, feeling as though she breathed fully for the first time in ten years.

  He laid one elegant hand on her ankle. Even through the stocking, his touch burned. “You always had cold feet.”

  She closed her eyes. Imagine him remembering such a minor detail. Common sense dictated that she pull back, that she’d veered into dangerous territory. “I still do.”

  “I’ll warm them up.” “Mmm.”

  She was so tired, and the cozy room and surprisingly cordial atmosphere sapped her will. When Kinvarra began to rub her feet, gentle warmth stole up her legs. If his touch even hinted at encroaching further, she’d stop him. But all he did was buff her feet until she was ready to purr with pleasure.

  “Don’t stop,” she whispered, even when her feet glowed with heat and he had to reach forward to rescue the empty wine glass from her loosening hand.

  He laughed softly and she struggled not to hear fondness in the sound. Kinvarra wasn’t fond of her. He’d never been fond of her. Family arrangement had foisted her on him, an English heiress to fill the coffers of his Scottish earldom. Her abominable behavior during their year together had only confirmed his suspicions that he’d married

  a brat.

  “Let’s have our supper before it gets cold. You’re exhausted.”

  She let him take her hand and raise her to her feet. Who would have thought so much touching was involved when they agreed to share this room? But she was in too much of a daze to protest as he led her to the small table and slid a filled plate before her.

  She was so tired that it hardly registered that Kinvarra acted the perfect companion. When she couldn’t eat much of the hearty but simple fare, he summoned the maids to clear the room. Without her having to ask, he granted her privacy to prepare for bed. Although she was too weary to do much more than a quick cat wash. When Kinvarra returned from the corridor, she was already in bed, still wearing her clothes.

  What happened now? Surely after all this time, he wouldn’t demand his marital rights, whatever frail accord they’d established. Still, apprehension tightened her stomach and she clutched the sheets to her chest like a nervous virgin.

  He glanced across at her, black eyes enigmatic in the candlelight. Inevitably the moment reminded her of their wedding night. He’d been the perfect companion then, too. Her gentle knight, the beautiful earl her parents had chosen, the kind, sm
iling man who had made her

  laugh and blush and thrill with feelings she didn’t recognize. And who had taken her body with a painful urgency that had left her hurt and bewildered and crying.

  After that, no matter what he did, she turned rigid with fear when

  he came to her bed. After a couple of weeks, he’d stopped approaching her. After a couple of months, he’d stopped speaking to her, except to quarrel. After a year, she’d suggested they live apart and he’d agreed without demur. Probably relieved to have his pestilential wife off his hands.

  He’d left England almost immediately on a four-year grand tour. When next she saw him, he’d become a worldly, supercilious stranger who barely spared her a word, and the pattern for their rare future encounters was set. She stayed in London while he mostly managed his Scottish estates, hundreds of miles to the north. When she’d left him, even that distance didn’t seem far enough. She’d never wanted to see

  him again.

  Alicia had spent their separation convinced that she bore all the injury in their marriage. Now, tonight, she wasn’t so sure that she was blameless for the disaster of their union.

  She lowered her eyes and pleated the sheets with unsteady fingers.

  “Are you coming to bed?”

  One eyebrow arched in mocking amusement. “Why, Lady Kinvarra, is that an invitation?”

  Her color rose. How lowering to be a woman of twenty-eight and still blush like an adolescent. “It’s a cold night. You’ve had a hard ride. I trust you.” Strangely, so quickly on top of her earlier uncertainty, it was true.

  He released a short laugh and turned away. “More fool you.” Confused, she watched him set the big carved chair nearer to the

  fire. He undressed down to breeches and a loose white shirt. “It’s only a

  few hours until dawn. I’ll do quite well here, thank you.”

  She’d completely misunderstood him. Not for the first time, she thought with the stabbing regret that seemed her constant companion tonight. When he’d first insisted they share a room, she’d wondered