She was punishing him, Luke thought, for his refusal to let her go on a wild-goose chase after her half sister by her father’s mistress.
But he was damned if he’d venture into the wild hills that had harbored the worst experience of his life. Bad enough he’d had to come to Spain to fetch her. That had stirred up all kinds of unwelcome memories. But to return to the hills where Michael had died so horribly… And all Luke’s fault. No.
Besides, her tale was nonsense as far as he could tell. What man would expect his thirteen-year-old daughter to take care of his adult mistress and her illegitimate child? Provide for them in his absence, perhaps. But escort them across a war-ravaged country? Preposterous.
The man should never have let her know about them in the first place.
Luke was damned if he’d let it drive a wedge between them. This marriage had already started on a rocky and unorthodox footing, but he was determined to make it work. And bedding her well and often figured large in his plan.
Two rooms be damned. He opened his mouth to tell her so and noted the white-knuckled grip of her reins. He glanced at her mouth. She saw him looking and swallowed.
Oh hell! It was nerves, bridal nerves. What the hell was he thinking, planning a night of passionate lovemaking on the first night they were together?
She’d been attacked as a child. And had spent the last eight years locked up with a bunch of nuns. She was probably terrified of the wedding night.
He glanced at her again, all big, dark golden eyes and gorgeous, vulnerable mouth. Of course she was scared of him; scared of what took place between a man and his wife in the bedchamber.
For one long, enticing moment he entertained the thought that it would be better to get it over and done with, show her there was nothing to fear, introduce her to a world of pleasure…
One glance at her white face and the set, tight look around her mouth, and he relented.
It was his own desire talking, not her needs.
Dammit!
He’d promised her friendship, and forcing a frightened bride to his bed was not at all to his tastes. He looked at her beautiful mouth with more than a pang of regret. Perhaps later he would introduce her to the pleasure of a kiss. It would be something, at least. And who knew where it might lead?
“It’s not spite,” she said, surprising him. “When we get to England, I promise you I will do my duty as a wife.”
Do my duty.That settled it. His body might ache for her, butdo my dutykilled any desire he had to bed her tonight.
When he finally made love to her, he vowed, duty would be the last thing on her mind.
They found a small tavern that could accommodate travelers. It was simple and rustic but very clean. “Two rooms,” Luke told the tavern keeper.
Seven
Bella’s bedchamber was small and, to her eyes, charming, nestled high under the narrow eaves with whitewashed stone walls and a sloping ceiling. It had a bare wooden floor with a coiled rag rug, a small cast-iron stove in the corner, and a squashy-looking bed with a bright red coverlet. Best of all it had two small dormer windows that looked out across the tiled rooftops and down into the valley, though at the moment the view was just a glimmer of wet rooftops and a haze of rain.
It was as far from her bare, narrow cell at the convent as she could imagine.
Lord Ripton had ordered hot water and a tub to be brought up to her and a fire to be lit in her room. It glowed merrily, throwing out the heat. Bella hung up her damp clothing to dry in front of the fire and slid into the gently steaming water of the bath with a blissful sigh.
I will take good care of you, he’d said, and it was true.
It might have made her feel more special if Lord Ripton had not also seen that their horses were well rubbed down and given a hot mash, and their tack dried, cleaned, and oiled.
Lord Ripton took good care of all his possessions.
Bella Ripton, stop miserating over nothing, she told herself. He could be the kind of husband who beat an unsatisfactory wife. He could be a poxed oldvizconde. Instead he was handsome, kind, and took good care of her. And his horses, and that was good, because she loved horses.
If he was also impersonal, stubborn, and autocratic, that was nothing to complain about. She had no reason to feel melancholy. Or even wistful. If she did, it was only because she was tired.
And because for years she’d been spinning foolish, impossible dreams about him in which he performed brave and gallant deeds, all for the love of Bella Ripton.
Not forduty.
The solution was clear. Stop dreaming and get on with her life, herreallife. With her real husband, not some impossible make-believe one.
