Page 68 of The Scot Beds His Wife
Gavin broke a long, inexplicably glum moment by swinging into the saddle. “I’ve found a way to gain Erradale,” he announced.
“Oh?” Callum’s brows lifted. “And just how will ye convince Sam not to shoot ye, first?”
“Easy.” Gavin bared his teeth in what was supposed to be a grin, but felt a little too wild to maintain the distinction. “I convinced her to marry me, instead.”
With a swift kick, he shot into the bracing predawn chill, leaving his friend gaping after him in an openmouthed stupor. The ground crunched beneath his mount’s hooves, the winter path kissed by delicate frost. It would sparkle when the sun rose, clinging to the winter foliage and turning Wester Ross into something out of a Faerie Tale.
Except he was no Prince Charming. No Romeo.
And Alison Ross was certainly no damsel.
The past chased him all the way to Ravencroft. Howmany times had he made this trip in the middle of the night? How many times had he been summoned to the secret door off the north wing, and fought not to answer?
As many times as he’d given in.
It was in front of that door, they’d found Colleen’s body, when she’d thrown herself from the ramparts rather than run away with him.
He thought about the wild, torturous ride he’d taken to Ravencroft a decade ago when word had reached him. He thought about it every time he took this road.
This time, though, different tragedies tore after him.
All of them linked to the place where Alison Ross’s fingertips still seared the uneven flesh of his back.
Of course, she wasn’t the first to see his scars. One couldn’t bed so many women without baring one’s skin. Sometimes, if he was feeling unwilling to discuss it, he’d leave off the lights, leave on his shirt, or blindfold the lass. Other times, when he was less brittle, he’d concoct a wild story, one just farfetched enough to be believable.
Pirates had overtaken him and Callum in Borneo. He’d done time in a foreign prison during his youthful travels. Or, his favorite, he’d made a pilgrimage to a zealous monastery; doing his best to cure himself of his wicked, salacious need for fornication through self-flagellation.
Anything but the truth.
Oh, how their legs would part, their fingers smoothing over the groves and welts, right before their nails scored them.
So why did her single, curious touch evoke such a violent reaction?
Perhaps because… he’d forgotten about them for a precious moment. He’d not been in control of the narrative, and realized suddenly that if he asked a woman to share his life,all the pleasant fictions he’d created for himself would not last for long.
It had also been what he’d sensed behind her touch, what he’d seen in the eyes that’d stared up at him with astonishment, but not fear.
She wanted to pity him.
She needed a reason to think him better than he was. An excuse for his wicked ways.
Well, he had none. His scars were given to him by the same man who’d shot and killed her father, and if he was going to wed and bed her, that was a conversation best left alone.
Forever.
***
Samantha had done a few perilous things in her life, but this had to be among the worst. One misstep could mean an absolute, humiliating disaster.
Just what in the nine levels of hell had she gotten herself into?
She made slow progress toward the Earl of Thorne’s window, half hobbling, half hopping with the chamber pot she’d retched into that morning clutched carefully in both hands. She had the bed sheets wrapped around her, and it was as difficult trying not to trip over them as it was not to spill the disgusting contents of the pot. Putting any weight on her leg hurt enough to evoke beads of sweat on her brow and upper lip. Tears stung her eyes, but she gritted her teeth and persevered, because the alternative was unthinkable.
The thought of the Earl of Thorne, her fiancé, catching her thus not only mortified her.
It terrified her.
What if she repulsed him? Or worse, what if he guessed her condition?
