Page 4 of Wed to the Highlander
She frowned, a flicker of shame chasing the harshness of her thoughts; loathe was a strong word. She had known him nearlyall her life. Never could she hate him, but resentment came easily. How dare he leave her to stew in silence?
Granted, she’d barely spoken since the wedding vows, not a syllable since boarding the train, but still— The nerve of the man to act as if all of this wasn’t his fault!
“I’ve changed my mind,” she announced, loud enough to jolt him from his doze. If she couldn’t sleep, neither should he. “I’ve decided to become a nun. This sham of a marriage must be annulled.”
He didn’t so much as crack an eyelid as he drawled, “You’d set the abbey ablaze within the week.”
“At least the sisters wouldn’t drag me halfway to Scotland to preside over some moldy, crumbling pile of stone.”
That earned a quiet huff—almost a laugh. “Castle MacPherson is neither crumbling nor moldy. Though I’ll grant you—it’s ancient, as are most Highland relics.”
“Are you referring to yourself?” she asked sweetly. “You’ve a year yet before you’re thirty, and ancient. Which just leaves you desperate.”
His lashes snapped open. Those deep green eyes locked on hers, more sharp now than amused. “Back to that, are we, lass?”
She leaned forward. “Forgive me if I don’t feel particularly honored and cherished as a bride should. It’s challenging after being whisked into matrimony because the groom’s birthday loomed and his coffers were empty.”
“You’re forgetting the bit where you were compromised in your brother’s study and had to wed or face ruin.”
Heat flared in her cheeks. “You say that like I was the instigator when it was entirely your doing.”
He cocked a brow. “Was it? Or was it the duchess you were trying to outdrink and the cigars you filched from the duke’s desk drawer?”
Maggie narrowed her eyes at him. “Cici’s drinking was my dastardly brother’s fault. I’m lumping him in with you—arrogant, stubborn men who have more titles than empathy.”
“I dinna recall me or Andrew digging through the desk for imported brandy. Or lighting those overpriced cigars. Or resembling giggling madwomen while blowing smoke rings to the ceiling.”
She lifted her chin. “I was helping a friend blow off steam. You overreacted.”
“You impugned my impeccable lineage with rogues’ cant.”
“I’m sure you’re mistaken,” Maggie sniffed.
“I most certainly am not. You also called me a turd.”
“You were behaving like one,” she snapped, thereby destroying her denial.
A slow smile curved his lips. “Then I took you over my knee and reminded you of your manners. Suddenly, you weren’t so bold.”
Her face burned hotter. “You dared to take liberties with my person in the Sommerville study because you and the new duke are thick as thieves. I’ll never forgive either of you!”
His voice dropped, dark and teasing. “You will. Because you rather enjoyed it.”
“I did no such thing.”
“You moaned, Maggie—especially when I kissed you afterward.”
She shot to her feet with a sound that was half growl, half infuriated gasp, and strode toward the door.
“Where are you going?”
“Away from you!” she threw over her shoulder.
He caught her wrist. “Sit, lass. When the train rounds the next bend, you’ll pitch headfirst into something—and end up with more bruises.”
“I’d rather be black and blue from head to toe than endure another minute in your company.”
Unoffended, he pulled her toward him. “I’m sorry for teasing, Maggie. But you must admit, you make it easy.”
