Page 82 of The Bastard's Iberian Bride
When she turned, she kept her focus at shoulder-level where a small scar she’d not noticed before traced over his muscles. “Explain, please. Why are there no other guests?”
“Kincaid arranged it.”
“But…”The cost. She’d pinched pennies her whole life. The cost would be enormous. The journey itself was a fortune with the changing of teams, and…
No. The cost of this journey was not her concern. Mr. Gibson, Lord Hackwell, Lord Shaldon, Mr. Kincaid. One of them could pay for this.
“No other guests. Two men to keep watch because I am in danger. Spellen knew that was my room. He was searching my room. He was going to harm me. But why did he attack Jenny?”
“Because he was a beast.
She felt woozy. “As is Agruen.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “Agruen had wanted to meet me in the kitchens.” She shivered, and strong arms steadied her. Would Agruen have set Spellen on her?
She couldn’t think about that now.
“Agruen is surely part of it,” he said.
“The man who stole a useless ring and called my rusticating mother a whore.”
A growl escaped him and he pulled her into him, his arms moving around her.
Jock had said there was a treasure, and Agruen must know about it. He must be after it, he, and perhaps, others. Did Shaldon know of her father’s treasure? And if he did, why did he not bother to see her and speak of it? And had he told her husband?
Guilt pricked her. Should she tell him?
“Come. I’ll pour you a brandy,” he said.
“And you’ll tell me about this threat.”
Another unmanly sigh. “And I’ll tell you as much as I know.”
So much for paradise. Bink handed his bride a brandy and went to wash. He had no dressing gown, but his shirt would render some respectability.
When he glanced back at his bride she looked away quickly.
He swallowed a grin. The lass liked his arse. His shirt might do, but nakedness had its advantages. He draped the shirt over the back of a chair, wrapped her tartan low on his hips, and joined her, in all his almost nudeness. Anything to distract her from the hot-headed miff she was brewing.
He poured a glass for himself and lifted the cover of the food tray. “Do you mind if I eat?”
“No, of course not.” Her tone was wooden, polite. “Are you not cold?”
“I did not bring a dressing gown. Is my nakedness disturbing?”
She colored.
Old wounds flared, making him bristle.
“I suppose a gentleman would dress for dinner, even on his wedding night.”
She dismissed him with an aristocratic wave and averted eyes.
He was definitely no gentleman. He was coarse and crude. A beast and a burden, and best she knew it. “I’m not either. I can dress if my lady insists.”
Deeper color washed over her. “You are not either what?”
“I’m not cold, and I’m not a gentleman.”
She jerked her belt tight, wishing it was around his neck he’d warrant. The contrast of the tiny waist and the flare of her hips went a long way to taking the edge off his own ire. He focused on the transparent silk, the flashing eyes, and the unleashed passion, and settled in for his first wifely tongue-lashing.
