Free The Black Knave by PATRICIA POTTER

his wife his hand. She sat silently, not taking it. He leaned over, whispering in her ear. “Do as I say, madam.” Then he planted a kiss on that same ear to the approving roar of his clansmen.
    When he offered his hand again, she took it and stood stiffly. She was rigid with fear and, he thought, humiliation. She had been the brunt of jokes all evening, and even the few women present had eyed her with hostility. There had been no sympathetic face in the hall this night.
    He was used to disapproval, to scowls, to taunts, and he’d long since ceased to let them bother him. But he sensed she was from a far gentler background.
    “Come,” he said, as he feigned drunkenness, nearly falling as they reached the door, then clumsily climbing the steps. Some very descriptive comments followed them all the way.
    He stopped at her door, swinging it open.
    She stood in the room, her blue eyes wide with apprehension.
    “You will have to learn to believe me,” he said curtly, then went to the one table in the room. Trilby had done as ordered. A bottle of fine French brandy had been opened, and two silver goblets stood next to it.
    Rory poured two glasses and offered one to her. ” ‘Tis far better than what was served downstairs,” he said. “It will serve to relax you.”
    “Your departure will relax me.”
    “I think I explained that to you earlier.” he said in a tone he would use with a child. A simple one.
    He saw the fury blaze in her eyes again, then they narrowed. “You are not as drunk as you seem.”
    “An apt observation, madam. I far prefer this brandy, and I was not going to share it with Cumberland. Are you sure you will not join me?”
    “No.” Suspicion darkened her eyes.
    “Then I will help you undress.”
    She backed away.
    “I think it might be considered strange if we stay in these clothes all night.”
    “No one will…”
    “Are you sure of that, madam? I am not.”
    He saw the suspicion deepening. “If indeed I wanted your body, my dear wife. I would not hesitate to take it. There is no one to stop me. In fact, I believe a scream or two might enhance my image.”
    “I… I want Trilby.”
    “I told her she could join the other clansmen and guests tonight. Surely, you would not want to deprive her of that.”
    “N … no.”
    Without additional words, he went to the large dresser and looked inside, pulling out a fine linen nightdress she’d received yesterday with the new dresses. He laid it on the bed, then went over to her. “Turn around, my dear.”
    Her mouth tightened, but she did so. She was learning. Reluctantly, but learning. He quickly undid the hooks and watched as the dress fell down over her shift. Her shoulders were smooth, creamy, and he suddenly ached to touch them, to run his fingers through her dark hair. She was … quite pretty, prettier than he’d first thought.
    God’s blood. He certainly couldn’t afford such thoughts now. He turned back to the table, eying the two chairs, one on either side. He took the goblet he’d filled with brandy and took first one sip, then another. At least his father had had excellent taste in spirits, he thought bitterly. He tried not to hear her movements—the dull thud of slippers falling to the floor, the rustle of clothes.
    He took another sip. He had not expected to be aroused by her. He had not anticipated the rush of hot blood when his finger had accidentally brushed her skin, when her strands of dark hair grazed the back of his hand.
    Rory turned. She was in the bed, the feather coverlet covering her far better than the fine material of the gown. He took off his own waistcoat, placing it neatly on one of the chairs. He then untied the stock and loosened the top of his linen shirt.
    Next came his slippers, which he despised. He far preferred the soft leather boots he wore when riding. He looked back at his bride. The flickering light from the lamps cast shadows on the dark hair, made her face less stark. She was watching every move,