A Winter Wedding: Strangers at the Altar / The Warrior's Winter Bride

‘Why should you, you know nothing of the place.’

‘Exactly.’ She sniffed again, and drew him a meaningful look. Innes handed her a neatly folded handkerchief. ‘I’m not crying,’ Ainsley said.

‘No.’

She blew her nose. ‘I’ve never known a wetter July. I’ve likely got a cold.’

‘It wouldn’t surprise me.’

‘I hate women who resort to tears to get their way.’

‘I’m not sure it ever works. From what I’ve seen, what usually happens is that she cries, he runs away, and whatever it was gets swept under the carpet until the next time,’ Innes said wryly.

‘You know, for a man who has never been married before, you have an uncanny insight into the workings of matrimony.’

‘I take it I’ve struck a chord?’

It was gently said, but she couldn’t help prickling. ‘Sometimes tears are not a weapon, but merely an expression of emotion,’ Ainsley said, handing him his kerchief. ‘Such as anger.’

‘Stop glowering at me, and stop assuming that all men are tarred with the same brush as the man you married.’

The gentleness had gone from his voice. Ainsley sat, or rather slumped, feeling suddenly deflated. ‘I don’t.’

‘You do, and I’m not like him.’

‘I know. I wouldn’t be here if I thought you were. But you are shutting me out, Innes, and it’s making me feel as if I’m here under false pretences. If you won’t talk to me, why not talk to Eoin? There’s nothing shameful in asking for help.’

Her tea was cold, but she drank it anyway. The silence was uncomfortable, but she could think of no way of breaking it. She finished her tea.

‘I’m not used to consulting anyone,’ Innes said. ‘You knew that.’

‘But it was your idea to have me come along here. An objective eye.’

‘I didn’t realise things would be so bad. As I said, it’s obvious that it’s too late.’

‘So you’re giving up?’

‘No! I’m saving you the effort of getting involved in something that is next to useless.’

‘Giving up, in other words,’ Ainsley said.

His face was quite white. The handle of his teacup snapped. He stared at it, then put it carefully down. ‘I don’t give up,’ he said.

She bit her tongue.

‘I’m not accustomed to— It’s been difficult. Seeing it. Not having answers. That’s been hard.’

Ainsley nodded.

‘They are all judging me.’

She sighed in exasperation. ‘Innes, you’ve been gone a long time. They don’t know you.’

‘I don’t see how you can help.’

‘I won’t know if I can, if you don’t talk to me.’ Ainsley tried a tentative smile. ‘At the very least, I would be on your side.’

‘Aye, that would be something more than I have right now.’ Innes smiled back. ‘I’ll think about it.’

‘Please do. I have plenty of time on my hands.’

He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, looking at her ruefully. ‘You might want to use some of it to partition this place off into his and her domains. I’m like a bear with a sore head these days, though contrary to what you might think, I quite like having you around. And that’s your cue, in case you missed it, to tell me you feel the same.’

Ainsley laughed. ‘Would I have suggested helping you if I had wanted to avoid you?’

‘True.’

‘Perhaps you should consider having some sort of welcoming party.’

‘Even though I’m not welcome.’ He shook his head. ‘No, I’m sorry, don’t bite my head off.’

Ainsley frowned, thinking back to the letter she had been reading that morning from Desperate Wife. ‘Sometimes traditions can be a comfort. Sometimes they can even help heal wounds,’ she said, making a mental note to include that phrase in Madame Hera’s reply.

‘Sometimes you sound like one of those self-help manuals, do you know that?’

‘Do I?’

‘“Engaging in marital relations,”’ he quoted, smiling. ‘“Undergoing a husband’s ministrations.” No, don’t get on your high horse, it’s endearing.’

‘It is?’

‘It is. What were you suggesting?’

‘Didn’t you say that there ought to have been a ceremony when we arrived?’ There was a smut of mud on his cheek. She reached up to brush it away.

‘A ceremony. I’m not very keen on ceremonies.’ Innes caught her hand between his and pressed a kiss on to her knuckles.

Was it just a kiss, or a kiss? It felt like more than just a kiss, for it made her heart do a silly little flip. But his mouth did not linger, and surely knuckles could not be—what was the word, stimulating? She wanted to ask him, but that would give too much away, and he might not have been at all stimulated. ‘A celebration, then,’ Ainsley said. ‘Lots of food and drink. Something to mark the changes. You know, out with the old and in with the new.’

‘Mmm.’ He kissed her hand again. ‘I like that,’ he said, smiling at her.

‘Do you?’ She had no idea whether he meant her idea or the kiss.

‘Mmm,’ he said, pulling her towards him and wrapping his arms around her. ‘I like that very much,’ he said. And then he kissed her on the mouth.

It was definitely not just a kiss. He tasted of spring. Of outdoors. A little of sweat. And of something she could not name. Something sinful. Something that made her heat and tense and clench, and made her dig her fingers into the shoulders of his coat and tilt her body against his. And that made him groan, a guttural noise that seemed to vibrate inside her.

One hand roamed up her back, his fingers delving into her hair, the other roamed down to cup her bottom and pull her closer. She could feel the hard ridge of his arousal through his trousers, through her skirts. She touched her tongue to his and felt his shudder, and shuddered with him, pressing her thighs against his, wanting more, wanting to rid herself of the layers of cloth between them, wanting his flesh, and then thinking about her flesh, exposed, thinking about him looking at her. Or looking at her and then turning his head away. Then not wanting to look at her. Like John. And then...