He should have locked her in her room. If she survived this, he would lock her in her room for the rest of her life.
“There she is,” said one of the grooms, pointing into the distance.
Gwen was still on the mare’s back, thank God. Aidan gestured toward the tree line. “We’ll go around. They’re headed for the lake.”
“It’s a young horse, Your Grace. If the duchess can keep her seat, the beast’ll get tired soon enough.”
Aidan’s eyes stayed riveted to his wife as they sped in faster pursuit. Through his panic, through his anger, he realized Gwen was a magnificent horsewoman. He’d never seen an Englishwoman ride like that, bareback, neck or nothing, hunched over her mount with the reins loose in her hands. The wind caught Gwen’s black hair and whipped it behind her like streaks of dark lightning against the horse’s white coat. She was a fairy queen on her enchanted steed. Please, please, please, don’t stumble. Don’t lose control.
“The horse is slowing, Your Grace.”
Aidan nodded, looking over at the white-faced grooms. Now that the race was over, now that Gwen had apparently survived, Aidan could not seem to collect his emotions. He rode into the clearing by the pond, where the mare drank and his wife stood beside it, stroking its neck.
He slid down off his horse, so weak with relief he was not certain his legs would hold him. Gwen glanced at him, saying nothing. They had said nothing to each other all week.
“Walk the mare back,” he said to the grooms. “I would speak privately with my wife.”
His men took the reins, and the now-tired horse followed them without resistance. Gwen stood with her chin high and her hands clasped before her, and Aidan thought for the hundredth time that he would never understand her. Why was she not afraid of him, especially now? Why was she not in awe of him like everyone else? Why was she always doing things that made him want to shout at her?
“Well,” she said. “You have that look about you. Are you going to spank me again?”
“If I had control of my temper, I would. That horse might have killed you, you know. If you ever pull such a stunt again, rest assured I’ll whip you to within an inch of your life.”
“I don’t understand why you’re angry. You said she was mine.”
He wanted to murder her. He did. “Do not be obtuse. You heard me yelling at you. You heard me say the horse was not fit to ride.”
“But she was fit to ride. She carried me beautifully.”
“Beautifully?” He stalked toward her. “She ran from the paddock like the devil was at her heels.”
“Because you shouted at her and startled her,” his wife retorted, backing away.
“You’re lucky she didn’t break your head open and snap your bones under her feet. I thought you’d be dead. I thought I’d come upon your broken, lifeless body, God damn you.”
He had no more words, only emotion choking him inside. He’d grasped her arms without even realizing it. She infuriated him beyond reason but he didn’t want her to die. He pulled her down to the ground and trapped her hands over her head, and yanked up her skirts. She didn’t resist him, and he didn’t look at her face. He only knew he had to be inside her, because she was alive and whole, and not in a thousand bloody pieces.
“Oh,” she said as he yanked at his breeches and released himself. He pushed into her hard. He might have hurt her if she hadn’t arched to him, if she wasn’t already wet. But of course she was wet. He’d learned in their marriage bed that she liked force. She liked sexual wildness and abandon. It was one of the only things they had in common. Perhaps that’s why he ravished her now, because it was the only way to reconnect with her, and they needed to reconnect. You scared me. I care about you.
He would not say he loved her. She wasn’t lovable in the least, the way she constantly challenged him, but he should have been going to her bed all this time. Five days lost, when he might have been between her legs, giving her the only thing she seemed to want from him: a hard, rough fuck.
He dug his knees into the grass, surging inside her, lifting her, taking her in an animalistic temper. He’d never fucked a woman angry before, never. Not until now.
Their clothes would be ruined by dirt and grass. Everything would be ruined, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t think of anything beyond taking her as he ought to have taken her earlier. He’d never pass by her again without dragging her into some room and possessing her. Perhaps he’d fuck her on sight, then and there, pull her beneath him in the corridors, in the parlors, or push her up against a marble column in the main hall.
At some point he’d let go of her hands. He wrapped himself around her so she couldn’t get away, but she wasn’t trying to get away. She gripped and pulled his hair as she strained against his front. He wasn’t taking the first care for her pleasure, but she was ardently aroused. It made him angrier, and the anger spilled over into passion for this hellion who was not the wife he expected to have. I hate you, he thought, but he meant, I love you, and I don’t know why.
She cried out and bucked beneath him. He fucked her harder, cursing, biting off oaths as she climaxed. Her sheath tightened around him in rhythmic, ecstatic ripples that signaled her release. He sought his own, driving into her so firmly she panted for breath. No, it was not civil, not well done of him. As soon as he emptied himself inside her, he became aware of how barbarous he’d been. He’d never fucked a whore so violently. He should not have done so to his wife, not for any reason. He made himself look at her, and endure her righteous outrage.
But there was no outrage. She closed her eyes a moment, then blinked them open again. She unwound her fingers from his hair, and let her arm drop back about her head. It was a sensual pose, lazy and content. He didn’t understand her. He would never understand her.
“Aren’t you angry?” he ground out.
He felt her squeeze around his cock.
“You were the angry one,” she said. “Do you feel better now?”
Did he feel better? He couldn’t tell, and it didn’t matter. “I shouldn’t have taken you in anger. That was not respectful of me.”
“I suppose it turned out all right.”
He realized then why he could not be pleased. It was because a proper lady would not gaze up at him and say I suppose it turned out all right. A proper lady would not gain pleasure from being ravished beside a lake. But his lady did.
So what was he to do? He could not be angry and rough again, that was certain. And he couldn’t ignore her, because it only made things worse. He couldn’t change her, not without a great deal of angst and willful disobedience. He didn’t have the answer, and he always had the answer.
He sighed and rose on his elbows, and pulled away. When he glanced down to fasten his breeches, he saw crimson on his cock, and her thighs, and experienced a sickening jolt of horror. “I’ve injured you,” he said. “There’s blood.”
“You didn’t injure me. I believe my courses are upon me. They were due.” She pushed down her skirts to hide the stains. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry? Why are you sorry?”
“Because I haven’t yet conceived your heir. I know that’s all you need me for.”
He pursed his lips as he did up his breeches. “You know nothing of what I need. Nor do you care.” He stood and held out a hand. “Get up.”
She ignored him and stood on her own, and arranged her appearance, brushing away leaves and dirt. “I wish you would stop being angry all the time,” she said.
“Then I wish you would stop angering me.” Aidan turned away. “They took your horse, so you’ll have to ride back on mine.”
“Her name is Eira.”
He stopped on his way across the clearing. “What?”
“The mare. I’ve named her Eira. It’s the Welsh word for snow.”
He started again toward his horse. “Don’t get attached to that mare. I’m going to get rid of her.”
“What?” The word rang out among the lake and trees. She ran to his side. ?
?You can’t get rid of her. You can’t!”
“Why not? She won’t be broken to the saddle, and you can’t ride bareback in London. You can’t streak through Hyde Park clinging to her damned mane.”