“You had no right to interfere with what is mine. I told you not to.”
He said nothing more, pressing past her on the narrow stairs. He opened the brass-studded door of his tower room, and the fresh smells that assailed him were more than he could bear. He stopped in the middle of the circular room, staring at the vase of summer roses set on his desk. Roses, for God’s sake, his mother’s favorite flower, and the smell mingled with the tart scent of lemon.
He closed his eyes a moment. “You have overstepped yourself, madam.”
“Oh? You prefer filth, then? You prefer that your books continue to rot? They were quite close to it, you know. Naturally, the shelves upon which they sat had worm rot and beetles and God knows what else. It was a close thing.”
He turned then to face her, furious and feeling utterly impotent. She was right, damn her, he was being a dog in the manger, but he’d wanted to oversee things, it was his home, his rags and his tatters, his responsibility. But no, she’d set herself up as the arbitrator of everything, and done just as she’d wished to do and without any direction or permission from him. He could not forgive it. He’d exiled himself to protect her, and she’d done him in, taken over, all without a by-your-leave. He continued to wax eloquent in his mind, then blurted out, a new outrage coming to the fore, “I despise lemon and beeswax! The smell of roses makes me want to puke.”
“But Mrs. Seton said your mother—”
“Don’t you dare speak about my mother!”
“Very well, I won’t.”
“You came into my room, the only private room in this entire pile of rubble that has belonged to me since I was bloody well born. You came in here and you changed it to suit you.”
“I changed nothing, if you would but cease being an unreasonable boor and look about you. The roses, yes, but nothing else, and they’re not a change, just a mere temporary addition. You think you would prefer that the tapestries your great-great-grandmother wove lose all their magnificent colors in years upon years of filth and fray until they turn to dust? And the stones, Colin, you could have easily broken your leg had they not been replaced and reset. I did nothing differently. You will even notice that the damned stones match. And the carpet, dear God, that beautiful Aubusson carpet, at least now you can see the vibrant colors in it.”
“It was up to me to have it done.”
He was dogged, she’d give him that. Once the bone was in his mouth, he wasn’t about to let go of it. She drew on her depleted control. “Well, it cost little to replace the stones. Why didn’t you do it, then?”
“What I did or didn’t do is my affair. I don’t have to explain any of my actions to you. This is my house, my castle. What you have done is wrong.”
“I am your wife. Vere Castle is also my home. It’s my responsibility.”
“You are only what I allow you to be.”
“By all that’s fair, you’re being an idiot! I’ve waited and waited for you to return home. Nearly three weeks and not a single bloody word from you. Well, my lord, you seem to forget that you also have responsibilities—such as your children.”
“My children! They appear to dislike you as much as they did when you first met them, and there’s probably an excellent reason for it. You did raise your hand to them, didn’t you? You probably saw yourself as taking my place—what with you having all the damned money—and you decided that a man would stride about and give everyone orders and buffet children who didn’t immediately conform to what it was you wanted.”
Sinjun was careful not to touch the first-edition Shakespeare. She chose instead a thick tome written by some obscure sixteenth-century churchman and hurled it at him.
It struck him solidly in the chest. He grunted, stepping back. He stared at her, not believing that she would hurl a book at him. Had she had a sword available to her, she probably would have tried to run him through.
He’d looked forward to coming home, be it just for a day or two, had looked forward to seeing his bride, and she’d thrown a book at him. He’d seen himself seated at the grand dining table, she as his bride in her place, his children well scrubbed—doubtless by her own soft hands—smiling and laughing, happy as little clams with their new stepmother. He rubbed his palm over his chest, staring at her still. His pleasant fantasy vanished. Damn her, but he was in the right of it. Because she was the heiress, she’d thrust herself into his role and made herself the master of his home. He wouldn’t tolerate it.
“I believe I’ll lock you in the laird’s bedchamber. You can cause no more discord there.”
She stared at him. The day was warm and his beautiful black hair was windblown. His face was tanned, his eyes such a deep blue, a treacherous blue, she thought, hard now with his anger and his dislike for her. She said slowly, “Just because I’ve tried to become a Kinross you would punish me?”
“A true Kinross wife wouldn’t force everyone to obey her commands. She would be sensitive to others’ feelings. She would obey her husband. Just because you’re the heiress, you cannot behave as if you are also the laird. I won’t have it.”
She walked away from him quickly, s
aying nothing more. He started forward, only to stop. She went through the narrow open door and he heard her light step going quickly down the circular stairs, the newly repaired circular stairs.
“Well, damn,” he said.
Sinjun walked straight to the stables. She wished desperately that Fanny were here, but nothing had yet arrived from Northcliffe Hall, not her trunks or her mare. Murdock the Stunted was there. When he saw her face, pale and set, her eyes wide with something he didn’t understand, he quickly saddled the mare she’d been riding, a rawboned bay whose name was Carrot.
Sinjun wasn’t wearing a riding habit. She didn’t care. She saw that Murdock hadn’t put a sidesaddle on the mare. She didn’t care about that, either. She grabbed a shock of the horse’s mane and swung herself up. Her skirts were at her knees, showing her white silk stockings and her black slippers.
She was out of sight of the castle quickly.
“Good. She’s gone.”