his chin as though there was some point they had forgotten to discuss. Then he smiled, as if the idea had suddenly come back to him. ‘We have not yet discussed what is to become of you, after all is settled.’
‘Me?’ The word came out in a squeak, like a mouse that had just been caught in a trap.
‘There is more to being a wife then parroting “yes” each time I ask a question. I expect you to share my bed, as well.’ He’d added it in an offhand manner, as though it was a minor consideration, hardly worth mentioning. ‘You will submit to me whenever I request it. I will use you as I please, when I please. If I tire of you, I will abide no fussing or tears. Under no circumstances will you be taking admirers of your own. I said I wanted loyalty, my dear, and in the bedroom it will be absolute.’
His eyes narrowed in satisfaction at her look of shock. ‘The alternative is that I turn you from the house this very day. There will be no time for niceties. You will leave with your whelp and the clothes on your back, and the devil take you both.’
The fear of that was clearer and more immediate than anything that might happen in the captain’s bed. She gave a hesitant nod.
He nodded back at her, the old, harmless smile returning. ‘Very good. I knew we could come to an understanding, if we had a few moments alone to talk.’
She fought against another shiver. If she thought about it, she would realise that this meeting had gone better than she could have hoped. Stewart would be safe. She would be rid of her family. And as long as he had a use for her, she might keep her place as lady of the house. It was not the stuff of fairy tales, but it never had been.
More importantly, this was Gerald Wiscombe ordering her to his bed. If she searched, she might still find traces of the gentle, awkward boy who had postponed the consummation of their marriage to spare her feelings. At the very least, he was an officer and a gentleman, not some uncaring brute. If she did what he asked of her, he would not hurt her just for the sport of seeing her suffer.
He was also the hero of Salamanca.
Half the women in England swooned at the mention of his name. In their midnight fantasies, they offered themselves to the gallant and heroic Captain Wiscombe, thanking him for his service with their bodies.
Would it surprise him to discover that his wife was no different? That she felt a dark thrill at his command to submit to his desires? If he had meant it as a punishment, he would be just as likely to reject her again, should she seem too eager for his attention.
She stood so that she might look him in the eye and pretend that it did not matter to her if he wanted her or not.
Then, as if to prove just how false her bravery was, he pulled her forward into his arms and kissed her hard upon the lips.
It was over just as quickly. But fantasy paled in comparison. He had told her with a single kiss that he was her lord and master and she had responded as if she longed to be ruled by him. When he released her, she fell back into the cushions of the divan, weak from the sudden loss of control over her body and her future. Before she could comment, he rose, walked out of the room and left her alone.
In Belgium, when they’d all thought the war was over, there had been far too much time to drink and reminisce with other officers. Gerry had noticed a certain arrogance on the part of the infantry commanders towards their counterparts in the cavalry. Given any excuse, they would insist that fighting from horseback was not real fighting at all.
To be above the action and looking down upon it was, in their opinion, to cheat. Not only did it give the rider a tactical advantage, but it removed the need to face the enemy eye to eye. Bravery, to an infantryman, was to see all of the common thoughts and emotions that rendered one man equal to another reflected in an enemy’s face, and to attack in spite of them.
Today he wondered if there might be truth in that. When he’d imagined himself coming home, it had been in a metaphorical galloping charge. It would be the work of an instant to vanquish the interlopers who had claimed his home. He would take special pleasure in seeing his wife wailing and gnashing her teeth as he put her out and slammed the door in her face.
In his imagination, it was always raining the kind of cold drizzle that one got in the north. It added an extra air of pitifulness to her entreaties and those of the rat-faced whelp clinging to her skirts.
The actual meeting had been quite different. Evidence still proved she was a cheating whore. But he’d thought she would make some effort to deny the obvious. Perhaps she would try to hide the child. At the very least, she would have some tragic story to explain it.
Instead, she had offered complete surrender before he could strike a metaphorical blow. Even worse, she had displayed her greatest weakness. She wished to protect her son even if it meant sacrificing herself. She had not even resorted to the weapon all women seemed to use against men. Not a single tear had been shed as she’d awaited his judgement.
These were not the actions of a worthy opponent. She was behaving like a martyr. Even worse, the boy showed no mark of his mother’s perfidy. Because of Lillian’s lies, the child seemed illogically eager to see him. To send him away would be like kicking a puppy because it had wagged its tail.
After the interview, he’d felt dirtied by more than the grime of travel. There was no fault in expecting fidelity and no villainy in being angry when one did not receive it. There was no sin in demanding that one’s wife behave like a wife, in bed and out, if she wished to remain under one’s roof. But if all that was true, then why did staring into those sad brown eyes make him feel like a lecherous cad?
And what had the kiss meant to either of them? Compared to his plans to take her to bed, it had seemed almost chaste. But at the end of it, she had been shaking in his arms and he had been left unsettled, ready to saddle his horse and go before closer contact with her made him forget her unfaithfulness.
He would feel better after a drink and a wash. But apparently, that was too much to ask. ‘Aston! Mrs Fitz!’ He roared for the servants in his best battlefield voice and was satisfied to hear doors opening and closing up and down the guest-room corridors. His unwanted visitors had learned the master of the house was home and was not happy.
The servants appeared, out of breath and in unison, before he had to call a second time.
He pointed to the door to his room. ‘What is the meaning of this?’ There was a shiny brass lock on the door of the master bedroom, where none had been before.
‘Oh. Oh, sir. I mean, Captain, I am so sorry.’ His poor housekeeper was devastated that their first meeting after his return was because of an error in her management. ‘When the maid aired the room and lit the fire, she locked it after. It is always locked. The mistress’s room, as well.’
‘I see that.’ He had tried the door just down the hall from his, thinking he could enter his own room through the connecting door. He had been blocked there, as well. ‘Am I expected to break down the benighted doors to gain admittance, then?’
‘No, sir.’ Aston was fishing on his ring for a key. He turned it in the lock and then placed it in his master’s hand. Gerry’s single glance down the hall to his wife’s room had the servant relinquishing that key as well.
‘We meant no insult by it,’ Mrs Fitz said hurriedly.
‘Of
