Page 62 of The Sinner
“Ye heard what I did to my first husband.” She deliberately looked at his crotch. “Are ye no afraid I’ll cut it off?”
* * *
Alex threw his head back and laughed. “I do like your spark, Glynis.”
If he could keep things light and easy between them, all would be well—or, at least, well enough. He was determined to raise his daughter in a home without the fights and screaming that he grew up with. From his parents, he’d learned that one strong emotion led too easily to another, that love could turn to hate. And hate lasted far longer.
Magnus Clanranald had made the same mistake that Alex’s father had, embarrassing his wife by being brazen about his other women. There was no need for that. A good husband was sensitive to his wife’s feelings. If Alex could not control his urges, then he’d keep his affairs brief and out of Glynis’s sight.
“I’d always respect ye.” Alex looked into the fire and spoke to her from his heart. “I promise I would never embarrass ye. I would always be discreet.”
Both his parents had told him countless times that it was not in his blood to be content with one woman. But at the moment, at least, all his urges involved Glynis. He would not be satisfied until he had her a hundred different ways. By the saints, he wanted this woman as he’d never wanted another. The last four days and nights had nearly killed him.
He turned, intent on dragging her off into the bushes at last. But he stopped short when he saw that the fire burning in her eyes was not the sort he had been hoping for.
“Oouu!” The sound she emitted as she sprang to her feet made him glad there was no crockery about for her to throw at him. Apparently, promising to be discreet had been the wrong thing to say. He stood up and considered how best to soothe her.
“What woman,” she said, planting her fists on her hips, “could say nay to having such a considerate husband?”
“I don’t want to lie to ye,” he said. “I’ve never tried to be faithful, so I don’t know if I can.”
“Ye are a born romantic, Alexander Bàn MacDonald.”
Good lord, did hardheaded Glynis MacNeil expect love? He’d had no notion she harbored such hopes.
“I thought your first marriage would have cured ye of unreasonable expectations,” he said—and knew at once he had made another a mistake.
“So, I am the unreasonable one?” Her eyes were narrow slits like a wildcat’s ready to strike. “And yet, ye would expect me to mother your daughter, manage your household, and be your bedmate for as long as ye like. And then, when ye tire of having me in your bed, I’m to stand aside while ye have one ‘discreet’ affair after another with every willing woman in the Western Isles?”
Alex shifted from foot to foot. He did not sleep with every willing woman, but it seemed best not to mention that just now.
“And because ye are such a handsome, charming man,” she said, spreading her hands out, “I would, of course, agree to this arrangement.”
“Ye are a sensible woman,” he said, though he was having serious doubts about this. “Ye have to marry someone, and I’m no worse than most.”
Not much worse, anyway.
“Besides,” he added, “ye already went to bed with me, so we ought to marry.”
“I presume,” she continued, as though he had not spoken, “that I could have affairs as well, so long as I was discreet.”
“Nay.” The word was out of his mouth before he thought it. He would have to kill any man who touched his wife, but he thought better of telling her this. “Suppose ye became pregnant? I’d need to know that the child was mine.”
“Setting aside the fact that I’m verra likely barren,” she said. “You’re saying it would be well and good for me to raise your children by other women, but no the other way around.”
“Aye.” That was the way of the world. Why did she make it sound as if he had invented it? “But I only have the one child.”
“So far.” She folded her arms. “I appreciate that ye blessed me with your kind offer, but I will not marry another philanderer. If I am forced to take another husband, I’ll wed a steady, serious man I can rely on.”
He reached for her hand, but she snatched it away.
“You, Alexander Bàn MacDonald,” she said, poking her finger into his chest, “are the verra last man in all of the Highlands I would want for a husband.”
* * *
Sorcha opened her eyes to blackness, and fear rushed through her. When she heard the soft breathing of the women on either side of her, she knew she was not back in the room with the big mice. Still, she wanted to see the stars to be sure.
Taking care not to wake Glynis and Bessie, she crawled out of the tent on her hands and knees. Across the cold campfire, her father sat alone in the dark. He was no more than a black shape, but she knew it was him. And he was sad.
