Bride for a Night(65)

With a last smug smile toward Talia, the aggravating witch slid smoothly into the shadows and disappeared. At the same moment Gabriel hurried Talia in the opposite direction, ignoring her protests as her skirts were shredded to tatters from the underbrush.

He continued the punishing pace for the next two hours, battling a path for them with sheer brute force. Talia might have been impressed with his prowess if she had not been plagued by the memory of Sophia.

Had the two of them just risen from the narrow cot when she’d entered the cellar, or had she intruded before they could become intimate?

And why did either option make her desire to blacken his eye?

She had known when they’d wed that Gabriel was bound to have dozens of mistresses. Fidelity was considered a puritanical concept among society, and nothing could be more bourgeoisie than to display affection for one’s own wife or husband.

Besides, Gabriel had made it clear when he’d visited her with that damnable marriage contract that, while he was capable of demanding her loyalty, he had no desire to promise his own.

Of course he was bound to fill his bed with one beautiful woman after another.

Unfortunately, logic did not ease her simmering anger, and when he at last paused to offer her a rest, she was in no humor for his stern disapproval.

“You look like a ragamuffin,” he growled, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket to scrub at the dirt marring her cheek.

“Perhaps you would have preferred to be running through the woods with the lovely Sophia? She would never dare look like a ragamuffin,” she snapped.

He scowled, but his fingers were gentle as he moved the handkerchief to a spot near her lips.

“I would prefer that you discontinue your habit of rushing headlong into danger.”

“Habit?” She glared into the predatory beauty of his face, unable to believe even Gabriel could hold her to blame for being kidnapped. “Have you taken leave of your senses?”

The silver eyes shimmered in the stray shaft of moonlight, the light breeze weaving through the thick trees to stir his golden hair. Perhaps it was their untamed surroundings or the danger of their situation, but the icily aloof Earl of Ashcombe had suddenly been replaced by a menacing stranger.

“Obviously I have or I would never have let you out of my sight after our wedding. A mistake I intend to correct from this moment on.”

She shivered at the husky threat. Not with fear, but with a wholly feminine reaction to his blatant claim of ownership.

Angered by her ridiculous response, she narrowed her gaze. “I should have left you to rot with your pretty French tart.”

The tension quivering in the air remained, but something that might have been satisfaction flared through his eyes.

“I had no notion that you would prove to be such a jealous wife.”

She flinched at the disturbing accusation, refusing to admit the sensations churning through her.

“I am not jealous.”

“No?”

“Certainly not. You, after all, made no promise of fidelity.”

He regarded her as if he were offended by her words. “I am your husband.”

“That has no meaning among nobles. Society treats marriage as nothing more than empty vows and—” She gasped as Gabriel hauled her against his rigid body, his arms lashing around her to hold her in place. “What are you doing?”

“I assure you that our vows were not empty. You are mine and I will not endure you taking a lover.” His eyes blazed with a perilous fire. “Not ever.”

Again she felt that thrill of excitement at his primitive claim, and again she was swift to squash it.