Chapter Seven #2
A gust of icy wind dipped low over the river and then flew up and over the bluff, catching her hair in its thrall and yanking her curls from their pins.
Tendrils of brown blinded her as she was spun sideways, the force of the gust sending her straight into Stephen’s waiting arms. He caught her with a husky laugh and held her close, his chin cradling the top of her head.
“Let’s go somewhere warm,” he said, and wasn’t that the height of irony, because she hadn’t experienced a smoldering heat like this since they’d said their . . . farewells . . . in the carriage.
“How did you know I was on the cliff?” she asked as they made their way down to the village, his hand firmly on her arm where it remained even when the path plateaued and the danger of plummeting to an untimely demise had passed.
“I went to your office first, where a hissing cat met me in the window. Susan, I presume?”
Abigail had described her beloved pet at great length in their shared correspondence, even going so far as to count Susan’s whiskers. It was a small thing, inconsequential, really, but it pleased her that Stephen had remembered her cat’s name.
And why wouldn’t he? a small, logical voice intruded.
It would be easier, even preferable, to think of her husband as some terrible monster that she was better off without . . . or to not think of him at all. But as was often the case, in both life and medicine, the truth was not nearly so straightforward.
In his letters, Stephen had revealed himself to be a kind, witty, compassionate man. A man whom, had she not already committed her heart, body, and soul to being a doctor before they’d met, she might have been happy to run away to England with.
But she was a doctor.
She was, apparently, also now a countess.
And she hadn’t the vaguest idea how to merge those two lives into one without losing herself in the process.
“Yes, that would be Susan. She is rather protective of her home. I wouldn’t try to pet her until she engages with you first,” Abigail warned as she procured a key from the convenient fold of fabric she’d had the local seamstress stitch into all of her cloaks and dresses, hidden pockets that eliminated the need to carry a cumbersome reticule around her wrist.
“A true woman,” said Stephen, giving Susan a wide berth from where the cat sat perched high on a stool in the corner of the front hall, her tail twitching back and forth as she watched them enter.
“Please, have a seat. I’ll prepare some tea.
” Gesturing to the quaint, sun-drenched room off the main corridor that served as both a parlor and waiting room for her nonexistent patients, Abigail slipped into the kitchen and prodded the sleeping fire awake with a poker before setting out a pot to boil over the orange flames.
When she returned to the parlor she found Stephen standing in the middle of it, his arms loosely crossed over his chest.
“Where are your maids?” he asked, frowning. “Your cook? Your butler?”
“I don’t have any,” she replied lightly before side stepping around him—the room really was quite small, although the cream-colored walls, various plants, and pale blue furniture gave it a bright, airy appearance—and rousing the second hearth to a cheerful, crackling blaze.
“You’re here by yourself?”
At her bemused nod, his frown hardened into a scowl. “I’ve sent you money with every letter to buy whatever you require, including the services of a full household staff.”
“Are you . . . annoyed?” she ventured, wondering if she was interpreting his expression correctly.
Occasionally, it was difficult for her to read the nuances of a person’s expression and guess what they were thinking if their emotions did not match their words.
Although in this case, the cloud of irritation that had settled in the lines of Stephen’s countenance was quite clear.
“You’re damned right I’m annoyed. You are my wife, Abigail.
You are the Countess of Lancaster.” A muscle ticked in his jaw.
“You shouldn’t be throwing logs on a fire or making tea in the kitchen.
And you shouldn’t be living completely alone in the middle of a New England winter! What if something happened to you?”
“I have Susan.”
“Susan is a cat.”
As if she knew that she had become the focus of attention, Susan chose that exact moment to stroll into the parlor. Pinning her ears to her skull, she hissed at Stephen before she leaped onto the back of an armchair beside the fireplace, gave a disdainful flick of her tail, and curled into a ball.
Abigail’s gaze went from her cat to her husband. She linked her fingers together. “Susan is very protective—”
“So am I,” Stephen growled, taking a step toward her. “And I don’t like the idea of you here alone, fending for yourself, while I am an ocean away.”
“I can assure you that I am perfectly capable of fending for myself.” The temptation to retreat was strong, but she held her ground and even raised her chin a notch.
She would not permit Stephen to intimidate her here, in her own house.
Admittedly, a house that he was paying for, but still.
He had no right to tell her what to do or how to conduct her daily life.
At least not for another twenty-four months.
When she was in England, she would be at his mercy.
An idea that filled her with both dread .
. . and a dark, forbidden type of anticipation.
But while she was in America, she refused to yield to the rule of a husband who had the arrogance to arrive unannounced on her doorstep.
“I understand you value your independence, Abigail.” He spoke slowly, each word measured by a prowling footfall in her direction until the only space that separated them was the air between their lips. “But I will not allow it to come at the expense of your own safety.”
Behind the clear glass lenses of her spectacles, her green eyes flashed. “You will not allow—”
“That’s right,” he interrupted, and had she a tail like Susan’s, it would have definitely twitched. “I may be an ocean away, but I am your husband. You are my responsibility. Unless you would like to accompany me back to London—”
“No,” she cut in hastily.
“—then I should like you to hire, at the very least, a maid and a cook.” His hands went to her hips, and she sucked in a breath when he easily spanned her waist. “You’ve lost weight. You’re not taking proper care of yourself.”