Seven Wicked Nights (Turner #1.5)

Infernal man. “Did you not even inquire if I were home?”


“It is not so big an estate. I assumed our paths would cross.” He swept his hand toward her. And here you are.

Her husband was either a hopeless idiot, a selfish arse, or still punishing her. Most likely all three.

“That is it, then? Five years and I get a”—she waved her hand in a motion that mimicked his—“crossing of our paths?”

He had the intelligence to look wary. “What would you like me to say?”

“Oh, I don’t know. How about ‘How are you, Catherine?’ or ‘I’ve been in India and the goats ate all my correspondence.’”

His blue gaze was intent upon her. Once, this expression had made her feel like the center of his world. “It is good to see you, Cat.”

“Good to see me?” Her throat burned with the urge to yell at him. She tried to take a calming breath. Composure. Graciousness. Indifference. Those were the qualities she needed to strive for.

“Perhaps we should continue this conversation later,” he said.

“Later?”

Jamie scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Though this homecoming is truly heartwarming, I am exhausted from my journey.”

“You’ve had five years to avoid arguing with me, Forster.”

“Then what’s an afternoon more?”

“What’s an afternoon more?” she repeated. Loudly.

“I do not mean to interrupt your day.” He crossed his arms over his chest. Yes, he was definitely thicker there, in his shoulders.

“What do you know of my day? You’ve not even inquired into my affairs.”

“Yes, a husband should know all about his wife’s affairs, should he not?” Ice cold. The man still wanted his revenge, then.

“You know very well I did not have an affair.”

“Funny, then, how I was deemed a cuckold only a fortnight after my wedding.”

“I…you…” Cat snapped her mouth shut. Finally, the argument she’d been waiting years to have, and she could think of no sharp retort.





JAMIE STARED AT HIS WIFE. Anger glinted off her like sparks beneath a hammer.

She was glorious.

It took everything he had within him not to breach the space between them. He wanted her in his arms. He wanted to touch her, taste her. Goddamn smell her. She, the woman who had betrayed him worse than any other.

He was a bloody fool.

A fool who was in no mood for an argument. The last he had seen Cat, they’d had a row to end all rows. Between them, they had smashed two matching Rouen vases, torn down a curtain from the window, and disemboweled a throw pillow.

His pride had fared no better.

“It is lovely to have you home, my lord.” Cat crossed her arms, mimicking his posture. The tasseled riding crop in her hand stuck out at a funny angle. Only Cat would have a silk crop specially designed to match her riding habit. “The villagers will be delighted that the lord of the manor has finally returned to Forster Abbey.”

She sounded anything but delighted.

“I am happy to be home.” Dread heavy in his belly, he widened his stance. His favorite chair waited behind him, now covered in some appalling fabric. But it didn’t seem he’d be sitting down any time soon. He’d been at sea often enough to recognize the signs. This storm was gathering strength, not abating.

Foolishly, he’d thought a surprise reunion might work in his favor. A warning of his return would afford his wife time to amass her anger against him. Apparently she didn’t require time or warning to gather her fury. Her blond curls trembled with emotion beneath her riding hat.

She smiled at him. Or, more correctly, bared her teeth. “I trust you will discover we bore your absence well. Splendidly, in fact.”

“I see.”

“I do hope you found what you were looking for during your travels. But perhaps I shall decline to recognize you? Perhaps I shall call for a contest. Whoever shall string the king’s bow and shoot an arrow through twelve axe-handles may win me.”

“If it pleases you, Penelope.” He smiled back. Always quick with the retort, his Cat. “But might I remind you I was gone five years, not the twenty Odysseus was away.”

She dropped her arms to her sides. Her blue riding habit matched her eyes. The jacket was tight with double buttons beneath her breasts. He knew those breasts. Knew the weight and shape of them in his palms. Knew how she most liked to be—

She smacked her crop against her boot. Jamie looked up.

“I am your wife, Forster, whether you wish it or not. I have maintained your household, brought kindness to your tenants, and otherwise been faithful to my vows. All the while I’ve had no notion where you were.”

“You act as if I owe you an explanation.”

“I made a mistake. I apologized for it. Five years ago.” She ground out the last.

“Perhaps I was five years wounded.”

“Perhaps you were five years stubborn.”

“Perhaps my pride needed time.”