“No!” she shouted back, taking him by surprise. Even when she was in the throes of one of her infamous tempers, his wife rarely raised her voice.
“No, Marcus,” she said in a calmer tone. “You will not ignore me this time.” The sun streamed through the gossamer curtains at her back and illuminated her entire body in a soft, otherworldly glow. She looked like a furious fairy queen bent on ravaging war against her enemy: namely, him.
Sweeping his dark hair from his forehead in an agitated gesture, Marcus turned and crossed to his liquor cabinet in the corner of the room. He poured two shots of his finest scotch and downed them both in rapid succession.
“Drinking before noon?” Catherine sneered. “How like you, Marcus.”
“Acting like a bitch before noon? How like you, Catherine,” he countered swiftly, keeping his back to her. He heard her gasp of indignation and then his left shoulder exploded in pain. Whirling, he realized she had hurled the bronze stature of a nude woman he kept on the corner of his desk at him. Catherine had always despised the statue; she never imagined it was modeled after her.
“That bloody well hurt,” he growled, rubbing his throbbing shoulder.
Her small chest heaving, Catherine crossed her arms and glared at him. “Good! I hope it did! I have said it before and I shall say it again, Marcus. I am not leaving until you give me what I want.”
In two powerful strides he was across the study and standing in front of her. Before she had time to react he curled one hand around the small of her back and yanked her against him until they were chest to chest, belly to belly, groin to groin. He felt her sharp intake of breath and held her tightly as she tried to twist away. When she raised her small fists to strike at him he captured her delicate wrists in one easy swipe and smiled grimly. Enough was enough. He was done indulging Catherine’s fantasies of divorce. It was time to put her firmly in her place.
“Marcus! Let me go,” she protested, continuing to turn this way and that in a futile attempt to escape.
A sharp elbow caught him on the side of his head and he grunted, but did not lessen his grip. “No,” he said, his voice hoarse as her writhing attempts to free herself spurred an immediate reaction in the heart of his loins. “You are my wife Catherine, and while I know that notion no longer holds any appeal for you we took oaths before God. I will not break them!”
“But why?” she cried desperately. “I am not one of your things to be put on a shelf and left to collect dust. We hardly see each other as it is. We… we have not shared the same bedroom in over three years.”
A fact Marcus was painfully aware of at the moment. Catherine kept her face turned stubbornly away from him, but he could see the slender column of her throat and the pulse that fluttered there, slight as a butterfly’s wing. The urge to lean in and nip at the exposed flesh, to nuzzle and lick and kiss the ivory skin, was so tempting he released her abruptly before he did something he would soundly regret later.
“As I said, I will be leaving for Woodsgate tomorrow,” he gritted out, stepping back behind the desk to hide his bulging arousal. “Return to the city and never speak of divorce again. I am done indulging your whims. I am your husband and you will do as I command!”
Catherine’s eyes rounded as twin blotches of color appeared high on her cheeks. Her mouth curled derisively. “I am not a dog, Marcus. You cannot simply order me to go here or go there and command me to forget things. Go to your rotting shack in the highlands. I shall still be here when you return. I will not stop following you, dearest husband of mine, until I get what I want. I will make your life a living hell!”
Slowly Marcus sank back down into his leather chair. His jaw rigid, he pinned his wife with a stare that had made lesser men turn and cower. Catherine did not so much as flinch. “Are you threatening me?” he asked in disbelief.
A smile curved her lips, but her eyes remained hard as diamonds. “Of course not, darling,” she said sweetly. “I am promising you. Have a wonderful trip. I will see you when you return.”
With a growl Marcus shot up out of the chair, to do exactly what he had not the faintest idea, but Catherine must have finally recognized the murderous intent in his gaze for in a flurry of blue skirts she fled the room, shutting the door smartly behind her.
“Bloody hell,” Marcus said wearily. Rubbing a hand down his face he turned to the liquor cabinet and poured another shot. He contemplated the tumbler half filled with scotch, staring long and hard into the amber depths before tossing it back with one hard swallow. Setting the glass down, he went to the front window and pulled one curtain aside to gaze out upon the lawn below.