He wanted to tell her. He opened his mouth to do it. And closed it again.
This was his way of testing her. He knew that just as certainly as he knew it was wrong. Still, the miles rolled past with no word passing his lips.
Alex spent the last few miles perched on the edge of her seat, fairly vibrating with excitement. Her eyes, wide and shining, drank in the countryside as if she could embrace her new home with only her gaze.
"It smells so lovely. Like autumn already!"
Collin grunted, more irritated by her pleasure than he would have been by hesitance. Yes, it was autumn already, in mid-September, and snow would likely fall within the month. And then? Nothing but months of cold and dark and a drafty keep to occupy the lovely Alexandra. What would she think of her home then?
"How far now, Collin?" The happy glance she aimed his way stabbed into his conscience. He should have explained everything, described his life in detail before this marriage. Before he'd even asked for her hand. It was too late now, really. An explanation would sound like an apology for who he was.
"A few minutes," he answered. "No more."
"Really?" His wife literally bounced in her seat. Then, unable to contain herself, she finally thrust her head through the open window and craned her neck to see past the horses.
"Oh, we're coming to the top of the hill! Is Westmore on the other side?"
"No. There's one more hill yet."
"It's so beautiful here." Her head reappeared, curls tousled against the vista of crag and hill, boulder and tree. "Will you take me exploring right away?"
"I expect I will have a lot of work awaiting me."
Those great blue eyes blinked. Her black brows frowned a little, then smoothed out to perfect arches again. "Of course. I did not mean to be flip. You've been away from home too long."
"Yes."
Collin met her eyes evenly, though it cost him a small piece of his heart to watch the worry etch itself over her face. A wariness entered her eyes before she looked away.
He'd let himself forget their differences over the past few days. He'd set aside his concerns about this marriage for the sheer joy of his bride's body and spirit. But they could not spend all the hours of their days together in bed. There would be no escaping that he had brought her low with this marriage. Best for her to realize it now. And if she wanted to leave, at least he would know immediately.
"Will they accept me, do you think?"
"Hmm?" He frowned at the familiar landscape rolling past the window.
"Do you think people will be upset that I'm English?"
"Which people?"
"I don't know."
Pulling himself from his dark thoughts, he saw that she had sobered to a great degree and fought the urge to fold her into his arms. "I'm sure everyone is surprised by the news. But Fergus—my manager—he will not care one whit about your English blood. And the Kirk-lands are my closest neighbors. You remember Jeannie, she already likes you. Did she write?"
A faint tinge of pink crept up her cheeks. "Yes."
Collin saw her intention to say more and held up a hand. "Pray, don't tell me what she said. I'd prefer to remain ignorant."
A bright smile returned.
"Other than those two—I cannot really speak for the servants and workers, but I can't imagine they'd care one way or the other."
"You'd be surprised."
A low shout filtered to his ears over the rumbling drone of the coach wheels, and he glanced out to see the ridge that faced Westmore. One of the horses snorted loudly, obviously catching the scent of so many brethren gathered in the stables below.
He could've sworn that Alex's ears pricked, and she vaulted across the small space to hang out the window. At least the Westmore folk would not think her stiff and haughty.
Her body stilled, and Collin could just make out the curve of her jaw and her half-open mouth as she gaped ahead.
Picturing his home, he tried to see it through her eyes, to think what she would notice. First, the old stone stables at the base of Westmore's hill, the thatched roofs golden and prickly. Then the newer, larger stables stretching out at an angle to the original stalls, wooden walls painted white so they glowed in the lowering light.
From there, a well-worn road wound up to the outbuildings: a smithy, a hayrick, several square sheds. All were built from the old stone of the original bailey wall.
The moat had been filled in, thank God, so the road rose unimpeded the rest of the way up the hill, to the ancient square monstrosity that crouched atop it.
Her body slipped slowly back into the carriage. "It's a castle," she whispered, eyes wide again.
"A keep," he insisted.
"I didn't expect. . ." She shook herself, curls trembling around her shoulders. "How exciting!"
Collin bit back a laugh. Her words were genuine, but she had not yet seen the interior. Whatever romantic notions she had about ancient castles would crumble when she stepped through the door. The damned place was dark as Hades—
"Do you sleep in the tower?"
The smile finally overwhelmed his frown. "No. But the room I thought to give you is adjoined by a small turret."
"Am I not to share your room?"
The crumbled ruins of the old spring house slipped past them, distracting him from the conversation. Just a few bare moments—
"Collin? Are we to have separate beds?"
"No. No! The chambers are small and I doubt we could manage to fit your wardrobe into mine. We could share your larger room and I will keep my room for dressing and bathing. I am usually covered in muck by the end of the day. I should not like to drag manure into your sitting room."
"Well, that's a lovely thought then. I wouldn't . . . I wouldn't want to sleep alone at night."
He managed a weak smile, despite that they were driving alongside the stones of the old stable walls. The long black nose of his best stud poked itself from the shadows over a stall door.
"Look at him, Collin!"
"That's Othello," he muttered.
"Oh, isn't he fine? Will you show me the horses tomorrow, at least? I know you're busy—"
"Ho!" a voiced boomed from far ahead.
Collin winced, the churning anxiety in his gut spiked with a sudden, strange urgency. Fergus had come to greet them. Of course he had.
The outbuildings fell behind, and the horizon straightened itself as they gained the flat yard of the old bailey. Collin felt the handle of the door bite into his hand and realized he had gripped it with bruising force, just as Fergus's grin appeared in the window.
"Welcome to Westmore!" he cried, pulling the door open with a flourish and nearly detaching Collin's fingers in the process. "My guid Lady Westmore."
Fergus wrapped his fingers around Alexandra's outstretched hand and swept her down from the carriage, setting her blue skirts swinging. Her eyes shone, sparkling with excitement.
"This is Fergus MacLean, my manager. Fergus, Alexandra Blackburn. My wife."
"I am at yer service," Fergus smiled, leaning over her hand. Collin stepped from the coach and into the man's shoulder before his lips could touch her.
He had forgotten to worry about this—his handsome, well-bred, dapper, witty friend. He'd forgotten to think of Fergus's charm and the unmistakable truth that, no matter how poor, he was the true son of a baron. The fourth son, yes, but certainly closer to Alex's respectability than Collin. The man had been raised as a noble.
Alex exchanged a few words with him, laughed up at his easy smile, reached out to touch her fingers to his sleeve. Collin glared at her hand.
"Come," he snapped, pleased when her fingers jumped away from his friend.
She nodded and moved them to Collin's sleeve where they belonged. He stared steadily ahead, not watching her as they crossed the yard and approached the simple wood door. He had wanted to see her face, her reaction, the first time she stepped into her new home. He'd wanted to watch for horror or disgust or resignation, or maybe for something good which he couldn't let himself hope for.
Now, he found, he could not bear to look.
Stone and fresh water—that was the smell that struck her when she stepped inside Collin's home. The keep smelled like the outdoors—clean and cool. . . cold, actually. A shiver took her, though she tried to stop it.
Dark as it was, she could barely see, but as she peered around she began to make out the sheer size of the room before her. The far wall was at least forty feet away, perhaps more, and the ceiling rose up to more than thrice her height.
Finally, her eyes adjusted, and she stared in astonishment. It was just like the paintings she'd seen of ancient castles. Several long wooden tables stretched out in front of the largest fireplace she'd ever seen. Did they roast whole animals in there? The table and benches took up the largest part of the room, and other sections were delineated by plush rugs set over the gray stones of the floor. No rushes were strewn about, at any rate.
A settee and chair hunched in one corner, looking strange and modern against the tapestry on the wall. In another corner, wooden stools and benches were scattered about a low table piled with leather and tools. An arched doorway led to another room that clattered and clanged with noise. The kitchen, no doubt.
Alex swung her head about, measuring the space and comparing it to her study of the outside walls. This was the whole of it. This and the kitchen, and the small door to her right that gave way to stairs.
Well, it was not much, but since Collin had not answered questions about Westmore and she had been too uncertain to press, she had arrived with absolutely no preconceived notions about her new home. She'd been rather afraid it was going to be above the stables. Oh, the stables he'd spoken of, just not the house. The keep. She did not giggle, though it was close. Perhaps she could order him a suit of armor and they could play at knight and maiden.
Lips twitching, she looked up to find Collin's face a cold mask. Her temptation to giggle faded. Of course, he wanted to know what she thought of it. Laughing in his face would not send the right message.
"Well, it's a bit cold in here, but I think if we built in some smaller rooms we could decrease the draft. Otherwise, it's perfectly lovely, isn't it? Will you show me the bedchambers?"
Damn, the man could be intimidating when he wished to. He stared down at her, studying her as if she were a snake that might strike.
"This is my new home, Collin. I should like to see the whole of it."
"Get it over with as quickly as possible?"
"Are you determined to be dark then? Let me guess . . . You were expecting me to gasp in horror at the primitiveness and run back to my life of luxury? If I'd wanted luxury I would have married the earl who proposed at my coming out."
"Primitive?"
"Well, it is primitive, isn't it? It needs a woman's touch. Luckily, you've brought one home with you." Collin grunted.
"There is no reason that rooms cannot be added to this space. And windows too. And I think a suit of armor would be a nice touch." She winced when her joke fell on humorless ears.
"And where will I get the money for all these improvements?"
Oh. A sticky subject. Alex cleared her throat. She could afford to gut the whole place herself, but the man was as proud as a peacock and certainly more difficult.
A throat cleared behind her, rescuing her from an answer that would surely get her in trouble. "Mr. MacLean!" she cried too loudly as she turned toward him.
"Oh, 'Fergus,' if it pleases ye, milady."
She laughed at the teasing spark in his eye. "Fergus then, and you must call me Alex. It is not at all proper, of course, but neither am I."
Something rumbled in her ear, making her jump. Not an animal growling, though she'd thought to turn and find a giant wolfhound at her side. Just her husband.
Fergus gave her one last smile before shooting a frown at Collin. She saw the jerking shake of Collin's head before he took her arm and wondered what the men were glaring at each other about. There was some undercurrent there, but she forgot it immediately when she turned to find a short line of women stretching out from the kitchen door. The servants.
The first thing she noticed was the young woman at the left of the rest. She stood tall and straight and her smile could have cut glass. The housekeeper. She was far too young for the job, but there was no question who she was. The heavy ring of keys at her waist advertised her status.
"Rebecca Burnside," Collin stated as soon as they drew near. "My housekeeper."
"Mrs. Burnside," Alex offered, hoping the woman simply had a stiff smile.
"My lady," she crooned, curtsying deeply and still conveying a message of disrespect. She would be trouble, Alex could see that much immediately. And a new bride did not need that kind of trouble from the first day of her marriage.
"Mrs. Cook," Collin continued, needlessly adding, "the cook," as a sturdy, round woman curtsied.