In short order, Kinfairlie village faded behind them and Vivienne’s captor pulled the glove from her mouth. At its removal, she spat once, cleared her throat and said nothing. She sat stoic before him, her straight spine telling him more clearly than any words that she was displeased.
Or that she did not wish to touch him overmuch.
He was somewhat disgruntled himself, having wasted a goodly amount of time in trying to persuade her, only to have her insist upon some feminine madness. The three nights of courtship she anticipated was no more than reasonable, but he had expected better of her than a demand for a red, red rose wrought of ice.
His pragmatic plan had no margin for a whimsical virgin determined to see romance in all around her. His need to conceive a son of unquestionable pate
