He was broodingly aware that his mood was dangerous and he ought to ride home. It had been almost a sennight since he had brought his new wife home to Applegate. And in all that time, he had not visited her bed again, having installed her in the master bedchamber and then chosen to sleep in his damp old room instead, as though pretending to be a boy again. The strain of staying away from his bride was doing nothing for his temper though, and he knew it. But there was a greater danger in allowing himself to use her delectable body as he pleased. For every time they lay together, he came away feeling as though Margerie had peeled another bloody layer from his skin, and the wound was becoming more and more tender. Wanton, he had called her. For having taken pleasure at his mounting. Lie still while I take my pleasure . . . What had possessed him to speak so coldly to his wife on their wedding night? To use her like a whore with no caresses or soft words of love, leaving her to sleep alone once his coupling was done?
