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sister’s wedding and claimed that even the sounds of the revelry of the wedding feast hadn’t completely covered the screams coming from her sister’s room during the consummation that had followed the bedding ceremony.
    They had all shuddered at this news, and agreed they were lucky to avoid that. Annabel had never imagined back then that she would be lying abed in a chemise carouse preparing to scream and bleed herself.
    Grimacing, she tugged the linens and furs up to cover herself and then simply lay there fretting. Annabel had no idea where her husband had gone—probably to rejoin the revelry—but he would no doubt return. Perhaps he had gone below to find himself a drink or two to shore up his courage for what was coming, for surely if ’twas that unpleasant for the woman, it could not be much better for the man? That seemed a logical conclusion, but another one of the girls had claimed that if her father and brothers were anything to go by, men loved the carnal act, for they were forever chasing maids and cornering them to get under their skirts.
    Annabel sighed at that memory. The unfairness of it all was rather depressing. Not only did men get to enjoy sex, which from all accounts was painful for the woman, but they didn’t have to suffer monthly bleeding, or push huge babies out into the world from their own bodies, which was not only painful but often killed the woman. Truly, it did seem to her that women often got the short end of the stick in life.
    The opening of the door drew her startled gaze and she watched wide-eyed as her husband returned with two goblets in one hand and two pitchers in the other. His plaid was now tied at his waist to allow it.
    Annabel automatically started to get out of bed to help him, but a terse, “Stay,” made her pause. She simply sat and stared at his very wide, very naked chest as he kicked the door closed and then carried the pitchers and goblets around the bed to her side. Ross set the pitchers and one goblet on the bedside table, and then poured liquid from one of the pitchers into the other goblet before holding it out to her.
    “Drink,” he ordered.
    Annabel tore her gaze from his rippling chest to see that the goblet was full to the brim with honeyed mead.
    “Thank you, but I am not really very thirsty, my—”
    “Drink,” Ross repeated firmly.
    She frowned at the terse order, but accepted the goblet and raised it to her mouth for a sip.
    “Down it, lass. ’Twill help with the bedding.”
    Annabel felt herself relax a bit at the added words. He was trying to be kind, anesthetizing her with the liquor before performing the painful and bloody deed. It was really very thoughtful of him, she decided, and swallowed down the liquid as quickly as she could, managing it in three large gulps. Annabel then set the goblet on the bedside table, only to watch wide-eyed as he immediately poured more from one of the pitchers.
    “Are you not going to have some?” she asked self-consciously as she accepted the goblet he then offered her.
    “Drink,” was his only answer.
    Annabel drank. She drank five goblets of the honeyed mead in a row, one after the other, but when he tried to give her a sixth, she shook her head, wondering why the room appeared to shake with the action.
    “I really pobrably should not have more. Any more,” Annabel corrected herself, frowning as she noted that her words were slightly slurred . . . and pobrably didn’t sound quite right. She was pretty sure she’d got pobrably wrong.
    “One more,” Ross coaxed, pressing the goblet into her hand.
    Annabel grimaced, but took the goblet and gulped some down. She’d made quick work of the first couple of goblets, but the more she drank, the slower she got at the chore. She simply wasn’t thirsty. In fact, Annabel was the opposite of thirsty, she was beyond sated . . . to the point that she was beginning to have a terrible need to relieve herself of some of the liquid she’d taken in. She was