Heat singed her face and that felt silly. Despite his seeming approval of her blushes, it felt silly.
After everything, her face shouldn’t be so quick to catch fire. She should be more composed than this. He was undoubtedly accustomed to taking much more sophisticated women to his bed. And then she flinched at the thought of him with other women. Why did she have to think of that?
“I wanted us to get an early start,” he said. “We’re close and I’m becoming anxious to finally see Kilmarkie.”
She nodded jerkily. “Oh. Yes. Of course.”
Coward. It wasn’t what she was thinking. She couldn’t find the nerve to say any of the things she was thinking. All the many things she was thinking.
So many questions whirled around her mind.
What were they to each other?
Had things in fact changed like Nana proclaimed?
Did he mean what he said last night now in the light of day?
Did he consider her his wife?
And yet despite all those questions running through her mind, something else blurted from her lips. Something she had not anticipated even asking.
“What are you running from?”
He stopped. Stared. “I’m not running from anything.”
“It’s just you have never been to Kilmarkie House before . . . and yet you’ve been so very determined to reach there.”
“I’m not running from anything, Alyse,” he repeated. The warmth had bled from his eyes. He looked stern. Distant. Cold even. It was a hard thing to reconcile after the inferno that had raged between them last night.
“I’ll leave you to get dressed and go ready our mounts,” he added, clearly finished with the subject. “I’ll ask a servant to fetch us a breakfast, too.”
She nodded, still clutching the covers over her nudity. He snatched up his coat and left the chamber. The door clicked shut behind him.
She dropped her head back down on the bed with a sigh. She needed to get up and get dressed so they could resume their journey.
She supposed there was no question of her staying here. Not after last night. She would be leaving with him.
And yet she still had other nagging questions. She didn’t know what she was to him. She no longer felt like his employee. They were much too familiar now. She had never been a housekeeper before, but she was certain a soon-to-be-housekeeper didn’t interact with the master of the house the way they did. Not a proper housekeeper, at least.
Nor did she feel like his wife, though. That would make her a duchess and that could never be. Awkward or not, she would still be his employee. That would be less awkward than becoming his wife.
With a groan, she flung back the covers and stood, determined to get dressed before he returned.
She knew about persevering. About squaring her shoulders and moving ahead despite everything. Despite all disappointments and pain. This was just more of the same. It should feel quite customary by now.
When he returned, she’d be ready to depart.
Marcus left their bedchamber shaken. He paused outside the room and leaned his back against the cold stone wall of the corridor, letting the chill seep through his garments and into his skin. Her voice echoed through his head. What are you running from?
Her eyes told him she did not believe his denial. Hell, even he didn’t believe himself.
How did she see into him so clearly? It was hard enough to cope with the fact that he felt such a deep and growing attachment to Alyse. Must the girl now peer with such ease into his very soul?
The truth of the matter . . . the thing he had not admitted to her was that he had been running from himself when he left London. At least in the beginning it had been that way.
Now, strangely, he felt as though he were running to himself on this journey.
Somewhere along the road north, he had reached a level of peace with life that he had never known.
With her at his side, he had found himself. He had found the man he wanted to be.
They were words he was not ready to admit to her, but they were there nonetheless. A truth he was only now seeing and accepting. A truth he would reveal to her in good time.
They reached Kilmarkie House the following afternoon, which only hammered home the fact that the laird who abducted her was Marcus’s closest neighbor. That might make for awkward relations if the laird seemed inclined to harbor any ill will toward him. Somehow, she thought his bark greater than his bite, though.
He may have thrashed Marcus and abducted her, but MacLarin behaved as though that was all water under the bridge.
They moved along a narrow path and crested a great hill. She could taste the sea wind. It was funny how you knew what something was without having to be told—or without having ever experienced it before.
The briny air sat thick on her skin. As they cleared the hill, they both stopped and looked down the grassy slope.
It dawned on her that she wasn’t the only one seeing Kilmarkie for the first time. He was, too. This place was all his to do with as he wished. Whether it prospered or fell to great disrepair was all on him. She slid a look at him. The wind ruffled his dark hair as he stared out at the view.
“It’s beautiful,” she remarked of the sprawling stone structure. The broad manor house was constructed of varying shades of gray stone and dark wood beams. The dark sea glinted a distance behind it. The shore was riddled with rocks of pale pink. She’d never seen anything like it.
“It is beautiful,” he agreed.
Squinting, she noticed rippling pockets out on the bay. “Are those . . .” Her voice faded breathlessly as a sleek dark body arced out of the water.
“Dolphins,” he finished.
“Incredible.” Excitement bubbled in her chest. She might just love this place. That would certainly help her endure her time here, however long that may be. She’d have that view . . . that shoreline to walk whenever the fancy struck.
Gazing out at the water, she felt lighter. Buoyed. That sentiment only grew and solidified once she passed through the threshold and stood in the high-beamed foyer of the house. She oohed over the well-worn stone floor, rotating in a small circle as Marcus chatted with the caretaker, Mr. Shepard, listening with half an ear.
“Sorry my missus is feeling poorly. She would ’ave liked tae greet ye both,” Mr. Shepard was saying.
“No need. I assume the nearby village boasts able-bodied men and women.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” The older gentleman looked between the two of them curiously. “Yer staying fer a spell then?”
Marcus nodded. “Yes.” He glanced around their surroundings as though firmly deciding he did indeed like the place. He shot her a glance. “As is my wife.”
My wife.
There it was then. He was claiming her as his wife again. This time not to a room full of strangers well into their cups. No. He was proclaiming it to the head of his household staff. According to him, she was the Duchess of Autenberry. And this grand home was hers as much as it was his.
She never felt more of a fraud.
She glanced around the foyer again, but this time her excitement had ebbed. In its place was a hollow sensation. She was his wife. He’d claimed her as such. Not out of love or affection but because of obligation. She brought nothing to this union and yet she was his wife.
If only it were that simple.
His saying it didn’t make it so. Marriage was more than that.
And she wanted more. No half measures. She wanted all of it or nothing at all.
The master and mistress of the house had their own adjoining rooms. Mr. Shepard showed them to their chambers together. Both rooms shared a balcony, which faced the sea. She lingered on the balcony, marveling that she would wake each day to a view of dolphins.
“I can rouse the kitchen girl, Helen, tae prepare ye both dinner,” Mr. Shepard called to her. “She’s a right fine ’and in the kitchen. Ken ’er way around a soup pot, she does,” Mr. Shepard offered as he hovered in the
threshold, worrying his hands together before him. “It may no’ be tae yer normal quality—”
“We’ve been journeying for many days.” Alyse emerged from the balcony, cutting him off, hating that he thought she was some fine lady accustomed to fine quality. It made her feel a liar and a fraud. “We aren’t particular.”
He started as though to leave and then stopped himself. “Well, if ye will permit me tae say so, Yer Grace—”
She could not stop herself from flinching at the designation.
“—we are ever so ’appy tae ’ave ye ’ere. The duke and yerself. This place ’as been vacant far far too long. It will be good tae see life bloom ’ere once again.”
She stifled her wince at his kind and supportive words. In her he did not see someone unacceptable, someone unfit to preside as lady of the house. He did not see the truth. Or at least he wouldn’t dare let it be known if he did. But she knew.
She would always know. That is the only thing that mattered.
Others would know, too, she reminded herself.
“My thanks to you, Mr. Shepard. You are very kind.”
He nodded his head obligingly and backed out from the room. “I will see tae yer dinner tray and send one of the lasses up to ’elp ye unpack.”
Unpack. That was almost humorous. She only had a single valise to her name. Only a few belongings within it and yet a maid would come to assist her. That girl would know it at once. She would know the fraud Alyse perpetrated and tell others. The rest of the staff of Kilmarkie House would know.
She took a deep breath and chided herself not to be so anxious. It mattered naught. She wouldn’t be here for long.
Mr. Shepard inclined his head and then ducked out of the room to see about their dinner.
She returned to the balcony and that stunning view that beckoned her. Her husband stood there, admiring the sight as well. They stood in restful silence for a few moments. It was easy to forget all one’s worries. All tensions just melted away when she stared out at the sea.
“Well,” he said after some moments staring out at the sea. “We made it here.”
She nodded before releasing a slow breath. “Why did you tell him I was your wife?” It would only make things more difficult for him . . . later. When she was gone.
“Because you are my wife.” He arched his eyebrow at her and gave her a sardonic look that seemed to say: naturally.
“That’s what you said to get me back . . . I didn’t think you truly meant it.”
“There are certain things men never say unless true. The claim to be married is one of them.”
The wind picked up off the sea, fluttering the loose hair fringing her face. “But it’s not true.”
“We made it true last night. Our marriage is consummated. It’s official now. No going back now.”
She studied his face, trying to read him. He sounded resigned. Not happy. Of course. But there was something in his eyes, in his flat voice.
Disappointment.
Understandably. She couldn’t be the wife he’d imagined for himself.
She swallowed and looked away, out at the sea again. It was hard seeing that in his face, knowing it to be true. She couldn’t imagine seeing it for a lifetime.
She didn’t intend to.
She went to bed alone in another great four-post monstrosity (clearly the rich and noble never slept in anything of normal proportion), listening to the sound of the sea outside her chamber. Distant, steady waves washed along the shoreline, the sound rhythmic and mesmerizing. She wondered if it was ever warm enough to sleep with the balcony doors open—and then she reminded herself that it wouldn’t matter. She would not be here in the summer months to find out.
She went to bed alone, but she didn’t stay alone for very long.
She had not yet fallen asleep when she heard the adjoining door open.
She felt him stop and stand over the bed, near enough to touch her. His presence radiated energy . . . fire. “You’re awake.” It was not a question. A statement.
“Yes.”
Pause.
“Do you want me to go?”
He was giving her a choice. Her life had been one of few choices.
She thought about how he was the kind of man who did the right thing. When he saved her on that auction block. When he’d taken her to Glasgow and imposed on the brother whom he had no relationship with in order to save her life. When he saved her from brigands.
This—coming to her in the night—was the only thing he did out of selfish want. Need. Desire.
She pulled back the covers and he slid in beside her and took her in his arms. He kissed her and she melted into him.
It would be so easy, so tempting, to fall into this night after night. Again and again. To forget why she couldn’t stay. To let it happen.
To pretend she was some kind of wife in reality to him. Except she knew.
She knew the truth.
She was not the wife of his choosing. She would always know that. She would have that knowledge for all her days. Deep down he would know it.
She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t live like that.
This wasn’t enough. Desire wasn’t enough either.
Coming together in the dark of night like two people trysting in secret. Like what they did was shameful, to be saved for the cover of darkness.
Still, she was helpless to resist him. To resist herself. Just the sensation of him over her, his big body wedged between her thighs, set her afire. He pulled back slightly, pushing the tangle of covers aside in an attempt to free them. “Damn bedding,” he muttered.
As his hands reached for the hem of her nightgown and pulled it up and over herself, she lifted her hips to help him. To help herself. Because she couldn’t deny herself this one last time. She couldn’t deny her own selfish need.
Free of her nightgown, his hands skimmed up the outside of her calves and then roamed over her thighs. “I dreamt of these,” he growled. “They’re strong and sleek.” He slid down between her knees, pushing her thighs wider to make room for his head and shoulders.
“Marcus,” she breathed, her hands reaching for his head.
“Let me taste you,” he murmured, seduction dripping in every word. Heavens. He was wicked—and she reveled in it. His fingers grazed the outside of her knees in teasing circles that made her limbs shake. He turned his face to trail kisses along the inside of her thighs, his tongue darting out to lick. His teeth occasionally biting and nipping and making her jerk in delight.
Her hands lifted above her head and grabbed fistfuls of pillow. She arched, loud, undignified pants escaping her, broken by the occasional yelp.
With a groan, he crawled above her and latched on to her nipple. She felt the perfect prod of his cock against her barrierless sex. He teased her there, tormenting her. Not yet penetrated. His eyes looked up at her, devilish and taunting.
“Marcus, please,” she begged.
“Please, what?” he murmured, his mouth talking around the aching nipple he was working with his tongue, lips and teeth.
“Oh, you’re a wicked man.”
He flicked her nipple with his tongue. “Please, what?”
“Take me.”
“You’re going to have to be clearer with your words, Your Grace.”
She didn’t even care at the designation. Not then. Not with her body tightened like a bow beneath him.
“Marcus,” she complained again, writhing . . . at a loss.
He moved to her other breast, sucking the nipple deep into his mouth as his hand came up to squeeze the other one, his finger and thumb clamping down on the distended peak. She screamed, coming up off the bed as she flew apart. “What. Are. You. Doing. To. Me?” A hot breath punctuated every word as her entire body convulsed.
He moved then, sliding down her body and dropping between her splayed legs. His mouth covered her, drinking her climax deep. She jerked, startled at the sensation of his mouth on her.
“Say it,” he prodded, buc
king harder against her aching core, grinding his manhood against her sex. “Oh, you’re soaking, sweetheart.”
Heat flamed her face at his words.
His mouth continued its assault between her legs, sucking at the little nub of pleasure hidden there, taking it deep into his mouth until she forgot everything. Her name, her title—real or false.
She cried out, her fingers clawing through his hair as his hands slid under her, gripping her backside and pulling her closer to his face. He pulled her to his mouth, sucking her between his lips, savoring her with hard licks.
He continued to taste her, drowning in her, it seemed. It would be mortifying . . . if it didn’t feel so amazingly good. The tension began again, throbbing in her core and twisting throughout her. She started to shake and rock against his questing tongue. He settled deeper between her thighs, adjusting his hands under her bottom and lifting her higher for him. The torment was endless and yet not nearly enough.
The wicked man feasted on her. She screamed and cried out . . . aware that the entire household could likely hear her. They would know what the duke was doing to her. Still, it did not stop the sounds from tearing from her throat. That was a physical impossibility as long as he continued his sensual assault.
Her fingers clenched in his hair as he increased his mouth’s pressure, his tongue playing with her sensitive flesh until she was senseless, tears leaking from her eyes as he hurled her back into the heavens again.
She cried out, pushing into his mouth wantonly and without shame.
Then he added his hand to the mix. As he thrummed his tongue over that tiny pleasure bud nestled in her sex, he slid a finger inside her, pushing deep and hard, curling inward in a way that made her come out of her skin and scream his name.
“That’s it, Alyse. Say it. Tell me what you need.”
He established a rhythm, pushing and pulling in and out of her body, playing her like an instrument.
She released a muffled screech, convulsing all around him, coming apart yet again, her channel tightening around his finger.
He lifted his body up. She still shook from the impact, clinging to his shoulders. His devilishly satisfied eyes locked on to hers in the darkness. “I’m still waiting to hear it from you, Alyse.”