Page 24 of Tamed By her Duke

He would puzzle, later, over his response. He should have gotten to his feet and bid her goodnight. But instead, he slid his hand until it was behind her back—not close enough to touch, but close enough that when he leaned on that arm, he was, unquestionably, breathing her air. Her scent was simpler than he might have expected, all clean soap and night air.

She looked at his movement, slow and deliberate, still curious. Then she looked back to his face and just waited.

This was, he would decide later, the moment he really should have known that this little wife of his was dangerous.

At the moment, though, he was lost between a dozen other, far more idiotic impulses. There was the moonlight, shining, making everything seem like it was a dream. There was the late hour. There was the fact—it could not be denied—that it had been a bloody long time since he’d had a woman. There’d not been much chance while he was in the army.

Lust. That’s what he’d say, when he paused to think about it. He’d been driven to idiocy by his own neglected needs, which suddenly seemed very pressing. The lust, the moonlight, and the need for distraction.

“I’d say,” he said at long last, “that there are better ways to spend an evening than staring at long dead men.”

“Is there?” Curious. Still so damned curious.

He let the fingers of his free hand, the one not propping up his weight, creep forward until they just rested against the back of her hand. It was too dim to see now, but there would be delicate blue veins there, fragile and powerful.

“Aye.” His voice was hoarse, more so than usual. “I’d say that two weeks is not so very long a time.”

“No,” she said. He didn’t know if it was agreement or disagreement.

“And that perhaps there might be a way to…prepare.”

Surely, some other man had taken over his body. A different man, a more reckless man. One who hadn’t learned the perils of not thinking before he leapt.

Whatever ghoul had gotten to him had evidently diverted all his considerable restraint to his wife. She scarcely blinked as she regarded him.

“Prepare,” she echoed again.

“Aye.”

He let his fingers trail from her hand to her wrist, then along her forearm. Her skin was so soft. He shouldn’t like it. His body felt otherwise.

Yet, by the time he reached her elbow, he found himself…stopping.

If Caleb was rarely an impulsive man, he wasneveran indecisive one. He committed to a course of action, then saw it through. He did not hesitate. He did not waver.

Except today. Today, he wavered.

Grace looked down to his hand, then back up to his face. When she breathed, he could feel it ghost against his cheek.

And then her hand was there, cool and slim against his jaw, and Caleb could not think of a single thing more before she pressed her mouth to his.

CHAPTER 8

The strangest thing about the nightmare, in Grace’s opinion, was that she’d had the same dream during her time away. But then, it hadn’t bothered her.

Then, the dream where Bertha Packard was screaming at her for some unknown slight had just been a reflection of her daily occurrence. The dream hadn’t been pleasant, to be sure—dreams had been the only way Grace could escape the wretched reality of her situation. But most nights, Mrs. Packard had screamed at her before shutting Grace up in the little cupboard for the night, then had screamed at her again in the morning when she’d let her out.

When she’d had the dream, back then, she’d woken up with a sigh.

Now, the same dream woke her with a scream.

She hated it.Hatedit. She hated that those awful people still had a grip on her, hated that her sleeping mind couldn’t seem to remember that those horrible days were behind her.

And when she woke with a start, her hands flying to her mouth—because the Packards had always been especially cruel when she’d made noise that disrupted their rest; that was why she’d learned not to cry out in the first place—part of her hated her husband for bringing her to this place, for not telling her they weren’t going to Scotland, for living in the north, for marrying her in the first place.

It was considerable, as far as lists of grievances went.

The dream had left her blood pounding in her veins, her body screaming about danger that was only imagined. Grace knew she’d not get back to sleep, not easily, not quickly. She’d learned that in the months since she’d been back, since the dream had become a nightmare.

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