Page 91 of Dukes Do It Better
Through years of service to the king, Malachi had stashed away his treasures and hoarded them—like a dragon, as Emma liked to tease him. What he hadn’t known was that his father had done the same. For him. Set aside an additional inheritance where no one else but his adventuring son would ever find it, unless they had a map.
The directions to his father’s so-called treasure came together with the capitalized and fancifully drawn characters that made sense when paired with Smith’s key. A simple system, just as the initial method Smith had figured out had been. Malachi could hear his father in his head saying in that pragmatic way he’d had, Why make it complicated if it only needs to be effective?
By the time the carriage rolled into the driveway in front of the cottage, and Malachi stepped down, bone weary, he’d figured it out. The key was tucked into the pages of the book to mark his place.
As exhausted as he was, his heart was light, and excitement buzzed through him. He put away the red book to deal with after the wedding. Coming home was so much more important. Father would agree, if he were here. For the first time, Malachi felt certain his father would approve of something he’d done. If only he’d lived to meet the little boy Malachi was lucky enough to call his.
“Papa! You’re home!” Alton cried, running at full speed across the front lawn with two goats on his heels bleating their own hellos. The wedding date hadn’t mattered one whit to Alton. And Malachi was hardly going to dampen the child’s enthusiasm with a correction. The ceremony was merely a formality, making their family legal as well as binding.
Not for the first time, Malachi was grateful for Emma’s widowed status. Had she been a debutante, their sleeping arrangement—nay, even his stay in her home—would have been disastrous for her reputation. As it was, Mrs. Shephard and Polly had given their seal of approval on the relationship, which somehow mattered to Malachi more than Calvin’s cheerful congratulatory handshake. Anyone interested in the niceties would be deterred by the presence of her family.
When the London contingent arrived from Hill Street, Alton had been the one to share the news, joyfully telling his aunt and uncle and the Amesburys about having a new papa, and that had been that. Malachi had been Papa ever since, and his heart swelled every time Alton said it.
Malachi bent and opened his arms for his son. “I missed you, lad. How are you? I swear you’ve grown a whole inch since I left.”
Alton wrapped his arms around Malachi’s neck and hugged him. He smelled of sweat and sunshine, the remnants of a ginger biscuit, and a fine layer of goat. In other words, like Alton.
Like home.
* * *
Their wedding day. Emma blinked to clear the sleep from her eyes, and yawned. Morning light warmed the bedroom and gulls cried outside the window. A faded quilt covered her bare shoulders. Snuggling deeper into the nest of bedding, Emma rolled into the heat of Mal beside her.
The man was a furnace, which would be useful as the nights grew colder. Bay rum soap and his unique sleepy smell made for a heady combination. Emma buried her nose in the shallow valley between his pectoral muscles and breathed him in. A hand absently caressed the lines of the kraken tattoo before his arms wrapped around her.
She dropped a kiss on the narwhal on his forearm. “Good morning.”
He grunted what might have been a variation of “morning.”
Muffled clangs from downstairs and the scent of baked goods in the air told her Mrs. Shephard was awake. Emma lifted her nose from the addictive smell of her husband-to-be and sniffed. Yes, rum and fruit. Their wedding cake must be either ready to come out of the oven or cooling on the counter.
She could barely make out the cook’s voice saying, “Let them sleep, lad. ’Tis a big day.”
“Bless Mrs. Shephard,” Emma murmured.
A grunt from Mal, then “The door’s locked?”
“Mm-hmm. I fell asleep before unlocking it after last night’s…activities.” The last word came out on a giggle as Mal rolled her onto her back and began kissing his way down her body.
Soft beard bristles woke up her skin inch by inch. Emma grinned and stretched her arms over her head, letting him do whatever he wanted.
“How are you so soft?” His muffled question didn’t need an answer as his lips circled her navel, then continued down to the curls between her legs.
A languid sigh of pleasure escaped her mouth when his tongue licked the slit of her body. “I love your mouth. The rest of you is fine as well, of course, but I really love your mouth,” she teased, only half joking.
Mal’s response was to purse his lips around her clitoris and suck, which as far as early-morning communication went, suited her perfectly.
The sex between them had been great in London. Foolish her, she’d thought the circumstances of their affair, the lack of expectations, had been a factor. Perhaps at one point it had been. But this? Every promise, every hope, every touch, bound them together in the antithesis of a no-strings affair. And it was glorious.
Emma’s body arched beneath his mouth, while muscles low in her core fluttered in an intimate dance to her peak. When Mal surged into her softness, they moaned in unison. Her hands clutched him close, touching everything she could as their bodies worked together, chasing pleasure. Bunching muscles shifted under her fingers and his breath escaped in pants like a bellows carrying profanity and praise until he pulled her into bliss once more.
Mal raised his head from the pillow far enough to drop a kiss on her shoulder, then flopped back down as if his head weighed too much for his neck.
Another moment passed before he said, “I suppose we should go rescue Mrs. Shephard from the boy.”
Emma sighed. “We should, yes.”
Neither moved.
