Page 35 of The Duke's Scottish Bride
“Anselm…” His first name tumbled out of her lips—the name she’d heard Verity use so comfortably, but she’d never dared to utter herself.
But now… she wanted to speak his name, to feel his skin on hers, his lips on hers…
The Duke—no,Anselm—bit his lip, as though he were in pain.
“Marion,” he whispered back, and her whole body sang, as though it’d been expecting his voice for years.
And, at last, Anselm pulled her close and claimed her lips with his.
It was a fierce, possessive kiss, unyielding and searing, as if he were claiming what was already his. His lips slanted over hers, parting them with effortless command, deepening the kiss with a slow, deliberate sweep of his tongue. He explored her mouth with devastating skill. Every movement was purposeful as he left no part of her untouched.
It was a kiss born of all the heat and conflict that had simmered between them—hungry, consuming, and utterly inescapable.
They were fire itself.
Anselm tasted dark and enthralling and he created a dangerous current she felt herself drowning in willingly. She wanted him to drown her, to take her and claim her. His hand tangled in her long brown hair, pulling her closer to him. With every kiss he deepened the contact, intensifying the kiss.
“Little temptress…” She heard him growling between kisses.
Her hands clutched at his bare arms and her fingers dug into his taut biceps. He lowered his lips to her throat as she felt him inhaling her deep.
Yet even as her body melted beneath his touch, a sharp thought pierced through the haze of longing.
How could she trust this man?
The Duke kissed her fiercely. Just like everything else he owned, Anselm held her in his unrelenting grip. He was a man who watched, who commanded and decided. He tangled her in his web even now, with lips that tempted and hands that bound.
Desire and doubt warred within her. She wanted him, craved him, but wanting was not the same as trusting.
And in that instant, as if sensing the fracture within herself, he pulled away—abrupt, breathless—as though the same flame scorching her had finally burned him too.
They looked at each other for a few moments with their chests heaving.
Stunned silence enveloped the room and it was broken only by the frantic sound of their breathing.
Anselm stared at her. His green eyes were dark as night and his jaw was tight. She watched as a muscle twitched in his cheek, behind his beard.
“I… Pardon me, Duchess. I… I did not…” He stumbled over his words for the first time since she’d met him.
Quickly, he cleared his throat, straightening his back as he did.
“This was a mistake on my part, Duchess. I apologize,” he said formally, and a coldness spread over Marion’s chest, like the first winter breeze after the warmest summer.
“Ye daenae need to…” She started but he cleared his throat again, stopping her from continuing.
“Yes, I do. I’m sorry. Goodnight,” he rasped. His voice was rough as he turned abruptly and disappeared into his own room.
The click of the connecting door made Marion wince.
Chapter Fifteen
The following morning, as Marion heard the household just beginning to stir below downstairs, a soft knock came from the adjoining door.
Her breath hitched in her throat, and she pulled her covers to her chin.
This cannae be happenin’? What in God’s name is he doin’ knockin’ on me door this time?
She was still in her nightgown and her chocolate locks were as wild as a tumbleweed.
