Page 67 of A Scottish Bride for the Duke
It was a rush, this feeling of power. He had control over her, his hand still in her hair, his manhood in her mouth, but she was the one with the power over him. She could make him groan, bring about his pleasure, undo him utterly. And she wanted to.
The hand in her hair tightened, guiding her faster. Faster. He rocked into her mouth, using her just as he said he would, and she concentrated on keeping everything lax so he might do as he would.
It did not take long. All too soon, he thickened in her mouth, and cursed, withdrawing and expelling himself on her breasts, hot and sticky.
“Next time,” he said, looking at her with dark, dark eyes. “I will do that in your mouth.”
A tremor rocked through her. But again, she felt nothing but curiosity. Intrigue. Deep-rooted desire to discover what that felt like.
So, she nodded.
Once again, he moved to the washbasin and brought back a cloth, bathing her with the same gentleness as he had before. Then he took his place beside her in the bed. A crack of light now speared through the curtains, and she ran a hand along his skin.
“Adrian,” she said, as her fingers encountered a scar. “What’s this?”
“That? Oh.” He shrugged. “I can’t remember precisely. Probably from escaping the greenhouse.”
“What?”
“My father used to lock me in there when I misbehaved. No one was allowed to let me out; I had to break free of my own accord.”
“But—” Her jaw dropped. “That is… callous, cruel.”
“Well.” He gave a shrug that seemed to her distinctly uncomfortable. “Perhaps. For my father, it wasn’t. He believed in stern punishment, and he was very keen to deliver it.”
She ran her finger along another ridge across his skin. “And this?”
“I have many scars, Isobel,” he said, gathering her against his chest. “Are you going to count them all?”
“Are they all from your father?”
“More or less. Most are from the greenhouse—I had to break past the glass, and it cut me more often than not. Sometimes he preferred to beat me, though. With his belt, a birch rod, sometimes whatever lay close enough. Once, he used a vase.”
His chest rose and fell with a sigh, and she wished she could see into his mind, all the thoughts that lay there.
“It smashed, of course, and he hit me while I bled. The housekeeper took me to bed and a physician stitched me up. The man was paid well never to speak about this to anyone.” His voice dripped with unbearable bitterness.
“Oh, Adrian,” Isobel whispered. “How could you bear it?”
His eyes found hers, holding her gaze. “I survived by being stronger. He punished me for weakness, so I stopped giving him any. Perhaps his methodswerecruel. I felt no true sorrow at his death, but he taught me not to give into weak impulses like other men do. I am not ruled by my desires.” His fingers trailed up and down her bare spine. “Aside from where you are concerned, I suppose. You are my weakness, Isobel.”
She shivered at the sound of that. She certainly did not mind being his weakness.
“Ye may think he was doing ye a favor, but he wasn’t,” she insisted, looking into his face as his eyes shuttered. “Adrian, Imean it. That behavior—it’s not right to treat a child in that way. A parent should be a protector. A place of safety and refuge.”
For a long time, he was silent, looking at her with eyes that seemed to see too much.
“Is that what your parents were to you?” he murmured.
“It’s what they have always been,” she said. “I owe them everything—they always made me feel as though I had a safe place.”
“And yet you left.”
His knuckles skimmed up and down her spine, and she sucked in a deep breath, thinking once more of Moreton. The threat he posed. She no longer had her parents—but she had a husband. A man who had never known safety of his own, but who she knew tried to provide it for everyone in his life.
She would be safe with him. But only if she gave him this last piece of herself, this final truth.
“I did,” she said, looking down at his throat so she didn’t have to meet his gaze. “The truth is… they couldn’t protect me there.”
