Page 42 of Claiming His Scottish Duchess
“I am nae,” she said quickly, though the words were breathless.
He stepped closer—not stalking, not prowling, just moving into her space like gravity pulling him forward.
“You think I want a proper wedding night?” he said. “Is that why you came?”
She lifted her chin, refusing to look away. “I came because I am yer wife.”
A muscle in his jaw shifted. “That much is true.”
He was so close. She hadn’t realized how tall he truly was until now, how imposing. Or perhaps it wasn’t his height—it was the way he held himself. Like a man perpetually at war with his own desire.
“I don’t expect anything from you,” he said, the words roughened by tension. “You’ve no need to play the part.”
Her brow furrowed. “But?—”
“You came because you believe it’s expected. Because you want to prove something. Or disprove something, perhaps.” His voice dropped a note, darker now. “This isn’t a duty I plan to claim like a debt owed. And I already told you I wouldn’t force myself upon you.”
Something inside her wilted. Yes, this was indeed a practical arrangement: an agreement, beneficial to both of them. Her, to save Craigleith Hall, and him, to provide a companion to his niece.
Yet…
Why was disappointment blooming in her chest? What on earth had she been hoping for?
She caught the duke watching her, his arms folded across his broad chest, his expression unreadable.
“You are brooding,” he said at last, voice low and casual.
“I am nae,” she shot back, a little too quickly.
A ghost of a smile tugged at his mouth. “No? I suppose it is only a coincidence that you look as if someone stole your favorite sweetmeat.”
He straightened from the hearth and approached her, his movements unhurried, predatory.
Catriona lifted her chin, trying to mask the way her heart had begun to hammer.
“Come now,” he said, voice dipping lower. “You expectedsomething, did you not?”
Her mouth fell open in indignation. “I didnae expect anythin’ of the sort!”
His smile sharpened. “Why are you so flustered then?”
He stopped just in front of her, so close she could feel the heat of his body, smell the faint scent of leather and soap clinging to him.
“I only meant—” she began hotly, but he lifted a brow, waiting.
Mocking.
The scoundrel!
“—that I… would have thought a weddin’ night might entail certain… obligations.”
His chuckle was a low, rich sound that made her toes curl.
“Obligations?” he repeated, as if savoring the word. “Sex should never be an obligation, wife. It should be a want—a desire that stirs within you, something you crave, something you cannot deny.”
Her face burned like a bonfire. “I—That—That is nae what I meant.”
“No?” He tilted his head, studying her. “Then what did you mean, Catriona?”
