Page 65 of The Scot Beds His Wife
And Alison would be happily married by now.
What would the young and lovely Alison Ross say if she knew of Samantha’s latest plight? What would she tell her to do if she knew she’d found herself both with child andin mortal danger? What if she knew Gavin no longer wished to be a Mackenzie? That he hated his father for what he’d done?
Samantha had told a great many lies in her lifetime. She’d done so many dishonorable things.
But could she really lead a man to believe that she bore him a child that wasn’t his, all for the sake of an annuity? For security?
Once upon a time, she would have said no.
Never.
This decision, though, was about more than just security now. It was about survival… And should the worst happen, and Gavin learn of her deception, she could at least take what money the marriage afforded her and run.
His heart wouldn’t be broken to see her go, and he’d still get what he wanted.
Erradale.
His hot breath fanned across her temple as he leaned to croon in her ear. “Doona tell me ye’re not tempted by my offer, bonny. That ye’re not tempted byme.”
He silenced her sound of protest with a long, agile finger on her lips. “That kiss we shared proves our compatibility. At least here in bed. I’ll apply myself to my husbandly duties with singular focus. I’ll not let ye sleep until ye beg, limp with pleasure… I’ll fill you so often, ye’ll be with child in a week’s time. I’ll—”
“All right!” she cried, only to stop the torrent of whispered words wreaking havoc on her insides and making her thighs clench together, which set her injured leg to throbbing. “I’ll marry you. But… I want the annuity in advance.”
“Done,” he said without a breath of hesitation, his eyes gleaming with almost malevolent triumph.
“Also,” she continued. “I’d like to be on with thewedding as soon as possible, if it’s all the same to you. Tomorrow wouldn’t be too soon.”
A devilish grin spread across lips made for sin. “If I’d known it was bed play that would sway ye, I’d have opened negotiations with that.”
“That wasn’t—I didn’t—no!—I just wanted you to stop talking.” It had been her delicate situation, not her desire, that had prompted her plea for expediency.
Hadn’t it?
“Whatever ye say, bonny, but I’ll do what I can to accommodate yer demands for an expedient claim to my name… and my body.” This he said in a tone that mocked her protestations.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” she insisted. “My haste has nothing to do with your dirty insinuations and everything to do with the fact that living at Inverthorne without marrying you first would ruin my reputation.”
He cast her a skeptical look. “Ye doona seem the type to worry overmuch about reputation, lass.”
He had her there. “Well… no… but what would your mother think?”
He frowned. “Ye raise an excellent point.”
“Not to mention Callum and Locryn and…Calybrid!” The memory of her injured friend jolted her to her elbows, followed by the burn of guilt that she’d not given him a thought until now. Another fault she could possibly place at the feet of the unabashedly nude male trying to coax her back down.
“Calybrid is resting comfortably, lass. Never ye worry,” Gavin soothed. “Eammon is trained to doctor animals, but around these parts he tends to stitch up us folks just as often.”
She relaxed back to the bed, fighting lids made heavy with equal parts relief, exhaustion, and trepidation. Hermind felt as though it wanted to race, but could only swim through a convoluted stew that was her muddled thoughts.
“Ye get some sleep, bonny.” His warm mouth covered hers in a remarkably chaste kiss that felt anything but. “I’ll make arrangements. I imagine we can have papers signed in a few days’ time.”
Sleepdidsound like heaven. Her leg was beginning to ache, and oblivion called her down to a soft escape from the magnitude of her situation. Of what she’d just agreed to.
A great weight shifted beside her, and she lifted a lid to watch him roll away from her and sit on the opposite edge of the bed.
The unexpected sight peeled her eyes wide with dismay.
Gavin St. James, the ever-smiling jackanapes, the notorious rake and infamous seducer, carried upon his shoulders and back the weight of unimaginably deep scars. Lashes, it looked like, stretched across his topography of bunched sinew and strength. They didn’t seem as though they’d been created by a whip. At least, not all of them. The lines of long-ago wounds were long, but blunted on the ends. Or angled just so. In the shape of a buckle or a belt.
