Page 6 of Never a Duchess
“Our blood.”
What in the devil’s name!
“I’ll not partake in some strange form of handfasting,” she said, shaken. Everyone said the Scots were savage heathens, and this proved the point. “I’ll not make a pledge I cannot keep.”
She would not give herself to any man. Least of all, one capable of breaking her heart as quick as he might snap his fingers.
“I’m the one who makes the vow.” Dounreay captured her hand, the mere sensation of him touching her bare skin setting her body aflame.
She had spent an age observing couples’ interactions. Yet she had learnt more about lust’s potency in the last few minutes than watching a hundred amorous clinches.
“Look into my eyes, Miss Ware.”
For fear of crumpling beneath the duke’s gaze, she focused on the finger he gripped tightly. “What are you going to do?”
“Prick the skin. Say now if ye want me to leave.”
I want you to leave!
The words rebounded in her mind, but she lacked the strength to voice them aloud. Dounreay appealed to her adventurous spirit. He could seduce her with minimal effort, and that made him the perfect subject to study.
“I’m writing a book,” she confessed.
He frowned. “A book about what?”
A book to help women learn how to avoid men like you.
“I’ll tell you when you have made your oath.”
Dounreay kept his eyes locked with hers but released her hand. Disappointment sank to the pit of her stomach. Had she said something to deter him?
Then he pricked his finger with the blade’s tip, drawing a drop of crimson blood. He stabbed the sharp point into her skin and then pressed their fingers together, mixing their blood in a mating ritual.
Foreign words left his lips as he made his oath in Gaelic.
Mesmerised, Lillian watched while Dounreay’s tongue slid over every strange syllable as if repeating an erotic incantation.
They were in a dark, dusty room, yet she imagined herself atop a Highland mountain, the wind whipping at her hair, lost in the smell of heather and rain and ancient pinewoods.
“I swear by Almighty God, I will be faithful and firm,” Dounreay said in English. “Ye have my undying loyalty always, Miss Ware.”
A lump formed in her throat.
The power of those words tugged at her heart. Once, she’d had her mother’s love and devotion, and the woman had cast it aside in a moment of weakness.
This was all an illusion.
A trick the duke used to get his own way.
She was about to snatch her hand free when the scoundrel did the unthinkable.
Dounreay studied the blood coating her finger. Then he closed his wet mouth over the tip and sucked it clean.
Lillian stared at him, fighting against an inner tug—a desire to explore every inch of his wicked mouth. She had seen clothed couples copulate in corridors, against hedgerows and garden statues, never understanding what made them lose their minds until now.
“It’s an old family tradition,” Dounreay said, quickly releasing her hand. “As ye didnae take the oath, there’s nae need to reciprocate.”
His breath came as hard as hers. Time stilled before he returned the blade to the sheath and straightened his trousers.
