Bride of the Beast (24 page)

Enchanter of women.

A charmer of untold skill and finesse.

Capable of seducing the virtue from a self-sacrificing virgin saint... or so his men claimed.

So why had he pulled his hands from her grasp—away from her straining nipples—and dropped to his knees on the rush-strewn floor?

Kneeling before her, his dark head slightly inclined, he looked anything but a man well-apprised of the fine art of winning female hearts.

He appeared soundly defeated.

Worse, he looked ...
pained.

Caterine worried the soft folds of the
arisaid
bunched on her lap, instinctively seeking its comfort, silently willing him to raise his bowed head and look at her.

To touch her again.

And rekindle the tight whirling of heated pleasure that had spun through her the instant his fingers had lighted on her breasts. She'd only just begun to near its edges when he'd pulled away, his unexpected reaction hurling a flood-tide of embarrassment through her.

Had he done so because she'd bared herself?

The notion curled sharp-ended talons of mortification

around her pride, cruelly dashing every last remnant of the exhilarating tremors called to life by his touch. Tingle by tingle, they fizzled into a congealed pool of cold perplexity somewhere in the very pit of her belly.

Caterine stared at him, one half of her admiring the way his thick hair gleamed in the moonlight, the other half cringing inwardly when her gaze lighted on his tightly clenched hands.

At the sight of those white-knuckled fists, the weight of her harlotry pressed heavy on her shoulders. That she'd joyed in such wantonness, pressed heavier still.

Steeling her spine, she drew back her shoulders against her shame and lifted her chin a defiant degree. He certainly wasn't shy about her seeing his nakedness ... he'd stood calmly before her, fully unclothed beside the bathing tub the morning he'd repaired the latrine chute.

And he'd been full aware of her measuring gaze. If anything, a flash of pride had shown on his face.

So why shouldn't she revel in the thrill of having him gaze on hers?

Her stomach knotting at the madness taking possession of her, she stretched her hand across the cold air between them and boldly slid her fingers through the thick mass of his shoulder length hair.

"Have I shocked you, my lord?" She put her vexation to words, the soft whisper scarce louder than a sigh, but rife with her pique. "Has my ...
daring
offended you?"

His head snapped up, the muscle working in his granite-hewn jaw boldly proclaiming she'd done that and more.

"In the name of all the saints and apostles," he pushed out, more to himself than to her. "Is that what you think?"

His deep voice held nary a note of censure, but purest agitation stood etched in every line of his face, and the barely repressed irritation spoke more eloquently than any words of denial.

As did the tense set of his broad shoulders.

"Well?" He regarded her with that calm, all-seeing intensity of his.

Not that he needed to glare the truth out of her.

Her ire burned to sling every ounce of it against his hard-muscled chest.

Moistening her lips, she nodded. "If you truly want to know, you look as if you've not only taken ill, but also as vexed as if you've just been informed you were to be denied all the sacraments."

A look of incredulity flashed across his face.

Caterine held his astonished stare. "Aye, doomed everlasting," she embellished, warming to her topic. "As if you'd ... died."

"Some do call it the
little death,"
she thought she heard him mutter.

"And now?" That, she knew she heard.

He leaned forward. So close his warmth teased her naked breasts. "How do I look now, my lady?"

Like you want me,
her body cried, responding as his pained expression ebbed into one of... concentrated passion.

The all-consuming, smoldering kind.

"You look... intrigued," she said, for once choosing a less bald turn of phrase.

For truth, he looked as if he might lean just a few inches closer and rain wondrous kisses across her breasts, and the mere idea kindled a spooling, languid warmth inside her.

"Intrigued?" He arched a brow. "I would say pleased," he said, his gaze caressing her. "Very pleased indeed, for your boldness is a joyous gift."

She blinked. "A gift?"

He nodded. "A far more precious one than you know," he murmured, a new huskiness in his voice.

A fiercely intent look on his face, he touched the large ruby of his signet ring first to one of her nipples, then to the
other, leaving it there. "A gift I shall return to you many times over, my love."

Caterine's eyes widened at the endearment, but the stone's cold surface pressed so firmly against the sensitized peak, proved too wildly arousing for her to object.

She opened her mouth to try, but before she could, he pushed to his feet and closed the shutters, blocking out the chill wind but also the strange magic of the silver-washed night.

Turning back to her, he swept her into his arms, cradling her, the crumpled
arisaid,
and even the furred bed cover, high against the hard wall of his chest.

"'Fore God, lady, there is much I would give you and I'd like to speak to you about some of those gifts now, but first I would know you warm," he said. "Your teeth are chattering."

And if he'd had to endure the bounty of her naked breasts winking at him in the moonlight another instant without taking her, truly taking her, his ballocks would've drawn so tight he might well have maimed himself for life.

So he contented himself by whispering a single kiss against her temple, then strode across the darkened bedchamber, not releasing her until he reached the circle of pulsing warmth still emanating from the dying embers in the hearth.

"Don't move," he said, sliding her down the length of him, just for the pure enjoyment of doing so.

Lowering himself on one knee before the hearth, he tossed a few clumps of peat onto the grate, then used an iron Poker to rekindle the fire until new flames, smoky and
^s
weet, began to take the edge off the sharp chill.

Satisfied, he straightened, still careful to keep her shawl in
front of him as he passed by her to fetch his fur-lined cloak from the ante-room. The newly stoked fire crackled happily by the time he returned, as did a new blaze sparking in the depths of her sapphire eyes.

Clutching the furred bed coverlet tightly about her, she met his gaze, the provocative angle of her pretty head a fair indication that whatever fool notion plagued her bode serious ill for him.

"You rise too quickly in your assumptions if you believe I desire gifts, my lord," she said, promptly confirming his assessment. "Of a certainty, I shall enjoy exploring
fleshly pleasures
with you, as we've discussed, but accepting any other form of gift implies an intimacy I cannot give you."

The lie of her words rode the slight quavering in her voice, and gave Marmaduke the fortitude to calmly drape his cloak, fur side up, over a heavy oaken chair near the hearth.

He settled himself into its sturdy embrace as casually as he could, then stretched out his long legs and crossed them at the ankles. "Then come, my lady, and let me at least warm you," he said, opening his arms. "I would tell you of my home in Kintail, of Balkenzie."

"This can be your home."

Undaunted, Marmaduke gave her one of his special smiles.

The one he'd needed years of painstaking practice to master.

To learn to form around his scar.

He upped its potency by letting a devilishly careless gleam enter his good eye.

A casualness at high odds with the tense pounding of his heart.

He meant to do so much more than
tell
her of Balkenzie.

He hoped to make her want to live there.

"Come," he tried again, extending his hand. "We shall speak of naught more intimate than the thickness of Balkenzie's walls, its proud location on the southernmost
shore
of
Loch Duich
, or how pleased I am to have many of its windows fitted with fine panes of polished horn."

She watched him from down-drawn brows, the wildly

fluttering pulse at the base of her neck revealing he'd chosen the wrong words to soothe her.

"I wish you to remain here," she said, placing her hand in his. "You are needed here, as am I"

Marmaduke's brow furrowed.

He wished he could lie.

Instead he heaved a great sigh and drew her onto his lap. "My use here is but for a brief span of time," he said, settling her so her back rested against his chest, then smoothing the ends of his fur-lined cloak across her legs. "Your purpose here, my lady, is long expired and does more ill than
good."

She twisted around to level a pointed look at him, the movement causing the furred bed coverlet to slip off her shoulders. "I am lady here, I—"

"You
were
lady here," he reminded her, and tried not to notice the coverlet had dipped low enough to expose the top halves of her breasts.

They swayed a bit with her agitation. Just enough to give him a fleeting glimpse of her nipples. Now relaxed, the surprisingly large circles of her areolas struck raw need straight into his groin.

"God's eyes, woman," he swore, unable to stop himself from peering beneath the gaping coverlet, watching in riveted fascination as the oh-so-rousing rounds of pinkish-brown flesh contracted into two hardened peaks.

In a gesture that would have pleased the lust-abhorring St. Jerome himself, Marmaduke adjusted the coverlet so it once more concealed her lushness, then eased her against his chest again, this time careful to snake one arm as unobtrusively as possible across the slender stretch of her waist.

He cleared his throat, determined to have his say, over-large areolas and thrusting nipple peaks, or nay.

"As I was saying," he began, cradling her head against ™s shoulder so she couldn't shoot blue fire at him again, 'you
were
lady here."

"Meaning?" The ice in her voice worked just as well.

"Meaning, so long as you remain here, you will be as a shadow on the turret stairs. A palpable presence at the high table even when you are not physically there," he tried to explain. "Your strength will hover behind James, casting a pall over all he says or does so long as you reside within these
walls."

"You only seek to lure me away," she accused, stiffening
in his arms.

"I seek what is best for you." He spoke the truth as he saw it. "You, and your stepson."

"And what you want for yourself."

"Aye, what I wish for myself as well," he admitted, moving his fingers over hers to rub the chill from them. "Mind you well, fair one, in every man's beginning is his end and oft times we reach it far too soon."

He paused to gently kiss her brow. "Often, those we'd hoped would make the journey with us, are stricken along the way or take another road, leaving us alone."

"And what does that have to do with me?" she asked in a small voice that clearly declared she already knew.

"I have many empty years behind me ... lonely years," he said, each word costing him in its naked honesty. "And now I've the rest of the journey ahead of me, a proud stronghold awaiting my return, and, aye, a heart that yearns to love
again."

She said nothing, but her fingers, warm now, laced with
his ... and gave him hope.

"I would love you, Caterine, if you will let me." He skimmed the knuckles of his free hand down her cheek, his heart turning over when he discovered warm moisture there. "At the very least," he added, his voice thick, "I would enjoy your companionship and value your skill and grace as Lady of Balkenzie."

She released a long breath.

Marmaduke simply held her, and waited until the rising
wind stopped rattling the shutters and the placidly burning peat fire ceased sending loud-popping showers of sparks
into the air.

"Do you know what will happen to James if I leave?" Caterine spoke first, and the night fell silent again.

She glanced up at him, a powerful longing near undoing her. A crushing urge to cast aside her concerns and lose herself in the comfort of his words.

His embrace.

He was looking away from her, toward the window embrasure, the scarred side of his face in shadow, soft fire glow illuminating the unmarred side, the flickering light calling cruel attention to the strikingly handsome man he'd once
been.