The Duke Buys a Bride

by Sophie Jordan

  Her eyes widened at that declaration. She must not let such words wheedle into her heart. This was not a matter of the heart. This was lust. Desire.

  She looked down between them. Holding himself up with one hand, he fisted his manhood and guided himself to her.

  She gasped as he started to slide inside her, all thoughts fleeing. Her hands flew to his arms, fingers clenching around his taut biceps as he filled her, easing in slowly, stretching her until he was buried to the hilt.

  She felt her eyes widen, shocked at the unfamiliar sensation. She felt so full . . . so invaded . . . bursting with him.

  “You feel perfect,” he whispered against her mouth.

  “And I feel you . . . everywhere,” she returned, talking against his lips. He was all around her, over her . . . in her. She didn’t know it could be this consuming.

  Then the ability to speak was lost.

  He started moving, holding her hips, positioning her in a way that built the friction and made her arch and cry out. Tears burned her eyes as everything tightened inside her. Snapped. Some invisible, coiling band broke and she came undone, her muscles going limp.

  Marcus didn’t stop. He didn’t slow down as shudders overtook her. His hands slid under her and gripped her bottom, pushing her to that precipice again. “It’s too . . . much.”

  “Run toward it,” he panted. “Embrace it.”

  She relented with a moan.

  He dropped over her, his mouth on her ear as he thrust in and out of her. Fast and hard. “That’s it, sweetheart. Come again for me.”

  His deep voice served as its own aphrodisiac. She flew apart again. His arms wrapped around her, holding her tightly. With a few more strokes he joined her, crying out.

  Their ragged breaths fogged the air between them. For a brief moment, she worried awkwardness would instantly follow. Regret. He would look at her with cold eyes.

  Except that didn’t happen.

  Marcus rolled off her and left the bed, moving to the washstand. There was the splash of water and moments later he returned, sliding in the bed and pulling her against his side. He curled her leg around him, one hand splaying over her hip—and began to clean her with a damp cloth.

  She made a strangling sound at the first stroke of the cloth against her and shrank away. “What are you—”

  “Let me take care of you.” His eyes fastened on her face in the dark.

  They were quiet for a long time. She splayed a hand over his chest, fingers fanned over his warm skin, enjoying the feel of his heart against her palm.

  She nodded and relaxed. He washed her in careful swipes. His ministrations were thorough, but detached, efficient. She shouldn’t have felt anything . . . shouldn’t have made an aroused little whimper. His hand stilled and his eyes locked on her.

  Embarrassment sliced through her. She really was the wanton. She wanted to bury her face.

  The washcloth disappeared between them and then it was his fingers again, toying with her oversensitive folds. She grabbed on to his wrist, “Marcus, we can’t . . . not again.”

  “Oh, I’ll give you some time. I won’t ill-use you,” he promised, his eyes glittering in the fire-cast room, but his fingers continued to stroke and play over her swollen mound.

  Her head rolled on the pillow. “Then . . . what are you—”

  He slid down between them, between her thighs. He wedged himself down there . . . his head down there.

  “Marcus!” she shrieked at the first swipe of his tongue, her hands flying to his hair and gripping fistfuls. What he was doing . . . she didn’t know it was done . . . it had to be wrong. Wicked.

  “I’ve dreamed of tasting you.” His voice rumbled against her most intimate flesh.

  Her shriek faded into a moan as his tongue loved her thoroughly, latching on to that tiny nub that made her quake and weep. He sucked and she bucked under him, instantly flying, bursting, shattering. His lips continued to pull and his tongue rolled over the little button of pleasure. He worked her as her climax rode out, until tears streamed from her eyes and a fine sheen of perspiration coated her heaving chest.

  Sated and thoroughly ruined, she went limp.

  Vaguely, she felt him move and drop beside her. Felt him pull her against him, his warm arm wrapping around her waist. She opened her mouth to say something. She felt like she should. After something as profound as that, she certainly should say something.

  But her eyelids drifted shut, heavy as twin stones. No words passed between them.

  Chapter 22

  Occasionally, in a sudden change of light, the dove imagined her cage door was opening. And then she realized it was just a play of the light.

  She was still trapped.

  Marcus left her asleep, curled up, spent and luscious in a bed that could sleep an army. He didn’t imagine he could sleep, so he went in search of a drink and found one in a room set off from the great hall. He poured a glass and sank down in a chair, grateful for the warmth of the fire in the hearth.

  “Stealing my whisky, are ye?”

  The voice startled him. Marcus’s hand jerked and whisky sloshed over his fingers and dribbled down onto the floor.

  “Mind what ye do there . . . that’s fine whisky.”

  He glanced over to where the young laird sat, shrouded in shadows on a corner sofa. He shrugged. “You steal my wife. I steal your whisky. Seems ye are on the winning side of this.” Tilting his head, he took a deep drink from his glass.

  The laird chuckled. “It seems you reclaimed your fair bride. I’ll never reclaim that whisky sliding down your throat so I’m no’ thinking I’m the winner here, ye ken?”

  Marcus shook his head in amusement. “Well, we’re to be neighbors. I’m sure over time we shall impose on each other too many times to keep count.”

  The Scot propped both elbows on his knees and leaned forward, putting his face into better view. The scant firelight threw the angles of his face into stark, hard lines—all angles and hollows. He couldn’t be much over twenty years of age, and yet he looked fierce and hardened. A man already . . . a man for some years. Nothing like the young men Marcus saw about Town. Dandies with soft hands and softer middles more concerned about their diversions.

  “Interesting, Lord Autenberry.” He nodded rather smugly. “Aye, I put it together after yer wife addressed ye by title. Yer family has always been in possession of Kilmarkie House and its attached lands, but never in my lifetime has anyone occupied it. Are ye saying ye plan tae stay then?” His dark eyes fixed on him with intensity.

  “I might well stay awhile, yes,” Marcus replied with a slow nod.

  He hadn’t yet arrived at Kilmarkie and seen it for himself, but London seemed a world away. For all the rigors of traveling, he was enjoying these lands. The Highlands agreed with him and he was eager to explore his property. The Highlands weren’t all he was enjoying. You’re enjoying Alyse, too.

  He meant what he had said. She was his wife. He wouldn’t go back on his word. Perhaps they could begin forging their lives together at Kilmarkie House where they would be on more equal footing . . . both a pair of newcomers. The place would neither be his nor hers but theirs. Eventually he’d bring her to London, of course, and introduce her to his family, but for now he would take this time. For her. For them.

  “This is verra unexpected—Kilmarkie House tae be alive wi’ yer noble presence. Well, that is something. I dinna ken how I feel about that.”

  “I was not aware that you had any say in the matter.”

  “Oh . . . ye will soon learn that I ’ave a great deal of say in what goes on in these parts. Nothing ’appens about here that is no’ my concern.”

  “Perhaps,” Marcus allowed. “But that was before I got here.” Kilmarkie House sat on a large portion of land north of here. It belonged to Marcus. What occurred there was his concern. His responsibility. The land and the livelihood of the people who lived there fell to him.

  The laird chuckled. “Ye’re a right arrogant bastard. But
I would expect no less from an English lord.”

  “You’re no English lord,” Marcus retorted. “What is your excuse then?”

  The younger man hooted. “I ’spect I am an arrogant bastard . . . but no one in these parts save my Nana is so bold tae say so.”

  Marcus shook his head. “Glad to introduce you to new experiences.”

  Why did it feel as though he was conversing with a man still stuck in the Dark Ages? A Highland laird, ready to wield his battle-ax with anyone who dared cross his land.

  The man rather reminded him of Mackenzie. Perhaps it was just the brogue . . . or the size of the lad. He certainly was big for one of tender years. “How old are you?” he asked abruptly.

  “I will be one and twenty in a fortnight.”

  As he had guessed. Still. Marcus scoffed.

  “Aye, young tae one as ancient as ye.” MacLarin flashed a grin.

  Chuckling, Marcus shook his head, thinking of himself at the age of twenty. He certainly wasn’t as intense as this young man. He was all about staying out all night and bedding actresses and lonely widows. He realized with a start that he wouldn’t have liked himself were he to meet the young man he had been today.

  Hell. He didn’t even like the version of himself he had been a few weeks ago. He’d been a spoiled privileged snot, nursing wounds that he now realized were flimsy grievances. He stared into the fire’s licking flames, wondering what had prompted this change in attitude.

  And then he knew the answer.

  Alyse, of course.

  Alyse was the reason. A humble farm girl was the reason he went from a shallow individual to someone who wanted a life of meaning.

  She had humbled him . . . and he was desperate for her.

  “And wot does yer wife think of yer plans? Is she content tae be a duchess stuck in the wilds of Scotland?”

  The question gave him pause, of course, because he didn’t know. He didn’t know what Alyse felt at all about staying at Kilmarkie House.

  He didn’t know what she felt about him.

  He returned to their chamber after finishing a second drink with MacLarin. He stood at the side of the big bed and studied her by the light of the fire.

  Her eyelids flickered and he wondered at her dreams. Hopefully, they were peaceful. Stripping off his clothes, he pulled back the covers and slid in beside her.

  Sleep, however, remained elusive. He dozed in and out through the waning night, staying close to her, loath to peel himself from her side. One of his hands lingered on her body at all times. As though he needed that contact . . . that assurance that she was still near him.

  Watching her curled up on her side, the bedding wrapped enticingly around her naked body, his mind skirted around tricky thoughts. Such as were they really married? He’d convinced himself that their transaction in the village square did not constitute a binding marriage. That being the case, they would need to rectify that.

  She murmured incoherently and fidgeted. He rubbed her arm soothingly and she relaxed as though his touch calmed her.

  She was the sweetest thing he had ever touched. She was good and pure and deserved better than him, but she was his. Their lives had collided and tangled together that day in Collie-Ben and it was too late for anything else. There would be no untangling of them.

  He brought his hand up in the small space between them, trailing his fingers up and down the exposed ladder of her spine, relishing the feel of her skin, the bump of every vertebra.

  She shivered and stirred and he slid down deeper into the bed against her, burrowing under the covers. He curled alongside her body, her back to his chest, spooning her with his longer length. He wanted to learn everything about her . . . know her shape and scent as well as he knew himself.

  “How are you awake?” she whispered into the thick space around them, letting him know she was awake without turning around to face him.

  Her breath fanned against the pillow, rasping the cotton. He was so attuned to her. Every little sound and movement. He’d never felt this connected with another person. It was rather alarming. His fingers brushed the silk of her hair off her nape. He couldn’t stop touching her.

  “Hard to sleep next to you.”

  She turned her head to look back at him, a ghost of a smile tracing her lips. “You’re going to be exhausted tomorrow.”

  “I won’t complain. It will be a good kind of exhaustion.”

  He slid farther down on the bed, until they were face-to-face, nose to nose. Her lids were still heavy. She sighed sleepily. She was tired. He’d worn her out.

  She rolled over and brought her smooth palm to his face. She held his cheek. “You’re starting to bruise,” she tsked. “Does your face hurt?”

  “No.” He slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her lush curves more firmly against him. She was deliciously warm wrapped around him. His hand slid down her back and cupped the swell of one cheek, using his grip to haul her even more firmly against him. He gave it a firm squeeze and her breath caught on a whimper. She was so soft with her sweet-smelling hair and rounded ass.

  His body knew her now. Wanted her. His desire for her hadn’t even been whetted. It wasn’t close to being quenched.

  Without calculation, he rolled her so that her back was flush against his chest. He curled a hand around her hip and dipped down her navel to her beckoning quim. Her thighs parted sweetly at the first foray of his fingers. He eased inside her clenching heat. She was wet. Soaking for him. He thrust his fingers, pumping into her contracting channel.

  She cried out and moaned his name, rubbing her backside against his cock. With a growl, he removed his hand from inside her and seized hold of her hips, lifting her to her knees on the bed so that she was on all fours before him.

  He admired the swells of her ass, smoothing both hands over the firm cheeks. She trembled and sent him a heavy-lidded glance over her shoulder. Hot want gleamed in her eyes . . . along with a fair amount of uncertainty. She wasn’t sure about this position.

  His lips curved in a knowing smile. “You’re going to like this,” he promised. He parted her thighs for him and touched her again, stroking the entrance to her core. He eased a finger inside her again, reveling at her low, keening moan. He couldn’t wait. He removed his hand and slid inside her, pushing his cock deep.

  Tight heat surrounded him and he ground down against her, pumping faster, sliding through her slick wetness. Nothing had ever felt this good. So perfect.

  “Marcus!” she cried, her hands fisting the bedding, her knuckles whitening.

  “I told you,” he panted. “You would like it.”

  “I love it!” she gasped and he felt a flood of wetness come over his cock. Her core tightened and pulsed all around him. “You’re . . . Oh. My! What’s happening?”

  Her sharp cries filled his ears and his hands slid around her rib cage, found her breasts, molding the plump mounds as he rolled her over, pinning her under him and working in and out of her body in a fast frenzy.

  “Lord, help me! Marcus! Yes, yes, yes . . .”

  The sound of his name drove him into a frenzy. As her quim grew ever tighter around him, closing and squeezing him like a fist, he pumped in and out of her, crashing into her. He pushed and pulled and erupted with a groan, spilling himself deep inside her sweet, milking heat.

  He collapsed on the pliant body under him, feeling as warm and satiated as he had ever felt. It had never before been like this with a woman and the sudden thought shook him. Left him desperate and as vulnerable as a newborn. That was how he felt then. Newly born in this moment.

  She cleared her throat from under him. “Uh, you’re a little heavy.”

  “My apologies.” He lifted himself up into a sitting position.

  He fixed his eyes on her as she lifted into a sitting position beside him. She pushed her long tangle of hair from her face and looked at him rather reticently.

  “That was . . .” she began and then a blush stole over her face. After all that, she was s
till capable of blushing. She was still his innocent bride. He rather suspected a part of her always would be.

  He reached out and brushed a finger against her cheek. “I enjoy your blushes.” She ducked her head with a timorous smile. “I look forward to doing many more things that prompt the color to rise in your face.”

  She lifted her gaze back up, arching an eyebrow in interest. “Indeed?”

  “I promise you that.”

  She woke to an empty bed. Dawn tinged the room a purpling blue. Somehow he had roused himself before her despite how little they had slept. She’d think that after the night they had—in addition to the fact that he had been trounced by a band of Highlanders—he would have slept like the dead.

  Her arm stretched out beside her, searching and finding nothing. Sitting up, she clutched the bedcovers to her chest and rubbed at her eyes. She couldn’t have slept very long. A few hours maybe. She had fallen back to sleep after their second bout of lovemaking and their talk of blushes.

  Her hand drifted over her stomach, sliding up to her sensitive breasts. It had been faster. Frenzied. Needier if possible than the first time. That position had been wild. Primitive. She came apart in a way that she could never have dreamed.

  She stretched her body, wincing at her aching muscles. She was an early riser but she was convinced she could sleep until afternoon.

  It wasn’t even light out yet. The purpling blue was turning into the barest gray of dawn now, pressing against the mullioned pane of the chamber’s single arched window.

  A rustling sound captured her attention and she turned, tracking the source. Marcus sat before the fire, already dressed, sliding on his boots.

  “Marcus?” she queried in a tremulous voice before she could think better of it.

  He turned and for a moment they simply stared at one another across the room. Everything hovered between them, the intimacy of the night before, the memory of his body sliding against her, into her over and over . . .