The Scot Beds His Wife
Page 35
Of course. He’d want to watch. It excited him. Aroused him.
Very well, Mr. Blackwell, Farah thought. Watch this.
Dorian could tell she pretended it wasn’t the trembling of her fingers that stole the dexterity from her movements. She tried to keep his gaze locked on her challenging eyes, flashing with little gray storm clouds, but Dorian couldn’t manage to stop from visually devouring every hint of skin each release of a button revealed. The slim column of her throat. The soft expanse of thin flesh stretched over her chest and collarbones, so rife with nerve endings.
She took her time, damn her.
The light from the candles kissed her silvery hair and her creamy ivory skin with gold as though King Midas had given in to temptation and touched her with his cursed fingers.
Regret tried to lick at him, to stir the humanity buried down deep beneath the layers of greed, self-loathing, violence, hatred, and anger he walled within that impenetrable casing of ice.
This was Farah. His wife. Should he objectify her like this?
Another button worked free, exposing the first hint of the swell of her bosom.
The question was: Could he stop himself if he wanted to?
Dorian already knew the answer.
Not for all the money and power in the empire.
As she exposed the valley of shadow in between her breasts, Dorian felt the intoxicating, almost chemical mixture of thrill and shame he imagined tortured the waifish opiate addicts that haunted the back alleys of the Chinese immigrant shops on the East End.
His body was going to get something it pined after. Burned for. Screamed with the intensity of its need.
And he’d hate himself in the morning.
Hell, she’d probably hate him, too. But she’d progressed in getting the buttons undone to her navel, and Dorian spied one nipple outlined in pink-tipped perfection against the thin white silk of her chemise, presented to him by her tightly laced corset. All coherent thought dissipated like the mist before the sun’s rays, and everything around him receded but for her. His next breath hinged on the next button being set free. The next expanse revealed for him to consume like a starving man.
He wanted to stop her. To demand that she continue. But for all his composure, words had become lost to him, communication beyond his ability. All he could do was sit helplessly and await her next move. Watching.
Farah found it strange that the more she revealed, the bolder she became. Perhaps it had something to do with the way Blackwell’s gloved hands gripped the chair arms when she allowed her dress to slide down her curves and puddle at her feet. Or the flare of his nostrils as she reached up, aware of how the action lifted her breasts even higher beneath her sheer chemise, and took the pins from her hair, one by one.
She unraveled the heavy braid that fell over her shoulder, shaking the curls loose to fall to her elbows.
Farah could tell Blackwell fought it, but desire began to melt the ice in his stare, causing his lids to fall heavy over his eyes, and his lips to part in order to allow for the quickening of his breaths.
She hesitated only a moment before moving to untie her laces.
“Don’t,” he ordered. “Not yet.”
Blackwell was a statue, but for the lift of his jacket in deep, heaving movements. His eyes traveled the expanse of her exposed flesh with all the tangible deftness of a caress, branding their way to the waist of her drawers.
“Get rid of them.” His voice barely recognizable now, he filled his chest as though it would stop the little twitches of muscle she could see by his eye, below his collar, in his fingers.
Heart thudding wildly, Farah tucked her thumbs into the band of her drawers, preparing to draw them down.
“Wait,” he clipped through gritted teeth.
Farah paused.
“Turn around.”
Puzzled by the request, she silently complied, determined to follow his instruction. She somehow understood that if Blackwell felt in control, he’d be more likely to go through with this. Farah was prepared and unprepared. Afraid and yet not afraid. Embarrassed and emboldened. The need lurking beneath the chill in his eyes drove her to abandon her characteristic modesty. She was too old for virginal shyness, had seen too much of the horrors this world thrust upon others.
Men were visually stimulated creatures, and females were lovely. It seemed only natural that Blackwell would feel the desire to look upon what he found difficult to bring himself to touch. She understood that in order to conceive the family she wanted, she needed to entice him to do more than look, and that was her prerogative. To push him to a place where desire overcame fear, where the animal instinct to mate controlled the machinations of the body.
And so she faced the fire banked low in the hearth, closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and bent to push her drawers over her hips.
“Slowly.” He hissed the command.
A hazard lurked in her plan, though, Farah realized as she languidly swept the lacy drawers over the swell of her rump and down the quivering muscles of her thighs. For a man such as Dorian Blackwell to be driven mad enough with lust to break the bonds of the past.
He might be driven to break her, as well.
Dorian had often studied the female form in every modality from paintings to prostitutes. He’d seen them all. Appreciated a few, despite himself. But nothing could have prepared him for the vision of Farah’s body, a dark and flawless silhouette against the backdrop of the flames.
His weak eye blurred detail in the direct contrast with the firelight, and so instinct drew him to lean closer. She flared out in all the places a woman should, dipping to create curves that were the soft answer to a man’s hard angles.
Bent as she was, her ass was so exposed to him, the slight outline of her womanhood a dark secret in the low light.
Dorian’s mouth went dry. His racing heart sped like a stallion on the last sprint toward the finish line. Impossibly faster. Pushed to the limit of its capacity. His breath sawed in and out of his chest in tight, painful bursts, burning like it did when he ran in the winter. Frost and heat. Ice in his blood and fire in his loins.
It had been almost twenty years since anyone had touched him in a way not meant to cause pain. To humiliate, incapacitate, and control. It had been just as long since he’d used his hands for a purpose other than defense, violence, or domination.
Farah’s skin. Her flawless, unmarked skin. Free of scars, branded by no one, and belonging to him.
At last.
Also by
Kerrigan Byrne
The Highwayman
The Hunter
The Highlander
The Duke
Praise for Kerrigan Byrne and her captivating novels
“The dark, violent side of the Victorian era blazes to life as a caring, competent heroine living under the radar is abducted by a notorious crime lord with wonderfully gratifying results in this exceptional and compelling vengeance-driven romantic adventure.”
—Library Journal (starred review) on The Highwayman
“The romance is raw, edgy, and explosive … the path they take through adversity makes the triumph of love deeply satisfying.”
—Publishers Weekly on The Highwayman
“A truly mesmerizing series that highlights dangerous heroes who flout the law and the women who love them.”
—Library Journal (starred review) on The Hunter
“Dramatic, romantic, and utterly lovely.”
—BookPage
“Byrne is a force in the genre.”
—RT Book Reviews (Top Pick!) on The Highwayman
“Romantic, lush, and suspenseful.”
—Suzanne Enoch, New York Times bestselling author
“A passionate, lyrical romance that takes your breath away.”
—Elizabeth Boyle, New York Times bestselling author
“Beautifully written, intensely suspenseful, and deliciously sensual.”
—Amelia Grey, New York Times bestselling autho
r
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Whether she’s writing about Celtic Druids, Victorian bad boys, or brash Irish FBI agents, Kerrigan Byrne uses her borderline-obsessive passion for history, her extensive Celtic ancestry, and her love of Shakespeare in every book. She lives at the base of the Rocky Mountains with her handsome husband and three lovely teenage girls, but dreams of settling on the Pacific Coast. Kerrigan loves to hear from readers. You can contact her at www.kerriganbyrne.com, or sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Epilogue
Excerpt: The Duke with the Dragon Tattoo
Excerpt: The Highwayman
Also by Kerrigan Byrne
Praise for Kerrigan Byrne and her captivating novels
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THE SCOT BEDS HIS WIFE
Copyright © 2017 by Kerrigan Byrne.
Excerpt from The Duke with the Dragon Tattoo copyright © 2017 by Kerrigan Byrne.
Excerpt from The Highwayman copyright © 2015 by Kerrigan Byrne.
All rights reserved.
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St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / October 2017
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