Page 17 of The Duke’s Scottish Bride (Scottish Duchesses #3)

“Are you going to tell me the truth now? Or shall I detail precisely where you and Verity snuck off to tonight?”

Marion’s eyes widened again.

“Oh, I have had staff watching Verity since our arrival in London. Not to imprison her, Marion, but to protect her. And by extension, to protect you, now that you are involved in her games. I was merely waiting for your return before addressing this matter.”

A hot wave of fury surged through Marion, pushing aside her embarrassment and her attraction to the infuriating man in front of her.

“Ye had us watched? How dare ye! That is a breach of privacy! Verity is nae a child, nor am I.”

“And sneaking out in the dead of night, lying to me, and putting yourselves at risk is superior, then? Listen to yourself speak,” he countered, his voice rising and the anger he was wielding matching her own.

“This is London, not some quiet Scottish village where you can wander about unprotected! You could have been robbed, abducted, or even worse… I dare not think of it. You put both yourself and my sister at risk.”

Marion’s cheeks burned, but she refused to back down. “We were careful! We went nowhere dangerous, and we harmed no one. Ye speak of risk, but what life is worth livin’ if we’re stifled? Ye daenae trust us to know our own minds! Ye’d rather have us caged like birds. Kept safe, aye, but miserable.”

His gaze burned into her, his breath hard and fast. “Better caged than dead,” he ground out, his voice low and sharp.

She lifted her chin, refusing to yield. “I would rather risk freedom than live half a life at the mercy of yer control.”

His eyes darkened, something far more dangerous than anger flickering there. He leaned in, his voice a low rasp, rich with meaning.

“You know nothing about being at my mercy, Duchess.”

“Then enlighten me, Yer Grace,” she shot back.

A muscle twitched in his jaw. His gaze locked on hers, molten and unreadable.

He didn’t speak at once—he moved.

Slowly, deliberately, he closed the space between them, step by step, until her back met the carved wooden post of the bed. The cool wood pressed between her shoulder blades. He caged her there with one arm braced above her against the bedpost and his body crowding hers.

His breath was warm against her cheek as he leaned forward.

“It means,” he said, his voice like velvet dragged over steel, “knowing you’d surrender every inch of yourself… not because I demand it, but because you wouldn’t be able to help yourself.”

Her pulse thundered in her ears. Her breath became shallow as his words slid over her skin.

“It means knowing exactly how to unravel you,” he went on as his lips just barely grazed the shell of her ear, “slowly. Thoroughly. Until there’s nothing left of your defiance but a plea.”

She shuddered—whether from fury or longing, she no longer knew.

“That’s what you want, isn’t it, Marion?” he murmured. His lips now brushed hers, faint as a ghost’s touch. “To find out what my mercy really feels like?”

The air crackled, thick with their heated argument, but beneath it, a different heat burned.

His bare chest was so close she could feel the soap, peat and pine radiating from him and mixing with her own scent.

She inhaled the smell of his skin that she craved with every fiber of her being.

The musky aroma sent a shiver through her.

Their eyes locked and blazed with defiance and passion. They would never see eye to eye and yet something joined them so close together. The connection was undeniable. They were magnetic and frenetic all at once.

Anselm lowered his head. His eyes dropped to her lips, then back to her eyes. She knew he was seeking unspoken permission and challenging her. He would not take her unwillingly.

Heavens .

She wished she could control his effect on her. If only the crushing attraction could subside, just a bit, then she could get her bearings. She was practically humming with need as she longed to be filled by him in ways she couldn’t understand but only feel.

“Anselm…” His first name tumbled out of her lips—the name she’d heard Verity use so comfortably, but she’d never dared to utter herself.

But now… she wanted to speak his name, to feel his skin on hers, his lips on hers…

The Duke—no, Anselm —bit his lip, as though he were in pain.

“Marion,” he whispered back, and her whole body sang, as though it’d been expecting his voice for years.

And, at last, Anselm pulled her close and claimed her lips with his.

It was a fierce, possessive kiss, unyielding and searing, as if he were claiming what was already his.

His lips slanted over hers, parting them with effortless command, deepening the kiss with a slow, deliberate sweep of his tongue.

He explored her mouth with devastating skill.

Every movement was purposeful as he left no part of her untouched.

It was a kiss born of all the heat and conflict that had simmered between them—hungry, consuming, and utterly inescapable.

They were fire itself.

Anselm tasted dark and enthralling and he created a dangerous current she felt herself drowning in willingly. She wanted him to drown her, to take her and claim her. His hand tangled in her long brown hair, pulling her closer to him. With every kiss he deepened the contact, intensifying the kiss.

“Little temptress…” She heard him growling between kisses.

Her hands clutched at his bare arms and her fingers dug into his taut biceps. He lowered his lips to her throat as she felt him inhaling her deep.

Yet even as her body melted beneath his touch, a sharp thought pierced through the haze of longing.

How could she trust this man?

The Duke kissed her fiercely. Just like everything else he owned, Anselm held her in his unrelenting grip. He was a man who watched, who commanded and decided. He tangled her in his web even now, with lips that tempted and hands that bound.

Desire and doubt warred within her. She wanted him, craved him, but wanting was not the same as trusting.

And in that instant, as if sensing the fracture within herself, he pulled away—abrupt, breathless—as though the same flame scorching her had finally burned him too.

They looked at each other for a few moments with their chests heaving.

Stunned silence enveloped the room and it was broken only by the frantic sound of their breathing.

Anselm stared at her. His green eyes were dark as night and his jaw was tight. She watched as a muscle twitched in his cheek, behind his beard.

“I… Pardon me, Duchess. I… I did not…” He stumbled over his words for the first time since she’d met him.

Quickly, he cleared his throat, straightening his back as he did.

“This was a mistake on my part, Duchess. I apologize,” he said formally, and a coldness spread over Marion’s chest, like the first winter breeze after the warmest summer.

“Ye daenae need to…” She started but he cleared his throat again, stopping her from continuing.

“Yes, I do. I’m sorry. Goodnight,” he rasped. His voice was rough as he turned abruptly and disappeared into his own room.

The click of the connecting door made Marion wince.