Page 24 of The Duke’s Scottish Bride (Scottish Duchesses #3)

Marion’s mouth watered as she compared the broad shoulders and defined musculature of the sketch to the very real man who held the paper. She had drawn it from memory after that single, shocking encounter in her room.

A low chuckle rumbled from Anselm’s chest as he turned to face her then. He smiled broadly, holding the sketch aloft, with a devilish look in his eyes as he stepped closer to her.

“And what exactly inspired this… anatomical study? From what I recall, you said you focused mainly on landscapes and still life,” he said as he raised a brow, the smirk widening as Marion’s pulse quickened. “I had no idea you were such an expert on the human form.”

“Aye, well… I…” Marion fumbled for words as she reached for the sketch, which he kept just out of range. “I would like that back now.”

“Perhaps I should watch you finish this masterpiece,” he added with a sly grin.

“Oh, blast ye! Give that back!” Marion gasped. Her cheeks flamed bright scarlet as she lunged again for the paper.

Anselm was quicker than she expected and was able to effortlessly evade her grasp as she lunged repeatedly for the paper.

Like two children vying for a prize, he teased her with a mischievous smile, lifting the sketch high above his head, well beyond her reach.

The unfairness of his height only added to her frustration.

“Damn ye, why are ye so tall!”

“Ah, the question is why are you such a delightful little package, Duchess?”

Marion was shorter by a significant measure, and yet she jumped, stretching her arms desperately. She was undeterred and fueled by her embarrassment. Her fight compensated for her might.

When her fingers brushed against his bare forearm, the unexpected contact sent a warm feeling through her body. As she jumped again, she misjudged her footing and stumbled forward awkwardly.

“Whoa!”

As she was about to slip, fall, and hit her face square on the hardwood floor, he caught her in his strong arms.

Upon closer look, I dinnae do him justice, she thought as her hands flattened against his strong chest.

She savored the feeling. The solid heat of muscle mixed with the beat of his heart, which thrummed against her palms. She could feel it quickening beneath her hand.

Their eyes met and with it, her embarrassment dissipated. A part of her yearned for him to know how much she wanted him. She tired of the games between them. Their connection was deep and, in such proximity, undeniable.

He must feel this too…

The piney scent of his skin, as fresh as the forests of Scotland, made her impossibly hot. His thumb gently brushed her cheek, then his eyes dropped to her lips. Her breath hitched in anticipation. She ached for him to touch her more, to kiss her…

But he did not.

Instead, his thumb moved higher so that he might gently tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. His touch was surprisingly soft, reverent; intimate and sweet, which only confused Marion more.

Carefully, he released her and handed the sketch back to her. She savored the feeling of his fingers brushing hers, sending another jolt through her that went all the way to her core.

She looked up at him then. His eyes were dark, as deep as evergreen trees.

He turned abruptly and left the studio without a word.

Marion stood trembling with the charcoal sketch clutched in her hand. It was her only proof that the encounter was real.

She stared at the empty doorway. Her heart ached with frustration and longing.

Aye, the ghost of his touch lingers on me skin. He wants me, I ken it as well as I ken me own name. Aye, but why does he keep pullin’ away from me every time we get close?

She walked over to her sketchpad and took out a clean sheet of paper. She reached across her worktable to grab a piece of charcoal, then sat down to work.

If she could not be with him, she would sketch him.

Anselm shut his bedroom door tight behind himself and took off his shirt then tossed it to the floor.

He strode over to the fireplace, which was still roaring to keep away the cool spring air, and reached for the poker.

As he stoked the flames, his mind reeled from the recent encounter with his wife.

My wife.

He closed his eyes, and her sapphire gaze flickered to life in his mind, twinkling softly in the candlelit corners of her studio, a surprise he hadn’t expected.

Though he knew she had taken up painting again, it was more than her skill with the brush that struck him; it was the raw emotion woven into every stroke.

As he’d gazed upon her landscapes, it’d felt as if he were seeing Scotland through her eyes.

The rugged peaks of Strathcairn came alive with longing and memory.

And that sketch…

If his body was hot just at the sight of her, seeing the reaction she had to him, and in such vivid form, was more than he could bear. His body began to warm at the thought of how she saw him, how he clearly occupied her thoughts.

She was worthy of more than he could ever offer. Soft, warm, and so… bloody innocent, for all her Scottish fire.

And Anselm?

He was too empty, too cold, too far gone for a creature as radiant as her. Yet still, the thought of another man touching her made his chest tighten with something dangerously close to rage.

The only thing he could give her was safety. He prayed that was enough.

He slammed the poker down. The sharp clang echoed through the room as a curse tore from his lips.

Striding to the bed, he dropped onto it with a heavy thud and dragged a hand over his face. He shut his eyes tight, as if sheer will alone could force sleep to take him.

Yet the image of sapphire eyes and flowing chocolate hair haunted his dreams.