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The Lyon’s Den, London, two months later

D evil’s ballocks —it was her !

Had he endured a Herculean challenge in this den of iniquity—penning verse, balancing ledgers, heaving his body over those godforsaken obstacles in the gaming room, and, finally, burning the skin of his hands hauling himself up on a rope—to find himself standing before the woman he’d spent the past two months striving to obliterate from his mind?

Murdo rubbed his chin where she’d struck him. For a lass, she packed a fine punch. But anger was known to fuel a person’s strength—and Clara Martingale had every right to be angry.

Guilt stabbed at his soul as the duchess approached, her face illuminated by the candlelight—the woman Da had…

No!

The last thing he wanted to do was imagine the depraved acts his father had committed.

The duchess jabbed a finger in his direction. “No!” she said, fury in her eyes. “Not after the way he treated my daughter. Anyone but him!”

“But you signed the contract,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said.

“I did, but—”

“Then you must abide by the terms.” The veiled creature turned to Murdo. “ Both of you must abide by the terms.”

She placed Miss Martingale’s hand in Murdo’s.

Sweet Lord … To feel those little fingers of hers again—to breathe in the scent of her…

A shock of desire coursed through his blood as he curled his fingers around hers, trembling with uncertainty.

Would she strike him again? She had just cause, given that he’d stood by like a coward while his father ripped open her secret.

And what a dreadful secret! To have been branded by the man who held her mother captive in a brothel, selling her body to the vilest of men—including Murdo’s own father.

“Are you displeased with your prize, Mr. McTavish?” the veiled widow said. “Or are you too weak bellied to wed a woman of whom Society disapproves?”

He shook his head. “No, Mrs. Dove-Lyon. Yer man, Demetrius, made it perfectly clear that the brides on offer here were not debutantes. But I hadn’t expected to see…”

The woman I love—the woman I’ve yearned for since the day I broke her heart.

“Hadn’t expected to see what ?” Clara said.

Murdo’s body tightened at the sound of her voice—how he’d longed to hear it again!

“You disappoint me, sir, if you had unrealistic expectations as to the respectability of the woman you’ve sold yourself to,” Clara continued.

Gone were the coarse tones of the wild creature he’d fallen in love with. Her voice now carried an edge, as if her natural character were concealed beneath an armor of cold, hard steel.

“Clara…”

She snatched her hand free, and he caught a blur of movement before her fist connected with his jaw once more. He staggered back and lost his balance to the cheers of the crowd below.

“Devil’s ballocks, woman! Why did ye have to do that ?” He struggled to his feet, the metallic taste of blood on his lips.

“Miss Martingale,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said, “I must protest.”

“How so?” Clara said, her eyes bright, face flushed. “Did you not say that a little bloodletting was necessary for a man to demonstrate his strength and honor ? Though I question your definition of honor, given the creature that lies before me.”

Strength and honor…

Had he been taken for a fool?

“ Vi et honore, ” he said, anger warring with disbelief. “I should have known.”

“Known what?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon asked.

“Strength and honor,” he said. “My clan motto. Did ye use it to lure me into a trap?”

Clara let out a bitter laugh. “Do you think I’d have agreed to this—this charade ”—she gestured toward the gaming room below—“if I, for one moment, thought I’d be subjected to your company again?”

“Then why use my clan motto as the name for the challenge? It cannot be a coincidence.”

“Why, you…” Clara lunged forward, but the duchess caught her hand.

“Daughter, no.”

“Thank ye, Duchess,” Murdo said.

“It wasn’t for your benefit, Mr. McTavish,” she replied. “I was thinking of my daughter. I’ve no wish for her to bruise her knuckles striking a man less worthy than a piece of horse dung on the bottom of her shoe.”

“Strength and honor,” Murdo said. “I told ye they’re the principles that guide me.”

Clara lifted her gaze, and her wide, expressive eyes focused on him, giving no trace of deceit or subterfuge in their dark depths. He only saw the na?ve girl he’d fallen in love with.

“You also told me that my past was of no consequence,” she said. “Men make pretty speeches when they believe their honor will never be put to the test.”

“Why use my clan motto?”

“Because I realized I’d never find love in marriage. Not after…” She gestured toward him. “But a man who could prove himself worthy of…of vi et honore was a man whom I might be content to surrender my body to, if not my heart.”

“Women enter the Lyon’s Den not to trade in hearts , but in flesh—the purchase of titled men.”

“Not always, Mr. McTavish,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said.

“Some women are prepared to surrender everything they have for a chance at happiness with an honorable man. I pride myself in my ability to ensure that everyone entering my establishment secures the match they need —even if, at first, it may not be the match they want.”

“Well, Bessie, I think my daughter is the exception,” the duchess said. “She neither wants nor needs this man. Your matchmaking skills have failed.”

“The contract is signed,” came the reply. “There’s no reneging.”

“Not even if both parties object?” Clara said.

A sliver of pain cut through Murdo’s heart. She justly hated him—but he could bear her hatred more than the prospect of losing her a second time, no matter what his da might say.

That bitter old man had ordered Murdo to secure a rich wife to atone for the dowry he’d lost. And so, Murdo had found himself in the Lyon’s Den—where ladies of doubtful virtue purchased husbands.

The Black Widow spoke, unexpected softness in her voice.

“Don’t you trust me, Miss Martingale?” she said. “Duchess, I recall, you objected to the match I secured for you in this very establishment. Yet am I right in thinking that you’re happy with the man you love, and who loves you with all his soul?”

Murdo stared at the duchess. “Ye secured yer match with the duke here ?”

Clara rolled her eyes. “Isn’t that what Mrs. Dove-Lyon just said? What are you, an imbecile? Is that why you Highlanders are so huge and ungainly in body—to make up for your lack of wits? Or perhaps because you have little to no… accoutrements .”

She lowered her gaze to his groin and curled her lip in a sneer.

Her arrow hit home.

“Ye’ve a foul mouth on ye, lass,” he growled. “Ye ken very well I’ve accoutrements in abundance.”

“Drop your breeches, then,” she said. “I’m in need of a good laugh tonight.”

“Now, lass,” he said. “Should ye be speaking to yer future husband with such disrespect?”

“Future husband—ha! You’re too weak bellied to take me for a bride.”

“Strength and honor, lass,” he said. “If ye didn’t want to be ruled by a strong man, then ye shouldn’t have bound yerself to one.” He stepped toward her, and her eyes flared with fear.

He yearned to take her in his arms. But, wildcat that she was, most likely she’d scratch out his eyes.

“Are ye afraid, lass?” he asked.

The defiance returned to her eyes—the strength of will that had captured his heart.

“No,” she said, tilting her chin, “but you are.”

“I’m afraid of nothing,” he growled, the primal beast within him stirring his cock.

“Prove it.”

He pulled her hard against his chest and crushed his mouth against hers.

A cheer rose from the crowd.

“All hail the mighty unicorn!”

“He’s tamed the wench at last!”

What the ballocks am I doing, claiming her like a savage?

But, with a mewl of pleasure, she parted her lips to invite him in, and he deepened the kiss, relishing the taste of her that was better than the finest whisky. He swept his tongue across her mouth, drawing her tongue around his, while he devoured her like a man starved.

And he was a man starved—from the moment he’d first seen her eyes darken with pleasure at his touch in that remote little cave on the Roman wall, he knew that no other woman would satisfy him again.

The world believed women were ruined by an association with a man, but the world was wrong. She had ruined him , utterly and completely. And holding her in his arms, while he claimed her with his mouth as he yearned to claim her with his cock, he welcomed that ruination.

He broke the kiss, and for a heartbeat she remained in his arms—face flushed, lips swollen and glistening from his kiss. Her eyes were closed, long lashes curving gently upward. Then they fluttered open and his soul sang at the desire in them.

Then she blinked and the moment was gone. She struggled in his arms, though she made little effort, as if she were trying to convince others of her reluctance, and he released her, his groin tightening with want.

“I think that settles it,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said.

“Daughter?” the duchess asked.

Clara blinked and glanced at her mother. Murdo held his breath in anticipation. If she consented, he was, most likely, surrendering himself to a lifetime of defiance, challenge, and tribulation. But if she refused…

Then she nodded.

The duchess let out a soft cry, her face contorting with pain. She took Clara’s hand and lowered her voice.

“There’s no shame in refusing, daughter,” she said. “I can weather the cost, and my old friend’s anger.”

“You’d be putting the Lyon’s Den into disrepute,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said. “That comes with a heavy price.”

“No price is too great to pay for my daughter’s happiness,” the duchess said. “Clara deserves to be loved, not judged.”

“Duchess,” Murdo began, “I assure ye that I don’t judge yer daughter. I…”

He hesitated as three pairs of eyes settled on him—one gleaming behind the shroud of black lace.

I love her.

“I’ve already made arrangements for the wedding,” he said.

“You have?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said. “Didn’t Demetrius tell you I could secure a special license?”

“There’s no need if the marriage takes place in Scotland. Ye see…”

She raised a black-lace-gloved hand. “I’m aware of the law regarding marriage in Scotland, Mr. McTavish. Where will the marriage take place?”

“In Melrose. A date is set for next week.”

“Next week?” The duchess raised her eyebrows. “Were you certain of success tonight? Somewhat presumptuous.”

“Mrs. Dove-Lyon assured me that I’d secure the perfect bride by the time I left London.”

“You once told me that you disliked the notion of perfection,” Clara said.

“The perfect Society lady, aye,” he said. “But I see no Society lady before me tonight.”

Three sharp intakes of breath told him that his remark had been received about as well as a lump of deer shit in a stew.

“Yes, well, that’s enough of the pleasantries,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said.

She turned to the crowd and raised her hand. “Until tomorrow night, mes amis ,” she said, “when eight gallant young men will vie for the hand of a fair maiden in the game to be called the Twelve-Inch Challenge.”

Coarse laughter filled the room as the Black Widow ushered the party through the door leading to the hallway.

“Come,” she said. “We’ll toast your union with a glass of madeira.

The ’97 I think. Duchess, I recall your partiality to it.

I will, of course, gift your daughter with a case.

” She tilted her head and regarded Murdo, her eyes bright behind her veil.

“What say you, Mr. McTavish? A fortune of forty thousand plus a case of madeira?”

“I prefer whisky, Mrs. Dove-Lyon.”

She let out a chuckle. “But you’ll not say no to the forty thousand.”

He grimaced, but couldn’t deny that Mrs. Dove-Lyon spoke the truth. After all, he was here to secure himself a fortune, even if it came with the inconvenient addition of a wife.

A wife who would, no doubt, devote her life to despising him—no matter how much her body might say otherwise.