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D evil’s ballocks , she was a fine lass, indeed!

The wicked gleam in her eyes as she devoured the piece of chicken like a savage spoke of a wild abandon begging to be unleashed.

And Murdo had learned from the moment he knew what his cock was for that women who relished their food with such abandon made the best bedmates. If the little sighs and groans Miss Martingale elicited were anything to go by, she would howl like a wildcat in heat when she came to pleasure.

As he guided the dessert spoon to her mouth, his cock twitched with eagerness to be buried inside her, and he’d almost spent at her wicked response when he referred to intimate acts .

He’d noticed the disapproving look from the duchess—what man could fail to feel those sharp eyes burning into him?

But her daughter was a wild, wanton creature.

Did the duchess know how wild she was? No innocent young maiden would meet his gaze with such a wicked expression in her eyes and not understand his meaning.

Maidens untouched by a man carried an air about them—a lack of understanding of the pleasures that could be taken from their bodies.

It mattered not that she was unlikely to be a maiden. With a woman such as her in his bed, he’d not be starved of pleasure.

As the footmen cleared the plates, Lady Cholmondeley announced the resumption of the dancing, and the party filed into the ballroom. As Miss Martingale rose, Murdo caught her hand.

“May I partner ye for this next dance?”

“I lack the talent for it,” she said. “Miss Peacock says I’m a clumsy fool.”

“I doubt yer ineptitude would match mine,” he said. “We could be inept together and tread on everybody’s feet.”

“My mother wouldn’t approve.”

“Of treading on everyone’s feet—or dancing with me?”

She lowered her gaze.

“Would she approve if I sat with ye rather than danced?” he asked.

She nodded, and he steered her to a seat while the rest of the guests milled about.

“If ye don’t like dancing, Miss Martingale, what do ye like?”

“Long walks,” she said. “Climbing on rocks, eating out of doors in the wild.”

“And ye do that at home?”

“Yes.” She smiled, and an expression of contentment filled her eyes. “The moors around Pittchester Castle are exhilarating. I never imagined such a place could exist. Wide-open spaces with not a person to be seen for miles. What could be more perfect?”

“Ye’re not fond of people?”

“Not particularly. People believe the land exists to be owned by them, whereas we belong to the land.”

“A rather strange philosophy for a young woman about to embark on her debut,” he said.

“How did you know that?” Her smile disappeared. “I suppose Miss Peacock was kind enough to describe all my faults while you were dancing. What else did she say?”

“Nothing I cared to hear,” he said. “But I’m sure yer debut in London will be a success.”

She snorted. “I didn’t take you for a flatterer.”

“Have ye visited London before?”

She stiffened, and her eyes took on a hunted expression. “My stepfather has a house there, but I’ve yet to visit it.”

“Then perhaps ye’ll enjoy your stay. If ye’re fond of walking, I hear the parks are beautiful.”

“But filled with people,” she said. “So many people, Mama says. Besides, I’m not going there to walk. I’m going to find a husband.”

Envy stabbed at his heart.

“Do ye want to go?” he asked.

“No.”

Murdo waved down a passing footman bearing a tray of glasses and took two. He offered her one and she shook her head.

“I think I’ve had enough,” she said. “If I drink any more, I’m in danger of saying something I’ll regret. I wouldn’t want to overindulge like poor Miss Goodchild.”

“Quite so,” Murdo said, glancing across the ballroom to where Simon was steering the lady in question around the dance floor while she laughed uncontrollably, the sound reminiscent of a man sawing wood. “She’ll have a sore head in the morning, but at least she’s in safe hands with my cousin.”

“ That’s your cousin?” Miss Martingale asked.

“Aye—Mr. Tuffington. Do ye know him?”

“I’ve met him once, at an agricultural show,” she said. “He seems a little less reprehensible than other men.”

“Ought I to be insulted?” he asked, laughing.

“Very well—less reprehensible than most men.”

“Am I like most men?”

“No,” she said, her eyes darkening. “I’d never describe you as being like most men .” Then she smiled. “Before you ask, Mr. McTavish, that was not an insult.”

He took her hand, and her lips parted. Desire flared in her eyes, then she stiffened and withdrew. Once again, the skin on the back of Murdo’s neck tightened, and he glanced across the room to see the duchess staring at him, her brow furrowed into a frown.

“Your mother seems very protective of ye,” he said.

“I owe her my life.”

“Doesn’t every mother’s child?”

“I owe her more than most.”

“So, ye’re going to London for her sake?”

“Mama knows what’s best for me. She wants me to have a Season—and everything that was denied her, so I don’t have to—” She broke off and shook her head. “Why am I telling you this? I hardly know you.”

“I’m sure yer Season will be a success.”

“I fear I’ll be a disappointment.”

“I doubt that, lass.”

She let out a bitter laugh. “I told you I didn’t like to be flattered. Even you must acknowledge I don’t fit in here. In that, Miss Peacock’s right—and she’s also right when she says that the kind of man who’d want someone like me is never to be found among London Society.”

“I disagree,” he said, his heart aching at the resignation in her voice. “Ye’re everything that a sensible man would want—bright, quick-witted, and with a healthy ignorance of the ways of a lady.”

“Now you’re insulting me.”

“I’m being honest, lass,” he said, “even if it lands me in trouble up to my ballocks.”

She stifled a giggle, and his heart warmed at the spark in her eyes.

“I believe we share equal frankness, lass, that’s lacking among the company tonight—and perhaps we share a common interest.”

“Which is?”

“The wild outdoors,” he said. “If ye think Northumberland’s wild and untamed, then the Highlands are to Northumberland as a lion is to a mouse.”

Her eyes shone with eagerness. “Is that so?”

“Do ye not know of the Highlands? Didn’t yer governess teach you geography?”

She colored. “I’ve had no governess.”

“Yer schoolteacher?”

“I’ve not been to school. Mama has employed a tutor, though he says I’m terribly ignorant. But I can read and write.”

“I should hope so,” he said, laughing.

She blinked, and a sheen of moisture glistened in her eyes.

He took her hand. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to distress ye,” he said.

“Though many people know of the Highlands, few have visited. Perhaps that’s why I love it—the land is untainted by people who wish to claim it for themselves.

My countrymen treat the land with love—as ye say, we believe that we belong to the land. Everything I do is for my homeland.”

“And it’s wilder than Northumberland?”

“Aye,” he said. “Rugged and savage. The rocks are the bones of the land, and the soil its flesh. When I hear the cries of the eagles in the sky and the stags in rut in the foothills, I know I’m home, among the green foothills and the purple mountains.”

“Purple?”

“Aye, lass. Bathed in heather, they are—nature’s blanket—and topped with white. And lochs that stretch for miles along the glens, the water cool and clear, with the taste of the mountain.” He squeezed her hand. “Do ye know what Murdo means, lass?”

She shook her head.

“It means sea warrior—and that I am. There’s nothing more pleasurable than to feel the water against my skin.”

“Y-you bathe outdoors ?” her eyes widened. “Is that not improper?”

“Aye,” he said. “But, by the standards of gentlefolk, everything we do in the Highlands is improper. It’s what heightens our pleasure.

And it’s a test of our manhood—to dive into the water on midwinter’s day, then return home for a dram of whisky by the fire.

It’s as close to perfection as a man can come. ”

“How I’d love to see it,” she said.

“Perhaps ye will.”

“You think so?”

Miss Martingale gazed at him with an air of childish innocence.

What a contradiction she was! Though the daughter of a duchess, she lacked the refined accent of a Society lady.

She seemed older than the other unattached ladies in the room, and her body’s reaction spoke of an experienced woman, yet at times, her wide-eyed na?veté was that of a bairn.

“I’m certain of it,” he replied, pleasure coursing through his veins as she smiled at the prospect. “I could issue an invitation to yer father.”

Her smile waned. “I don’t know. Papa Harcourt’s very strict. He said that if I did not behave properly tonight, he’d keep me confined at home until he deemed me ready for my debut. He… Oh!”

She let out a low cry and stiffened, withdrawing her hand.

Murdo turned to see the duke and duchess approaching.

The duchess’s gaze was sharp enough to split a granite boulder.

The duke’s eyes, though less intense than his wife’s, regarded Murdo with a level of quiet dignity and thoughtfulness, as if he sized him up and found him wanting.

“Are you well, daughter?” the duchess said.

Miss Martingale colored. “Yes, Mama. Mr. McTavish was kind enough to sit with me at supper.”

“So I saw,” the duke said. “Did you not realize, young man, that Lady Cholmondeley’s seating plan was intended to separate the young men from the young women?”

“Mr. McTavish came to my assistance, Papa Harcourt,” Miss Martingale said.

“He did , did he?” The duke raked his gaze over Murdo’s form. “And who might you be?”

“My love, this is Mr. McTavish,” the duchess said. “The Scotsman I was telling you about.”

“I see.” He turned to Miss Martingale. “Is this the young man you threw your drink over, Clara?”

She shifted in her seat.

“It was at my behest,” Murdo said.

“I find that hard to believe.” The duke stared at his stepdaughter. “Clara?”

“Yer daughter’s behavior has been exemplary tonight, Yer Grace,” Murdo said.

The corner of the duke’s mouth twitched into a smile. “Really?”

“In fact, I’d like yer permission to court her.”

Miss Martingale drew in a sharp breath. Hope flared in her eyes, then she glanced at her stepfather and the hope died.

“That’s a little presumptuous, is it not?” the duchess said.

“Perhaps,” Murdo said, “but it’s a compliment to yer daughter that I wish to know her better.”

“Why do you wish to know her better?” the duke asked, his eyes clouding with suspicion. “Are you in search of a dowry?”

“My love,” the duchess whispered, placing a hand on the duke’s arm. Then she turned to Murdo. “My husband has a point,” she said. “My daughter is unused to Society. I wouldn’t want her taken advantage of. She’s a little different to the other young women here tonight.”

“Which is precisely why I wish to court her,” Murdo said. “She’s a free spirit, like myself. I’ve no interest in perfect Society misses.”

“That may be the case,” the duke said, “but you have no right to ask my permission to court my daughter.”

Miss Martingale’s body seemed to deflate with disappointment.

Then the duke met her gaze. “You must ask hers .”

Her lips parted and her eyes flared with joy.

“After all,” the duke said, giving her an indulgent smile, “it’s not me you intend to court—is that not right, Clara?”

“Y-yes, Papa.”

“Then may I call on yer daughter tomorrow?” Murdo asked.

“Are you staying nearby?”

“With my aunt and uncle, Mr. and Mrs. Tuffington.”

“Ah, we know the family,” the duke said, nodding. “The younger son is a great friend of my sons, though only the elder was here tonight, much to the boys’ disappointment. Why don’t we invite you all for tea?” He turned to the duchess. “My love, will you issue the invitation?”

“If that’s what Clara wants,” she said.

Murdo took Miss Martingale’s hand and lifted it. Her breath caught as he brushed his lips against her skin, and his manhood hardened at the eagerness in her eyes. Unable to conquer the primal urge to claim her, he nipped the back of her hand. Her eyes flared with desire.

“Yes please ,” she whispered.

“That’s settled, then,” the duchess said. “I’ll write to your aunt directly. Now, Harcourt, you promised me another turn on the dance floor.”

“My love, I think I’m done for the evening.”

“Nonsense!” she chided her husband. “Dancing is good for the limbs, even at our age.” She lowered her voice and leaned toward him. “And if you ache when the evening’s done, I can apply my special liniment.”

The duke’s steady expression faltered, and a flare of passion flickered in his gaze.

Devil’s ballocks —what must it be like to still harbor such passion at their age?

Murdo glanced at Miss Martingale. She was studying her hand, a smile of anticipation on her lips, as she brushed her fingertips over the red mark on her skin where he’d branded her as his.

Miss Martingale was not a woman to be courted—she was a woman to be claimed .

And, judging by the eagerness in her expression, she would enjoy it as much as he.