The Duke with the Dragon Tattoo (Victorian Rebels, #6)(101)

Christ preserve him, it was both unsettling and alluring. Too intriguing. And bloody hell, were these straps on his prosthetic made of glass shards and wool? He couldn’t take his eyes off her brilliant smile as he grappled at it with his one good hand. He wanted to be rid of not only the offending object, but his clothing had begun to likewise chafe. He wished to cast it all off, and hers as well, to be clad in nothing but the night air and moonlight.

“Your Grace.” She regarded him with the most absorbed expression, part assessment, and part concern. As though she truly saw him. As though she knew him. “Is there anything amiss? Are you … all right?”

The breathy quality to her unceasingly feminine voice scratched at a door in his mind that remained stubbornly closed. He’d come across a few of those doors since returning from Constantinople, and knew it best that they remained locked. Most especially when he was like this. Raw, agitated …

Aroused.





THE SCOT BEDS HIS WIFE

“Once in his bed she would never be the same again…”





Samantha fished in her frilly purse for some coins she still barely recognized. What was considered generous gratuity in the Scottish Highlands? She hadn’t the first idea. “I packed rather quickly, so I only brought the two trunks—”

She froze when he reached out and cupped her elbow. Shit. He was touching her again. He really needed to stop doing that.

Was it really necessary to wield a hand so incredibly large? An arm so thick and solid? Samantha fought the ridiculous urge to lean all her weight into the strength she sensed there.

“I occurs to me, Miss Ross, that we havena been properly introduced.”

“Oh, right.” Introductions were of some significance hereabouts, she’d noted. Annoyed with herself, she wondered how many times she’d break custom. Generally it would mean nothing to her. But this brawny stranger with features the perfect paradox of barbarian and aristocrat seemed to have her thoughts tumbling over each other like a litter of exuberant puppies.

And with her husband only weeks dead by her own fucking hand.

Lord, she really was going straight to hell.

“Alison Ross.” She stuck out her hand for a shake though the gesture just seemed superfluous now. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr.…”

His hand engulfed hers, once again, and he pulled it toward him, looking like a man amused with a joke she was not a part of.

He was someone aware of his effect on women. On her in particular.

Infuriating quality, that.

“When I offered to save ye trouble, I meant the trouble of an arduous ride out to Erradale on such a frigid evening. Ye see, Miss Ross, I am quite sure ye’ve traveled all the way here on account of the documents of notice I sent ye, as I am Gavin St. James, the Earl of Thorne, and I’m here to take Erradale off yer lovely hands.”

She snatched said hand away before he could press those full lips to her glove as he was about to do.

This was Gavin St. James? Alison’s adversary. No, her enemy?

She couldn’t think of a thing to say. She was so incredibly travel-weary, heartsick, seasick, and—if she were honest—more than a bit dazzled by the Earl of Thorne. Alison Ross hadn’t exactly given her a physical account of the man. She hadn’t expected someone so … so …

Words failed her, yet again. As did her body, which seemed to be calling for her to surrender her hand back into his so he could place the kiss on her knuckles she’d denied them both.

“If ye’d like, lass, I could conduct ye to Inverthorne Keep, my castle, where we could conclude our business in comfort for a few days…” His gaze traveled the length of her burgundy traveling gown. “And a few nights.”

“I see,” she clipped, crossing her arms over the heart pounding against her ribs. She’d been right when she’d sensed danger. “Well, while your offer is appreciated, it’s pointless. If residence at Erradale is necessary to retain the land, as was mentioned in the documents, then Erradale is where I’ll be spending my days … and also my nights.”

She turned toward the porter’s station, praying to keep her balance on the blasted boots, when his wide shoulders blocked her. Yet again.

“Perhaps ye’ve not received my generous offer?” His alluring smile became strained, showing too many even, white teeth. “It’s nearly twice what the land is worth.”

“I received it, all right,” she said mildly.

He took a full breath, waiting for her to elucidate.

When she didn’t, he was forced to ask the implied question.

“Ye’re not saying that ye’re refusing the offer, are ye?”

“Well, I wasn’t gonna put it like that, but I certainly didn’t plan to accept.”

“Yer family’s had no interest in Erradale for several years. Why now?”

“Why not now?” She shrugged, then picked up her cumbersome skirts and set off for the porter’s station, focusing extra hard on avoiding a stumble on the uneven planks of the platform.

She had a feeling he’d not catch her again should she fall.

He waited five entire astonished seconds before easily blocking her path once more, the two rather unobtrusive men taking up their respective posts behind him.

“Did you bring these fellows to intimidate me into compliance?” she quipped, forcing irritation above the unease in her voice. “Because you’ve obviously never been to Reno.”