“Astute as usual, Wife.” His tone was pure icy Kendall.
“And ye have likely loved me for . . . years.” Just saying the words aloud felt absurd.
“Yes.” Clipped. Terse.
Isolde almost smiled. How typical of him, to declare his love in a militant fashion.
“When?”
He didn’t misunderstand her question.
“From the very beginning.”
“Montacute’s garden?”
A nod. Just one. A sharp up-down of his chin.
He dragged the towel down his bare chest, sending her thoughts spiraling.
“But last night, ye declared that ye only liked and admired myself.”
“I lied.”
“Why?”
“To spare your disbelief. To avoid consummating our marriage out of mere lust or misplaced duty on your part.”
“Ah. So we will not . . .” She rolled her hand. “. . . until I love ye in return. Until I feel as if I willdieif I don’t have ye.”
“Precisely.”
“Will we cease kissing, as well?”
He finally looked at her, his gaze as turbulent as the ocean outside the window. “No.”
“Nae?”
He tossed the towel onto the counter beside the basin.
“No,” he repeated, stern and English and oh-so-ducal.
Even as the word left his tongue, he was backing her up against a cupboard, his large hand cradling her head.
And for the third time in as many minutes, Isolde found herself kissed senseless.
Gracious, but she adored this.
Feeling this haughty, arrogant man come undone beneath her palms—current crackling between their bodies.
“I have never particularly appreciated your imperiousKendallvoice until this afternoon,” she whispered against his mouth.
“This voice?” he asked, sharp and autocratic.
“Aye,” she grinned on a laugh.
He kissed the smile off her lips. “Allie calls it mydukevoice—domineering and cold, she says.”
“Your sister has a way with description.”
