“What else would you like to know, Duke?”
“Why you are lying to me again.” His voice was guttural, his stare intense.
That had not been the request she had envisioned.
Her heart thumped. Her hands, still laced together at her waist, went damp. But she refused to look away, bracing herself.
This is what you must do, Bridget. For Cullen’s sake.
“I am not lying.”
He gave her a grim smile. “Did you know, darling wife, when someone tells a lie, there is a sign? A symptom, if you will, of the disease of their dishonesty. I’ve studied you long enough to know yours. Do you know what it is?”
“I told you the truth,” she insisted.
“Ah, and there it is again.” He cocked his head, studying her as if she both fascinated and repelled him simultaneously. “Very well. Since you don’t wish to play my game, I shall tell you what it is. When you lie, your pretty little nostrils flare.”
She swallowed hard, wondering if this was a test, or if he was truly that talented at uncovering a deception. Either way, her only choice was to stay the course. “The man told me his name was Thomas O’Shea,” she repeated.
“I am certain he did.” His tone made it plain he did not believe a word she said. “What was this Mr. O’Shea’s address?”
“He did not give it.” That much was true.
Carlisle said nothing, his inscrutable gaze plumbing hers for so long, she felt as if they were engaged in a duel. “Where were you to take the boy?”
“London.” This too was accurate.
“Where in London?”
“I do not know.” A lie.
“Your nostrils, my dear.” He sneered. “Perhaps I shall have to gain the information I need from you in a different fashion. Is that what you would have me do, Miss O’Malley?”
“Have you forgotten I am the Duchess of Carlisle now?” she asked, unable to resist needling him even though she knew quite well how foolhardy it would be to prod the angry lion within his own cage.
“In name only.” He came closer. “Perhaps I should rectify that.”
“I would never stoop so low.” The taunt, more reckless than the first, fled her lips before she could stop it.
A sinful smile curved his mouth. “I can prove you wrong with ease,wife.”
“You say it as though it is an epithet,” she pointed out, irritatingly breathless at his proximity.
What ailed her?
She was Bridget O’Malley, fierce and strong. He was the Duke of Carlisle, and they fought on different sides of the same war.
She did not want him. Could not afford to desire him.
Yet, she could not deny the thrum of her pulse, the flood of heat between her thighs, the pulsing ache in her core. The need for more of the sweet release he had given her. Her body was the true traitor, it would seem.
“Youarea curse to me, banshee,” he said bitterly, but then his touch was upon her, and it was just the opposite. His long fingers stroked her jaw with slow and tender deliberation.
The decadent scent of him enshrouded her. His eyes shone like jet beads as they fell to her lips. She ran her tongue over them, recalling the ferocity of his mouth on hers. His kisses had been as intense and beautiful as the man himself.
“You are equally my curse,” she returned.
Complete truth.
