“Your men,” she said, looking back at him. “I beseech you to persuade one of them to marry me. A marriage in name only, to protect Dunlaidir and my stepson.”
Marmaduke frowned at the rekindled hope rising in his breast upon hearing her wish.
“Fair lady, I must disappoint you.” He hated the way her face fell, loathed himself for seeing his own good fortune in the crushing of hers.
She looked down. “They are already wed,” she said, correctly guessing the reason for his denial.
“All save Lachlan, the youngest. And even he is spoken for. The lad left behind a much-loved maid who eagerly awaits his return.”
She closed her eyes for a moment. “Then there remains only you.”
“That is true.”
“Then so be it,” she said, the moon’s pale light falling full on her face and leaving no doubt about her distaste for the notion. “A marriage in name only.”
“Lady, I have said-”
“Not now, please.” She shook her head, raised a hand to silence him.
Marmaduke frowned, but said no more.
Easing his cloak from her shoulders, she handed it to him, and then slipped through the half-opened door to the stair tower before he could stop her.
Or warn her he meant to win her heart.
Agitated himself, he took a step forward, but she was already gone, swallowed up by the darkness of the stairwell, leaving him alone.
His only companions, the cold night and the heavy weight of his mantle, still warm from her body heat, indelibly branded with her scent.
For a long while, he remained where he stood and looked out at the sea, the cloak clutched in his arms. The moon was higher now and, may God forgive him for taking advantage of her plight, so were his spirits.
Lifting a calloused hand to his face, he retraced the path of her fingers. He’d almost swear his scar yet tingled from her touch, the gentle glide of her fingertips.
He knew his heart was still affected.
A marriage in name only.
Marmaduke blew out a long breath. He wanted more, so much more. He wanted to love again – and to be loved, desired, and even lusted after.
But a marriage in any form was better than none at all.
It was a start, a beginning.
More than he’d dared hope for a scant hour before.
Once again, his fingers strayed along his scar, moved gingerly over the ever-tender lid of his bad left eye.
A dark oath welled up inside him, but he willed it away. Now was not the time for pity. And in truth, his scars were nothing compared to the deep ones Lady Caterine carried inside.
His were on the outside for all to see, while hers were hidden within.
Unseen and grave, but by no means permanent like his.
Hers could be erased.
Banished with time, care, and the abiding love of a man willing to give her his heart.
And able to conquer hers.
