Even now, in possession of more money than she could possibly spend in a lifetime, employing her own companion and with boundless free time, she approached her life logically and cautiously, supported the correct charities, did her shopping at second-best stores where her being an upjumped duke’s sister would cause the least commentary, expended countless sleepless nights worrying that she would never fit in despite her efforts and careful planning.
This, though—that man and what she badly wanted of him—had nothing to do with logic, or the future he’d tried to force on her. This was about her dreams, and her much-denied desires. It had everything to do with how she felt when she looked at him, and when his dark gray eyes met hers.
His actions and those of his brothers had ruined what small chance she did have to settle into proper Society, and his so-called offer of marriage wouldn’t have altered that. It might have saved him, but not her. He owed her something for embroiling her in this mess, didn’t he? Even if the warmth and intimacy she craved from him was fleeting, she would at least know what it was like to want someone so badly she shook at the very sight of him, and to have him touch her in return.
Marjorie squeezed her eyes shut. Yes, she found him handsome and attractive, and she even admired the way he, at twenty years old, had stepped up to become the de facto parent of a newborn and two other young brothers. That didn’t mean she could—or should—ignore the other things. No, he hadn’t kidnappedher,but he had prevented, and still prevented, her from leaving. And just hours ago he’d snatched Mrs. Giswell, probably frightened the poor woman half to death, and chained her to a bed.
That was what she needed to keep hold of, for her own sake. The anger, the righteous fury at the way he decidedhistroubles should be resolved, and damn everyone else. He’d never even asked if she’d been happy with her life before he’d ruined it, though he seemed to assume that she had been.
Squaring her shoulders, she shoved open the door, marched in, and pushed it shut behind her. As he faced her, she ignored his bare, muscular chest with its light dusting of hair and instead kept her attention on his face, on the half smile he’d assumed when he saw her—as if he knew precisely how attractive she found him.
“How dare you?” she snapped, and slapped him hard across his handsome face.
His smile dropped, and he grabbed her wrist before she could swing it out of his reach. “If I hadnae fetched her,” he said flatly, “how long do ye reckon it would have been before she told someone who ye truly are? Especially once she heard from Father Michael where ye are? And then how long would it be before Hamish Paulk heard it? He’s but two miles from here right now.”
“You called her my ‘gift,’” she retorted, wishing she’d been taller so she wouldn’t have to lift her chin and stand on her toes to look him in the eye. “Is that it now? If someone might—might—cause you trouble you simply grab her and utterly destroy her life, her reputation, and her future?”
“I dunnae think we’re talking aboot Mrs. Giswell, are we?” He yanked her closer. “I didnae grab ye, lass.”
“No, you merely locked me in a room and put a chain around my leg, and kept me here long enough that no one will ever risk sending me an invitation to a ball or a dinner, or ask me to go driving in Hyde Park. Not one of my pointy-nosed neighbors wishes me a good morning as it is. My own neighbors, in a place I’ve always wanted to live. And now it won’t just be a nightmare. It will be impossible.”
She lifted her free hand to hit him again, but he grabbed that wrist, as well. “Are ye mad at me fer that, or fer snatching Mrs. Giswell? Ye need to decide, though ye do look very fine standing there with yer eyes glinting like sapphires.”
“I—you—I don’t need to ‘decide’ anything,” she retorted, refusing to be distracted. “I’m mad at you for everything, including making marriage a threat. Now let me go.”
“So ye can hit me again? Nae. Ye can just stand there and glare at me.”
Marjorie tried to pull her wrists free, but she might as well have been wrestling with a wall. “I demand that you at least free Mrs. Giswell.”
“Nae. I’ll nae risk Sir Hamish stumbling across her. Ask me someaught else, and I’ll do my damnedest to give it to ye.”
“Letmego. And don’t make me ask you again, you heathen.”
“Ah, heathen, is it?” Maxton bent his head and caught her mouth in a hard, demanding kiss. “Then I’ll be a heathen.”
She couldn’t stop herself from kissing him back. Oh, my, she wanted to kiss him back. Wanted to feel his hands on her, and his mouth on her, and she wanted to run her palms along his skin—except that he still had her wrists and she couldn’t move. Marjorie kissed him again, hungrily. “Let go,” she muttered, her voice muffled against his mouth.
The second he released her arms he swept her up in the air and carried her to his bed, his mouth teasing and nipping at hers until she couldn’t even breathe, much less think. He set her down and followed her onto the soft bed, dark gray eyes meeting hers for a long moment before he sank over her onto his elbows.
“This is wrong,” she managed, her voice breathy and not sounding like her at all.
His mouth stopped its very wicked trail along the base of her throat. “Ye willnae marry me, but ye said ye were ruined, lass,” he murmured, his mahogany hair falling across his eyes as he lifted his head to look at her again. “I aim to make certain of it.” With his left hand he gathered up the material of her skirt so he could rest a palm on the inside of her thigh.
Oh, good heavens. “I’ve spent a very long time being proper, you know.”
The hand began sliding upward. “And answer me someaught, Lady Marjorie. Ree. Has being so very proper gotten ye what ye want? Has it made ye happy?”
“You should have asked me that days ago.” If she had any coherent thoughts left in her head, that would have been a very complicated question, she was certain. At this moment, with the weight of him across her hips, his hands on her bare skin, and his teeth—ohhh—nibbling on her earlobe, all she could recall was how hard she’d been trying, and with no detectable results. “No, it hasn’t,” she breathed.
“Then try someaught else.”
“But I’m your prisoner.”
“I havenae let ye go,” he agreed, and shifted to tug her gown down past her shoulders. “I dunnae ken if that makes ye still my prisoner, but I’ve a mind to keep ye here a bit longer, regardless.”
He kissed her again, his fingers trailing down in exquisite shivers to circle her breasts closer and closer until his thumbnail scraped lightly across a nipple. Marjorie jumped, digging her fingers into his tawny, red-tinged hair, and he did it again.
Before she could catch her breath, he lowered himself along her, replacing his fingers with his tongue. She jumped again, arching her back as swirls of pleasure jolted down her spine. Evidently he knew exactly the effect he was having on her, because he chuckled, the sound muffled against her skin, before he licked her other breast and then put his mouth over it to suck.
