“Once Emma is a duchess, it won’t matter how the marriage took place. Trust me, anyone who dares to gossip about her will face the wrath of Strathaven. In case you haven’t noticed,” Marianne said with a touch of amusement, “he’s quite protective of her.”
“I’ve noticed.” Ambrose swiped a hand through his hair, said darkly, “I was beginning to get used to his grace, too—until this.”
“You can’t blame a man in love for being impetuous.”
“And you’re certain he loves her?”
Marianne touched her finger to the divot between her husband’s brows and said huskily, “Darling, he looks at her the way you look at me.”
Ambrose exhaled. “I hope you’re right.”
“I know I am.” She linked her arm with his. “Let’s go tell the rest of the family. I have a feeling they’ll be quite eager to visit Scotland.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
It was amazing how something as mundane as supper could be transformed into a thrilling activity when shared with one’s new husband.
Sitting at a cozy table by the fire, in a suite that the innkeeper had declared his “verra best,” Emma studied Alaric as he sipped his wine. He’d changed into a black brocade dressing robe, his throat bare, his midnight hair curling and damp from his bath. They’d both cleaned up after arriving at the inn an hour ago. A half hour before that, they’d pledged themselves to each other over an anvil in a ceremony as short as it had been sweet.
Now Emma was officially Mrs. Alaric James Alexander McLeod.
And also the new Duchess of Strathaven.
Picking her hand up from the table, her new husband rubbed his thumb over her plain gold wedding band, clearly pleased with the sign of his possession. As he wore a wider masculine version on his hand, a symbol ofherclaim, she had no complaints.
His eyes a beautiful smoky jade, he murmured, “Had enough to eat, pet?”
“I’m stuffed to the gills,” she said truthfully. The remnants of their feast—roasted venison and Scotch pie, potted haugh and assorted local cheeses, raspberries topped with whipped cream—still lay on the table before them. “The innkeep sent up enough to feed an army.”
“He wanted to make sure we keep our energies up.”
Alaric’s slow, wicked smile made Emma’s cheeks warm, her heartbeat quickening.
“I don’t expect stamina will be a problem,” she said.
During their speedy two and a half day journey to Gretna Green, they’d been alone together in the mail coach Alaric had procured exclusively for their use. The drivers and guards up top had made the situation less than private, however, and Alaric had insisted on being circumspect.
They had spent most of the time talking instead, sometimes about lighter topics such as their favorite foods—Scotch pie (his) and almond tart (hers)—and places they’d been and wanted to go. They’d also discussed weightier subjects. She’d talked about the poverty she’d known as a girl, the ever-present fear of an empty larder or rent past due. She’d shared her deepest joys, too: being part of a family that stuck together through thick and thin, that valued laughter and each other more than worldly things.
For his part, Alaric hadn’t disclosed his past as readily, yet he’d answered her questions, giving her sufficient detail to piece together a lonely childhood and an adolescence overshadowed by his illness. She’d already known that his mama died when he was young. From the little he said about his father and his guardian, she gathered that neither was a nurturing sort. When it came to his aunt, he spoke with distant appreciation for all she’d done for him.
He was more willing, however, to speak of the time after his guardian’s death. Upon receiving a small stipend from the Strathaven estate, he’d invested it, parlaying it into tuition and living expenses at Oxford. After his studies, he’d continued to accumulate wealth through his investments; he’d been on his way to building a financial empire when, one by one, the heirs to Strathaven passed away, leaving him to succeed as duke.
At eight-and-twenty, Alaric had inherited an expensive castle, ill-managed estates, and little income to maintain the properties. With his business acumen, he’d turned things around, invested in modernization. During his tenure, he’d refilled the Strathaven coffers and brought prosperity to his lands.
Emma hadn’t known this side of Alaric: the hard-working man beneath the jaded aristocrat. It made her admire him even more. The journey to Gretna Green had fostered further closeness, and Emma had no doubt that they belonged together. As a result, she was more than ready to explore and deepen their physical intimacy. To give herself to her husband, body and soul.
Alaric pushed his chair back, patted his thighs. “Come here, pet.”
With prickling excitement, she obeyed. She wore nothing beneath her pink flannel robe and thus could feel the taut sinew of his thighs, the ridge of his growing arousal. He kissed her softly, and she sighed, drinking in the taste of him sweetened with mulled wine. They sipped at each other, tongues lapping and twining, a kiss of tender lust.
He loosened the belt of her robe, parting the panels, and she blushed as he gazed upon her bared self with raw possession in his eyes.
“Look at you,” he said. “So beautiful and you’re all mine. You trust me, Emma?”
“I do.” A thrilling echo of the words she’d used to commit herself to him forevermore.
“Say you’ll let me do whatever I wish. Say you’re mine,” he commanded.
