“You’ve never married be?—”
“Yes. I was married before.”
“Your wife?—”
“Is dead.”
“I’m sorry.”
He shook his head. “Are you? Not nearly as damned sorry as I, Lady Douglas.”
She stood abruptly. “Perhaps you should go ahead, then, and dwell in your self-pity and bitterness.” She came around the table, lifting the whiskey bottle, slamming it back down right in front of him. “Why don’t you just go ahead and drink yourself into a stupor? I’ll enjoy the quiet.”
She turned away from him with a dismissive contempt that seemed to light the short fuse of his temper. To his astonishment he found himself on his feet, wrenching her back by a corner of her robe. The robe fell from her shoulder, exposing one of her full young breasts. He’d seen it before, he reminded himself. No need to feel such a heated lust growing…
Yes, he’d seen her before. Familiarity was breeding desire.
“Madam, I could drink all night—and not fall into a stupor. And remember, you have chosen to be here. I’ve offered you a way out. You refuse to take it.”
“You are hardly in a proper frame of mind in which to talk this matter through. You?—”
“Talk!”
She tried to jerk free from him and spin away, gain distance from him. But his fingers remained taut on her robe, and when she left him, she left behind her covering as well.
When she turned to face him, silver eyes wide, she was naked, and at last, somewhat unnerved.
She blinked, moistening her lips, staring at him without moving. She lifted a hand toward him, indicating the robe that had fallen by his feet. “If you’d be so good as to hand that back…” she murmured.
He picked up the robe, still meeting her gaze. Then he opened his clenched fingers, allowing the robe to fall back to the floor.
“Maybe not. Maybe it’s time you get to know me better than you knew my father.”
He was taking two long, swift strides toward her before she seemed to realize her danger. She turned to bolt just when he reached her, his hands around her waist, lifting her, throwing her down upon the furs on the bed. She seemed stunned when she first fell, all that golden hair softly glittering in the subdued firelight, splaying out like tendrils of the sun. Again, she seemed to regain her breath and attempted to rise for an escape, but he was quickly down upon her, his weight pushing her deeper down into the furs.
She came to life then, twisting beneath him as she strained to throw him from her. She fought like a wildcat, trying to strike, kick, punch him.
“Lady Douglas,” he mocked, avoiding the blows she was attempting to dole out. “I have no desire for a wife, remember? I need but your word that you’ll go home?—”
She lay still for a second beneath him, her breasts heaving, her silver eyes on his.
“We need to talk!”
“There’s nothing to say. It will be one way or the other. We are man and wife, or we are not.”
“You’re in no frame of mind to straighten this out?—”
“Shall we get an annulment then?”
“You’re drunk?—”
“Ah, but alas! I’ve fallen into no stupor. And, as you can see, I’m not on the verge of a heart attack, either.”
“You’ll wind up stabbed in the heart!” she cried, slamming against him again.
“Some men are easier to kill than others.”
He straddled her, his fingers sliding along the length of her bare arms to her wrists, capturing them.
