Page 88 of An Offer By the Beastly Duke

A long silence stretched over the large bedroom, the crackle of the hearth fire the only sound. Then, without warning, Nicholas leaned sideways, throwing his small arms entirely around Malcolm’s massive neck, burying his face in the Duke’s shirt.

Over the boy’s shoulder, Penelope pressed her trembling fingers tightly against her mouth, fresh tears slipping down her cheeks at the sight of them.

Nicholas eventually drifted off into a deep, exhausted sleep between them, his small hand still loosely clutching the fabric of Malcolm’s shirt. Hector let out a loud, rumbling snore from the foot of the bed, thoroughly content with his guard duty.

Penelope stood up quietly, tucking the heavy velvet blankets carefully beneath her son’s shoulders before following Malcolm out into the dark corridor.

Chapter Twenty-Five

The long hallways of Brigrock Hall seemed unusually still that night, peaceful in a way it had not been in decades.

The storm had passed; there was no rain now, only the soft, warm glow of candlelight reflecting off the polished dark wood and the deep silence of a safe house.

Malcolm led Penelope toward his private chambers without speaking a word, his large hand resting gently against the small of her back. The moment the heavy oak door shut securely behind them, locking out the rest of the world, Penelope stopped holding herself together.

The rigid composure she had maintained for the servants and the magistrates shattered completely. Her breath broke sharply, a low, wounded sob leaving her throat.

Malcolm turned instantly.

She pressed both of her hands against her face, her shoulders racking with violent sobs. “I thought… Malcolm, I thought he was going to catch him. I thought he would catch Nicholas before he could reach the stables.”

His powerful arms closed around her before she could even finish the sentence, pulling her flush against his body. Penelope clung to him with a terrifying intensity, her fingers digging into his back until her knuckles ached.

“I know,” he murmured repeatedly against her hair, his voice a steady anchor in her storm. “I know.”

“I thought he would take him from me, I thought he would destroy everything.”

“But he did not,” Malcolm said gently, his deep voice filled with a quiet, absolute certainty.

His large hand moved slowly, rhythmically up and down her spine, grounding her, pulling her out of the terror of the past.

Penelope pressed her face harder against the linen of his shirt, breathing him in deeply. She filled her senses with his scent: the smell of fresh rain, expensive leather, woodsmoke, and something entirely, fundamentally Malcolm. Safe. Absolute safety.

Malcolm reached down, his fingers tipping her chin upward with an unbelievable gentleness. In the warm candlelight, the dark purple bruises along her jaw and throat were fully visible now.

The sight changed his rugged face instantly. The ancient, cold fury flickered back into his dark eyes, his muscles tightening.

“He touched you,” Malcolm’s jaw clenched so hard she could hear the bone grind. “I should have killed the bastard when he lay on the stones.”

She opened her eyes and reached up, her soft palm carefully cupping his scarred cheek. “You came for me. That is all that matters. You saved me.”

Malcolm’s eyes shut tight at her touch, a long, shuddering breath leaving his lungs. When he opened them again, the fierce, terrifying warrior was gone, replaced by something so raw, so dangerously unguarded, that it stole the breath from her lungs.

“I will never let anyone harm you again, Penelope. Never.”

The promise settled deep inside her soul. It wasn’t a boastful declaration of a proud nobleman; it wasn’t a dramatic line from a poetry book. It was an absolute, terrifyingly permanent vow.

His thumb brushed with infinite care just beneath the dark bruise on her cheek, his touch as light as a feather. “I am responsible for you,” he whispered, his gaze locking onto her lips. “Because you are my entire world.”

A sudden tide of intense emotion tightened in her chest, a beautiful, suffocating warmth. “Malcolm…”

He lowered his head, pressing his forehead firmly against hers, his breath hot against her skin. “I love you, Penelope.”

The words stole the remaining air straight from her lungs. They weren’t polished or practiced like the pretty lies of London suitors. They were rough, heavy, and raw, sounding as though they had fought their way out of the deepest, darkest depths of his scarred heart.

His large hand shook once where it rested against her silk waist.

Malcolm leaned forward, kissing the bruised corner of her mouth with absolute reverence.