Bewitching (12 page)

The air became suddenly warm, and the room seemed to have shrunk. Sweat pearled at her temples, neck, and chest. Her gown itched. She darted around to the other side of the wing chair to put some distance between herself and the fire.

"When were you born?" He barked the question.

She jumped, startled, then answered, "Seventeen ninety-two."

"What day?"

"The twenty-seventh of June."

He was silent.

"Why?"

He didn't respond.

"Your Grace?"

"I am thinking."

"About my age?"

"Not really."

"What, then?"

He turned those eyes on her, eyes that held a tinge of regret, and he slowly moved toward her. "About the consequences of what I am about to do."

"Oh." Joy stepped back. "What is that?"

Alec moved forward, silent.

A little intimidated, she stepped back again and almost fell over the chair arm.

He caught her arms and drew her forward.

"Oh …”

His hand slid around her neck.

“… My goodness!"

 
And he pulled her mouth up to meet his. She watched, mesmerized by the eyes that pinned hers, watched the hard line of his lips come closer and closer until he was so close that her eyes drifted closed. She could taste his breath, feel it against her dry lips. She wanted this. It seemed a lifetime before his mouth brushed against hers ever so softly, tentatively, as if it searched for something.

Please don't let this be a dream
, she prayed. His lips brushed against hers again and again, real, tactile, with a tenderness she would have never expected in a man who didn't smile. She was afraid the kiss might end, and she wanted just a wee bit more. When he skimmed his lips to the corner of her mouth, moving gently, she turned her head just enough so there was closer contact. His hand pressed against the back of her head so her mouth was firmly on his. She melted against his chest.

Still splayed across the back of her head, his hand held her in place, but she would not have pulled away from him for anything. She had no idea that kisses were so wonderful and warm and soft. The real thing was so much better than her daydreams. No cold, hard glass here.

His other arm slid across the small of her back and ever so slowly pressed her stomach against him, and his hand moved from the back of her head to her neck, massaging the soft tendons and muscle beneath her flesh. His lips pressed harder; his hand held her fast. He licked her upper lip, then ran his tongue along the seam of her lips. She reacted with a gasp, and he filled her mouth, searching and retreating. She chilled with gooseflesh and shivered, once, twice, and again when his tongue dueled with hers.

She thought this must be like flying, only better—like flying and feasting at the same time. He tasted of everything she'd always loved—of spicy gingerbread and sweet lemon honey, of buttery scones and tart strawberries, of fine aged wine and fresh warm yeasty bread. Her head felt light, her body weightless, and her blood seemed to speed undammed through channels within her. Her swelling heart pounded in her chest and ears and wrists. She was chilled one minute, warm and flushed the next.

This was new to her, the feeling of his tongue filling her mouth, the warm dampness of the kiss, the very intimacy of it—a physical expression of the games their eyes had played. She wondered if his heart was beating with the same urgent drumming as hers, and she tried to get closer so she could feel it. She slid the palm of her hand across his coat to the center of his chest and raised her other hand to his neck. Her knees grew weaker than her ankle, and she clung to him to keep from falling. His arm moved beneath her buttocks and lifted her up off the floor, holding her safe and secure. She dangled her feet and held on tighter, gripping his coat in her fist.

With the barest of touches, his hand moved from her head to her neck. His fingers played with the strands of hair that framed her face, then grazed her ear, and moved down her throat, across her shoulder, and over her arm to her ribs, where he rubbed slow circles that matched the rhythm of his questing tongue.

She didn't want the kiss to end and gave a plaintive cry when he pulled his mouth away. Her eyes drifted open slowly, and she saw in the duke's midnight blue eyes—a need, a flash of desperate need—the path to the treasure. Then it was gone, hidden by the mask that kept her and the rest of the world out. The hard duke was back.

"You'll do," he said.

"Hmm?" She looked up at him, searching his eyes for another sign of that need, still savoring her first kiss, the feel of his arms. "I'll do what?"

She had no idea that her eyes held her heart.

"Never mind," he said, looking away for a pensive moment, before staring at the door.

Joy was horrified to think that maybe someone else was there. She gripped his shoulders in fear, her worried eyes following his, expecting to see someone watching them, but the door was still closed, and there was no one in the room but the two of them.

He set her down, but his hands still rested on her shoulders. His look softened, and he searched her face, spending a long silent moment staring at her mouth. His hands rubbed her upper arms and then with one knuckle tilted her chin up and looked her straight in the eye.

"Marry me."

Chapter 6

For an eternal minute she stared up at him, unable to think, unable to move or speak. She told herself her wits were wandering. He could not have said that.

"Marry me," he said again.

"Oh--” She slapped her hand over her mouth and stepped back. He did say that. He did.

She had died and gone to witch heaven.

With little more than his thumb and forefinger, he pulled her chin forward and kissed her again and again and again, ever so gently. "Marry me," he whispered against her mouth. "Marry me."

"I cannot." But her traitorous mouth sought his.

"Of course you can. You are of age." He trailed his lips over hers again, barely brushing her mouth.

"No, I mean I can, but I cannot."

The words were barely out before he kissed her, long and deep, wet and lazy, stroking until she forgot how to think. He moved his lips to her ear. "You'll be a duchess."

"I can—"

He silenced her with another kiss, pulled her against the length of his body. Then his mouth left hers—"I cannot"— and moved to her ear. "Marry me, Joyous MacQuarrie."

"Ummmmmm."

His tongue scored her ear, and she shivered.

"I don't know you." She wanted to see his face and tried to pull back.

Kisses trailed down her neck. "Marriage will solve that. Trust me."

"But what about love?"

He paused near her shoulder. "Are you in love with someone?"

"No."

"Then there is nothing to stop us."

"But we just met, and only by chance."

"Marriages are arranged all the time between participants who have never met."

"But you're the Duke of Belmore."

"I know," he whispered in her damp ear. "And you're Scottish."

"But . . . but . . . ”

"Wouldn't you like to be a duchess?" His deep voice was so soft, so quiet.

She was lost in the dreamy thoughts his words suggested.

"My
duchess."

She didn't say a word. His lips moved in butterfly kisses.

"Hmm?" His mouth grazed her temple. "Wouldn't you?"

"I'm not sure . . . . Well, I mean, yes . . . uh, no."

"You have no argument." His mouth closed over hers again.

She sighed.

"Marry me, Scottish."

"I'm a witch."

"Most women are at one time or another."

"No. You don't understand. I'm a
witch.
A
real
witch."

"And I can be a real bastard. We shall get used to each other. I don't care what you think you are. I want you to marry me."

"We cannot marry."

"We can. Now. Today."

"Now?"

"Yes, now."

"You cannot just … get married."

"I'm the Duke of Belmore. I will do as I see fit." He spoke with such conviction that Joy was stunned. He looked down at her, his face relaxed, his eyes blank. "No one will question the marriage, because I am the Duke of Belmore."

She couldn't counter that argument. A duke did as he pleased.

"You will live in
Belmore
Park
." His thumbs stroked her jaw.

"But—"

"You will have anything you want."

"But—"

"You would like that, would you not?"

"Well, yes, but this is too quick."

His finger ran down her jaw line so softly. His lips feathered over hers, and he whispered, "Marry me, Scottish."

Her eyes drifted closed. She'd do almost anything to hear him call her that again. He kissed her again. A few long, tender moments later he pulled back. "As I said, you have no arguments."

"Marriages are always carefully planned."

He stiffened suddenly, as if something she'd said had angered him. His jaw tightened. "Not this one," he said. An instant later his mouth hit hers, hard, demanding, hot, as if he could assuage some deep anger by kissing the doddering wits out of her, which he did. His lips bit at hers. His hands gripped her head. He mastered her mouth, her senses, and gave her a taste of what passion was all about.

It was a kiss so different from before. The first had been soft. This was hard. The other kiss was seductive and lingering and persuasive. This kiss had power, it was the kiss of a duke—a duke who needed to prove something.

And he did. He proved that he could make Joyous Fiona MacQuarrie forget how to say no.

***

Joy sat before the mirror in the ladies' receiving room and twisted a loose lock of hair back into its knot. She picked up a hairpin and slid it back into her hair, then studied her reflection. She felt as if she were daydreaming. But this was not one of her fanciful mind-voyages. This was real.

Raising her fingers to her mouth, she ran them over her swollen lips. He had kissed her. Truly kissed her. She traced the soft pink marks on her chin and cheeks where his shadowed beard had rubbed against her pale skin. The stubble had been rough and sensual. She touched her lips again as if she expected her reflection to fade like the fleeting sweet taste of sugar.

She poked her lips. Yes, he had kissed her. She smiled, then laughed a bubble of a giggle that just had to slip out. The duke had kissed her. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, remembering every tingle, every touch, every new sensation of those kisses.