Page 120 of The Duke's Daring Bride

The Duke of Effinghell, her husband, was The Dark Knight.

All three of those things seemed mutually exclusive.

You’re babbling.

She wasn’t babbling, but her brain was babbling.

Yes, that’s what I meant.

And Auld Gus had asked her a question.

She stared up at Alistair, eyes wide, mind racing. “Ali!” she blurted. “I said ‘Ali’, as in ‘All I see here is a scary ruffian.’” Pretending affront, she sniffed and turned back to the barkeep. “Is this the type of person whom you allow to regularly frequent your establishment?”

Auld Gus snorted. “Ye were the one who came looking for a bloke to sell ye poison, missy!”

Well—what was that word Hamish always used?—fook.

She could swear she heard Alistair growl.

Plastering on the largest smile she could manage, Olivia gave the barkeep a little nod. “Well, thank you very much for your help, Auld Gus. I look forward to future conversations with you. For now I must be off. I have to—wash my…elbow.”

Before she could do more than shift to the side, an arm snaked around her middle. A large arm, which anchored her to a large body. A body she knew.

Auld Gus’s eyes widened. “’Ere now, Dark Knight or no, ye can’t go around manhandling lassies who don’t want to be manhandled. Unless ye want to be manhandled, miss?” He wiggled his brows. “I’ve never been good at reading women’s cues, to be honest. Are ye into that sort of thing?”

She opened her mouth, completely unsure how to respond to such a question, but she needn’t have bothered.

Because over her head, Alistair rasped a single word. “Mine.”

Her knees went weak.

She told herself it was because of the anger in his tone, because of fear. Nothing at all to do with the way her stomach flipped over at the sound of his voice claiming her.

Her husband was The Dark Knight?

You seem strangely at ease with this realization.

Likely because she hadn’t had a chance to sit down and really consider the remarkable, alarming realization. When she did, she would likely collapse in a pool of blubbering goo.

He saved you! That night in Spitalfields! Before you were married—before you even met him! Except you did meet him, because he saved you from those ruffians and threw you over his shoulder and saved you.

And he knew all along.

Oh, here comes the blubbering.

Be still my heart.

He’d been the one to save her?

That day in his study, when she’d marched in, full of indignant anger to cover her fear, she’d been surprised at his size. And her body’s response to him.

But she never would have imagined…

Meanwhile, Auld Gus was staring at her, those horrible eyebrows waggling again. “Do ye want to be his, miss? Mind ye, there’s no’ much I can do about it if ye don’t want to be his, but he’s claimed ye, and—”

“My wife,” growled Alistair.

“Oh, well, that’s different.” Auld Gus lifted the bottle of gin and waved it. “Do ye want some? Who would’ve thought The Dark Knight was married, eh? No’ me. Say, Mister The Dark Knight, did ye know yer wife was here to buy poison? She got something against ye, do ye think?”

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