Page 8 of Midnight Conquest

The Gypsy fortune teller—mysterious, wild, and utterly unlike her heavy-handed husband—had shown her a tenderness she’d never known. His breath had warmed her skin, his lips ghosting down her throat, each kiss a promise of reverence rather than conquest.

Her cheeks flushed at the vivid recollection—how he’d entered her slowly, reverently, as though worshipping every sigh, every tremble. Not hurried, not rough…just exquisitely patient. As though she was worth savoring.

Davina opened her eyes and studied the intricate twists of the ironwork, each knot a tether to a memory she could not—and would not—let go.

She hadn’t meant to take it. In her frantic escape from the tavern inn, she’d meant to grab her hair comb but ended up with this instead. The comb was gone, but this brooch remained. Proof. A token that the night had happened.

Because some nights are so wondrous, so impossible, a woman might begin to doubt her own memory if not for something tangible.

Something like this.

Or like—

Cailin.

A knock at the door startled her out of her musings and she hastily put the brooch back into her jewelry box.

When Davina opened the door, Rosselyn stood there, cringing. “It seems our guest is ready to dine.”

Davina’s cheeks puffed out as she exhaled a frustrated burst of air. “Aye. Let’s get on with this.”

Davina hooked her arm with Rosselyn’s, and they descended down to the ground floor to venture into the Great Hall and tend to the obnoxious guest, Fergus MacLeod.

∞∞∞

Candlelight cast golden flickers across the rough-hewn walls, shadows dancing to the rhythm of their breath. The faint tang of woodsmoke clung to the air, mingling with the subtle, provocative scent of rose oil clinging to her.

Broderick lay back against the inn’s coarse linens, arms folded behind his head, eyes locked on Davina as she stood by the hearth. Her slender fingers trembled at the laces of her bodice.

She didn’t meet his gaze. Her teeth worried her bottom lip, betraying her nervousness. Yet behind the uncertainty in her posture, hunger simmered in her eyes—a need she could no longer deny.

“Come tae me, lass,” he coaxed, the Highland burr soft on his tongue.

She hesitated a moment longer, then let her gown slip from her shoulders. It whispered to the floor, pooling at her feet, along with her shift, leaving her naked.

Broderick’s breath caught.

The glow limned every inch of her—soft curves, flushed skin, the faint shadows of bruises she hadn’t meant to show. Marks from a cruel man. Her husband.

His jaw clenched.Tonight…she was his.

She climbed onto the bed with tentative grace, straddling him, her breath shallow.

He guided her with gentle hands at her waist, savoring the warmth of her body beneath his fingertips. She fit against him perfectly, as if her body had been molded for him.

“Ye’re beautiful,” he whispered, brushing a stray lock of auburn from her cheek. When she flushed and looked away, he tilted her chin up.

“Ye believe me?”

Her lips parted. “I…”

No words followed. Instead, she bent to kiss him—uncertain at first, then bolder, deeper.

Broderick drank her in, tracing the length of her spine, bristling over the scars. His fingers tangled in her hair, loosening the comb until cinnamon waves spilled around her shoulders.

As he tossed the comb aside, her moan met his mouth. Heat surged. His arousal pressed against her through the cloth of his breeches. She shifted, hips rocking, and a low growl escaped him.

His control frayed like thread drawn taut.

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