Page 7 of The Duke's Wicked Widow
She might very well be.
Ellie opened her mouth and to her surprise—again with the madness—a burble of laughter escaped. His lovely green eyes widened as he straightened, and she had the sudden thought that their child might have such a gorgeous eye color, which—frankly—caused her to laugh harder.
Instinctively her hand rose to her lips, to hide her imperfect teeth, while she fought for control. Her father’s harsh judgement—if you cannot cease that ridiculous smiling, at least hide your imperfections!—rang in her ears.
“Madam, ye’re doing nothing to disabuse me of the whole ‘mad’ hypothesis,” Fawkes drawled, finally drinking from the glass he held.
Giggling almost manically, Ellie nodded, desperate to regain control.
“I-I understand, Mr. MacMillan,” she gasped, finally able to form words, “that my response is entirely inappropriate. I had not intended—”
“Here,” he commanded gruffly, thrusting the glass toward her.
Without a thought, Ellie wrapped her fingers around the crystal and brought it to her lips.
But he hadn’t released it.
Which meant, when the harsh whiskydidcross her lips, Fawkes MacMillan was the one feeding it to her. As if she were an invalid. A child. Merida, when she’d had a nightmare and needed soothing, would allow Ellie to hold the water glass like this.
His fingers were warm under hers, warm and strong and callused. And his gaze…his gaze never left hers.
She swallowed automatically, the liquor burning her tongue and throat and yes, even her lips. Her tongue darted out across the lower one, trying to soothe the unfamiliar sting, and she noticed the way his gaze dropped to follow it.
Well, your giggles are certainly gone.
Right. Shecoulddo this.
“Mr. MacMillan,” she whispered, and when his gaze darted back to hers, she had to struggle to hold it. “Ineedto be pregnant. It is the only way to save my home. And I needyouto be the one to do it.”
Something flashed in his eyes—something remarkably like anger—a moment before he pulled the glass from her hand and lifted it to his own lips. The sight of those lips caressing the rim of the crystal where her own lips had been a moment before…
Ellie swallowed, wondering if he couldtasteher. Wondering if he could still feel her warmth.
“I dinnae ken whyIneed to be the one to do it, Ellie,” he finally said. “The idea of siring a bastard—”
“Surely it is no great hardship!” She surged forward, and was surprised to find her hand on his forearm.
Hisbareforearm.
Excellent, yes. This is a perfect way to convince him to give you what you want. Caresses. Compliment his muscles.
Except Ellie’s mind had gone blank.
Had she thought hisfingerswarm? When her hand closed around his bare skin,somethingshot straight up her arm and down her chest and settled somewhere in the region of her pelvis.
Oh.
His gaze had dropped to where she touched him. “Hardship?” he echoed, his voice a mere rasp.
“A man…” She licked her lips, her gaze somewhat unintentionally sweeping across his bare chest, landing only briefly on a nipple, a scar, another nipple, a sprinkling of hair, yet a third nipple—no, that is the first nipple again.Best look at the second nipple again, too, just for fairness’ sake.
“What?” he rasped.
“It has been my experience that a man does not need much urging to take what is being offered, Mr. MacMillan.”
The way he exhaled, the way he stepped closer…the warmth between them turned toheat, which was really quite remarkable considering how close to Christmas it was. Perhaps he just had a super-efficient stove? Yes, that was it.
“So ye want me to treat ye as a whore then, lass?”
