Page 51 of The Trouble With Dukes
Megan wanted to smack him with his sporran. “That is not an answer, Hamish.” Though his kisses were lovely.Loving.Decades of his kisses would not be enough, particularly not when paired with the slow, smooth glide of his palms over her back, or his hand, gently clasping her nape.
“Cease your nattering, Meggie mine. Kiss me a while, would ye please?”
She could kiss him forever, could melt into the warmth and tenderness of him, the sure sense that this man was her mate in all ways, and yet, he held back. Megan got a fistful of his hair, cupped his jaw, and plundered his mouth without mercy.
Plundering could be a mutual endeavor. Hamish was stealthy, was the trouble. Megan tasted, he teased. She tactilely shouted demands, he whispered back encouragement. Desire rose, along with frustration and determination, until Megan was so muddled, she declared a temporary ceasefire and curled against Hamish’s chest.
“You have driven me daft, Hamish MacHugh.”
And Megan had driven him to desire, at least. Through her skirts and the single thickness of his wool kilt, she felt the unmistakable evidence of his arousal.
“Daft,” he whispered, kissing her temple. “Witless, mad, trapped between longing and—”
He kissed her again, and over the beating of her heart, and the fire in her blood, Megan reached for the common sense that a plain girl who couldn’t see clearly had learned to rely on before she could read.
Why would a man risk dishonor for her by stealing correspondence from the home of a peer, and kiss herlike that, but deny her the words and deeds of a de facto fiancé? Megan sat up, which had the agreeable effect of putting certain of her parts in proximity with certain of Hamish’s parts.
“You desire me,” she said, brushing his hair back from his brow. “I desire you. You esteem me, and I esteem you. You’ve taken risks for me, and I’d protect you with my last breath.”
“Don’t say such things, Meggie.”
She spoke only the truth, but another truth crowded up against her heart. “You are waiting for me to cry off. Waiting for me to change my mind, to bestow my favors elsewhere. You are waiting for me to send you one of those awful letters and claim my feelings have changed.”
Waiting for her to abandon him, as he’d been abandoned by a previous fiancée, by his own men when he’d been taken captive, and by his fellow officers when he’d mustered out.
“I have been given permission to pay my addresses to you,” Hamish said. “I make no presumptions, Meggie Windham. The choice goes to the lady, and unfair advantage was taken of you once before. I will not have it said your decision to wed me was anything less than—”
Affection, understanding, and joy all collided where uncertainty had been.
Hamish’s reticence was not indifference or indecision, but rather,respect. Great, abiding, honorable respect. The trouble with dukes—withherduke—was that he was just a wee bittoohonorable.
“You are daft,” Megan said, “but you areminein all your daft glory, andI am yours. I choose you, Hamish MacHugh, Duke of Murdoch. I am choosing you. You are the man I want for my husband, my champion, my friend, my lover. I will not unchoose you, I will not change my mind. We will argue, disagree, weather troubles, and possibly even quarrel, but you are mine now, and that door is locked. You can’t escape, not ever.”
Hamish tucked a lock of her hair over her ear. A simple gesture, but he imbued that small touch with reverence and caring.
“You’re sure, Meggie? I’m stubborn, and I can’t always find words when words are needful. I can’t find the right words, at least. I’ll go off fishing or rambling for hours, and you’ll despair of me. I grow surly in late winter and snappish. I raise my voice when I’m frustrated.”
“So do I. Kiss me. Better still, ravish me, for I certainly intend to ravish you.”
Hamish’s features were not clear to her, but she could feel him weighing, measuring, considering, and so she waited. Bless Hamish for the gentleman he was, he’d not have it said she was coerced into an engagement. For that alone, she fell in love with him all over again.
Megan would not have it said Hamish was merely following orders, though, or a guilty conscience, or Uncle Percy’s pronouncements.
The silence went on. A bird thumped against the glass of the window and flew off. Across the corridor, a woman’s laughter rang out from the library. Still, Megan waited, because waiting was part of listening, and listening was part—a large part—of caring for another.
“I’m trying to come up with a pretty speech,” Hamish said, gathering her closer. “We’ll be here until Doomsday before that happens. If it’s a thorough ravishment you want, Meggie, I’m your man. I will always be your man, and you will be my duchess.”
Our children would have red hair.
Anwen pushed aside that thought and led Lord Colin to the library. He was a sunnier version of his older brother—tall rather than enormous, handsome rather than striking. Her urchins would like him.
Given that the boys at the orphanage were pickpockets and street thieves in various stages of reform, this was not entirely a compliment.
“You intended to consult me regarding a volume of French poetry?” Lord Colin asked.
He wore the kilt, as his brother had. On him Highland attire was dashing, whereas on the duke … everything Hamish MacHugh did was touched with boldness, while Lord Colin was more inclined to charm.
Urchins could be charming, when they wanted to steal your watch.
