Page 3 of The Lyon and the Unicorn
Those fingers were strong enough to crush a man’s neck. Yet they were also capable of drawing out the most exquisite pleasure in the woman he desired.
Clara lifted her eyes to meet his gaze once more, and she caught a glint of silver in their emerald depths.
But she saw no desire—only savage possession.
A deep voice thickened in her mind, filling the air with a single word.
Mine.
Like it or not, the man before her was now her fiancé. In a matter of days, she would be his to do with as he pleased.
Chapter One
Northumberland, two months earlier.
Devil’s ballocks, wasthis how Sassenachs entertained themselves?
Murdo gazed about the ballroom, wincing at the violence of color before him. Women as thin as rails milled about, their bright gowns shimmering in the candlelight. Why a lass believed that wrapping herself in silk the color of poison made her alluring to the male sex was beyond comprehension.
As was the expression of discontent on the lips of every creature in the room.
Malcontents, the lot of them—with their downturned mouths and hard, glittering gazes.
“Beautiful, aren’t they, cousin?” his companion said.
“Surely ye’re jesting, Simon,” Murdo replied. “I’ve never seen such discontent. Is this how the English entertain themselves? I’d rather drink a bucket of horse’s piss.”
A gasp to his right told him that someone had overheard.
“Lady Cholmondeley,” Murdo’s cousin said. “What a pleasure to see you.”
A woman with iron-gray hair set in an elaborate array of curls and dressed in a somber shade of blue—at least it was somber against the vomit-inducing hues of orange and yellow circling the room—nodded in acknowledgment.
“Mr. Tuffington, I’m glad you could come,” she said, in a voice that conveyed anything but. “And your—guest?” She arched a brow and fixed her pale-blue gaze on Murdo.
“My cousin, from the Highlands,” Simon said. “Younger son of my uncle, Laird of Strathburn. You were most gracious to extend your invitation to him.”
“Quite,” she replied. “Forgive me, I didn’t quite catch what you were speaking of, Mr.…?”
“McTavish,” Murdo said.
“Mr. McTavish.” Her gaze drifted across Murdo’s form, taking in his moss-green jacket and his plaid. Then she lowered her gaze to his bare legs, and her eyes widened with a flare of unmet female desire.
Ah, Lady Cholmondeley—does yer husband fail to satisfy ye in bed?
Pink spots appeared on her cheeks as she lifted her gaze to his.
She might deny it, but Lady Cholmondeley—like most women—preferred a savage between her thighs to a vapid English lord.
“Forgive me if tonight fails to meet your expectations for entertainment,” she said. “Our customs must be foreign to you—isn’t that what you were saying?”
Shit.
Simon, the treacherous bastard, let out a chuckle.
“Whatwereyou saying, Mr. McTavish?” Lady Cholmondeley continued. “If you’ve a particular preference, I’d be happy to oblige. I wouldn’t want it said that I’m unable to accommodate my guests.”
“I-I was merely telling my cousin that…”
