Page 57 of The Lyon and the Unicorn
But, with a mewl of pleasure, she parted her lips to invite him in, and he deepened the kiss, relishing the taste of her that was better than the finest whisky. He swept his tongue across her mouth, drawing her tongue around his, while he devoured her like a man starved.
And hewasa man starved—from the moment he’d first seen her eyes darken with pleasure at his touch in that remote little cave on the Roman wall, he knew that no other woman would satisfy him again.
The world believed women were ruined by an association with a man, but the world was wrong. She had ruinedhim, utterly and completely. And holding her in his arms, while he claimed her with his mouth as he yearned to claim her with his cock, he welcomed that ruination.
He broke the kiss, and for a heartbeat she remained in his arms—face flushed, lips swollen and glistening from his kiss. Her eyes were closed, long lashes curving gently upward. Then they fluttered open and his soul sang at the desire in them.
Then she blinked and the moment was gone. She struggled in his arms, though she made little effort, as if she were trying to convince others of her reluctance, and he released her, his groin tightening with want.
“I think that settles it,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said.
“Daughter?” the duchess asked.
Clara blinked and glanced at her mother. Murdo held his breath in anticipation. If she consented, he was, most likely, surrendering himself to a lifetime of defiance, challenge, and tribulation. But if she refused…
Then she nodded.
The duchess let out a soft cry, her face contorting with pain. She took Clara’s hand and lowered her voice.
“There’s no shame in refusing, daughter,” she said. “I can weather the cost, and my old friend’s anger.”
“You’d be putting the Lyon’s Den into disrepute,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said. “That comes with a heavy price.”
“No price is too great to pay for my daughter’s happiness,” the duchess said. “Clara deserves to be loved, not judged.”
“Duchess,” Murdo began, “I assure ye that I don’t judge yer daughter. I…”
He hesitated as three pairs of eyes settled on him—one gleaming behind the shroud of black lace.
I love her.
“I’ve already made arrangements for the wedding,” he said.
“You have?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said. “Didn’t Demetrius tell you I could secure a special license?”
“There’s no need if the marriage takes place in Scotland. Ye see…”
She raised a black-lace-gloved hand. “I’m aware of the law regarding marriage in Scotland, Mr. McTavish. Where will the marriage take place?”
“In Melrose. A date is set for next week.”
“Next week?” The duchess raised her eyebrows. “Were you certain of success tonight? Somewhat presumptuous.”
“Mrs. Dove-Lyon assured me that I’d secure the perfect bride by the time I left London.”
“You once told me that you disliked the notion of perfection,” Clara said.
“The perfect Society lady, aye,” he said. “But I see no Society lady before me tonight.”
Three sharp intakes of breath told him that his remark had been received about as well as a lump of deer shit in a stew.
“Yes, well, that’s enough of the pleasantries,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said.
She turned to the crowd and raised her hand. “Until tomorrow night,mes amis,” she said, “when eight gallant young men will vie for the hand of a fair maiden in the game to be called the Twelve-Inch Challenge.”
Coarse laughter filled the room as the Black Widow ushered the party through the door leading to the hallway.
“Come,” she said. “We’ll toast your union with a glass of madeira. The ’97 I think. Duchess, I recall your partiality to it. I will, of course, gift your daughter with a case.” She tilted her head and regarded Murdo, her eyes bright behind her veil. “What say you, Mr. McTavish? A fortune of forty thousand plus a case of madeira?”
