Chapter 8

She had unleashed a beast.

A feral, wonderful Scottish beast whose handsome face was currently buried between her thighs. He sucked on the throbbing bud of her sex, eliciting another delicious rush of pleasure over her. And this time, he held her gaze, his blue eyes keeping her in his thrall, his stare burning and hot and dark with lust.

She couldn't look away.

It was as if he commanded her to watch. And that unspoken mastery somehow heightened her pleasure to an unbearable level. Until she was soaring again, a new bliss cresting over her, thrashing and wild under his mouth.

"Lachlan," she choked out. "Lachlan."

"Aye, lass," he growled against her soaked center. "Come again for me."

"A-again?" She was breathless, so overwhelmed by her body's reaction that her very ears were ringing.

It seemed a sheer impossibility for her to achieve more pleasure than he'd already visited upon her. But Lachlan had other ideas. He was still there, his wicked mouth pleasuring her, lapping, sucking, pressing. Licking, giving, biting. One of his big hands left her bottom, and then she felt a new pressure at her entrance as his finger sank inside her.

All the while, he kept up his relentless pleasuring, devouring her as if she were the finest feast ever to have been laid before him. Oh, the sinful man. The sinful, delicious man. That feeling was somehow coiling within her. She was ready to explode.

Another thrust of his finger deep inside her, making her huff a gasp and a moan all at once. He sucked on the exquisitely sensitive bundle of flesh hidden in her folds. Sucked hard and sucked long, and that lone finger sank deeper still until she cried out his name, thrashing and twisting as sheer bliss hit her and everything tightened and spasmed, her vision flecked with tiny glittering stars that convinced her for a delirious moment that, together, they somehow had set off fireworks on the Sherborne Manor lawn and they were now exploding into the night sky.

But that was fanciful and silly.

There were no fireworks. There was only herself and the brawny Scot who had just thoroughly pleasured her and upended her world. Her heart was pounding, her head was roaring, her body was throbbing, and her breaths were ragged, torn from her.

"Lachlan," she murmured his name again, thinking it would be almost impossible for her to form any other words, any thoughts that weren't him and what he'd just done to her.

She would agree to marry him again just for this.

"Ah, lass," he rasped, moving from between her legs at last, lying on his back at her side on the bed, still wearing nothing but his dark trousers from earlier that evening.

The muscles in his broad chest rippled as he breathed in and out as heavily as she did. That was when she noticed the thick ridge pressing against the fall of his trousers. And all the naughty things she'd read about returned to her, along with the desire to please him as well. To make certain he no longer wanted a marriage in name only from her. To be sure there would be much more of this passion in their future.

She reached for him hesitantly, settling her hand over the straining placket of his trousers.

"Och," he grunted, his body stiffening under her touch. "Lass, what are ye doing?"

"I want to please you," she said.

"Ye please me already. Verra much."

She liked the way he said that word, verra. Liked the way his burr rolled off his tongue.

"I want to please you more," she insisted, reaching for the fastening on his trousers and plucking a button free of its mooring.

"Lass."

There was warning in his tone, but there was surrender too. And desire. She ignored the warning in favor of the rest, plucking more buttons undone until his trousers were open and she found the slit in his smalls, releasing his cock, which was hard and impossibly large and straining for her touch.

This time, she shifted, sidling down the bed so that she was nearer to him.

"Ye dinnae—" he began, only for her to silence his protest by pressing a kiss to the bulbous head of his impressive cock.

"Madeline," he repeated. "This isnae necessary."

"But it is." Smiling, she gripped him in her hand, stroking him as she knew he liked.

He made a strangled sound, his lips parting, his eyes glazing over with passion.

The same small bead of pearlescent moisture had seeped from the slit on the tip of him again, and this time, she gave in to her curiosity, flicking her tongue over it, lapping it up. He mumbled something unintelligible, which she considered an excellent sign he was enjoying himself, so she grew bolder and took the tip of him into her mouth.

The stream of curses that escaped him was decidedly blasphemous.

Madeline continued her exploration of him, taking him deeper and sucking gently.

"Ah, lass."

The words were a growl torn from him. He was losing control, and she liked it. He seemed to be lengthening and thickening in her mouth and hand—another sign that what she was doing gave him pleasure. His hips pumped under her in shallow thrusts, and she tried to oblige him by taking more of him into her mouth, but he was far too large. She gagged, drawing back to catch her breath, embarrassed by her body's sudden reaction.

"I'm sorry," she apologized, hoping he wouldn't think she'd gagged because she hadn't been enjoying herself.

For pleasuring him was making the ache between her legs renew itself with determined vigor.

"Ye neednae apologize, lass," he said, voice ragged with desire. "It's a compliment."

That took her by surprise. "It is?"

"Aye." He grinned. "The size of a man's cock is a private vanity."

Her hand was still wrapped around the base of him, so she stroked appreciatively. "I had no notion, but it makes sense now, when I think upon all the ladies in the books exclaiming nonsensical things like what a big tool you have."

A rusty-sounding chuckle stole from him. "Och, lass. Ye'll be the death of me. Come here."

He held his hand out to her. "But you haven't…"

"I neednae."

His cock—thick, heavy, pulsing in her hand—suggested otherwise.

"Shall I use my hand instead of my mouth?" she offered.

He closed his eyes, groaning low, looking as if he were in agony. "Dinnae say such things, or I'll lose what control I have remaining."

But that was the thing. She liked when this big, powerful Scot lost control. Madeline stroked him again as he'd shown her he liked, tightening her grip. But when she bent to take him in her mouth once more, he groaned again and shifted suddenly, his movements so quick that in a blink, she was flat on her back with him straddling her.

"Not in yer mouth. Not before we're at least married," he elaborated. "Lovely as it feels, I'd never forgive myself. There's another way, if ye wish tae try…"

Another way? Excellent news. She hadn't realized there were so many options for lovemaking. The books were quite descriptive, but after a time, their naughty scenes took on a similitude that bored her.

"Of course I wish to try," she reassured him. "Show me."

The positioning of their bodies was new as well. Although he straddled her, he bore his weight on his knees. She was pinned neatly beneath his hulking form, and yet there was no pressure. She could slip away at any moment she chose. But he was still wearing his trousers, which made her frown until he took his cock in hand and gave himself a firm stroke.

"Take yer hands and press yer breasts taegether," he told her, voice low and rumbly and decadent.

She did as he asked, cupping her breasts and crushing them together so that they looked much larger and fuller than they ordinarily were. That pleased Madeline, for she'd often bemoaned her own endowment. Bodices never fit her quite as snugly in that area as she would have preferred.

"Like this?" she asked, drinking in the sight of him, so potent and virile.

So wickedly handsome and fully roused, his length rigid and ruddy as his big hand stroked up and down, his jaw held so tightly that a muscle ticked there. Seeing him so undone was the most potent aphrodisiac. And to think, she was the cause of it—that only served to make her feel even more powerful, more desirable.

"Aye, like that," he gritted. "Keep them that way."

And then, he astonished her by gliding his cock between her breasts. The sensation was pleasant. Surprising. The thickness of him, the heat, the smooth length, the wetness of the seed leaking from him painting her skin. She rubbed her nipples with her thumbs as he thrust in and out of the plumpness of her breasts, his rhythm increasing, low sounds of pleasure spilling from his lips.

How intriguing. She'd never imagined such a thing possible. She liked it. As he worked himself in and out, she played with her nipples, overly sensitive now, keeping her breasts firmly pressed together. Lachlan didn't last long. His entire body stiffened as he thrust one more time, and then with a moan and another curse, he withdrew. Gripping himself firmly, he spent on her breasts, the hot lash of his seed filling her with a new ache. How she wanted more.

More and more and more.

It seemed she could never have enough with him.

As if she were insatiable.

He was breathing heavily as he rolled to his back at her side, crashing into the mattress with so much force that she bounced and the headboard smacked off the wall.

"By the rood," he grumbled, tucking himself back into his trousers and hastily buttoning his falls. "I'm sorry, lass."

"Don't be," she reassured him, fascinated by what had just happened between them.

Also not quite knowing what to do with the spend covering her naked skin.

As if he'd heard her unspoken question, Lachlan rose from the bed and strode across the room, returning to her with a cloth he'd dampened at the washbasin and gently, methodically cleaning his seed from her. She watched him from beneath lowered lashes as he performed the task, a flush stealing over his cheekbones.

"I shouldnae have done that," he added, self-loathing lacing his voice.

"I'm glad you did." She reached for his wrist, staying his cleansing. "Lachlan, look at me."

With a sigh, he forced his gaze to hers. "Aye?"

"That was wonderful. Much better than the books."

He shook his head, a rueful grin curving his lips upward. "Och. A fine hellion I've found myself. I've never met another woman quite like ye, Madeline Chartrand."

She smiled back at him, newly aware of her own nudity now that the raging fires of their mutual passion had dampened. "Thank you. I pride myself on being an original. Now, then." She reached for the abandoned counterpane and pulled it over herself for modesty's sake. "Do you think we might have a talk about this vow of yours?"

His jaw hardened again, and he slipped from the bed, crossing the room to dispense with the sullied cloth. When he returned, there was fire in his eyes and determination in the firm set of his sensual lips. He was also wearing his shirt, quite spoiling her unabashed enjoyment of his muscled chest.

"Please?" she pressed, shifting herself into a partially seated position, holding the counterpane as a shield.

He sat gingerly on the edge of the bed, as if he feared she were a serpent who intended to strike at any moment. "Och, lass."

He didn't want to speak about it. Fair enough. But she did, and if they were going to be married, she wanted to know as much about this man as possible, beyond the physical intimacy they'd shared.

"Why did you want a marriage in name only with me?" she persisted. "Do I not please you? Do you not find me attractive?"

She was reasonably sure she knew the answer to the latter questions already, but her pride wanted to hear the affirmation from him.

"Never that," he reassured her, looking as tense as he sounded. "Dinnae think for a moment that ye dinnae please me—ye please me verra well, as ye can see from how little control I have in yer presence. And as for yer looks, let me assure ye that ye're the bonniest lass I've ever known."

"Then why?" she asked, needing to know and yet suspecting she didn't truly want the answer.

He scrubbed at his jaw. "Because I loved a lass once."

That wasn't what she had wanted to hear. The notion of Lachlan loving another woman filled her with sudden, unexpected jealousy. She thought of his admission when he'd first proposed.

"Was it the other woman you asked to marry you?" she asked carefully, tamping down her emotions.

"Aye." He paused, his countenance turning wry. "But she chose another man over me. One who she was sure would give her the life she wished tae lead."

He'd been thrown over for someone else.

Her brow furrowed as she imagined the pain he must have been dealt by the inconstancy of the woman he'd loved. Likely not so different from the pain she'd endured when she had realized Charles had been cozening her. Using her to gain her fortune and her father's power and prestige. A liar.

"She married another man instead of you?" she asked, trying to understand.

Needing to, so that she could navigate this looming marriage of theirs.

"Aye, she did. One who was wealthier, more powerful, and far more handsome than I ever could have hoped tae be."

She didn't believe the woman he loved could have found anyone more compelling than Lachlan. But that was another matter.

"What did you do then?" she asked.

"I left Scotland. Left behind the life I knew. I came here, tae England. I found Decker, and before long, I'd found my way at last in this mad world of ours. At least, I thought I had. Until word reached me about Kenross."

He was still frowning, his blue eyes clouded by the pain of his past, as if he had returned to that time and place within his mind.

She reached for him, laying a hand on his arm. "This woman you loved. Is she still in Scotland?"

He inhaled sharply, as if the action caused him pain. "Aye, lassie. She is. But ye neednae fret. That door closed long ago."

She wasn't so certain. If the door had indeed closed, then why had he failed to move on with anyone else? Why had he made the vow to himself, and why had he wanted a marriage in name only with her? Madeline had so many questions, so few answers. But there was one question rising inside her, far more important than all the rest.

One she needed answered.

Tonight.

"Do you still want a marriage in name only with me?" she asked him quietly, holding her breath as she awaited his response.

Slowly, he shook his head, the sadness leaving his eyes in favor of something she couldn't define. "Nay, lass. Ye've proven tae me that I havenae the fortitude I mistakenly believed I possessed where ye're concerned."

His tone was wry.

Madeline smiled. "I'm glad."

"Aye, I am as well, lass." His voice was gruff yet tender. "But for all that, ye need tae dress yerself and get yer arse out of my room. And do no' come back until we're good and truly wedded."

His stern admonishment made her smile widen. "You can't resist me. Admit it."

"Ye've seen the evidence yerself." He surprised her by leaning over her on the bed and giving her a swift kiss. "Come, lass. I'll help ye tae dress."

He took her hand in his, lacing his fingers through hers.

Madeline stared down at their entwined hands, hoping this was the beginning of something bigger and better than either of them had imagined.

"Look at my lad,fully grown into a man, soon to be married. The day is coming ever closer, you know."

Decker's teasing voice set Lachlan's jaw on edge as he glared at him across the billiards room. "Watch yer tongue. I'd hate tae cut it out."

"What?" Decker feigned scandalized horror. "Is it wrong of me to feel like a proud papa watching his son going off to find his way in the world?"

"Like a proud papa, my arse," Lachlan grumbled. "We're of an age, ye ken."

"Och, I reckon we are," Decker mocked with a terrible attempt at mimicking Lachlan's Scottish accent.

"Ye sound nothing like me," he said proudly as he scored.

"True. I speak English, for one thing." Decker took aim, grinning, scoring a point with ease. "But all jests aside, old friend. I'm happy to see you and Miss Chartrand getting along well these days. It gives me hope for your future together."

The future was decidedly different than Lachlan had imagined it would be, even months ago. He had been content in his life. Happy to bury himself in work. To verbally parry Decker's insults about his eyebrows and slam doors and help oversee his friend's many business ventures.

Returning to Scotland had been the last thing on his mind, and as for taking a wife? He'd been convinced he would never do it. To say nothing of becoming intimate with a woman again. He had persuaded himself that part of his life had been unnecessary, not worth the potential harm it caused, and casual indiscretions had never been one of his peccadilloes.

But Madeline had shown him differently.

And that terrified him. Secretly, of course. It also exhilarated him.

"Miss Chartrand is a good woman," he said now as he angled his cue, trying not to think of all the naughty visits she'd been paying to his chamber, lest he miss his mark. "I cannae say I deserve her, but I'll be happy tae make her mine just the same."

The days had settled into a routine for Lachlan. Not precisely a comfortable one. But a necessary one, now that he had reconciled himself to the fact that he would be having not just a wife in name only, but a wife in every sense of the word.

The houseguests dispersed, the party at an end, leaving just himself, Decker and Lady Jo, the Earl and Countess of Sinclair, the Duke and Duchess of Bradford, and Madeline, her mother, and her sister in residence.

Somehow, he and Madeline had managed to evade notice. The more Lachlan pleaded with her to observe propriety until they were married, the more determined the minx was to circumvent him. Only yesterday, she had cornered him in the garden maze, and he'd been so overwhelmed with desire that he had gone to his knees before her and buried his head under her skirts. It had been one of the most wicked and glorious moments of his life, and it had been worth the gravel imprints he'd sported on his poor knees afterward.

"Marriage is a blissful state," Decker said, taking aim with his cue stick after Lachlan failed to score a point. "Take it from me, old chap. Without my wife, I would be nothing. If you find even a modicum of the happiness I've discovered with Jo, you'll be the second happiest man alive."

Lachlan grunted, not as convinced. "And I'll assume ye're the happiest, then?"

Decker slanted a grin in his direction, striking the ball with fluid grace without even watching and scoring anyway. "Can you doubt it? You knew me before Jo."

"Och, aye, I did. And a right grumpy bastard ye were then."

His friend chuckled and pressed a hand to his heart in a dramatic gesture. "I'm wounded."

"It's true," Lachlan insisted.

For it was, and they both knew it. Lady Jo was an angel among women who had swept into his jaded friend's life, made him fall in love with her, and banished all the bitterness and pain of his past. Decker and Lady Jo were a different matter, however. Lachlan wouldn't find himself in such a circumstance. He was impervious to love; it caused nothing but agony, and he wanted no part of it.

"Fine," Decker allowed grudgingly. "I was a grumpy bastard before her. But the same might be said for you."

Lachlan glowered at him. "I'm no' a grump."

"Not a grump, perhaps. But I know you. The happy, jesting face you show the world hides the darkness of your past."

Decker's words struck uncomfortably close to the truth.

Lachlan sighed heavily and eyed the balls on the baize, trying to map out his next shot and failing miserably. "Dinnae go trying tae write my life intae a fairy tale, Decker. I'm as content as I can be."

"But you're giving Miss Chartrand a chance, are you not?" Decker pressed.

"A chance tae what, destroy me?" Lachlan snorted. "Decidedly no' because I'm smarter than that."

"You've clearly broken your vow, however," his friend added shrewdly. "And I commend you for it. It was a bloody stupid thing to do, taking a vow of celibacy." He shuddered. "Christ, old friend. You're not a monk."

Madeline had proven to him that he wasn't.

Heat crept up the back of his neck. "A gentleman never tells tales."

"I didn't ask for tales. What do you think I am?" Decker gestured toward the billiards table with his chin. "Are you going to take your turn before I go to my eternal reward?"

He grumbled at his friend's good-natured admonishment. "Yer hyperbole is ridiculous."

Lachlan took his aim finally, managing to score a point.

"I'm ridiculous," Decker said unapologetically. "It's one of my best traits."

"According tae ye and who else?" he countered.

"My darling wife, of course," Decker answered smoothly. "Ask her, and I'm sure she'd be ready to sing my praises."

Lachlan laughed. "I'm going tae miss yer daft notions."

Decker straightened, his countenance going serious. "I'm going to miss you too, old friend. Hell, I don't know what I'll do without you now that you're returning to Scotland. And as a duke, no less."

Returning to Scotland. As a duke. It was a sobering realization, one he'd been doing his damnedest not to think about as he'd become caught up in the whirlwind of his betrothal and getting better acquainted with Madeline. It would be strange, indeed, returning to his home after so long.

"Ye're welcome tae come and pay us a visit any time," he said, striking thoughts of what his return to Scotland would truly mean from his mind. "As soon as Madeline's fortune turns Kenross Castle back into a home rather than a moldy pile of rubble, that is."

"Say the word, and we'll be there," Decker assured him.

Lachlan nodded, feeling his throat go tight with suppressed emotion. "Thank ye. Now, let's get back to this billiard game so I can finish trouncing yer sorry arse."

His friend laughed, and the heaviness of the moment passed.

But the knowledge that he was about to leave the life he'd known for so long behind remained with Lachlan, like a boulder lodged behind his breastbone. He could only hope that his marriage with Madeline wouldn't be as doomed as his romance with Rose had been.