Rufus barged in between them, only ceased whining when Juliet laid her hand on the hound’s head.
“Well,” she began in the hope conversation might calm her racing heart, “I think we have broken down at least one barrier today.”
“Indeed.” Hungry eyes moved over her face. “That was … unexpected.”
“Delightfully so.”
A faint smile touched his lips. “Perhaps I underestimated you.”
“How so?”
“Despite my size, one touch of your tongue brought me to my knees.”
Juliet was not used to speaking so intimately, though she liked that her husband was in a playful mood. And knowing she had pleased him boosted her confidence.
“Perhaps I have uncovered a weakness in your strategy.” He could no longer play the fear card in this game of wits. Not when she had devoured his mouth like a reckless wanton.
Devlin shrugged. “A man must lose sometimes. Defeat is necessary when one has their eye on a greater
prize. And it seems I am on my way to winning the wager when it comes to taming that dog.”
Juliet glanced at Rufus who kept forcing his giant head under her hand so she would stroke him. “A few more days and I shall have him mastered.”
“A few more days and I imagine Rufus won’t be the only beast crouched at your feet.”
Chapter Nine
The wild, erotic kiss Devlin shared with Juliet had roused more than a burning desire to claim his wife’s body. A man could only lie to himself for so long. And clearly, Juliet found nothing overtly terrifying about his countenance. Else she would not have ravaged his mouth as if desperate to sate a clawing hunger.
By God, one taste of her sweet lips and he’d been lost in a haze of lust and longing. Her passion, coupled with her unquestionable honesty, had done more than break down the barrier of fear. Other buried desires pushed to the fore, too. Music had been his first love—his only love thus far—but men of his size did not play the piano. Men with clumsy hands did not master the keys. Men so broad looked awkward seated on the bench.
And yet music touched him in a way his family never understood.
Hearing Juliet’s melodic tones drifting through the dark corridors had reawakened something inside him. Her voice brought life to the house where previously there had been death and decay. Her captivating presence, her laughter and gaiety, brought hope for something infinitely more rewarding.
And now, as he sat once again in the fireside chair in his bedchamber, his body eagerly awaiting the moment he stalked to Juliet’s apartments to claim the passionate woman as his own, what he had seen at dinner held him rigid in his seat.
The blue bruises tainting the porcelain skin at her elbow confirmed what he suspected. All his protestations of providing protection, and he’d failed her at the first hurdle. All the time she spoke about Rufus, asked questions about Valentine, all the time he should have prompted her memory to reveal new information about Ambrose, all he could do was stare at the rogue’s imprint as shame and loathing filled his chest like a bitter poison.
No doubt her delicate skin bore Devlin’s searing mark, too, on her waist and her hips, the places he’d grabbed and held as the depth of his passion had left him unsteady on his feet.
God, how he hated the voice in his head. It fed on every negative thought and feeling, gobbled up his misery as a starving man would a hearty meal.
You must shift your thoughts to your heart.
Dariell’s wise words penetrated his mind.
Devlin glanced back over his shoulder expecting to see the Frenchman, for that was how distinctly he heard them. His friend had the gift of oratory, a skill, an eloquence, a way of getting under a man’s skin, of making him see clearly after a lifetime of wandering blindly.
And so Devlin sat there, listening to the crackling fire, staring at the flickering flames. He had never attempted to shift his thoughts. How could he when his head was so full of plots for vengeance? Did the heart not lack the capacity to think?
He focused on the organ beating in his chest and felt instantly calmer. The longer he sat there, the more peaceful he felt. What surprised him most was that bitterness did not live in the heart. It lived in the mind. In a moment of clarity, the desire to make love to his wife pushed to the fore, as did the desire to tinkle the ivory keys.
Devlin shot to his feet.
Not once, as he descended the stairs as if late for an appointment, did he give the voice in his head permission to speak. Not once, when he charged into the study and ransacked the drawer, did he stop to question his motives.
The brass key tingled in his palm as he turned left along the corridor leading from the hall. The metal object grew hot, encouraging him to hurry. Musical notes—remnants of his favourite tune—echoed as he approached.