He started at one end and looked at each woman. The majority of them were of the same slender build. Bronson had always liked the thicker female form. The woman he chose as his wife would not only be made of curves, but he’d feel something powerful for her. He’d feel something he’d never felt before. That was his own terms.
He glanced at each woman with little interest. No spark, no desire. Nothing roused him as he looked at each one. And when the second to last moved away, he felt his chest tighten and sat up a little straighter. The woman revealed had her head downcast, her hands behind her back, and her hair—the color of the hottest fires he’d ever seen—fell around her face, obstructing his view of her.
Bronson couldn’t take his eyes off her, couldn’t look at anyone else but her.
Her body was wrapped in a deep-emerald-colored dress, a striking collaboration with the shade of her hair. The material also hugged her flawlessly, so he didn’t have to visualize her body, as her endowments were on full display for him to see. He couldn’t help but picture her in his bed as he held onto her curves and plunged in and out of her body. He wanted a woman who could handle the type of passion he gave her, and this woman with the hair the color of flames looked like she could hold her own between his sheets.
He found himself moving toward her, and when he stood right in front of the wee thing, he inhaled deeply. She smelled fruity yet of the earth. She still had yet to meet his gaze, so he placed his finger under her chin and slowly lifted her head.
“Lass, look at me.” And when she did, he was staring into the greenest eyes he’d ever seen, ones the color of the fresh moss that grew along the rocks of the Landonston Loch.
He didn’t need to look at any of the other women to know this was the one he wanted. She had his heart racing, a feat no other had ever accomplished. Bronson knew she was the one as well as he knew he needed to take his next breath, and where every scar he’d earned on the battlefield was located on his body.
This young little lass was exactly what he wanted, and she was who he’d claim as his bride.
Chapter Four
Genevieve stared up at the massive man standing before her. She imagined him all those times she had seen him, how he made her feel, and what she wanted to do with him. He would be riding on his black stallion, his tartan waving in the air as his men held it high and proud. He was a controlled man, and one who was patient. It was all those things, but so much more, that made a good leader, and as she looked into his icy-blue eyes, she knew he was one of those. She knew nothing about the man in front of her aside from what was rumored about his fierceness when taking down his enemy.
It had taken him all those years to conquer all and reclaim what was his. But now that she was so close to him, seeing his bare chest that was so hard and defined but also littered with scars from his battles, she knew this man could very well be her downfall. How was it possible to want a man as much as she wanted him, even before saying one word to him? His shoulders were so broad and blocked out everything behind him, so she felt like it was just the two of them right here and now.
“What is yer name, lass?” He spoke so deeply, so intimately almost, that she felt as if he reached out and stroked his big, weathered, and scarred hands along her body.
She didn’t want to make a fool of herself or of her family because she couldn’t control herself. “Genevieve McNoland, my lord.” She tried to sound stronger, but her voice was meek, timid, and probably appealing to a rugged warrior like him. He must like a woman to be submissive, to give herself to him with no fight. But then again, Genevieve knew the women probably flocked to him most willingly.
He didn’t say anything after she spoke, but he did continue to stare at her. Genevieve couldn’t drag her gaze away from him either. His eyes were the color of the noon sky, light and blue, and crystal clear. His hair was dark as night, longer around his face, but still showed off the angular, hard, and square structure of his face. He was as masculine a man as she had ever seen, and again, as was every time he was near or she saw him, Genevieve felt tendrils of desire consume her.