Claiming the Courtesan

At times like this, the bond between them seemed unbreakable, although she knew that could never be true. She loved him slowly, thoroughly, intently, giving him all of herself with each rise and fall of her body.

He dragged her up for a long, passionate kiss. He used his tongue and teeth on her mouth as he’d used his tongue and teeth on her core. She tasted her juices in his kiss.

The idea was astonishingly arousing. Her interior muscles contracted to grip him, and she moved more quickly.

Her peak was so close. So close. She clenched her hands in the front of his shirt as she hurtled toward the abyss.

He tore his mouth from hers and flung his head back as he strained into her. All vestige of control disintegrated in the frenzy. She bit and scratched at him like an animal and reveled in her wildness.

Her climax hit with blinding force just as he wrenched upward and erupted into her. Even through her crisis, she felt the scalding heat of his seed flood her. For an eon of flame, she clung to him while her world reeled around her.

When it was over, they collapsed upon the rug. Verity sprawled across Kylemore’s heaving chest and listened as his heart gradually calmed. Her body ached with glorious exhaustion. She wasn’t convinced she’d ever have the energy to move again.

Surely one day she would die of this pleasure. But not yet.

After a long, emotion-filled silence, he raised a shaking hand to touch her hair. She felt the tenderness in the caress right to her toes.

“Now there are no more ghosts,” he said softly.

Following the destruction of his grandfather’s grisly trophies, Verity thought that Kylemore had finally sloughed off the miseries of his past. As each day passed in a haze of joy, she began to nurture fragile hope that he’d vanquished his demons.

Unfortunately, her own demons clamored closer and closer.

And they wanted blood.

In this secret valley, the world didn’t intrude. It hardly mattered that Kylemore was one of the kingdom’s greatest noblemen or she was a harlot with a name bandied about in every tavern from John O’Groats to Land’s End.

But she couldn’t forget the duke had responsibilities he ignored. He must wed and beget an heir. And it was brutally apparent he couldn’t marry his mistress, in spite of his insane proposal in Kensington. She guessed now that he’d intended his marriage as an attack against his family. Thank God that confused, angry man no longer existed.

Every moment with Kylemore, every time they made love so sweetly, every time they laughed or argued or spoke quietly by the fire after a long, fulfilled day, she knew that as long as she stayed, he’d never seek a wife.

He hadn’t said he loved her, just as she hadn’t said she loved him. But each look, each gesture, each word announced that his attachment to her was the kind that shook kingdoms.

And a fallen woman like her wasn’t worthy.

Loving her would destroy him. She couldn’t bear to see him debased, mocked and derided because he was brave and good enough to see past her notoriety to the real woman. She had to make him release her.

But as every new day dawned and she woke in his arms, drowsy, happy, replete, she promised herself she’d leave him tomorrow.

When the time came, it struck her with the force of a physical blow.

At this latitude, autumn set in quickly and the night air carried a chill even while the hillsides were still hazy purple with heather. Kylemore came into the parlor carrying the fresh scent of the late afternoon with him.

Verity had difficulty remembering her elegant protector. After a month in Scotland, his hair had grown and he looked tanned and relaxed. In his rough clothes, one could easily mistake him for a well-to-do farmer. Until one noted the effortless command in his stance.

“What?” he asked as he caught her watching him from where she stood at the window.

“I was just thinking what a handsome lover I’ve got,” she said with perfect honesty.

It never failed to surprise her how patently unused he was to compliments. He gave her an embarrassed half smile.

“Och, but you’re a foolish wee lassie.”

She laughed at the theatrically broad brogue. “Well, if you doubt me, ask Morag and Kirsty. I swear those girls go red as rowan berries just at the sound of your voice.”

It was true. The duke’s improved temper had percolated through the whole household so even the maids, once utterly in awe of him, had taken to mooning after him like lost lambs.

Not that he noticed. Once she’d thought him puffed up with conceit, but personal vanity had been only another element in the complex disguise he’d cultivated in London.