DUNCAN HID THE RING in his studio, tucking it behind a piece of marble he had earmarked for his next study of Samantha. He liked the heft of the ring. The warm gold and cool silver would wrap themselves around her finger, reminding her of the commitment they’d made to each other. Of the life they’d pledged to share.
At least, that was his hope as he walked up the pathway to the castle.
Old Mag and Robby were sitting at the table as he entered the kitchen.
Mag sent him a look. “It’s about time you be coming home.”
“He doesn’t have to answer to you, old woman,” Robby said. “Only I have that privilege.”
Duncan grabbed a piece of shortbread from the plate in the center of the table. They spent a few moments talking about tomorrow’s party then he asked, “Where’s Samantha?”
“Don’t ask me,” Mag said. “I will not spy on your bride.”
“He didn’t ask you to spy on her,” Robby said, his voice rising in exasperation. “All he asked is—”
“Don’t worry about it,” Duncan said, starting to laugh. “I’ll find her.”
She wasn’t in her office. He checked the library, figuring she might be watching the television, but she wasn’t there either. Disappointment washed over him. He’d hoped to find her still awake.
He started up the stairs to the bedroom. He wondered if she had any idea how much he looked forward to the hours they spent together in his studio each night. The way her mind leaped from subject to subject. The powerful beauty of her face. The lush glory of her body. The whole splendid package.
The lights were off in their room, same as every night. He went into the bathroom, showered, then, naked, opened the bathroom door to find the lights on in the bedroom and his wife sitting, propped up against the headboard, looking straight at him. There was nothing coy about her look. Her gaze moved over his body slowly, deliberately, moving from his face to his chest, from his belly to his legs.
“We’re back where we started,” she said finally, her voice a little husky. A lot enticing.
The last thing he wanted to do was misinterpret her meaning.
He walked toward the bed the same way he walked toward it every night when she was asleep, her body curled away from his, lost somewhere in her dreams.
“I’m sorry I woke you up,” he said, throwing back the covers.
“You didn’t wake me up,” she said. “I heard your car in the driveway.”
“I went to Glasgow for the afternoon,” he said, climbing into the bed beside her.
“Business?” she asked, her tone light and casual.
“Partly.” He met her eyes. “Will you be leaving the light on, lassie?”
She looked away briefly then back again. “Do you want me to?”
There was no denying the invitation. He leaned toward her, aware of the sweet scent of her body. She didn’t move. Her gaze held his steadily. Completely.
“Are you sure?”
Her eyelids fluttered shut for a second. “I’m sure.”
She was in his arms in a heartbeat. He pushed aside the straps of her silky nightgown and pressed his mouth against the warm curve of her shoulder as fierce emotion swelled inside his heart. He heard her soft cry and then felt the gentle touch of her hand as she stroked his hair with the softest fingers. She smelled like soap and rain and woman and he eased the gown from her body, kissing his way downward. He worshiped her belly, its fertile roundness, worshiped it with the palms of his hands, his fingertips, his mouth.
She was so soft, so delicately made that he felt himself holding back, not wanting to overwhelm her with the intensity of all that she made him feel. He kissed his way over her belly’s swell until he felt the brush of her soft tangle of golden curls against his mouth.
She moaned softly. He hesitated, but she moved against him in a way that told him everything he needed to know.
ALL SAM KNEW was that she never wanted this to end. She was pure sensation. Her skin was alive with it. She registered his presence in every cell and fiber of her being. His smell, his heat, his power—all of it. Everywhere.
And it wasn’t close to being enough.
She wanted to feel him inside her, deep inside. She wanted it more than she wanted to draw her next breath. She could feel her defenses shattering, hear the sound of her heart as it cracked open, and there was nothing she could do but let it happen. All she wanted to do—all she could do—was reach out to him, snake her hands along his shoulders and back, let the heat from his body burn her palms. His muscles rippled where she touched and her power over him only made her want him more.
He was so beautiful to her, so wonderfully male, that she couldn’t find her voice. She felt herself opening to him, shameless in her desire to be touched and caressed, to feel the wet warmth of his mouth and tongue against all her secret places. He did magical things to her, sent her spiraling to heaven and back again in the blink of an eye, in an eternity.
And then suddenly it wasn’t enough. She yearned for him in body and soul. She wanted to be overpowered by him, covered by his welcome weight and warmth, filled by him.
A second later he moved his way up her willing body, kissing, stroking, worshiping, until their mouths were only a
