Page 70 of Ghost of the Ton

“No! I’m tired of this!” She gestured to the air between them. “Tired of not being wanted, tired of being a burden, and tired of the suspicion of people who know nothing about me, merely because of my sex, my face, and because I’m English. I take it you’re making progress in raising the funds to return my dowry, because I cannot wait to leave!”

He jerked back, a flare of anger in his eyes. Then he sighed and nodded.

“Very well, I’ll leave ye in peace. But first, shall I light the fire for ye?”

“I can do that myself,” she said. “After all, I cannot rely on anyone else, can I?”

He opened his mouth to reply, then shook his head. “Forgive me, lass.”

“What for?”

He let out a sigh and wiped his forehead. “For not deserving ye.”

He bowed and exited the cottage, closing the door behind him. After a moment, Mia approached the window and looked out. Through the trees she could see the outline of the castle against the sky, a turret peeking out above the tree line. Then she closed the curtains and entered her bedchamber. Suppressing the tears, she drew the plaid blanket about her body and lay on the bed—alone—waiting for sleep to come.

Chapter Eighteen

Devil’s ballocks—how could he have been so damned foolish?

As he strode toward the castle, Hamish aimed a kick at a large stone on the path. He missed, lost his balance, and stumbled to the ground.

“Fuck!”

After struggling to his feet, he winced and inspected his hands. Two small stones were embedded in his left palm and he plucked them out. A droplet of blood swelled on the flesh and he sucked at it to clean the grime off, grimacing at the metallic taste.

He glanced back at the cottage, where a sliver of light was visible in the window. Perhaps if he returned, and asked her to tend to it…

“Mia…”

He glanced about, as if he risked condemnation from the Almighty for speaking her name in so intimate a manner.

Then he recalled how he’d moaned her name as he palmed her breast. The lovely, ripe, round teat was everything he’d dreamed it might be—soft and warm, with the delicious pip at the center that hardened needily against his palm.

He let out a sharp breath at the surge in his manhood.

Devil take him—would he need to dive into the river to cool his ardor? Or would the ghost of Old Ma MacLennan claim him to absorb his sins?

And he had sinned. Not in deed, for he’d pulled himself back from the brink of destruction. But in thought, and wish…

He closed his eyes, surrendering to the image of his wife, bent over that table, her mouth open as she cried his name while he mounted her from behind and claimed her like any beast. But she was not a woman to be claimed. Rather than a submissive female, eager to please her man—the kind of woman that he’d thought most suitable for a wife—Mia had commanded him, and everyone else in the room, taking charge efficiently and firmly to administer treatment to the young lass.

And he had never in his life been so aroused.

What might it be like to have such a woman? To spar with her during the day, then witness her sweet surrender as he took her in bed, nipping her neck and rutting her like a stag, roaring with triumph to declare to the world that she was his…

But she didn’t belong to him. She would be claimed by another—some lucky bastard.

“Been visiting yer wife, brother?” a voice sneered.

Iona emerged from the darkness.

“What if I am?” he replied. “I should be more concerned with what ye’re doing, wandering about the place on yer own like a savage.”

“Devil take yer cock!”

He caught her arm. “Why must ye disgrace the name of MacLennan, talking like a common hure?”

“I’m not the hure,” she said. “Are ye fucking her? Does she spread her legs for ye and moan yer name like a bitch in heat?”