The Duke's Perfect Wife

Her br**sts were soft, fuller now than when she’d been twenty. Hart leaned down and licked between them, tasting warm, salty skin.

The cabin was narrow and low. Hart didn’t have room to sweep Eleanor into his arms and carry her to the nearest bunk, but he guided her back to it, kissing her and touching her all the way.

He lifted her and rested her bu**ocks on the bunk, stepping between her thighs as he parted them, and slipped her drawers the rest of the way off. Eleanor cupped his face in her hands, her eyes half closed as she waited for what was to come.

Hart unfastened the pin that held his kilt closed and caught the folds as they fell. He pulled the plaid up and draped it across the bunk behind Eleanor.

The bunk was too narrow. It would never hold them. Hart lifted Eleanor again, and their bodies came together, both damp from the rain and slick from the stove’s heat.

Hart moved his hands down her spine to her bu**ocks, smoothing, soothing. He lifted her a little more, and then he was gliding into her, her slick depths welcoming him.

Inside her. His Eleanor.

Hart stilled, the sensation of her surrounding him filling him with joy.

“Hart.” Her warm breath feathered over his damp skin. She touched his face, smiling a little as she rubbed fingers over his rough whiskers.

Eleanor’s red hair was dark with rain, the ringlets soft under his lips. She’d rushed out into the wet without a hat. Typical Eleanor. Impetuous, impatient.

Her nose was gloriously dusted with freckles. Hart kissed one, then another, then another, all the while feeling the sharp joy of being inside her. Part of her. She was his.

Hart braced his hand against the cabin wall and thrust up into her. It was awkward in this space, but he did it. “El.”

His voice grew more grating with each thrust, her body welcoming him. Hart’s fist grew tight against the wall, his head bowing to her neck. Eleanor was pressed firmly against him, her skin to his. Water from his hair trickled down on both of them.

More, more. Never stop. Never.

Eleanor let her hands rove his back, gliding down to his bu**ocks, touching every inch of him. She’d always loved to explore his body, and Hart willingly let her.

He nipped her earlobe where the emeralds had dangled, licked the shell of her ear. His mouth moved to her neck, lips closing to leave a love bite.

El, I’ve missed you. I’ve died a little every day without you.

Eleanor tilted her head, letting him taste her. When he raised up again, she lowered her mouth to his neck, and he felt the small bite of her teeth, her mouth leaving its mark.

A wave of need rushed at him, slamming into him to carry him away. He knew he was coming, finishing, but he stayed hard inside her, his hand braced on the wall to keep him on his feet. Eleanor’s little moans became cries of delight as she reached her own peak.

“Eleanor.” Hart closed his eyes and tried to slow himself. Climax meant that it was over, that he’d have to let her go.

No. No. Never.

Hart held on to her, feeling the last of it, the mixture of excitement and lassitude that meant he’d reached a perfect moment.

“I can’t do this without you, El.” He opened his eyes, hearing the catch in his voice. “I need you.”

“Hart…”

“Don’t go away from me again.” The note in his voice was desperation. “I’ll never bear it if you go away again.”

Tell her everything, Ian had admonished.

I can’t. Not until she’s mine, not until she can’t ever leave me.

Eleanor looked at him with her beautiful blue eyes, her brows together, Eleanor assessing him.

“Please,” he said. Dear God, he almost sobbed it. But his heart was hurting. She’d go again, and that would be the end of him.

Eleanor touched his face with gentle fingers. She looked into his eyes as though she could see into his soul. Eleanor was the only one who could.

“Yes,” she said, her voice so soft he almost didn’t hear her. “I’ll stay.”

Hart swallowed, the breath he let out almost a sob. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you.”

Chapter 14

The boat had drifted. Eleanor emerged from the cabin to find that they were floating in the middle of the wide canal.

“Hart,” she called in alarm.

Hart came out, devastatingly handsome in his shirt and kilt, his coat still somewhere below.

A rope stretched through the water between the bow and the bank. When Hart tugged at it, it came loose.

Eleanor put her hands on her hips. “I suppose the great Duke of Kilmorgan couldn’t remember to tie up the boat?”

Hart didn’t look the least bit ashamed. “My mind was on other things.”

Arrogant, sinful, smiling once more. The lonely, terrified man who’d said to her inside the cabin, I’ll never bear it if you go away again, had vanished. Hart Mackenzie had gotten his own way once more.

A lone rider came along the towpath, the man huddled in a greatcoat against the wind and rain. Hart cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “You there! Grab the rope!”

The man looked up, started, and slid off his horse. “Mackenzie? What the blazes are you doing in the middle of the canal?”

“Balls,” Hart said. “It’s Fleming.”

Eleanor peered through the rain and waved. “Please do pull us in, dear Mr. Fleming.”

“Don’t humor him,” Hart growled.

“We need his help, unless you want to float sideways all the way to Hungerford lock. The lockkeeper would laugh at us.”