Daring and the Duke (The Bareknuckle Bastards, #3)

by Sarah MacLean

“I felt you,” he said, low enough that only she would hear. “I know you touched me.” Impossible. He’d been dosed with laudanum. Still, she couldn’t stop herself from saying, “Not me.” “It was. It was you,” he said, softly, advancing on her with slow, predatory grace. “You think I would forget your touch? You think I wouldn’t know it in the darkness? I would know it in battle. I would walk through fire for it. I would know it on the road to hell. I would know it in hell, which is where I’ve been, aching for it, every day since you left.”

He’d known it was her from the moment she’d stepped into the ballroom, in a dress that fell in lush emerald waves to the floor, despite the mask covering everything but her beautiful kohled eyes and the dark wine color staining her lips, and the wig that stole her flame-colored curls from him. He presumed she was trying for disguise, as though he’d ever not sense her. Not feel her. As though there would ever come a time when she walked into a room and his whole body did not draw tight like a spring.

“Why the trees?” The words took him by surprise, and he met her eyes behind the mask. The trees were for her. What would she say if he told her that? If he yanked the mask from her eyes and said, You know why the trees. The trees, because you loved them. This place, because you loved it. All of it. For you. Forever.

He’d gone away, and he’d rebuilt himself a better man. A worthier one. Stronger. Saner. And he would wait for her to come for him, because that was what she needed. It did not matter that all he needed was her.

He liked that lining very much—the nod to her love of color. The proof that something was left of the girl he’d loved, even if she’d grown into this woman who looked down on him like a fucking queen. High above on the rooftops, watching her warrior. And him, ready to do anything for her favor. The wind lifted her hair up and back behind her and the sun caught it, turning it to flame. Turning him to flame, as it revealed her face. Unmasked. Unmasked and perfect, her eyes on him. Everywhere. He bathed in her scrutiny, wanting to spread his arms wide beneath it, loving the way she assessed his muscles beneath his damp clothes, loving the way her gaze lingered on his burning shoulder, somehow easing the pain. Loving the slide of her gaze up his neck and over his face. Christ, he loved it.

“I heard you say I was yours.” She ignored the way the words curled through her, narrowing her gaze as the women watching vibrated with excitement. He was performing, and she didn’t like it. “The blows to the head addled your brain then, because I said nothing of the sort.” “No?” “No. I said your fight was mine.” “And if I told you that I was all fight?” A little sigh came from beyond, and Grace ignored it. Ignored, too, the way the words wanted her sigh, as well.

“The cake,” he said. “Do you intend to eat it?” She clasped it to her breast. “Are you asking me for it?” “’Twould be a pity for it to go to waste.” She narrowed her gaze on him. “Are you deprived of treats, Duke?” The question wrought an instant change. “Yes.” His voice was suddenly low and dark. “Christ, yes. I’ve had a lifetime of treat deprivation.”

And then he was turning her, lifting her, walking her back behind a tall stack of crates and barrels. He set her to the wall, barely out of sight of the washwomen, and planted his hands on either side of her head, caging her in for his kisses—more and more drugging, more and more desperate, threatening to pull her deeper and deeper into whatever it was that had brought him back. Threatening to make her beg for him— Don’t ever stop. And then he fit his strong thigh between hers, the heavy weight of it against her aching flesh pulling a little cry from the back of her throat—only loud enough for him to hear, and still it seemed to set him aflame.

“Why did you come here, tonight?” he repeated, the whispered question coming soft and aching. Show me, he willed her. Trust me. She met his eyes. “Why did you come back?” He answered, knowing that he took a risk. As ever. He would never not take risks for her—that much was clear. “For the same reason I have done everything, from the start. For you.”

cursed, low and dark, the filthy word sending desire pooling through her. “I’ve waited for this for so long,” he whispered as she followed the line of his bandages with soft, full caresses that set them both aflame. “Tell me,” she repeated his words to his skin as her fingers worked the buttons of his trousers, spreading the fabric wide, revealing the stunning length of him.

“Will you provide me this?” He closed his eyes, his jaw clenching as his free hand came to her hair. He whispered her name low and dark and wonderful. “Are you—” She was sure. “I am your queen,” she whispered to the back of his hand, giving herself up to the fantasy. Willing him to do the same. “Let me have this.” He released her hand. Free, she stroked him again, reveling in the smooth size of him—hers to do with as she wished. She worked him, spreading his trousers wide and reaching inside to find the heavy sac within, taking it in hand with a gentle firmness that had him thrusting up off the chair. Another wicked curse. Another droplet.

He cleared his throat and said, “Honestly, pleasure is not something with which I have experience.”

Sooo refreshing! A man who waits for the only woman he wants instead of being with scores of other women

He dipped a thumb beneath the fabric, finding her nipple, straining for him. She cried out, and he kissed over her jaw to her ear, repeating that single, maddening touch over and over as he spoke to her. “This gown is sinful.” She opened her eyes, struggling to find words. “I chose it for you.” “Mmm,” he said. “I know.”

“She refused him.” He nodded. “And so the great god—god of the sun, of truth, of light, of prophecy—he did the only thing that was left to him.” “He stole her,” she whispered. And the words, part of a silly story, horrified her. The idea that there was always someone with more power, who would stop at nothing to lay claim. How many times had she looked over her shoulder, terrified of that power, in the hands of men? In the hands of this man? “No.” He held her eyes, watching her carefully. “No, Grace. He didn’t steal her. He begged her. The son of Zeus, the great deity of the Trojan War, he lowered himself to his knees and begged her to join him. He offered her wealth, jewels, immortality . . . if she just let him love her.”

“It hurt,” she said. “Everything hurt. For days and weeks.” He closed his eyes, his chest tightening at the words as she went on. “I missed you like air. I would wake up, in the dark, in the dank, in the rain, in the cold. And I missed you. And I climbed those fucking buildings in Mayfair, and counted the fucking chimneys, and imagined that one day you would leave him. And leave that place. And leave your title, and come back to us.” Her eyes were full of tears, glistening in the candlelight. “No. Not us. Me. I imagined you would come back to me.” One tear spilled over, dropping on the hand he held over her tattoo. Searing him. “And you didn’t.”

“I want you to touch yourself while I come.” A pure thrill rocketed through him, something like gratitude as well as want. And need. That, too. He took himself in hand, never so hard. Never so hot. Never so fucking needy. And he stroked himself in time to her movements, the pleasure of her taste on his lips, the vision of her moving against him, and his own hand making the experience unbearably good. Her fingers tightened in his hair. Her thighs trembled. And, with the filthiest curse he’d ever heard, she found her climax, shouting his name to the dark room as he worked her with hands and mouth and tongue until all she knew was pleasure.

“I do not want to be Your Grace ever again. All I want is for you to be my Grace.” He kissed her again. “It’s always been you. Every day. Every night. Every minute. Since the beginning. This is the sum of my ambition: To be worthy of you. Of your love. Of your world. To stand by your side and change it.”