his.
The wounded look in her gaze . . . it clubbed him like a cudgel made of shame. Closing his eyes, he framed her face between his hands. He pressed his forehead to hers, sheltering her face from the rain.
“No, Emma. I didn’t care for your feelings. It didn’t matter if you wanted me or if you didn’t. I didn’t have the patience for courtship, couldn’t take the time to make you feel brave and witty and pretty and intelligent, and all the things I adored about you from the first. I certainly didn’t have the decency to let you walk away. I cared only for myself. Do you hear me? I only knew I had to have you.”
Not only have her, but keep her. Make her his own.
Even now, the thought of letting her walk away . . . he couldn’t bear it.
No.
He wouldn’t allow it.
This wasn’t tenderness that filled him with a fiery resolve. It was possession. Pure, raw, wild. If she could glimpse the brutish, primal impulses coursing through him, she would run like a rabbit flees a ravening wolf.
And he would catch her.
“You’re mine,” he said hoarsely, lifting his head and staring deep into her eyes, willing her to believe. “If you leave, I will follow. Do you hear me? I will follow and find you and cart you home.”
Lightning flashed, slicing through the dark. For the briefest of moments, everything was bright and clear. The alley around them, the sky above. The space between her body and his, and every emotion she wore so bravely on her face.
Just before they lost the moment to darkness, he crushed his mouth to hers in a desperate kiss.
Then the force of thunder exploded through him, splitting him into a thousand pieces—some of which were surely driven into her, embedded as deeply as the metal shards that lodged beneath his scarred flesh. Impossible to retrieve.
Yes, she was his. But bits of him were hers now, too. No matter how deeply he kissed her, he would never get them back.
He made the futile attempt anyway, clutching her tight. Her arms went around his neck, pulling him down. Her lips softened and parted as she opened to him. Welcomed him.
A deep, grateful moan rose from his chest. He deepened the kiss, stroking her tongue with his. He couldn’t get enough of her. He’d run his tongue over every inch of her body, but he’d never tasted her this way. A sweetness like cool, fresh water mingled with the salt of tears.
Oh, Emma. You beautiful, addled thing.
Only a fool would weep over him.
He kissed her cheeks, her jawline, her neck—kissing away her every tear. And then, suddenly, she was returning the gesture, tugging him down and pressing her lips to his face. She kissed his lips. She kissed his nose. She kissed his ear and his neck and both of his trembling eyelids.
She kissed his twisted, monstrous scars.
Time stopped. The raindrops seemed to hang in the air. For this moment, there was no before and no after. There was only now, and now was everything.
“Emma.”
“I . . .” She blinked a few times. “I . . .”
His mind completed her interrupted thought in a dozen dangerous ways. Don’t be stupid, he told himself. She could have all manner of things to tell him. It could be anything.
I . . . have a pebble in my shoe.
I . . . want a pony.
I . . . would do murder for a cup of tea right now.
Very well, Emma would never say that last. Probably not the second, either. But she absolutely, positively was not going to say that other thing. The-Thing-That-Must-Not-Be-Named. Or Thought, or Uttered, or, heaven forfend, Hoped.
“Ash, I think I—”
His heart thrashed in his chest.
Get to it, woman. This is agony.
Instead of putting an end to his torture, his bride of convenience did the worst, most inconvenient thing.
She went limp in his arms, fainting dead away.
Emma could not have been insensible more than a few seconds, but by the time she came back to her surroundings, he had lifted her off her feet and into his arms. Her head was tucked against his broad chest, and he’d wrapped his cape about her shoulders. The familiar scent of him anchored her. Cologne, shaving soap, the leather of his gloves.
If he was still recovering strength in his injured arm, she would never have known it now. He held her in an iron grip and covered the ground in brisk, determined strides. Beneath the layers of his waistcoat and shirt, she could hear his heartbeat, steady and strong.
By contrast, she felt weak. She couldn’t seem to stop shivering.
“I’m better now,” she said, trying to brace her chattering teeth.
“No, you’re not.”
“You can put me down. I can walk.” She wasn’t certain she could walk for long, or in an especially straight line, but she would try. “It was only a wobble.”
He didn’t even deign to answer. He merely carried her down the way, until they emerged onto a wider street. He had not gone thirty paces before he kicked open a door and hefted her through it, ducking his own head and taking care to guard hers.
They’d entered some sort of inn, Emma gathered, piecing the observations together in her hazy mind. Not a fine sort of inn. Nor even a particularly clean sort of inn.
“Show us to a room.”
The innkeeper stared, slack-jawed, at the duke. A cluster of patrons drinking in the public room fell silent.
A woman emerging from a back room with two trenchers of stewed beef shrieked and dropped her cargo. “Jayzus.”
The duke had no patience for their gawking. He shifted Emma’s weight to his good arm and reached into his pocket with his free hand. Having fished out a coin, he tossed it onto the countertop. A gold sovereign. Sufficient tariff to let every bedroom in the inn for weeks.
“A room,” he barked. “Your best. Now.”
“Y-yes, milord.” The innkeeper’s hands shook as he retrieved a key from a hook. “This way.”
Ash insisted on carrying her as they followed the innkeeper up a steep, narrow staircase. The innkeeper showed them to a room toward the back. “Best room, milord,” he said, opening the door. “It even ’as a window.”
“Coal. Blankets. Tea. And be quick about it.”
“Yes,
