Page 89 of An Offer By the Beastly Duke

“I love the way you fight for what is yours,” he murmured against her skin. He pressed another soft kiss to her uninjured cheek. “I love the fierce, beautiful way you look at Nicholas.” He kissed her forehead, his lips lingering. “I love that this bloody, dead house no longer feels like a tomb when you are breathing in it.”

Her eyes burned with fresh, happy tears. “Malcolm…”

“I love you, Penelope,” he repeated, the words a fierce vow.

Penelope cupped his face between both of her hands, her fingers tracing the rugged lines of his jaw and his scars. “I love you too, Malcolm. With all my heart.”

The change in him was instantaneous. His breath caught sharply in his throat, his dark eyes widening.

Then his mouth found hers.

This kiss was nothing like the careful, restrained embraces of their first days. There was no hesitation, no holding back of the wolf beneath his skin. It was a collision of pure relief, deep hunger, and an absolute, overwhelming love tangled together so tightly she could barely separate one from the other.

Penelope melted completely against his massive frame with a soft, needy sound, her arms locking around his neck. Malcolm’s large hands slid into her chocolate hair, effortlessly loosening the remaining silver pins until the thick, dark waves spilled fully down her back in a beautiful, silk cascade.

“You are safe,” he murmured frantically between deep, bruising kisses.

And she believed him. For the very first time since she was a girl of eighteen, she believed it completely, without a single shred of fear.

Penelope’s hands trembled with a sweet, frantic anticipation as Malcolm effortlessly lifted her into his arms, carrying her toward the massive four-poster bed. The beeswax candles beside the hearth flickered a rich, dancing gold across his rugged features.

His heavy riding coat was gone already, discarded on the floorboards. His linen shirt hung completely open at the throat, exposing the warm, bronzed skin and the hard, overlapping lines of powerful muscle beneath.

She reached up, her fingertips gently tracing the jagged white scar along his cheekbone as he laid her down against the soft velvet mattress.

“You are looking at me again,” he murmured, his dark eyes burning down into hers as he hovered above her frame.

“You are handsome, Malcolm,” she whispered honestly.

Something incredibly vulnerable, a boyish disbelief, crossed his expression so quickly it almost hurt to see, before his dark lashes swept down.

Then he kissed her again. Slowly this time. Deeper. As though now that the terrifying fear of loss was gone, he could finally take his absolute time with her flesh, savoring every breath.

Penelope’s fingers worked frantically at the remaining bone buttons of his shirt. Her touch was clumsy, impatient, driven by a desperate need to feel his skin against hers. Malcolm caught her small wrist briefly, pressing a warm kiss against her knuckles.

“Easy, sweetheart,” he rumbled against her mouth. “We have all night.”

“I do not feel easy tonight, Malcolm.”

His dark eyes darkened to near black immediately, a flash of primal hunger igniting in his gaze.

“No,” he said softly, his voice dropping an octave. “Neither do I.”

The linen shirt finally fell completely open beneath her eager hands. Penelope pushed the fabric from his broad shoulders slowly, letting it slide away into the shadows. The sheer sight of his torso stole her breath every single time. A broad, powerful chest, scarred skin, and an undeniable, massive strength written in every line of muscle beneath the candlelight.

But tonight, as she looked at him, she saw something far deeper.

She saw trust.

He remained perfectly still, allowing her to touch every single blemish, every mark of his violent past without flinching away or hiding in the dark. Her fingertips moved slowly over a pale, jagged indentation near his ribs.

“A knife?” she whispered against his chest.

“A French boarding pike,” he murmured. “In the channel.”

Her fingers tracked upward, tracing a long, puckered mark across his shoulder blade. “And this one?”

“A cannon splinter at Toulon.” Malcolm’s mouth curved into a faint, self-deprecating smile as he looked down at her.