Page 35 of Captured By the Werewolf Highwaymen

A stunned laugh broke from her. “Arthur would sooner have bathed in porridge than go against his parents. And I can only believe that it was his idea to ferry me out to the country. Since I couldn’t give him an heir, and I wasn’t the sparkling patrician hostess they desired, what purpose did I serve?”

“You were his goddamn wife,” Desmond growled. “The only reason you serve is being yourself, and him being grateful to have you.”

“That reasoning was not part of Arthur’s rationale. I was told that I ought to be thankful that he purchased this house for me.”

“There’s no thankfulness for neglect.”

“At the least,” she continued, “he left me the manor after his death. It belongs to me. I wonder, sometimes, if it was some form of apology. Or perhaps he felt it was an even trade, the house for assuaging his conscience.”

Clara went to her potting bench, where several empty clay pots waited new transplants. She picked up and examined her trowel, and her gardening fork, testing the points with her thumb.

“The Ballantines, though,” she said distantly, “were livid when they found out that this house was mine. They felt it ought to have been theirs and treated it like such. They’ve even,” she gave a disbelieving laugh, “taken things from the house, paintings, furniture⁠—”

“Epergnes. I don’t even know what that is, but I know if it’s under this roof, it’s yours.”

“An epergne serves little purpose other than looking decorative on a table. They’re often quite ornate and ugly. Mine are no exception.”

“But,” he pointed out, “you didn’t let those arseholes have them.”

“I cannot account for it.” She set down the gardening fork and faced him. “This has been going on for years. But today… It feels as though…”

“There’s been a change.” He gently laid two of his fingers beneath her chin, tilting her head back so that their gazes met.

“Perhaps there has.” She stared into his eyes, with their color the sky just before nightfall. She could just imagine the moon rising in his eyes, the moon that always called to her, rousing her, awakening her. “I don’t know who I am, only…only whoever she was, she’s not the same. And I can only think…that I have you to thank for it.”

He shook his head. “The credit’s all yours. That other self has been inside you all this time.”

“In some things, I have a kind of courage.” She considered what she could do. “I can doctor a wound. I live on my own. But…” She pressed her lips together. “I think…in many others, I’m afraid.”

“Of what?” His question was soft.

“One thing or another.” She considered it. “Failing my father as I helped him in his work. Fearing that I’d be alone after my father died. Terrified that I disappointed Arthur. And…frightened that, in my exile, someone would learn why I was sent away, and the shame of it. So many fears.”

“Are you afraid now?” Desmond asked this gently. His gaze locked with hers.

The atmosphere between them grew suddenly charged, crackling with potential. He was much larger than her, physically, yes, but also in his nature. He was alive with energy and strength, hard where she was supple, bright where she clung to shadows. He was a criminal, an outlaw who shunned authority and lived his life on the open road. She was a viscount’s granddaughter, clinging to the security of this house, and her isolation.

She swayed toward him, drawn through invisible but palpable need, a craving for his wildness, as though she could taste the night itself through him.

In answer to his question, she lifted up on her toes. Pressed her lips to his.

Desmond stilled. He didn’t return the kiss.

Acidic humiliation flared in her. She’d read this wrong, read him wrong.

“I’m sorry.” She backed away. “I should have known. Foolish to think…someone could want me.”

She turned, ready to break into a run and flee from the glasshouse.

An arm wrapped firmly around her waist. She was spun around and then she was crushed against the hard surface of Desmond’s chest. One of his hands splayed low on her back, holding her to him. The other cupped her jaw, enfolding her, angling her head so that, when his mouth crashed down onto hers, there was nowhere to go and nothing to do but receive his kiss with all the reckless joy her heart could bear.

She’d had gentle suitors’ kisses, tentative and polite. She’d been kissed by her husband with perfunctory duty. She’d even, once, kissed a groom, which had been a little clumsy but still thrilling. She’d always hoped that kisses would meet her fantasies, and none of them ever had.

This one did.

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Desmond took possession of her mouth. His lips were firm but soft, coaxing, commanding, drinking deeply when she opened for him. His tongue swept into her mouth, stroking against hers with unashamed carnality.