The Devil Wears Tartan by Karen Ranney

around his shoulders, the better to hold on as this feeling buoyed her.
    How did she explain what she felt to him? Or would he even care to know? Did he want her to share her thoughts? Or was a wedding night only for a bridegroom’s pleasure?
    Daringly she leaned forward and placed her lips on his. His mouth was shockingly warm. As she savored the sensation, his lips curved into a smile beneath hers.
    Was he mocking her?
    She tilted her head just slightly to the right and deepened the kiss. Without warning, his tongue touched her bottom lip, sending an intense spear ofdelight through her entire body. She drew back and looked at him.
    His smile had faded, and there was not a hint of amusement in his expression. She bent forward and kissed him again, partly because she wanted to and partly because she didn’t want to face that intense gaze any longer. There were too many questions in his eyes. Questions that he’d no doubt ask her soon, and in doing so break this spell.
    He reached up with one hand and held her by the nape of her neck, pulling her forward. His other hand went to her throat, fingers splayed. A second later his fingers were on her face, his thumb at one corner of her lips. She made a sound at the back of her throat, a low protesting murmur. She wasn’t in pain, but confusion mixed with delight swept through her body so strongly that it was like a fierce wind. Everything she thought she knew about passion had simply been wrong.
    How wonderful that he could turn her warm with a kiss. How fascinating that her palms ached to smooth over his bare skin, feel the texture of it, measure his muscles, be heated with his warmth. What was that, unless it was passion?
    Were wives supposed to feel passion?
    This, then, was the answer to her earlier curiosity. This was what she’d thought to feel, this slightly wild sensation, this temptation of the flesh, this succumbing of the will and the sacrifice of self. She didn’t care, right now, if he was her husband or her lover or if they were in public or in a bedroom lit only by a small lamp.
    “Give me your hand,” he said, his voice deep and dark.
    She’d never been considered a biddable girl, but she did as he asked without question.
    He placed her hand against his chest so that she could hear the booming beat of his heart. He said nothing further, only allowed the cadence of that organ to speak for him.
    The night was suddenly silent. The wind had calmed, as if he’d decreed it. No birds called, no crickets chirped. No moths beat their wings against the silvery panes of glass. Even the moonlight was muted now, as if the disk of moon had disappeared behind a pocket of clouds.
    “Davina.” He only spoke her name, but she knew it was a question. How should she respond? With a yes? With a please?
    He leaned over her again, tracing the line of her chin with one finger. Still he didn’t speak, didn’t attempt to convince her. Nor did he kiss her again when it was all she wanted.
    In the silence, she nodded slightly. Marshall smiled and reached over to pull her to him.
    She’d not thought that this night would be so different from her previous experience. But it was like comparing silver to pewter or silk to linen. The excitement she’d felt with Alisdair had been, no doubt, because of the daring of her acts. Never before had she felt this heady warmth, this delightful intoxication of the senses. Almost as if Marshall were a snifter of brandy and she was inhaling him.
    Oh my.
    He watched her, as still and silent as the air around them.
    “What do you want me to do?” She’d never before felt so young or foolish, for that matter.
    “What do you want to do?”
    “End this,” she said softly. “Finish it. Isn’t that what you want to do?”
    “Sometimes anticipation can be part of the pleasure.”
    Her anticipation was accompanied by a very real sense of dread. She knew what this act would entail. He’d enter her body. She’d feel the most incredible sense of