Free Shana Abe by The Truelove Bride

of men fell silent. After a long moment Marcus began to laugh.
    It was a deep, chilling sound that brought goose-bumps to her skin.
    “Oh, I don’t think so,” he said, piercing her with that feral smile.
    She clenched her fingers into the palms of her hands.The light was growing stronger, allowing her to take in his face in full measure for the first time.
    Dear heavens, he was nothing like his father. He was handsome and elegant, tall where Hanoch had only been burly; sinewy and strong where Hanoch had only been bullish. An Adonis to a Minotaur.
    In daylight his eyes became the palest blue, icy and rimmed with black lashes. His lips were sensual, his chin firm, his nose straight and unbroken. Of course she hadn’t recognized him. Not once in all her years in Scotland had anyone told her she was to marry a god.
    He was examining her too, the trace of that smile still shading his lips. There was no warmth to him at all, only cold, hard will. Perhaps he was not so different from his father, after all.
    “It is true,” she lied, fighting the sensation that she might be drowning. “I am a nun. I took my vows in Gatting.”
    “Really?” His tone implied nothing. She didn’t know what to make of it.
    So he took her by surprise when he pulled her into him and secured her there, using one hand to tangle in the mess of her hair and hold her still for his kiss.
    His body was massive and hard but his lips were skilled, covering hers before she could even draw breath. He slanted his mouth over hers, punishing her. The blood from the cut she had given him mingled between them, warm and salty.
    The sting from his touch swarmed back over her, so much stronger than it had been at the inn, leaving her frightened and yet darkly thrilled. The hum tingledthrough her again, sparking a prickling heat at his touch, taking her breath and making it short, letting her skin feel every unique sensation of this moment: his kiss, his breath, his scent, the roughness of his cheek against hers.…
    His hand in her hair loosened, became less a hold and more a guide, now gently tilting her head back further.
    The pressure of his lips lightened; the kiss grew slower and even more disturbing. There was a new tightness unfurling in her chest, it stretched and filled her whole body, making her acutely aware of him against her, her chest to his, her legs to his, her hands pinned between them. Everything else—the men, the forest, her abduction—faded away.
    Marcus tasted her lips with his tongue, plunging and invading. She gasped as the heat turned to melting honey, making her want to lean into him more, relying on his support.
    He brought his other hand up and cupped her face, no longer holding her prisoner, stroked her cheek, moved his lips over to the side of her mouth and savored her again by gently sucking her lower lip. She felt him smile against her, slow and victorious.
    “No nun ever kissed like that,” he said.
    She pulled back and pressed the point of the dirk she had stolen from him to his neck.
    “Take the lands,” she said, struggling to keep her breath even. At least her hand was steady and sure. The sight of her own blood, now dried and smudged against her wrist, took away the last of that stinging honey he had given her.
    Marcus didn’t move; none of the men did. She wasafraid to look away from him, however, to confirm it. He had a challenge in the angle of his head, and she could not afford to lose.
    “Be reasonable, my lord,” Avalon said now. “I offer you everything you desire. I will freely give you all my lands, all my money. It’s yours. Only let me go.”
    The winter look grew colder. “Everything I desire?”
    “Come, come,” she said, impatient. “You must agree. You may have all the d’Farouche fortune with none of the trouble of me. How can you resist?”
    He was not afraid, she realized suddenly. Not at all. His manner at best could be said to contain a mild annoyance, as if he were dealing with a troublesome