He could stay here forever…

The small rocking motion formed a hot point around which Eleanor existed. It was an exquisite sensation, Hart inside her, their bodies pressed together, hips locked.

His eyes were dark in the dim light, pupils spreading as his passion took over. His face softened from its usual hard mask, his lips parting to let out an ah of satisfaction.

Hart’s entire body embraced her, sweat trickling along his skin. His muscles were firm, a joy to feel. He exuded power, and yet, his eyes had swum with tears while he’d traced the name of the son he’d lost.

You break me, Hart Mackenzie.

At the moment, he was watching her intently. As though to warn her that he was being kind now, but he was holding back. He could turn wild at any moment.

The thought excited her. “You feel good,” she whispered.

“You feel like fire, my wicked wife.” Hart licked her neck. “I want to love you the rest of the night and all through tomorrow.”

Yes. She wanted him inside her, wanted to hold him and have him hold her, where all was safe and warm.

He lifted a little, thrusting harder. “Don’t let me hurt you,” he whispered.

He’d never hurt her. Eleanor drew her good hand down his back, lightly scratching. Hart made a little noise in his throat, and when he looked at her, all traces of sorrow had gone.

“You make me glad I’m a sinner, Eleanor Ramsay.”

Eleanor couldn’t answer. Her arm throbbed, but she scarcely felt it as she held on to Hart, her husband. Every point of her awareness went to where they were joined, and she saw nothing, felt nothing, but him.

She was going to scream. And then her throat was hoarse as Hart laughed and called her his sweet, sweet lass.

“Eleanor, you unmake me.” Hart’s words were lost in his groan as he pushed up into her, holding her, and let go of his seed.

The feeling didn’t end. It went on, Eleanor squeezing him, Hart rocking into her, his arms around her to keep her from falling. They were locked together, one.

Hart stayed inside her as he quieted little by little, his face at last relaxed, the tension released from his body. Eleanor knew she was one of the few able to see this, the Scottish duke letting himself be at ease.

Hart kissed her, with the warm kiss of lovers who had found their all in each other. He held her in his strong arms, licking the trail of freckles that led down her neck, and she felt the scrape of his teeth.

When he at last lowered her to the pillows, Eleanor was half asleep. He withdrew, the friction of him going out almost as heady as it had been going in.

He eased Eleanor onto her side and pulled the covers gently around her, Hart warm at her back. His thigh moved between her legs, solid strength, which both excited and comforted her. Surrounded by that comfort, Eleanor dove into a profound sleep.


Hart jumped awake to a clatter, a crash, a sigh of exasperation, and a mutter of, “Oh, blast.”

He forced his eyes open. Sunlight streamed through the windows, landing on the warm indentation in the mattress where Eleanor had lain. The pillows bore her lavender scent, but Eleanor had gone.

Hart lifted his head, stifling a groan as his muscles protested. He found Eleanor at the foot of the bed in her dressing gown, trying, one-handed, to unfold something that looked like a cooking crane.

Hart rubbed his face, his hand finding deep stubble on his chin. “What the devil are you doing?”

Eleanor had mischief in her eyes. “Setting up the photographing apparatus. It’s a bit difficult one-handed. Perhaps you could help?”

Hart sat up. Eleanor beamed and went back to her task, as though it was perfectly reasonable for her to be wrestling with a camera the morning after making love with her husband.

“You want to take photographs now?” he asked.

“In truth, I wanted to take one of you lying uncovered in the bed, with you half on your side as you were. You looked beautiful with the sunlight on you. But I had to drop the tripod and wake you.”

“You were going to take photographs of me while I slept?”

She blinked, as though to say Why not? “Do not worry. I will show them to no one. They are for me to look at while you’re away in London winning your election or stuck in Parliament all day. I know you won’t be staying here much longer, so I must take opportunities as I can.”

Hart came out of the bed. Eleanor, unworried, kept rattling the tripod until Hart grabbed it out of her hands. “I’d thought you’d forgotten about this.”

“No, indeed. I am afraid I am going to be the sort of wife who refuses to let her husband run off to a mistress. If you see that I am adventurous enough to take nude photographs of you, perhaps you won’t need to turn to a courtesan like your Mrs. Whitaker.”

Hart opened the tripod with one yank and set it on the floor. “I told you, I have no interest in Mrs. Whitaker.”

“You will be away in London quite often, and you are a very passionate man.”

“Passions I control very well.” Except when I am with you. “Whatever you think of me, I am not a youth led by his desires. And I don’t intend to plant you here while I am in London. You’ll travel with me wherever I go.”

“Oh.” She looked surprised. “Will I?”

“Yes. It’s why I married you.” To keep you by my side, no matter what.

“I can see your point. I suppose you’ll look like a steady, married man if your wife is always at your elbow.”

“That is not the reason I had in mind, but believe what you wish. You can put away the camera.”

Eleanor unlocked and opened the camera in its mahogany frame. “I find the handheld cameras quite nice to use when my father and I are out in the woods, but I prefer the tripod when I take a portrait, so I don’t accidentally jiggle the image. Don’t you agree?”

“El.” Hart’s hand came down on her good wrist. “I told you my terms. Only if I get photographs of you.”

“You cannot possibly take photographs of me while my arm is in a sling. I would look ridiculous. Now, the light is very good, and we must take advantage of it.”

“Eleanor.”

“What are you afraid of, Hart? You’re a beautiful man with a beautiful body, and I wish to photograph it. It is the same as when my father finds a perfect specimen of a mushroom. Nothing for it but he must record it for posterity. Or at least for his own enjoyment. Besides, he often eats the mushroom. Please, return to the bed. I have loaded the first plate, and I am ready.”

How on earth Hart let her talk him into it, he never knew. He found himself lying back on the bed, his hands behind his head, while Eleanor tested light, peered through the camera, and tested the light again. She studied him a moment, lips pursed, then she picked up his kilt from the floor and draped it across his hips.

She went back to the camera and peered through. “Excellent. Please, do not move.”

Hart held his breath, knowing that one motion would cause a blur as the shutter opened to let in light. The shutter closed again. Eleanor pulled out the plate, set it aside, and put in another one.

“Some out of the bed now, I think.”

Hart smiled. “My wife, in dishabille, taking photographs of me in her bedroom. Decadent.”

“I think I’d like a view of your back,” she said, ignoring him.

Hart threw off the kilt and walked over to the window. This one was not as wide as the windows in his bedroom, but he preferred to be here, in Eleanor’s chamber. So much cozier than the grand salon that he slept in. Maybe he’d move in here instead of having her come to him.

He put his hands on either side of the window frame, presenting his back to her. Please God, don’t let anyone be taking an early-morning stroll.

“Delightful,” Eleanor said. “Stay there.”

He heard the click of the shutter, and Eleanor’s sigh of delight. “Another, I think.” More rattling as she changed the plate.

Eleanor looked through the camera’s lens and nearly swallowed her tongue. Hart stood in a beam of sunshine, light almost glowing on his bare body. He was all that was strength. The well-defined muscles on his shoulders smoothed down his back to form a pleasing triangle to his hips. His buttocks were tight and slim, a prefect complement to his thighs and taut calves. Even his heels pleased her.

Hart looked over his shoulder, arms bunching with the movement, his eyes golden in the sunshine. “Hurry, blast you. I think the ghillie is coming down the walk.”

“Perfect. Do not move, I beg you.”

Eleanor held her breath as she clicked the shutter. Hart was a burnished god, a Highlander of old come to sweep her away. Old Malcolm Mackenzie must have looked much the same, a hard, handsome fighting man, who’d been twenty-five at Culloden field. He’d eloped before the battle with Lady Mary Lennox, stealing her out from under her English family’s nose. Just like a Mackenzie—deciding what he wanted and taking it, even in the middle of war. From the stories Eleanor had heard, theirs had been a wild and passionate marriage.

Eleanor pulled the exposed plate out of the camera and picked up the next. Hart left the window in a hurry.

“That is the ghillie. We’ll do these away from the windows, if you please.”

Eleanor wanted to laugh. He sounded nervous, and she remembered how he’d voiced worry that his body would no longer please her. Poor Hart.

“Very well, then. You decide where to be.”

Hart stood uncertainly, his brow drawn, his head bent a little in thought, his delectable body glistening with perspiration. Eleanor clicked the shutter.