The Devil of Clan Sinclair by Karen Ranney Page B

not expansive enough. It couldn’t fully describe this battle of passion. He lunged; she submitted. He withdrew; she chased after him.
    She never imagined the dreams she had of him were pale substitutions for what he made her feel now.
    This was bliss stretched into a net, catching all the stars, and pouring them into her body. This was a thrumming awareness of every part of her, skin and muscle, blood and bone.
    He chuckled as her fingernails dug into his backside to pull him closer. Her legs widened, her hips arched. She wanted to be savage and unrestrained, and so she was, nipping at his bottom lip, fingers curved and raking his back. He grabbed handfuls of her hair, held her still as he trailed kisses along her throat.
    She moaned, and he murmured against her skin. Words that were cautionary or calming, she wasn’t sure which. They had no effect on the rise of excitement, the flames licking at her from the inside out. Only he could ease this trembling ache, this need consuming her.
    She might have screamed. She thought she did. She’d no choice. How could anyone live with such joy? It must be manifested in some way, expressed, and forever remembered.
    H e awakened Virginia at dawn with a kiss. With her eyes still closed, she smiled.
    The seabirds cried outside his window, a call to be about the day. For now he was content to remain where he was, in his bed with Virginia.
    With one finger, he traced a path from her ear, down her jaw to her chin, marveling at the softness of her skin.
    She wrinkled her nose with her eyes still closed.
    “You’re bonnie in the morning, Countess,” he said. “Most women aren’t.”
    She opened her eyes and frowned at him. “Do you have much experience with women in the morning?”
    He wasn’t foolish enough to answer that question fully. He grinned at her. “My sisters. My cousin.”
    She held up her hand as if to forestall a recitation of other women.
    “I must get back to my room,” she said softly. “Otherwise, I’m bound to shock your servants.”
    “Every single one of them is loyal to me,” he said. “You’ve nothing to fear from them.”
    “I can’t say the same about my own maid. If I’m not back in my chamber before she arrives, Hannah’s tongue might begin to wag.”
    For a moment he was content to simply study her, note her pink cheeks and sparkling eyes. Passion became her. So did sleeping in his arms.
    “The look of sadness is gone,” he said.
    She reached up and cupped his face.
    “I thought it was because of your husband,” he said, turning his head and kissing her palm. “But it’s gone.”
    “Is it?” she asked, smiling.
    “Do you like being a countess?”
    “Why would you ask that?”
    He needed to know. How fond was she of a title? Enough to remain in London? Or would she be willing to give it up?
    “If I never knew you before, I wouldn’t have approached you now,” he said, offering her a strange truth.
    Her smile was gentle.
    “You can’t tell me, Macrath, that you would’ve been put off by a title.”
    “No,” he said. “You wouldn’t have interested me because you belong to a certain class of people I normally ignore.”
    “Why? Because you think them arrogant? Aren’t you guilty of the same?”
    He had the feeling he was walking close to the edge of a cliff, and took a cautious step back.
    “It’s been my experience that a great many people with titles feel they are better than others because of their birth. They’re singled out as being special, when they’re not, in truth. They’re simply the sons or grandsons of men who did something.”
    “Since I don’t know many people with titles, I can’t argue with you.”
    “You didn’t associate with people of your rank?”
    “I didn’t associate with people at all,” she said, surprising him again. “I spent my time at home, with Lawrence’s sisters or with my mother-in-law.”
    He kissed her again, simply because he wanted to. No, he had to.
    “What did you write