The Duke's Perfect Wife

by Jennifer Ashley

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  Surrender.

  That was what Hart Mackenzie always wanted, she realized. For others to surrender to him, to let him be their master. Not because he wanted to punish them, or to have his own way, but for their own good, because he wanted to take care of them. Those who didn’t understand that dashed themselves to bits on him.

  “Yes,” she repeated.

  It was not in Eleanor’s nature to surrender to anything, but with Hart’s strong body behind her, his hands holding hers, she opened her heart, opened her body, and gave herself to him.

  “Yes,” she said a third time.

  Still on his knees behind her, again with the effortlessness, he pulled her upright so that she knelt back onto his lap, her knees parted, his thighs sliding between hers. This opened her to him, she realized, his body around her making her relaxed and warm. Hart snaked one arm around her, the other still holding the bond around her wrists.

  She was completely vulnerable to him. His body was solid behind hers. The only way to get away would be to crawl across the bed, but he held her bound wrists.

  She should panic, she should fight… and yet, she knew he would not hurt her. If a stranger had done this, then, yes, terror. But she knew Hart, had shared a bed with him, had woken in his arms, curled against his side. She’d seen his face soften in sleep, had seen him weep for his child.

  Passion and pleasure. That was what Hart Mackenzie wanted to give her, not fear and pain.

  Surrender.

  Eleanor sighed, relaxing back against him, and the thickness of him slid straight inside.

  Pure pleasure blossomed where they joined. No tightness, no pain, just Hart gliding his way in. She groaned.

  “Yes, that’s it,” Hart whispered. “You see?”

  “Hart.”

  “Shh.”

  Hart smoothed her hair, and she felt his lips, the enticing brush of hair that was his new beard. He did nothing with her bound hands, only held the end of the cloth. Eleanor’s wrists were pressed against her chest, Hart behind her and surrounding her.

  Another cry escaped her lips. Hart responded with a groan, not immune to what he was doing.

  “My sweet El. How does that feel?”

  “Beautiful. You are beautiful. Oh, Hart, I don’t think I can stand this!”

  “Yes, you can.” Hart licked her ear, the beard again tickling her. “You can stand it, my beautiful Scottish lassie. You are strong, like your kin who pushed the Sassenach soldier off th’ roof.”

  Eleanor laughed, and the movement moved sweet bliss through her. Even Hart’s jests were calculated to bring out the finest feelings.

  Passion and pleasure, bodies hot where they joined. Hart held her thus for a long time, moving very little. He simply filled her, giving her the joy of feeling him inside her, of being one with him.

  Hart’s lips at her ear. “Do you want more?”

  “Yes. Yes, please, Hart.”

  Eleanor heard the begging words come from her mouth, but she could not stop them. Hart chuckled, the vibration of his body wonderful.

  Eleanor found herself rocking forward to her hands and knees, Hart never coming out of her. He surrounded her with arms and legs, releasing the cravat enough so that she could brace herself on the bed. But he held her, never letting her fall, never letting her go.

  Their bodies grew slick with sweat, droplets trickling between Eleanor’s breasts to be caught by the cravat. Where Hart joined with her was nothing but heat.

  “My El,” he groaned. “Don’t ever leave me again. Do you understand me? I need you.”

  Eleanor shook her head. “No. I’ll stay. Always, always, Hart.”

  “I won’t let you go. Not Fenians, not my stupid pride, not my past will get between us. I’m finished.”

  She wasn’t sure exactly what he was talking about, but she loved his words rumbling over her. “Good. Good.”

  “You and me, El. We’re meant to be. And the world can go hang.”

  “Yes, Hart. Yes.”

  “El, lass, ye are so beautiful.” His Highland Scots erased every bit of English schooling pounded into him. “Stay w’ me forever.”

  “Yes. Oh, Hart, I love you.”

  Without realizing he’d moved her, Eleanor found herself flat on her belly, Hart positioning her hands so that they stretched out in front of her. He was on top of her, the full weight and length of him on her body, still joined with her. She couldn’t go on with this, and at the same time, she couldn’t get enough of it. Hart had to stop—no, he had to never stop.

  His words trailed into groans. His loving rubbed her against the coverlet beneath her, the friction of that driving her wild. She was trapped beneath him, and yet, the fire of him inside her made her feel powerful. She could do anything, anything, because Hart shared with her his strength.

  The moment of joy went on, Hart finally surrendering to his. He shuddered, his skin damp, his breath warming her. “My El,” he said as he kissed and kissed her. “My sweet, wicked lass.”

  He slid out of her and rolled her over, stretching on top of her and loosening her hands.

  “Are you all right?”

  Eleanor nodded, breathless. “Perfectly fine, my dear Hart. That was…” She grinned. “Perfectly fine.”

  Hart unwound the strip of linen from her and let it flutter to the coverlet. He lowered his head to the pillows beside her. “Thank you.”

  He had given her that beautiful pleasure, and he was thanking her? “What for?”

  “The gift of your trust.”

  She shrugged, pretending indifference. “You are not so bad.”

  The sinful twinkle returned to his eyes. “Oh, no? I will have to convince you otherwise.”

  Eleanor touched the linen strip. “Is this the kind of thing you like to do?”

  “Part of it.”

  “There’s more?”

  His wide smile sent a hot shiver through her. “Much more, El. Much, much more.”

  “And you will teach me all of it?”

  Hart’s eyes flickered as he considered. He brushed a warm lover’s kiss over her lips. “Yes.”

  Another shiver, excitement deepening. “I look forward to it.”

  He lost his smile, a frown pinching his brows. “When I thought I’d lost you… When all I could see was the explosion and you disappearing behind it…”

  He was shaking. Eleanor cupped his face, smoothing her thumb through the beard she was beginning to like. “Don’t think on it. We came through, both of us safe. Thanks to Ian.”

  “Ian, yes. He’s lived through terrible things, and he deserves… so much.”

  “Don’t worry. He’s happy now. He has Beth and his children. I’ve never seen him so happy.”

  “I know. Thank God for Beth.” Hart caught her wrist, kissed it. “And thank God for you. I love you, El. I can never explain how much I love you.”

  His heart was in his voice, the gruff tones he used only when emotion got the better of him. That happened so rarely that Eleanor treasured it.

  “I love you too, Hart. Forever.”

  Hart nodded. “Forever, El.” He let out his breath, body shuddering as he relaxed beside her. He pulled a crumpled quilt over their bodies, and Eleanor snuggled down with him in the comfortable nest. The room grew quiet, peaceful.

  “I hope you’re happy, Ian,” Hart muttered.

  “What?” Eleanor blinked open her eyes. When Hart did not respond, she poked him. “What did you say?”

  Hart chuckled, the maddening man. “Nothing. Go to sleep.”

  Eleanor kissed him again, and did.

  Hart lay in the stillness of the room, watching Eleanor sleep, his mind full of what had just happened.

  Eleanor had sweetly surrendered to him, and he’d experienced something beyond price. The two of them had become one, whole, complete. Hart had never felt that with any other person in his life.

  Always Hart was alone, seeking to dominate so that his loneliness w
ould not be used against him. Eleanor had smiled at him tonight in surprise and delight, completely trusting. Not seeking mindless pleasure for her own sake, but believing he would guide and protect her through their journey together.

  Looking at her now, her face so serene, one curl snaking across her cheek, Hart knew he’d found peace. He’d just now let his dark needs fill him without check, without fear. Because Eleanor had been there to guide him.

  With her help, he’d let his needs surge into the joy they were meant to be. Not Hart desperately seeking to forget in numbing pleasure, or Hart taking charge to remind everyone, including himself, who was master.

  Hart had been loving a woman, showing her what joy could be. He’d been loving Eleanor.

  He’d moved from the hell of the tunnels to the purgatory of the boat, where he’d come face-to-face with the realization of what was the most important thing in his life. Not power, not money or might, not controlling everything around him.

  Eleanor.

  He remembered how the warm thoughts of her, even when he couldn’t quite form them, had sustained him in the tunnels. His first thoughts when he’d woken again, free of the darkness, had been of her.

  All that mattered was Eleanor, and the child she now carried inside her.

  Hart spread his hand over her warm abdomen. She never moved, sleeping on.

  Hart’s body loosened, and he dropped into profound sleep, curled into her warmth.

  The return of Hart Mackenzie was greeted with dismay in some quarters and relief in others. England read of Hart’s survival in their morning newspapers, shook heads, and said, That family is quite unbalanced.

  Reeve got his money, more than he’d dreamed. So much that Reeve decided to quit London and take his family to live in a cottage on the southern coast.

  At Kilmorgan, Hart rejoined his family to great joy, and also to scolding. The ladies were the worst. Hart barely escaped from them, taking refuge in fishing with Ian.

  David Fleming came to Kilmorgan, eager to have Hart take the reins of power again. They couldn’t lose, David said. Hart could hold the nation in the palm of his hand, make it do whatever he wished.

  Everything he’d always wanted.

  “It’s up to you, old man,” David said, lounging back in a chair, a cheroot in one hand, a flask in the other. “I don’t mind stepping aside. I’d prefer it. What do you want to do?”

  Hart looked up at the Mackenzie ancestors that marched along the walls of his huge study, from Old Malcolm Mackenzie, with the sneer that had put the fear of God into the English, to his own father, who glared at all who crossed the threshold.

  Hart looked into the eyes above the beard, at the mean glitter that the painter had managed to capture. Behind those eyes was a man who’d plotted to kill his own son.

  Except that this time when Hart looked at the picture, he saw that the painted eyes were just that, paint.

  The old duke was gone.

  Hart pressed his hands flat on the desk and closed his eyes. I have defeated you. I no longer need to prove to you that I am not weak.

  Upstairs, in their bedchamber, Eleanor was knitting booties.

  He opened his eyes. “No,” he said.

  David stopped, his flask halfway to his mouth. “What did you say?”

  “I said no. I am resigning. You lead the party to victory.”

  David paled. “But I need you. We need you.”

  “No, you don’t. You kept the coalition together when it looked as though I was dead. You could not have done that if I was the only thing that held the party together. I look forward to many nights sharing whiskey with you and listening to your stories of your days as prime minister. I will continue to support the party and advise you if necessary. But I no longer want the post of prime minister.”

  David stared at him. “You are joking.”

  Hart sat back, breathing the waft of cool Scottish air that floated through the open windows. “The fish are biting in the river down the hill. The Mackenzie distillery needs my help. Ian does fine with it, but his heart’s not in brewing the finest malt whiskey known to man. I’m going to take over the running of it while he enjoys himself with the accounts. I am going to stop trying to run the world and start trying to run my life. I’ve neglected it.”

  “I see, so you’ll become a proper Scottish laird, and walk about your estate in stout boots with a walking stick. I know you, Mackenzie. You’ll grow bored soon enough.”

  “I doubt it. My wife is growing heavy with my child, and I intend not to miss a moment of his life.”

  “Eleanor’s increasing?” David gaped. “Good Lord. Has she run mad?”

  “Not yet.” Hart stared comfortably out at the room that had ceased to intimidate him. Maybe he’d let Eleanor take down all these bloody pictures and redecorate the place.

  David laughed a little, but he shook his head. “Ah, well. We could have been great together, Mackenzie. Tell Eleanor she has my congratulations. And my sympathies.”

  “I will. Now get out. I want to be alone with my wife.”

  David chuckled. He took a drink from his flask and dropped it in his pocket. “Don’t blame you, old man. Don’t blame you one whit.” David shook Hart’s hand one last time, clapped him on the shoulder, and finally went away.

  Hart stood up. He walked to his father’s portrait, a copy of the one that hung in the great stairwell down the hall. Tradition had it that the current duke hung on the first landing, the former duke on the second, and so on to the top of the house. When Beth had first moved in with Ian, she suggesting consigning the lot of them—including Hart, no doubt—to the attic.

  Hart had thought Beth too full of her own opinion at the time, but now, he agreed with her. Changes would be made at Kilmorgan forthwith.

  Hart gazed up at his hated father, His Grace of Kilmorgan, Daniel Fergus Mackenzie. And stopped. Clouds outside had parted, and a beam of sunshine slanted onto the portrait to show Hart something he hadn’t been able to see from his desk.

  Hart stared at it for some time. Then he started to laugh.

  Still laughing, he tugged the bellpull, and when a footman answered, he sent him to fetch Eleanor.

  Eleanor found Hart sitting at his desk, leaning his chair back on two legs, his booted feet crossed on the desk’s surface. His kilt slid up to reveal his strong thighs, and he had a grin of delight on his face.

  “Eleanor,” he said pointing. “Did you do that?”

  Eleanor turned to look at what he indicated. “Yes,” she said. “I did.”

  “That’s a valuable painting.”

  “You have another by the same artist hanging in the hall. Not to mention the Manet in London.”

  “Tell me why.”

  Eleanor glanced up at the old duke. She’d come in here with Hart when they’d arrived back at Kilmorgan a few days ago, and she’d seen Hart flinch under the scrutiny of those eyes.

  Later, Eleanor had marched upstairs and gotten a drawing pencil, come back down, climbed up on a chair, and in a fit of pique, did her damage. The old duke now sported devil horns and round spectacles.

  Hart’s grin warmed his face. “Come clean, El. Tell me.”

  Eleanor clenched her hands. “I was so angry with him. You have always been so afraid you’d become like him, and he made you fear that. But you’re not a bit like him at all. You have a temper, yes, but you’re generous and strong and protective. So very protective. Your father was none of that. I got tired of him upsetting you.” She looked at Hart, who had his hands behind his head. He’d shaved the beard, now her clean-shaven, hard-faced man again, but she might try to persuade him to grow the beard back. She’d rather liked the feel of it against any part of her he kissed.

  She went on. “I’ve always thought you much more like your great-great-grandfather, Old Malcolm. He must have been a terror, and yet, his lady loved him. She described him well in her diaries—I read them. The things she says of him remind me of you.”

  Hart looked thought
ful. “Old Malcolm? I thought he was a ruthless bastard.”

  “Can you blame him? His four brothers and father dead at Culloden? Poor man. At least he found Mary and eloped with her. Very romantic.”

  “Mackenzies were romantic in those days.”

  “Mackenzies still are.”

  Hart came out of the chair with the same controlled precision he gave everything else. “Are we, now, lass?”