Duchess of Mine Read Free Page B

for the fire?”
    He had to shake himself to gain access to
some part of his mind that could function and speak.
    “Nay.” Brilliant. He sounded just this side
of idiotic.
    God, then she did it again. She smiled. It
widened and brightened, and Duncan felt his solar plexus explode
with something he’d thought long dead.
    “You seem...cold. Want to join me?”
    Before he could even think, he walked toward
her. He sat right beside her too, not even a thought about
circumstances or consequences, just staring. Couldn’t be helped.
Couldn’t stop himself if he’d wanted to. And, oh, how he didn’t
want to.
    She kept her eyes on him, her smile shifting
to warm and welcoming. For a long moment she searched his face,
then glanced about his linen shirt. He’d forgotten he was drenched.
With a quick glance, he noticed his goose bumps and nipples peaking
out from his nearly translucent white shirt. He may as well have
been naked from the waist up. Thank the Lord, his brown, heavy
plaid was thick and didn’t reveal as much. That was when he
realized he sat cross-legged, as she did. Oh, her legs. Yet again
he couldn’t stop from staring at her long limbs, clad in black
shiny trews that left precious little to the imagination.
    “I’m Fleur. Fleur Anpoa.”
    Pretty name. He almost let the words trip out
of his mouth, as though he was a bumbling lad. “Duncan,” was all he
could stammer. Aye, that was much better.
    “You live around here, Duncan?” Her accent
was lovely—definitely not Scottish, from the Highlands or the Low,
but not quite English either.
    “Aye.” Damn it all, say something more.
Helpless, he gazed at her, while she looked deeply into his
eyes.
    “It turned into a beautiful, albeit a bit too
hot, day, huh? I wonder what happened with that storm? All the dark
clouds that were trying to hide the sun?”
    There’d been a storm approaching? He hadn’t
noticed. Then again, in Tongue, when Rory had begun this idiotic
training, Duncan hadn’t paid heed to much other than his legs and
the air he’d breathed.
    She smiled widely and arched a perfect black
brow. “Not a man of many words, hmm?”
    Well, if she were in his head, and already he
knew a part of her was, then she would know his mind was amuck with
too many words, too many...feelings. No, that wasn’t quite right.
Of his sentiments he felt only two—curiosity, and an animalistic
sense he knew only during battle. But this—this was different. This
wasn’t mere desire, for he knew what that felt like. This other
feeling was magnetic and too powerful for him to make much sense
of. All he knew was he wanted to sit with her for the next eon or
so. While sitting with her, he didn’t think of his
responsibilities, of how he’d failed so many people, of how he was
always too late to do any good. All of it was gone. With her, he
thought only of this deep sense that he knew her. Nay, that wasn’t
it either. He had to know her.
    Speaking would be a good way to get to know
the woman.
    Of course, his lips were glued shut then.
    She chuckled, a noise as powerful as her
appearance. “So I have to do all the talking? You might not want
that, because once I get going, sometimes there’s no stopping
me.”
    “I’d love to hear ye talk.” That had come out
of his blasted mouth wholly uncensored. Damnation. But it was the
truth. Ach, the lovely lilting way she spoke—so different from
anything he’d ever heard before—made him eager for the next word
she’d say, then the next, and the next . . .
    He tried to piece together from whence she
must have come with her different clothing...India? The black garb
she wore did appear to be a silk mayhap. Was she from the Ottoman
Empire? But that accent made him think—and she wore bright-colored
leather slippers so similar to what he’d heard the Indians from
America wore. His heart slammed against his ribs wondering if he
could be correct.
    Her arched brow stayed where it was. “Be
careful what you wish