THE PERFECT TEN (Boxed Set)

for the food to be taken away.
    “Well, I’d like a man to give me flowers and take me to dinner. To talk as we walk or sit together, that sort of thing. We call it dating.”
    He grinned. So far he hadn’t done too badly. He’d fed her and they were talking. “About the tupping.”
    “You’re back to that again, are you?” She heaved a sigh. “Well, I’m not speaking from experience you understand—-ken—but I always thought it would be nice to have a man with slow hands.” She grinned self-consciously and trilled the words of her favorite country song, Slow Hands , about a man who understood he needed to take his time making love to his lady, and not come and go in a heated rush. She blushed anew and ducked her chin. “It’s a popular song where I come from by a man named Conway Twitty. I’ve always thought it romantic.”
    He found her voice lilting and her wine-induced behavior endearing. Such an odd creature, his wife. And what kind of an oaf had she married that she dreamed of a balladeer with slow hands and an odd surname? He huffed at her first husband’s stupidity. Well, he, for one, could be as slow and gentle as she wanted. With that thought in mind, he asked, “What think ye of yer new book?”
    “Ah, the new book.” She fiddled with her knife and sucked in her cheeks. “Duncan, it’s very pretty, but a little too...condescending to women for my taste.” Seeing he did not comprehend, she added, “Where I come from women are treated as equals.”
      “’Tis so here.” The Magna Carta had made it so, particularly for those poor wee souls who happened to marry or be promised to brutish men. He didn’t like the skeptical look in her eye, but left the argument for another day. His objective at the moment was not, after all, to prove his rightness in such matters, but to spread her thighs and consummate this forced marriage—or all would be lost.
    Hoping to lower her guard, he reached for her hand. He turned it palm up in his.
    Some claim eyes were the window into one’s soul but her delicate, decidedly feminine hands had already illuminated her soul to his perusal. With them, she had brought him back from the brink of death. And—if Angus was to be believed—she had cried over him in the process. That alone warranted his best efforts as he consummated their vows. He ran his thumb gently across her palm, noting new flesh were the water had burned. He was taken aback by her skin’s softness. A softness now mirrored in her eyes. “Have ye a passion in life, lass?”
    She blushed. “I love to cook and to read. And you?”
    He grinned. Dare he tell her? She hadn’t pulled her hand away. Nay, not yet. “Being laird is enough.”
    “All work and no play will make you a dull lad, Duncan.”   
    He grinned and lifted a brow. When he murmured, “My thoughts, exactly,” she choked on her wine.
      He pounded her gently on the back. When she finally turned a natural pink he asked, “Are ye finished, lass?” When she nodded, he went to the door.
      Within moments the room had been cleared, the door locked, and his lady had backed herself into a corner again.
      He stood at the foot of his large bed and held out his hand. He whispered, “Lass, come here.”
    She shook her head, and he shrugged. He could give her more time. He had to undress anyway and snuff out all but one candle. He saw no point in giving the blasted priest more than a glimpse of this coupling. No more than need be to insure his holdings were safe.
    He tended to the candles first, suspecting his size might put his shy lady off should she get too clear a view of things. He then tried to shrug out of his coat and immediately groaned.
    To his surprise Beth ran to his side. “Duncan, you’re going to tear yourself open again. Let me.”
    She carefully eased his jerkin off. As she started to walk away with it folded over her arm, he caught her wrist and pulled her into his embrace.
    “Nay, my lady, ’tis time.” He lifted her chin with a finger and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead. “I promise this eve will be as slow as ye luste.” He placed a hand on her neck and felt her pulse bounding under his fingers. He smiled when fabric slip past his legs, surprised that just his touch had been enough to cause her to lose her grip of his jerkin. He kicked it under the bed.
    She pressed both palms to his chest. “Duncan, I really don’t want...”
    “Sssh, lass, ye have nay reason to fash.” He gently