Moonlight on My Mind by Jennifer McQuiston Page A

boarded the train to Scotland.
    And a very ungentlemanly part of him was looking forward to lying in it with her.
    “If you are sure,” he told her slowly.
    “We need to do it quickly, if we are to make the morning coach.” She turned away from him to rummage through her bag, and her night rail swung dangerously about her hips. “Is there someone who can do it at this late hour?”
    “The blacksmith.” Patrick swallowed. Thank God for Scotland and the irregular marriages made possible by the country’s lax laws. “He officiates half the weddings here. No doubt he’ll charge more to see us so late, but he’ll appreciate the business.” He took a step in her direction, probing the boundaries of her quick decision. No matter the practical advantages of what was being discussed here tonight, no matter the fact that by marrying her he might better protect her, he would not exchange those vows with a woman who was unwilling to accept him in her bed.
    And unfortunately, there was precious little time to test the theory of her acquiescence.
    “I shall offer him fair compensation,” Julianne said, pulling out a frothy blue confection of a gown.
    He took another step, determined to keep his eyes on her face instead of her hips. But that proved every bit as distracting as her scantily clad curves, because his thoughts landed on a niggling incongruity and refused to budge. There, across the bridge of her nose, he studied the source of his confusion. There weren’t very many . . . a dozen at most.
    But definitely—decidedly—freckles.
    Her freshly-scrubbed face glowed a healthy pink, and carried far more interesting layers than he had seen before. He felt like a prospector who had unearthed a promising vein of gold but lacked all tools to extract it. He’d studied her enough to know that those freckles were not granted egress by day. She must cover them each morning, with rice powder or something of that ilk. There was something jarring about discovering such an intimacy, a secret he alone knew.
    “I shall also require compensation,” he told her.
    She looked up warily and wrinkled that fascinating, freckled nose. “You want me to pay you to marry me?”
    He closed the remaining three feet between them and then he was within striking distance. The scent of her damp hair and soap-kissed skin rose up to greet him. “A kiss, to honor our bargain.”
    She licked her lips, lips he had tasted, once upon a time. “We’ve had one,” she countered, clasping the dress she still held in her hands like a shield between them. “Or have you forgotten?”
    He reached out and plucked the blue dress from her fingers, tossing it onto the floor. Her mouth opened in protest, but he pulled her to him. “I haven’t forgotten.” The thin whisper of her night rail met his jacket, and then his fingers circled around to cup the delectable, cotton-covered curve of her arse. A gasp escaped her lips, but she didn’t shrink from the contact.
    A wicked surprise claimed his focus. He’d half expected her to retreat, cry foul, retract the offer she’d thrown down. After all, these were nowhere near the same happy circumstances as their first kiss. This time, she believed him capable of murder.
    He gave his hands permission to roam northward, skirting the edges of night rail, belly, and breasts to finally settle on her face. He lowered his mouth, urged on by the encouraging beat of pleasure in his ears. His lips settled over hers in a kiss that offered no quarter and sought a raw truth. The taste of her was a flooding memory, sharp sweetness and languid heat. Christ, what man could forget such a thing? It carried a sting, this woman’s kiss. Even with a plan and a stiff resolve, it was nigh on impossible to brace oneself for impact.
    Her lips moved confidently under his, her breath mingling with his own, her unbound breasts a soft pillow against his chest. His body responded to eleven months of denial with predictable speed, and it rocked