With This Kiss

by Victoria Lynne

  A ghost of a smile flashed across his face. “No doubt.” His smile slowly faded as a look of somber intensity entered his eyes. “As there obviously appears to be some confusion on the matter, I wonder if I should further define the uses I have in mind for my wife.”

  Julia felt a flush of heat that had nothing to do with the weather. “I can assure you that’s entirely unnecessary. You’ve made your wishes abundantly clear in that area.”

  “I’m delighted to hear it.”

  There was a firmness to his tone that was unmistakable, a hard edge running just beneath the surface. Her gaze moved to his body once again. A shudder of nervous apprehension tore through her as she studied his sinewy strength and unyielding masculinity. She swallowed hard, willing herself not to show her fear. But Morgan’s body was so totally foreign to her own — so much larger and more powerful in every way. Even if she willingly complied with his demands, how could their encounter not be one of sheer dominance on his part? The thought was not a pleasant one. She returned her gaze to his face just in time to see a muscle leap to life along his jawline.

  “I sincerely regret it,” he said tightly, “but this is the best I can do.”

  She blinked at him in confusion. “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve tried all the cures, princess. Packs of mud, herb balms, holy water, vinegar solutions. One esteemed physician — whom I shall have the grace to allow to remain nameless — swore that bathing in a foul concoction of milk and cat urine would restore the youthful luster to my skin. As you can see, none of it worked.”

  Her eyes moved over his ravaged skin. Gathering her courage, she quietly asked, “What was it like?”

  “Bearable.”

  She regarded him in silence for a long moment. “That sounds very polite, and very untrue.”

  “It pacifies most people who ask.”

  “Does it?”

  “Yes.”

  She turned her attention to the washcloth she held in her hands, absently twisting it between her fingers. “I don’t want to pry.”

  “But you will anyway.”

  “I would like for us to be able to speak frankly to one another, without fear of reprimands or reprisals. If that is too much to ask, however—”

  He gave a beleaguered sigh and replied flatly, “Apparently the smoke didn’t weaken my lungs.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I’m told my screams could be heard all the way to Newcastle.” He leaned one broad shoulder against the window casing, regarding her with a look of cool detachment. “Is that what you wanted to hear?”

  Julia hesitated. She knew she was asking too much, wanting him to share a memory that was so intensely personal. But the fire was part of him — a central part. Her need to know what he had gone through went beyond mere prying. That understanding seemed central to their relationship, critical to building their future together. She was also aware, however, that to him her rationale would sound undeniably selfish, nothing but a convenient excuse to satisfy her curiosity. So in the end all she did was nod. “Yes.”

  “Very well.” He shifted slightly, folding his arms across his chest. “You were right. It wasn’t bearable at all. It was unending, unendurable. The worst of it was the isolation. Weeks on end, lying alone in my bed, wracked by pain so intense, there were days I thought I might lose my mind. Yet it was worse when someone entered the room. The faintest disturbance of air seemed to whip my skin raw. Perhaps it was just the suspense that made it feel that way. For I knew if someone was in the room, they would want to touch me. To change my bandages or apply a salve. That was an agony all its own.”

  His tone was flat and dry, as though the memories he shared belonged to someone else.

  “I remember experiencing an unendurable longing to ride, to leap on my mount and race through the cool, dark streets of London, shrouded in a soothing mist of early morning fog. That longing was particularly strong later in my recovery, when my physician allowed me visitors. I suspect my friends meant well, but they were never quite able to hide their pity and horror when they looked at me. After one of their well-meaning visits, I would wallow for days in shame and rage. In the end it was easier to bar everyone entirely.”

  Julia struggled to find her voice. “What pulled you through it?”

  “Prayer,” he replied succinctly. At her nod of understanding, a wry grin curved his lips. “Not the kind of prayer you’re thinking of, I’m afraid. As I was convinced God had turned his back on me, I turned my back on Him. I tried to strike a deal with the devil instead. My eternal soul in return for his turning time back just twenty-four hours before the fire. That’s all I wanted. A mere twenty-four hours to have that day and live it all over again.”

  She lowered her gaze, appalled at the casual blasphemy.

  “I thought it a very blackened, depraved soul. A fit bargain in every way. But the devil must have reckoned me beneath his notice, for he never showed his heathen face. In the end I despaired of ever being heard at all.” He hesitated for a long moment, and then said, “Yet I was. Someone was listening to my lurid ranting — although I can’t imagine why.”

  She frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “A traveling minister came to my room at my lowest moment. I could feel my strength draining away and remember being vaguely relieved. I knew I could simply let go and it would all be over. I wouldn’t have to fight any longer. I was falling in and out of a troubled sleep, contemplating death. That was when he appeared at the foot of my bed. My servants must have announced him, but when I questioned them later, none remembered doing so. I have no idea of his name, merely the memory of a fair-haired man wearing the collar of a cleric. We talked, and he brought me a strange sense of peace. When he left, I was committed to live. I felt there was still purpose in my life. You may question my sanity, but he was there. He was real.”

  Julia felt a shiver run down her spine. “I sometimes think angels come into our lives just when we need them most.”

  Morgan must have felt he had revealed too much, for he took a step back, moving away from her physically as well as emotionally. They had enjoyed a momentary truce of sorts, but apparently it was over. “I thought that was your role, princess,” he said.

  “I’m no angel.”

  “No? Society’s ultimate redeemer,” he intoned dramatically, “out to save all of London. The whores, the thieves, the orphans, the poor and downtrodden. So pure you should have wings. In fact, I find myself constantly searching for a trail of downy feathers in your wake.” He paused, a sardonic smile curving his lips. “But I never do. Neatness must be one of your virtues as well.”

  “Must you make a joke of everything?” she asked tightly.

  He shrugged. “After the fire I was furious with the world, beside myself with rage. When that subsided, I wallowed in self-pity. That was even more disgusting. Morbid humor is infinitely preferable, don’t you think?”

  Julia said nothing, watching as he lifted a shirt of finely woven white lawn and shrugged it on. Next he slipped on his socks, then stepped into a pair of beautifully crafted leather riding boots. As he went through the motions of dressing, he seemed to withdraw even further from her. It was almost as though he used his clothing as a weapon of defense, or perhaps simply as a barrier between them. Standing scarred and half naked before her Morgan had emanated a vague air of male vulnerability, reminding her of Samson with his shorn locks, or a medieval warrior who had lost his sword. But that momentary weakness — if it had existed at all — was gone now. He appeared coolly aloof once again, projecting an air of almost icy indifference.

  Nevertheless, she was not yet ready to abandon their discussion. “You must take some comfort in the way your wounds were acquired,” she said. “You were a hero to go in after those children.”

  “I was an idiot,” he corrected curtly. “If I had to do it all over again, I wouldn’t.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “
There was a little girl you saved,” she pressed. “I remember reading about her in the paper. She was taken in by her aunt and uncle after the fire. Emily, wasn’t it?”

  Morgan stilled for a moment. He slowly turned his attention to a drawer of neckties. After much contemplation, he lifted a piece of pale gray silk and wrapped it around his throat. “Yes,” he said at last. “Emily.”

  “I understand you regularly send her a sizable amount of money.”

  He shrugged. “It’s nothing. A bit of pin money to help assuage my guilt.”

  “Pin money? The sum of one thousand pounds per annum? That’s quite generous.”

  “Is it?” he retorted. “Tell me then, how do you compensate a five-year-old girl for watching her family burn to death before her eyes? One hundred pounds per annum? Five hundred? So sorry about the fire, my dear, but here’s a few quid for your trouble. Run along and buy yourself a pretty new doll, and you’ll forget all about it.” A look of naked disgust showed on his face. “The generous lord of the manor.”

  “It wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t have predicted—”

  “No, but I could have prevented it.”

  “It was the Lord’s will.”

  “Really?” he parried dryly. “I thought it was the will of some madman named Lazarus. Isn’t that what brought us to these heights of marital bliss?”

  A knock sounded on the door before she could reply. At Morgan’s call to enter, the valet he had been expecting earlier entered with a freshly pressed navy linen suit jacket. He draped the garment over a wooden clothes-horse and said, “Andrew has asked me to relay that your coach is waiting.”

  “Very good.”

  “Will there be anything else, sir?”

  “No, thank you, Robert.”

  He gave a polite nod to his employer, a similarly respectful bow to Julia, and then quietly exited the room.

  The valet’s interruption gave Julia time to reflect upon their conversation. Morgan’s reticence to talk confirmed something she had suspected but hadn’t been certain of. He had spoken with relative ease about his physical wounds; obviously he had come to some sort of healing. But his emotional wounds were still too raw. Deciding to let the matter drop for the moment, she watched as he shrugged on the navy jacket. “It appears as though you have plans for the day,” she remarked.

  “The usual.”

  An answer that told her nothing. “I see,” she replied.

  He turned and briefly surveyed her attire. She wore a lightweight Swiss muslin dress with a crisp emerald over-skirt and a heart-shaped neckline. It was a simple gown, but one she had always felt pretty in. In a nod to the heat, she had styled her hair in a sleek twist. A broad-brimmed straw hat, adorned with a small cluster of pink field flowers and a green and white ribbon, provided protection from the sun.

  “You have a distinct air of purpose about you as well,” he said. “May I inquire as to what glorious deeds you have planned for the day? Leading a bread riot? Storming Windsor Castle? Feeding chocolate pudding to the mudlarks along the Thames?”

  “Actually, nothing quite so noble or dramatic,” she replied, matching his light tone. “I thought I might visit Henry and Annie Maddox instead.” She hesitated, then plunged into the matter that had brought her to his room, blurting before she could change her mind, “In fact, I thought you might like to join me.”

  A look of surprise showed on Morgan’s features. “To what do I owe the honor of this unexpected invitation?”

  “Actually,” Julia replied with a small smile, “you might consider it a summons rather than an invitation.”

  “Oh?”

  “As you may recall, Henry Maddox was my father’s bosun mate. They sailed together for years and were quite close. In many ways Henry and his wife are like family: I’m much closer to them than I am to my Uncle Cyrus. After my father’s death Henry felt responsible for my welfare. That’s why he assisted me in managing the leasing of my father’s warehouse, and why he has daily been sending me letters demanding to meet you.”

  “They didn’t attend our wedding?”

  She shook her head. “I invited them, of course, but Henry refused. He said he didn’t want to shame me by showing up, a seafaring tar and his innkeeper wife at a gentry wedding. But that has not dimmed their desire to make certain of my happiness and to bestow their blessing upon us. In fact, they expect to receive us both today at noon.” When that elicited no response from Morgan, she continued. “Normally I wouldn’t intrude upon your time, but this is rather important to me. We may not be related by blood, but they’re the only real family I have left.”

  “I see.”

  His words constituted neither a refusal nor an acceptance. Just a perfunctory reply that was open to a thousand different interpretations. Refusing to lower herself to pleading for his acquiescence, she said stiffly, “I am aware I’ve given you no notice. If you’ve other plans, I shall simply convey your apologies—”

  “That won’t be necessary,” he said. “I believe I can accommodate you in my schedule.”

  “How very kind,” she returned, matching his tone of regal aloofness. Putting her irritation with his manner aside for the moment, her gaze moved once again to his elegantly tailored attire. “You needn’t dress so formally for the visit. They’re quite simple people.”

  “I take it they would probably feel more at home with my guise as a chimney sweep.”

  She smiled. “Actually, they probably would.”

  “I, however, would not.”

  “Very well.”

  Evidently he didn’t miss the terse disapproval in her tone. “I believe we’ve enjoyed enough costumed buffoonery for one week, don’t you?” he said.

  “Must you always speak like that?”

  “Like what?”

  “So… pompous.”

  “I speak like a viscount who was educated at Eton and Oxford.” He paused, critically eyeing his tie in the looking glass before him. Apparently satisfied, he turned to her and asked, “How else could I earn my colleagues’ respect and attention while debating the merits of the various artists’ conceptions for the statues in Regent’s Park? You know what a crucial issue that is for the future of England.”

  “How indeed?” she retorted lightly, biting back the sharp retort that sprang to her lips. This was not the time to allow their conversation to degenerate into its usual petty bickering. Particularly as there remained one nagging little issue to discuss. Stalling for time, she folded the washcloth she held into quarters and set it on the basin as she considered the best way to approach the sensitive issue.

  “There is one more thing you should be aware of,” she said at last. “Henry and Annie don’t know about our arrangement.”

  “I shudder to think what that means.”

  “Well, they are aware of our marriage, of course. But they are ignorant as to the circumstances.”

  He arched one dark brow and regarded her with a look of piercing scrutiny. “Meaning?”

  Deciding to adhere to a policy of strict honesty — at least insofar as this specific matter was concerned — she continued. “They think we’re madly in love with one another. That ours was an impetuous union based on the fact that we simply couldn’t wait to be together.”

  “Ah.” He flicked a speck of lint from his sleeve. In a tone of utter boredom, he inquired, “Exactly what brought them to that idiotic conclusion?”

  “I suppose I did. I couldn’t very well tell them the truth, could I?”

  A small smile curved his lips. “Heaven forbid.”

  Refusing to be baited, she continued. “They happen to take the sanctity of marriage very seriously. They would not understand the caprice with which we entered into our union. To them, marital vows are a pledge meant to be taken for eternity and nothing less.” She paused, shaking her head. “Quite frankly, I can’t even begin to contemplate eternity, can you?”

  “I’ve spent a few evenings in the company of the royals. That should qualify, shouldn’t i
t?”

  Julia studied her husband’s face for a long moment. “You seem to regard this marriage of ours as nothing but a mildly diverting hindrance to what might otherwise be occupying your time.”

  “That depends on my mood. On other occasions it seems a contrivance, pathetic, spurious, laughable, ill-conceived, brash, and completely inane. I fluctuate.”

  “Thank you so much for that edifying bit of information.”

  “If I were to fall down upon one knee and swear my undying devotion to you, would you believe it?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “Then let us spare ourselves that embarrassing bit of nonsense, shall we, princess? I have made it clear that I desire you physically — you shall have to content yourself with that.”

  That might suit him, but it would not suit her. Julia knew herself well enough to know that. The circumstances that brought them together might have been unusual, but that did not mean that all hope was lost. She would not settle for a marriage of mere convenience, punctuated by occasional episodes of compassionless lust. And despite his mocking bravado, she was not yet willing to believe that Morgan would content himself with such a dismally shallow relationship either.

  With that flash of insight came a peculiar sense of strength and purpose. Until that point she had had only vague notions of what she wanted from Morgan. Now she was able to compact her hopes and desires into a single word: more. More depth, more emotion, more warmth. Surely that was not asking too much. Granted there were untold barriers between them, but in time they could be breached. And if she failed? Julia brushed the thought off with a shrug. She had yet to back away from a struggle or a cause because the odds of success were against her.

  Before she could speak Morgan turned and strode toward the door, dissolving the temporary intimacy that had existed between them. “Come,” he said. “It’s late. I know how you hate to keep the horses waiting.”

  Tom’s Rest was like any of the hundreds of other dockside taverns that crowded the Thames’s southeastern shore. The structure itself was tall and narrow, built of the same crude lumber that had been used to construct the dock it sat upon. The main floor served as a pub; a flight of crooked stairs led to second-story lodgings. Raucous laughter, calls for more ale, and the tinny sound of a badly played pianoforte spilled out from unshuttered windows.