Wedded Bliss

by Celeste Bradley

  Morgan set his jaw. “I don’t believe in ghosts.” He resolutely didn’t, not even when he felt his mother’s disappointment at the state of her beloved house.

  “I told you, not ghosts. My uncle Archie likes to live out the great plays.” Snip, snip. “He believes that they can only be truly appreciated aloud. Repeatedly. Trust me, Shakespeare is alive and well at Worthington House.”

  She was becoming quite relaxed, he realized. The tasks he’d set her had all been done quickly and efficiently, yet she seemed rather energized by them all.

  Her serene stillness might not be her natural state after all. Perhaps Bliss was more of an achiever than an observer. Morgan could sympathize with that.

  “There.” Her tone sounded quite satisfied. “That should do it. But your hair needs washing the sea out of it, or it will poke out like a hedgehog.”

  Morgan smiled. Let’s see you get out of this one. “If you will do the honors?”

  Chapter 15

  BLISS fought the rather overwhelming desire to splash sudsy water into the captain’s knowing eyes. But she could not. This man held her future in his hands. She must not antagonize him, no matter how he vexed her.

  He gazed at her innocently. “I need my hair washed. It’s not easy to pour the pitcher over one’s own head, you know.”

  Patience. Calm. It was a reasonable request. Even she usually asked her young cousin Attie to do that for her. She stood up and wiped her wet hands down her stiff apron front. “Very well. After you soap your hair, I will pour the pitcher.”

  “I don’t think I can.” He gestured to his right shoulder, pointing her attention to a bulging line of scar tissue that followed the curve of his deltoid from the outside of his arm to the interior of his triceps.

  “A souvenir from a Saracen’s sword. We became acquainted in a Trinidad marketplace, where he, for no apparent reason, made it clear he didn’t much care for the cut of my jib.”

  Bliss blinked at the mark. She’d not even noticed it in her first sight of his naked body. Of course, in her defense, she had been mightily distracted by the very matter of his nakedness. Now she drew her eyebrows together in pity. “It looks a terrible wound. Does it still pain you?”

  His dark gaze was most sincere. “Only when I soap my hair.”

  With that, Bliss reached behind her to grab a pail of hot water and sluiced the contents over his head. While he sputtered and laughed, she pondered how she would fulfill her duties without actually touching her husband.

  Her wifely duties.

  She had washed Old Dally’s hair for her, near the end. There wasn’t that much difference between a man’s head and an old woman’s, was there?

  A few minutes later, standing over Captain Pryce with her fingers digging into his soapy scalp, Bliss had to admit that there was a great deal of difference.

  His hair was so thick, and the black strands slid through her fingers so temptingly that she took rather a long time about the job. But she could feel the heat of his big body, even through her sturdy apron, and she could feel every rumble of pleasure that sounded from his throat. The vibrations traveled through her fingertips and ricocheted through her body.

  Bliss had never thought of herself as starved for anything, but she had never felt as intimately connected to another person as she did washing Captain Pryce’s thick dark hair. She suddenly became very aware of the empty house and of the silence, broken only by the dripping of the suds into the bathwater and by Morgan’s throaty sighs of pleasure.

  She decided to listen to the snap of the coals on the hearth instead. She would focus on her own breathing—although it was strangely shallow. She would pay attention only to her own pulse—although she thought it was a bit faster than usual. Bliss took a moment to remind herself that as handsome as Morgan was, as fascinating, as appealing, he would not do at all.

  It was Neville she desired. She longed for Neville and the life of constant companionship she envisioned with him.

  No more waiting.

  Captain Pryce shifted his body. He leaned back in the tub with his eyes closed, as if making it easier for her to transfer her attentions to the front of his hair. With his eyes closed against the soap, Bliss had an opportunity to do something she’d not realized she greatly desired. She could study his handsome face to her fill.

  It was not disloyal to Neville to find Morgan handsome. The brothers were so very much alike that any compliment to Morgan naturally applied to Neville as well.

  Did it not?

  Except, perhaps, for the small crinkles that sun and sea had carved around Morgan’s eyes. That was very different. And there was something altogether implacable about his square jaw that she had never seen in Neville’s pleasant countenance.

  He looked so rough and wary with his unshaven cheeks and shaggy hair. Rougher and warier because of it, but it was certainly understandable. He’d only docked his ship the day before after a long journey, after all. Bliss found herself bristling slightly at the thought that someone might criticize Morgan for his lack of perfect grooming—someone stupid, who had no idea how hard a man like Captain Morgan had to work to make his own way in the world, unsupported by high rank and obscene wealth!

  “Ow,” Morgan said with a wince. “You’re pulling a bit hard.”

  Bliss bit her lip and eased her grip on his hair. “My apologies, Captain. I—this is—I am unaccustomed—” I’m babbling. I never babble.

  Ever.

  Morgan settled farther into the tub. His movement caused a wave to pull the soaked sheet entirely down into the water. From her vantage point, looking down over him, she found her gaze riveted by the great surging erection that threatened to break the surface of the bathwater.

  Oh. My. Heavens.

  She froze, shutting her eyes tightly. Her hands went utterly still in his hair. That was . . . oh goodness . . . oh my . . .

  Bliss understood what that daunting erection implied. Morgan wanted a woman. More specifically, Morgan wanted her. And, if the sheer rigidity of his member signified anything, he wanted her . . . right now.

  She began to tremble deep inside. The shiver traveled from somewhere highly personal and raced through her entire body. Her knees became unsteady. Her belly quivered.

  Her hands began to shake.

  She jerked her fingers from Captain Pryce’s very well washed hair with a tiny gasp.

  “Ouch!” He sat up straight, lifting one forearm to his face to wipe away the soap over his eyes.

  Bliss scrambled backward, closer to the fire. When her foot came into contact with something, she looked down to see the water-filled pail she’d forgotten to put next to the hearth.

  Rinse. Rinse and be done. Be done and leave this room!

  Without a thought, she grabbed up the heavy pail and took two steps back to the tub. Lifting her hands high, she dumped the chilly water over Captain Pryce’s soapy head.

  “Arghh!” He slapped both hands on the sides of the tub and leaped to his feet. “Bloody hell! That’s cold!”

  Oh heavens. He was magnificent. And naked. Really, very naked.

  “All done!” The words squeaked from her panic-tightened throat.

  “Whaaa?”

  “I suddenly find myself famished, sir! I shall dine downstairs!”

  Before Morgan could clear his face of soap, she fled the room.

  Chapter 16

  THE next morning, Morgan was more determined than ever to settle matters with his reluctant bride.

  The atmosphere over breakfast was surprisingly unruffled. Morgan had decided that the best revenge was no revenge. He’d pushed Bliss too far last night, obviously. He’d meant to shake her damned imperturbability, and challenge her claims of innocence, but he had been the one left shivering and shaken.

  He’d not been prepared for the way her tentative touch had stirred him. And if he was truthful
, he would have to admit that hesitation had left him a bit unsure of his opinion.

  There had been no sexual knowledge in her hands, no jaded assurance.

  On the other hand, neither had she shied from her assigned tasks, nor gone into a faint or some other silliness that would be typical of a young maiden of the ton.

  And she’d turned the tables on him, quite neatly, too. He’d meant to test her, to shock her, to cow her—but she’d left the fray with a decided upper hand.

  One had to admire a woman who could manage that with a man like him.

  So which woman was she, seductress with nerves of steel, or vulnerable virgin? Looking over his breakfast plate at his bride, Morgan honestly couldn’t tell.

  And what a breakfast it was! Last night’s hurried meal was this morning’s tender beef roast, floating in a delicious gravy that nearly made Morgan close his eyes and moan, served alongside perfectly prepared eggs.

  What pampered lady of the ton could cook like this?

  Then again, that Worthington family was an odd bunch. Word had it that the mother was some sort of obsessive painter and that the father had been drummed out of a literary society—the Fiddlesome Society for the Study of Romantic Drivel, or some such thing—for making unseemly insinuations about Shakespeare.

  Even with his life at sea, Morgan had heard of the Double Devils, the Worthington twins Castor and Pollux. Yesterday, Cas had seemed settled enough, and there’d been no sign of the other Devil, but that dark brother, the one who didn’t speak—now, there was a dangerous man!

  Morgan had been in many a tight and lethal fight, protecting his ship from those who took cargo and lives with equal enjoyment. He knew what a man on the edge looked like, recognized that depth of isolation, that withdrawal from life, until life itself did not seem terribly valuable—and therefore easily taken.

  Lysander Worthington was such a man.

  Morgan’s thoughts skirted away from considering the other odd passenger in the carriage yesterday, but not before his gaze turned to the third occupant of the breakfast table.

  Attie Cat crouched at the end of the table on a lacy mat, her fuzzy face deep into a bowl of cream. As if she sensed his attention, she raised her head and gazed back at him with those eerie green eyes.

  The witch’s familiar. But which witch? Was it Bliss, who seemed a practical, brisk sort of sorceress, or was it that odd little person who had stared at him from the darkened corner seat as if calculating how long it would take to dismember and conceal his freshly dropped corpse?

  Morgan shook off a shudder and turned the full force of his limited charm upon the woman opposite him. He had business to attend to and could not afford to waste any opportunity to secure milady’s affections.

  He smiled at her. “I take back everything I said about the bills yesterday. This breakfast alone is worth every penny.”

  She regarded him for a long moment with her fork poised in midair. Then she put it down, the bite of roast on it still uneaten. “Thank you, Captain Pryce. That is very kind of you to say.”

  Morgan could honestly refute that. “No kindness involved. You are an excellent cook. Your relatives must miss your talent in the kitchen.”

  She only blinked at him. “My relatives most assuredly miss me, but I have never cooked at Worthington House. Mrs. Philpott would be aghast at having to share her domain.”

  “Ah.” Morgan smiled encouragingly. “Did you learn from this Mrs. Philpott?”

  “Mrs. Philpott is an abominable cook. Her specialty is tea. All sorts of tea.” Bliss tilted her head slightly. “I learned from my guardian, Mrs. Dalyrymple. She did not keep a cook, so she had me in the kitchen when I was of an age to stir a pot whilst standing on a chair.”

  Morgan felt his smile slip from his face. “I’m sorry. I did not know you are an orphan.”

  She folded her hands in her lap and regarded him without expression of any kind. “Whatever gave you that idea? Forgive me, Captain Pryce, but you are quite mistaken. Both of my parents are alive and well.”

  “Yet you were raised by a guardian?”

  “Yes, in Shropshire.”

  Morgan couldn’t imagine anything worse. He found London an utter bore. “Shropshire seems one step from the end of the earth to me.”

  Bliss remained silent for a moment. Then, as she picked her fork up once more, “Shropshire is most essential,” she told him gravely. “Britain itself would falter if not for the wool of Shropshire sheep.”

  Morgan couldn’t help it. He laughed and lifted his dainty new coffee cup high. “Then here’s to the fluffy denizens of Shropshire. Long may they wool.”

  With her bite of breakfast almost to her open lips, she froze. Those blue eyes locked on his for a long moment. He was just beginning to fear that he’d offended her again when a short, strangled sound emerged from her parted lips.

  Morgan crinkled his brow. “Was that a laugh?”

  Bliss popped her bite of cold eggs into her mouth and chewed it most thoroughly while she poked her fork about her plate for a time.

  Perfectly comfortable with silence, Morgan leaned back in his chair and let it grow. He’d made her laugh. That in itself was nothing new to him. He’d made many a lady giggle over the years. There was no better way to warm a woman’s nethers than to bring on a belly laugh.

  Yet he didn’t think he’d ever been more proud of a jest in his life. This woman with her wide blue gaze and guileless face was a deep, cool pool of control.

  He’d just made a ripple on that glassy surface.

  Then Bliss swallowed her bite of everlasting eggs and turned the tables on him again. “And what of your childhood, Captain?”

  Morgan didn’t talk about his life as the bastard son of the Great Man, the prominent and respected Duke of Camberton.

  However, in the spirit of fair play, he owed Bliss something. “This was my mother’s house. We moved here to London after the new duchess moved into Camberton.”

  Bliss nodded. “Neville’s mother.”

  Morgan did not speak of the Lady Nessa. Ever.

  He picked up his own fork and began to trail the tines through the sheen of butter on his plate, all that remained of Bliss’s astonishing meal. “My mother loved this house. Living at the lodge on the estate was too much like being a member of His Grace’s staff. I had enjoyed the woods and hills of Camberton Park, but after one look at the ships at the East India Docks, I wanted nothing more of life than to sail.”

  “So you were both content here.”

  Morgan smiled slightly, remembering. His mother had begun every day in the house singing, as she puttered about in a kitchen of her very own, even as she smacked the rugs in the small walled garden behind the house. “She was more than content. This was her nest, she used to say. Finally a nest of her own.”

  Bliss nodded. “This was a cozy home once. I saw that when I tidied yesterday.”

  Morgan shook his head. “You didn’t tidy. You scoured. I know what shipshape looks like, remember?”

  “I’m happy you think so.” Bliss looked down at her hands in a proper lady’s acceptance of praise. Her perfect manners made Morgan want to growl. One day, he’d like to see a woman grin and say, “Thanks, mate!” like a person and not a paper doll.

  Bliss persisted. “And you?”

  He shrugged. “I was restless, as young men are. As soon as I cleared six feet in height, I was down at the ships, begging for a place. I was only fourteen, but I looked older. I might have made it, had my mother not worried I would fall into bad company. So she asked the duke for a boon, which she’d sworn she’d never do.”

  “A ship for you to captain?”

  “Hardly.” Morgan laughed. “No, a job. Swabbing decks and peeling potatoes on one of His Grace’s four-mast clippers. The Pegasus. We called her the Pigeon. She was a fat, wallowing barge of a ship, but I adored he
r with all the passion of first love.”

  “And you fell in love with the sea as well?”

  Morgan tossed down his napkin and stood. Some things were too large and powerful for offhand breakfast conversation. “I fear I cannot delay here any longer today. I have a great deal of business to see to on the Selkie Maid.”

  Bliss stood as well. “I hope I have not said something to offend you, Captain Pryce?”

  Morgan shot her a look, but she was entirely serious. She was cool as a cucumber about avariciously tricking his half brother into an elopement, but concerned enough to crack a frown over whether she’d said a wrong word over eggs.

  “What manner of woman are you?” He hadn’t meant to say that, for it brought back pulse-pounding memories of that kiss while she writhed on his lap—

  “I am a Worthington,” she said again, just as she had on that night.

  “Not anymore,” Morgan growled.

  It was clear that the détente had reached its end. Her spine stiffened, perfecting her already exquisite posture.

  God, that figure! She made him want to run raging into the street before he flung himself upon her!

  “Yes, thank you for reminding me,” she said crisply. “I remember now that I have a boon to ask of you, husband.”

  Morgan did not react in any way. He made certain of it. “No more bills, I hope.”

  • • •

  BLISS CAREFULLY DID not flinch at his question. Nothing further would slip unwarily from her lips. She could not afford to betray herself to this man. “It is a simple request. I require your escort this afternoon. I have an appointment, and my driver of yesterday is unlikely to be available. As you keep no staff, you must accompany me yourself.” She fixed him with her best stare. “As an appropriate husband should.”

  He strode past her and left the room. She picked up her hem and sailed after him. She’d long ago mastered the art of racing along while looking as if she took a relaxing stroll.

  As he shrugged on his topcoat, for a thin drizzle fell outside, he slid his gaze sideways to regard her with suspicion. Really! The captain’s refusal to believe a single word she said was beginning to grate.