If we don’t leave this instant, you would be tumbling naked in my bed, begging me for more.
Morgan shook off the confusion, the desire, the regret. She was getting to him, that was all. Her machinations were effective, to be sure. His estimation of Neville’s backbone rose a bit when he realized that his half brother had known her for months and had not yet flung all his worldly possessions at her feet.
She said something. He tore his gaze away from her plump, soft pink lips and looked into her questioning blue eyes. “I beg your pardon?”
“I said, I have something I wish to discuss with you. I think—that is, I am concerned that—”
She was stammering a little, which was a strange break in her usual flawless self-possession. There was a tiny frown between her perfect eyebrows. This human crack in her marble facade hit him in the gut like a blow.
I must get out of this house before I roll her upon the floor and break my oath.
He stood abruptly. “We can discuss this on the way. I already told you I haven’t much time to spare.”
He helped her into her spencer and had her through the front door in mere moments. The cool air outside helped a bit, as did the sooty smell of the coal fires in the surrounding houses and the tang of tar and fish from the docks just a mile away.
Morgan reminded himself that the clean wash of sea air would strip her from his memory. And that air would taste all the sweeter from the deck of his own ship.
It was not always easy to hail a hack in this neighborhood. The few that ran past carried people and baggage to and from the passenger ships along the Thames. Morgan didn’t keep a carriage, or a horse, for what would be the point of that for his few weeks a year in the city?
They walked north and west, zigzagging up and across toward London’s finest shopping district. Morgan set a bruising pace, for hadn’t he told her he had no time to spare?
Surprisingly, his elegant bride kept up very well, though his legs were longer than hers. She somehow managed to execute a ground-swallowing stride while appearing to merely stroll. Then he recalled that she was a sturdy country girl at heart, raised by her no-nonsense guardian in the vast emptiness of Shropshire.
As a man who had made his own way in the world, Morgan admired vigor and ability, and esteemed those who did what was necessary without complaint.
His new bride looked like a highborn lady, worked like a washerwoman, never gave in to temper or melancholy, seemed as fearless as a pirate and as patient as a hunting cat.
He didn’t want to admire this woman. He didn’t want to enjoy her tenacity and her strong will and her skill at seemingly everything she did.
Yet he couldn’t force himself to be a complete ass. “My apologies,” he said gruffly. He slowed his pace. “I am forcing too great a march upon you.”
She cast him a serene glance from beneath her bonnet. “No need for regrets, Captain. I enjoy a brisk walk. I have been too much indoors since I came to London. Fresh air is good for one’s health.”
“Is that so?” They were passing an appalling heap of horse apples in the road, not two feet from the sidewalk. Even Morgan wrinkled his nose at the stench. “Then I suspect we shall live forever.”
Her lips pursed. “Droppings don’t bother me,” she said. Then she clapped her hands over the lower half of her face. “But what is that?”
Rank-smelling yellow steam poured out from the doorway just before them. “Tannery!” Morgan gasped. Then he gulped a lungful of air, wrapped one long arm around her waist, and pulled her into a run.
Shropshire girls could really make haste when they had to. She grabbed up her skirts with one hand, pinched her nose shut with the other, and shot past the reeking doorway like an arrow from a bow.
Twenty yards later, she slowed once more to her deceivingly quick stroll and, without seeming hurried about it, stepped to her right, which removed her neatly from his half embrace.
Morgan felt a bit colder without her resilient form pressed to his side.
“Oh no.” She stopped suddenly and peered at her reflection in a window. “This will not do.” She turned her head both ways, obviously looking for something. Then she made for an alley that angled off the street just ahead of them. “Come along, Captain.”
Morgan found himself obeying her brisk command by pure reflex. His mother had used that no-nonsense tone often during his troublemaking boyhood. He smiled slightly as they turned into the alley.
She paused only a few strides in and turned to him.
“I fear I have come all undone,” she said, her tone a confiding whisper.
Morgan blinked. Did she know what those words, voiced in that husky, breathy tone, did to a man who hadn’t dipped his wick in nearly eighteen months?
No doubt she did know.
Which confirmed his belief that she was an entirely artificial creation born of greed and connivance. No real woman could be so resilient, so resourceful and yet so refined. No doubt she had summed him up quickly, as confidence artists were wont to do, and had sculpted herself into a woman perfectly molded to meet his deepest desires.
Desires he’d not even known he had.
Who had she made herself out to be for Neville’s benefit? A delicate blossom, breathlessly hanging on to his every discourse on butterflies and integrated natural systems and what really lies under stones in the fields?
Had Neville ever kissed her, when she stood close to him, gazing up at him with her damned blue eyes and heaving that damned fine bosom?
Morgan swallowed, recalling the kiss. The Kiss. The only time he’d touched his bride, the single taste he’d had of her hot, sweet mouth, the brief moment of sliding his hands over skin as smooth and hot as fire-warmed silk . . .
“You must be my mirror,” she said then in a brisker tone. “My bonnet is askew and I’m certain my hair is a shambles.”
She began to adjust the straw confection of flowers and ribbon she wore, tucking in a few strands of hair that had come loose in their dash.
Bemused by this endearing show of feminine insecurity, just when he’d thought she’d intended seduction, Morgan silently pointed out a flaxen lock that threatened to fall to one faintly flushed cheekbone.
“Where? Here?” Her seeking fingers missed it.
He hadn’t meant to. His hand rose all by itself and tenderly stroked the silky threads. His fingertips brushed her cheek. Fire-warmed silk indeed.
She froze at his touch.
Waiting?
Waiting for him to set upon her? To break his oath, like the bastard he was?
He hung on the edge of doing just that, in truth. With all the will he could muster, he pulled his hand away.
She swiftly went back to her repairs, tucking that tempting strand away, settling her bonnet and retying the ribbon beneath her chin.
“Goodness,” she muttered. “I can still smell the stench.” Then her wide blue gaze shot to meet his. “Is it me? Do I reek?”
God help him. Clasping his hands tightly behind his back, Morgan leaned forward and took a deep breath through his nose. She smelled of soap and flowers and something that made his pulse quicken, something he suspected was simply Bliss.
“I want to kiss you,” he heard himself say.
What the hell? Why had he said that?
Because he did want to, in the worst way.
She drew back and met his gaze, a tiny furrow appearing between her eyebrows. “You promised you would not.”
“I know. Not without your permission.” He took a step closer. “Mrs. Pryce,” he said, his voice tight and low. “I beg permission . . . for I really, truly want to kiss you.” To Morgan’s shock, he found himself entirely lacking in motivation to trick or defeat her in any way. What he wanted, all he wanted, was her sweet, soft mouth under his.
He saw her swallow, hard. She did not say yes.
She did not
say no, either.
“Captain, I . . .” She inhaled deeply. He saw something in her eyes he’d never before witnessed.
Indecision.
For once, it seemed that Bliss Worthington Pryce did not know exactly what to do.
Then she lifted her chin and he saw the warm glow of almost-invitation leave her expression. With one step back, she put crucial distance between them.
Damn. She was stronger than he.
She turned away slightly, folding her hands before her with her silly little tasseled reticule dangling from her wrist. “Captain Pryce, I believe that I should warn you . . .”
“I’ll be havin’ that pretty li’l purse now, milady.”
Morgan didn’t bother to look over his shoulder at the rough words coming from the mouth of the alley. In a single swift motion, he pushed Bliss against the wall and pressed his back to her, covering her entirely with his larger form.
Morgan had survived many a brawl over land and sea—but his heart sank when he saw the size of the three brutes blocking their escape.
Silhouetted against the brighter street, they loomed like dark towers, sentinels of doom blocking safe haven behind their backs. All were Morgan’s height or nearly so, and all were thickly muscled. Worse, there was an air of accomplished violence about two of them, as if brutality was their profession and they deeply enjoyed their work. The third man was the largest, but he blinked stupidly at Morgan with a nearsighted squint.
Then the first, the man who had spoken, reached behind his back and pulled a long skinning knife from his belt.
The tannery. Morgan thrashed himself inwardly. What had he been thinking, walking this route with a lady? How could he be so foolish?
Because you never walk with ladies.
He might have had a chance to strike back and escape on his own, for he was probably faster than the footpads, but with Bliss to protect? His gut roiled at the very thought of these swine laying one finger on her faultless skin.
Morgan knew that if he bent to reach for his dagger they would be on him too soon. He’d had no idea errand day could be dangerous!
Poor Bliss was obviously terrified. She cowered behind him, slipping down his back to press her body to the back of his legs, on her knees in fear.
From some other area of his mind came the random thought that he had finally found something that broke through her perfect facade.
Then he felt something long and cool being pressed into his hand from behind and he closed his fist around the hilt of his boot dagger.
Unshakable Bliss.
Armed, he took the offensive and attacked. If he could get them on the run—
The leader, quicker than he looked, spun aside at Morgan’s rush, so Morgan used his momentum to strike down the larger, second man behind. A single blow to the man’s temple with his fist wrapped around the weighted hilt of his dagger sent the brute to the slimy cobbles without a sound.
Then Morgan turned on the chief. Like most leaders, he was smarter than his followers. The man backed away from Morgan, crouching slightly, with his knife hand making loose circles in the air. A professional, keeping his arm warm and ready.
Morgan realized that he’d allowed the thief to get between him and Bliss, who still crouched on the ground, pale and wide-eyed, her reticule clutched to her bosom. The man grinned a broken, yellowed smile.
“Now I’ll be takin’ the lady as well as ’er purse,” he informed Morgan. “Nick, get ’er.”
Morgan was aware that the third man began to work his way toward Bliss, sidling carefully around the imminent battle between Morgan and the leader.
Despite his gut-twisting fear for Bliss, Morgan kept his eyes not on the flashing blade itself, but on the leader’s knife arm—specifically his shoulder, where every move began.
The fellow was bigger, and possibly stronger, and his knife was longer than Morgan’s. Morgan flung himself forward anyway.
This is almost certainly going to hurt.
• • •
IT DID HURT. A bit.
Morgan was swifter than his opponent. He charged, getting so close that he no longer offered an easy target. The man swung his knife. With his left arm Morgan deflected the weapon. With his right he drove his dagger deep into the man’s shoulder joint. He felt the blade stick, the shock of hitting bone traveling up Morgan’s arm.
The attacker screamed in agony and rolled away, clutching his shoulder, his blade skidding to the edge of the alley. As Morgan lunged for the knife, he heard a series of breathless cries—feminine cries—followed by a sob of agony.
Morgan whirled, wild with rage, ready to rip that that yellow-toothed degenerate to pieces with his bare hands . . .
The cries were not from Bliss. Her attacker was doubled over as she flogged him with her beaded reticule, swinging it repeatedly into the man’s crotch and belly.
Her attacker fell to the cobblestones in a harmless heap, pleading for mercy. He crawled away from her and scrambled to his feet. With one fearful glance back at the mistress of his doom, he lurched down the alley, howling the whole way.
Morgan stood in astonished silence as Bliss, seemingly without a care in the world, opened her reticule and dumped out a jagged brick she’d shoved inside, probably when she’d been “cowering” in fear.
Astounding.
“Did he touch you?”
She looked terrible. Her bonnet was a crumpled ruin, her gown was filthy from knees to hem, and her hair, well! Then she flashed him a brilliant grin of triumph that stopped Morgan in his tracks. “He did not have the opportunity.” Then the smile was gone and he doubted his own memory at once.
Morgan helped her to stand, watching as she straightened her bonnet and tucked in her hair. The attempt to repair her appearance was futile this time, however.
His mind reeled from what he had witnessed. This dainty woman had just flogged a ruffian until he begged for mercy! He could barely comprehend it. He had no idea what to say. Unfortunately, he made what was perhaps the most ridiculous of all possible observations.
“Well, it’s a damned good thing I carry a dagger in my boot.”
Bliss looked up at him. “Oh, it would have been fine either way. I have one, too.” From the sleeve of her spencer she retrieved a gleaming stiletto, lethally sharp and set with pink and white pearls in the handle.
Morgan blinked at it, stunned. “Uh . . . that’s very, um, pretty.”
“Yes. Mama selected it for me. She has very good taste.” Bliss raised the skirt of her gown and tucked the stiletto back into the thigh sheath she wore beneath her gown.
Morgan’s throat went dry as he let the facts settle. His wife wore a stiletto blade on her succulent thigh. His wife could fight off an attacker twice her size. His wife had a smile that could banish rational thought.
There was more to this woman than he would ever have guessed.
“Who are you?”
Morgan realized he had posed the question aloud when Bliss startled him with that deviously charming grin once more.
“I told you. I am a Worthington!”
Morgan shook his head in pure admiration. “No,” he assured her. “You’re a Pryce!”
There in that grimy alleyway, they smiled at each other, and then broke into exhilarated laughter.
“I daresay, we are both quite undone now, Captain Pryce.”
He extended his arm to her. “Let me take you home, then, Mrs. Pryce.”
Chapter 21
THE presence of the living souls around him seemed to press upon Lysander Worthington. The urge to walk away was sometimes overwhelming. It didn’t get any better when Lysander left his family home to take to the streets of London, walking for hours. Night or day, people seemed to instinctively shun his striding darkness as they would evade an unknown animal who approached them. That circle of threat that surrounded him
at those times at least granted him a sort of strangely comforting silence.
However, Lysander had elected to stay close to Worthington House for the past few days, in case the family believed it necessary to kill that Pryce fellow on Bliss’s behalf.
“Are you going to eat those peas?”
Lysander looked down upon Attie’s pointy little face next to him at the luncheon table. He loved her, as he loved all his family, with a burning ache of helpless wordlessness. He nodded and she helped herself, and when his plate was empty she placed her small hand on the sleeve of his coat.
He adored his little sister. He looked away, unable to sustain the contact.
Now, what had he been contemplating? Oh yes—Morgan Pryce’s murder. The notion of it did not disturb him particularly. Life was fragile. Death was easy. The end was a mere bullet hole away, every man equal in his susceptibility to death, if not in his deserving of it. Lysander had seen too many of his fellow soldiers, some very fine men, die while flinging themselves against Bonaparte’s horses and cannons. If good men died so easily and well, what difference did it make if a bad one died under questionable circumstances?
Lysander briefly checked his moral register. It was a basic scale, simple and fundamental, but it was all he had left to work with.
He weighed the facts as he understood them. A man had tricked a woman, a member of the family, into a marriage she did not want. Women were to be protected. He believed that much. Therefore, a man who committed such an act against a woman was a wicked man.
Yes, he could kill that man. What was one more corpse when the fields of Waterloo still leached blood when shovels broke the soil?
To keep the shine of worry from his little sister’s eyes, he served himself more leeks and roast, aware that laughter had suddenly risen around the table. He saw Cas tug Attie’s braid with pride. His sister must have said something entertaining.
From the shadowy recesses of Lysander’s mind came a faint whisper of protest. He knew who spoke, for that dim corner was the home of the man he had once been, a man of reason, and occasionally that man would sigh his disapproval. The voice had been his own before the war, powerful and clear. It had begun to fade his first day on the battlefield, the first time his bayonet had pierced human flesh. He was mostly silent these days, stirring only when he’d judged Lysander’s thoughts to be utterly heartless. Lysander wondered if the day would come when the voice went forever silent.
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