Neville stared at him meaningfully. “We both were. And she picked you to save.”
The fine carriage displayed the Duke of Camberton’s crest. Two startled footmen opened the door for Morgan and helped him get Bliss inside. He laid her down on the white velvet seat, instantly ruined with blood.
Neville poked his head inside. “Nothing matters but her,” he said. “You are going to Camberton House where she will be most comfortable. My personal physician will attend to her. You are welcome to remain by her side.”
Neville shut the door. “To Camberton!” Morgan heard him bark out a series of orders. “Fetch my horse! Dade, come with me! We’re going to find my surgeon. We’ll drag him from his bed if we have to!”
And the carriage was off.
• • •
NEVILLE STOOD SHOULDER-TO-SHOULDER with Katarina as the carriage pulled away.
“I didn’t want anyone to get hurt,” he said numbly. “I wasn’t going to fire.”
“It wouldn’t have mattered anyway,” Dade assured Neville. “We molded new balls from sand and India rubber. They were guaranteed to break apart on impact.”
Cas grunted. “I still think the pistol would just blow up, instead.”
The two Worthington brothers went on ahead with Attie, who had gone pale and uncharacteristically silent with worry. Neville hung back, thinking of Bliss stepping in front of Morgan, thinking of Morgan, visibly willing Bliss to be all right.
He didn’t intend to say anything aloud, but he did, and he heard a wistfulness in his own voice.
“So that’s what love looks like.”
Katarina slipped her cool, fine-boned hand into his. “Yes, Neville. That is exactly what love looks like.”
Neville turned. What he saw in Katarina’s shining eyes took his breath away. Her expression was open, warm, and wise. With that look she was both issuing a challenge and extending an invitation. The dignity and grace of this woman made Neville straighten his spine and raise his chin.
He leaned in toward her. Katarina lifted her lips. The kiss was gentle and tentative, a sweet, light promise of what was to come.
When Neville pulled away, he knew Katarina had gifted him with a smile that might never fade. He wanted another kiss. Or a dozen. But he knew there was something else calling to him.
“My dear Katarina, I know the timing is a bit unfortunate, but please pardon me. Stay right here. I’ll be back in a moment.”
• • •
MORGAN KNELT ON the floor of the carriage. He cradled Bliss, knowing she would be jolted with each rut and rock along the way to Camberton. At least the bleeding had slowed somewhat. Her breathing and pulse were steady as well. All Morgan wished to do was lay his cheek against hers. He wanted to be there when she opened her eyes. He wanted his voice to be the one that urged her awake.
“I love you, Bliss. You are the only woman I’ve ever loved.”
She didn’t answer him. Fear threatened to close his throat. She was so very still and pale, not like herself at all. His wife was a woman of grit and indomitable will. If anyone could survive a bullet, it would be his mor forwyn, his mermaid.
“Did you hear me, Bliss? I love you. I love you. I love you.”
As they neared the edge of the park, Morgan lifted his head to take one last look out the rear window. That was when he witnessed a most extraordinary thing.
Neville punched their dear old Uncle Oliver square in the face. The once haughty Oliver Danton now lay faceup in the grass, his nose bloody, his head covered in strange red welts. Twigs were lodged in his hair. His knee breeches were muddy and his hose had fallen to his shoes.
Morgan felt a twinge of pride. “Good on you, my brother. Good on you.”
• • •
BLISS KNEW NOT what was real and what was a dream. Faces moved in and out of focus. Voices sounded distorted, as if they traveled up from the depths of the sea to her ears. She had no idea the day.
Who smiled at her now? Iris! And Attie. And Dade and Cas and Lysander and Archie . . . oh, how she tried to smile in return.
It all required so much effort. Too much. Bliss felt herself falling back to the place between sleep and wakefulness. She felt so hot. So confused. So very tired.
But she could not go back to sleep quite yet. There was one more face she needed to see.
“I’m here, sweet Bliss.”
Relief flooded her. Emotion caught in her dry throat. It was Morgan. He was still here. He grasped her fingers and put his lips to the back of her hand.
She lay back. Closed her eyes. Concentrated on the cool steadiness of his hand, his solid presence.
All would be well.
When she next woke, Morgan was still there. He brought cool water to her lips and dabbed at her face with a damp flannel. He fed her one spoonful of broth at a time, all day long.
“I love you, Bliss. I love you.”
His words sounded so very far away.
And the next time she opened her eyes, he was there. And the next. Until the day she woke to discover she could clearly see his handsome face in the morning light, drawn with worry and exhaustion as it hovered over her. She wanted to tell him she was fine, that he need not worry.
Don’t go. Stay with me.
Bliss could not determine if she had spoken the words aloud, or if they had remained trapped in her mind.
I love you, too.
Day after day she felt him near. She heard his deep voice in consultation with the kind physician who had been tending to her. She heard Morgan speak with her family. He read to her often, and one day she heard a familiar passage.
Thou shouldst a husband take by my consent,
As I by thine a wife: this is a match,
And made between’s by vows. Thou hast found mine.
Clearly, Iris had stopped by with suggested reading.
“Winter’s Tale, act five, scene three,” Bliss murmured.
She heard Morgan take a quick breath. “Bliss?” he whispered. “Are you awake at last? Bliss?”
But she was already slipping into soft darkness again.
Later, Bliss caught a peek of a maid opening the drapes. She did not recognize the room. Where was she? What had happened?
“Morgan?”
Morgan rushed to her side. “I’m here, Bliss. Right here.”
Then the day came that she woke to find the fog had lifted. Her first impulse was to seek out Morgan. She looked down to see his hand resting on her hip and turned to see him lying next to her. He was sound asleep, his body curled around hers atop the coverlet, as if to protect her.
Suddenly, she remembered. The duel! “Morgan?”
Her voice had obviously shocked him, as he bolted to a sitting position and stared down at her in awe. His eyes were red-rimmed with fatigue. “Bliss?”
“I am all right. The duel? What happened? Was anyone harmed?”
Every bit of tension drained from Morgan’s rugged face, leaving him at the verge of tears. Instead, he pulled her close, cradled her in his arms, and whispered over and over, “I love you, Bliss. I love you.” Morgan deposited kisses upon her nose, her cheeks, and her chin, careful to avoid the throbbing injury on her brow. Eventually he paused, cupped her face in his hands, and gazed deeply into her eyes. “No one else was harmed. I beg your forgiveness, my sweet Bliss. I was wrongheaded about everything.”
“Shh.” She placed a shaky fingertip on his lips. “There is nothing to forgive.” She could see the torture in his eyes, the love, the gratitude.
And it occurred to her . . . How soon would he go back to sea and leave her behind? How would she ever find the strength to let him go?
Chapter 35
THE days passed as Bliss recovered, nestled deep in her luxurious bed in Camberton House. Neville and Katarina came to visit with her, and it was obvious how deeply they cared for each other. Bl
iss could not have been happier for them.
The parade of Worthingtons was a constant, some arriving while others left. Bliss thanked Attie for her bravery and accepted the smuggled kitten with a wan smile. Regis was kind and helpful, keeping her room tidy and bringing fresh arrangements of garden flowers every day. He delivered a variety of delicious treats to spark her appetite, always with the utmost of efficient politeness. Once he paused on his way out.
“Miss Worthington . . .”
“Yes?”
“I beg your forgiveness for any harm I might have done to you. Lord Oliver . . .”
“I have already forgotten it, Regis. You were doing your duty.”
She spent time with Katarina and her mother, Paulette. Bliss found Mrs. Beckham delightful, never once thinking to compare her voice with the screech of a monkey.
Each night, her husband would come to her bed and gently hold her through the night. She would fall asleep in the safety of his arms, and wake to his deep and peaceful breathing. They did not converse much. Bliss had questions, but she was afraid to learn the answers. Did Morgan feel the same way?
How odd it was to feel so much joy—and so much dread—all in the same moment. They had so little time left together. She could not bear to waste a moment of it in truths she did not wish to hear. Bliss knew her fate. She was married to a ship captain, and ships were meant to sail away.
• • •
MORGAN NOW KNEW what hell was like. He had spent many days there, not knowing whether Bliss would succumb to the infection that had spread through her wound. He watched her sleep. He paced the floor. He tended to her day and night. He argued with the physician as to her care.
He felt utterly helpless.
Only in the last few days had Bliss felt well enough to leave the confines of her bedchamber, and Morgan had been with her at each step. First came the short walks through the halls of Camberton House, then longer strolls through its gardens. She needed to rest often, but she remained cheerful and pleasant.
Yet Morgan sensed something was wrong. The bullet might have merely grazed her flesh, but somehow it had wounded her spirit. The prim determination he’d encountered that first night at Pryce House was gone, along with the fire he had seen in her eyes. She barely spoke to anyone, even him. Though he had cradled Bliss in his arms each night since the duel, she continued to feel a hundred miles away.
Was it the scar? He knew women could mourn the smallest of imperfections. Bliss insisted she did not mind, though she wore a bonnet to cover the healing line just above her temple where the bullet had glanced hard off her skull. Morgan assured her he would always see the scar as a badge of love and loyalty.
But as his wife got better, she got sadder. Morgan was at a loss.
He hoped beyond hope that the surprise he had in store for her this day would lift the veil. He kept his arm tight around her as they rode together in his brother’s carriage. “Would you like to take another guess?”
She smiled faintly. “All right. Is my surprise alive?”
He laughed. “I think Attie is the only living thing we can manage at the moment. I found her trapped atop that painting of the tenth duke in the formal parlor. That kitten becomes more of a daredevil every day.”
“Hence the name.”
“Indeed.” Morgan chuckled as he placed his lips to his wife’s hair, breathing her in. She smelled of the rainwater she preferred for washing her blond locks, the flowers that had filled every inch of her recovery room, and the sweet familiarity of her warm, female skin.
He was determined to lift her melancholy. Katarina and Neville had assured him his surprise would do the trick.
God, how he hoped they were right.
Morgan and Bliss soon reached the docks of the Thames, and Bliss lifted her gaze out the window. It took only an instant for her to assess the situation. “I take it we’re going aboard the Selkie Maid?”
“Not exactly, Mrs. Pryce.” He helped her from the carriage and escorted her down the bustling West India wharf and through the tangle of crewmen, lightermen, and dockers. He felt a rush of pride when he first caught a glimpse of the brig’s dual masts rising to pierce the sky. It promised to be a fine day to set sail.
He brought Bliss aboard, carefully showing her around the deck. His crew members were gallant—they’d better be—as Morgan had taken great pains to prepare them for Bliss’s arrival.
Morgan spoke while they strolled the deck. “She’s a hundred-foot schooner-brig, merchant class, with fore-aft-rigged sails. She carries twenty guns for protection, along with a crew of eighty. She’s pristine, Bliss, the newest and most superbly made ship in the entire White Rose Line. She was a gift from Neville.”
Neville, his brilliant little brother, who had finally taken on the full duties as the Duke of Camberton.
Bliss turned to him, her blue eyes wide with a multitude of questions.
“I earned her. She is my reward for many years of service to White Rose, for my contributions to our great success. And she is mine, free and clear.”
Bliss smiled approvingly, the question still lingering in her expression. “That is wonderful, Morgan. Truly. It is well deserved and I am ever so happy for you.”
“Come. Let me show you the captain’s quarters.” As Morgan led Bliss away, he glanced over his shoulder to nod to Seamus, his first mate. He would go forward with his plan.
Morgan prayed he was not making a mistake.
• • •
OF COURSE BLISS wished to see the captain’s quarters. She supposed it was important, as the wife of a captain, to know where her husband would be living. It might help her imagine the details of his daily routine during his time upon the sea.
Which would be most of his time.
Perhaps eleven months out of twelve.
Three hundred thirty-three days out of each year, according to her calculations.
Bliss felt on the edge of weeping, which was terribly unexpected. She stopped herself. She would not ruin this moment with her selfishness. Morgan was obviously quite proud of his new ship and she could not diminish his delight with her blubbering.
She told herself it was quite simple, really. She was a grown woman. She loved Morgan Pryce and was married to him. Morgan Pryce was a ship captain. And sailing the sea was what brought him joy. So Bliss would accept her fate, and do so happily, because having only a piece of Morgan was far, far better than not having him at all.
But oh! She knew the loneliness would twist her heart every day and every night. Desolation choked her now, so much so that she could not bear another moment on this blasted boat!
Bliss wished to go home—immediately. She opened her mouth to say so.
Morgan cut her off with a devilish smile. “The tour is almost done, I promise.”
“It . . . it is a very fine ship.”
Morgan lowered his chin and gave her a doubtful glance. “She. And you’ve not asked me her name.”
Bliss forced a small smile, thinking that she did not care to know the name of the lover who would get more of Morgan than she ever would.
Waiting . . . waiting . . . always waiting.
“Her name? Pray introduce me to your beautiful vessel.”
They had reached the door to the captain’s cabin by then. Morgan placed his fingers on the handle and paused, gazing into her eyes with so much tenderness it took her breath away. “I named her Mor Forwyn, Bliss. ’Tis Welsh for mermaid.”
“Mermaid?” Bliss felt her lips part in surprise. “You named her—?”
“After my wife, yes.”
“There is one thing I must know immediately, Bliss, before we talk of anything else. Please.” Morgan lowered his thick black lashes for an instant, as if gathering his composure. When he looked up again, he locked his intense blue gaze with hers. “Why me? Why did you step in front of me and not Neville?”
Oh.
Bliss returned the kitten to the floor and went to Morgan. She stood before him, not once looking away from those unguarded blue eyes of his. There was nothing to hide now, no fear of what she might reveal in her gaze. Morgan was correct—this was the question that needed to be asked, and answered.
“Because I do not love Neville. I now realize I never did, not really.” She tilted her head. “I love you, Morgan Pryce.”
He reached for her, and immediately she was wrapped in his strong arms. Morgan tilted his head and then lowered his mouth to hers, bestowing upon her lips the most gentle of kisses, the most sincere and loving touch she had ever felt. It occurred to her that this was the first kiss they had shared since the ball, the night their passion ignited and nearly burned down the world.
She had no time to properly respond, for Morgan opened the door, scooped her off her feet, and carried her across the threshold. He slowly spun, giving her a chance to see the grand chamber from every angle. The walls were paneled in rich wood, and sunlight streamed through the many windows. A large iron balcony jutted from the stern of the ship. A big bed covered in extravagant silk took center stage. There were carpets, comfortable seating, and a . . .
“A bathtub?” She stared at the huge copper bath, the very one from Pryce House. Morgan set her down so that she could move close enough to touch it. “But I thought you bathed in the sea.”
She turned at the touch of Morgan’s fingertips on her cheek. “I do bathe in the sea, but I prefer my men do not see you do the same.”
At that moment, Bliss noticed the room had two of everything: his and her writing desks, his and her chairs, two inkwells, even two large wardrobes.
“Mew.”
Only one kitten.
“Attie?” Bliss raced to the orange tabby, which sat patiently on a hearth rug, and gathered it into her arms. “How did you get here?”
Her head began to spin. “But . . . ?” She went to a wardrobe and opened the door. It was filled with all manner of gowns, slippers and boots, and cloaks and bonnets, too. Bliss spun around to face Morgan, whose face was alight with pleasure at her surprise.
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