Treasured Vows

by Cathy Maxwell

  Miss Abbott.

  In spite of the pain in his shoulder, Grant rolled to his right side and slowly, almost reverently, lifted his left hand to bury his fingers in the wild mass of curls.

  Dear Lord, they felt every bit as silky as he had imagined. He detected the scent of wildflowers and sunshine that always seemed to be a part of her, a scent that even in his liquor-soaked state he identified with Phadra Abbott.

  The head beneath his hand lifted, and he found himself staring into her eyes. She blinked and wet her lips with the tip of her tongue. The gesture was so sweet and sensual that he was sure he had to be dreaming.

  Grant reached out, his movements limited and slow, and traced with the tip of his finger the path her tongue had just taken.

  Her lips parted in surprise…and she swallowed, a movement he followed with the back of his hand down the smooth column of her neck.

  It didn’t hurt his arm to be stretched out this way, and he let it rest heavily on her shoulder, his fingers touching the back of her neck beneath that shimmering cascade of hair.

  Her eyes opened wider at his boldness, and she made as if to pull back. That was when he noticed that she was sitting in a chair by the side of the bed. With his hand cupping the back of her neck, he held her in place. “I fell asleep,” she said in a husky whisper, as if admitting a sin.

  He smiled lazily. The sound of her low, musical voice pleased him.

  She started to pull away again, but still he held her, so she reached up and put a cool hand against his head. “You’re running a slight fever.”

  “Yes,” he agreed, although the fever he was talking about wasn’t coming from his forehead.

  His answer appeared to alarm her. Again she started to pull away. “Let me put some cool compresses against your head. That will make you feel better.”

  “No, it won’t,” he told her softly.

  “It won’t?” she asked, worry edging her voice. “Then what can I do?”

  “This,” he answered, and pulled her head closer to his while he pushed up with his good arm and brought his lips to hers. She tasted every bit as good as she had earlier that evening when he’d kissed her in the inn yard, and, after a moment’s startled hesitation, she relaxed and kissed him back.

  Phadra’s mind was reeling from the intimacy of the kiss. From the moment he’d touched her hair and traced the line of her jaw, she’d wanted him to kiss her. He tasted of smoky whiskey and sensual promises. She relaxed, enjoying the textures of his body.

  His whiskered jaw brushed against the side of her cheek as he pulled her off the chair and onto the bed beside him. His lips brushed her hair and then her ear, a sensation that shot straight through her.

  Dear Lord, she was the one who needed a cool compress! No one had the right to feel this way. But when she shifted to move, he kissed her neck and lower jaw, blazing a path back to her lips, and she was caught once again in his spell.

  He’d pulled her body against his, and now Phadra felt the rough hairs of his legs and his strong muscles as he pressed against her. Dimly she was aware that her nightgown was up around her thighs…but she didn’t care.

  Phadra snuggled against him, wanting to be as close to him as possible, especially when he whispered in her ear, “What you do to me, love…”

  And then, with a sigh of deep satisfaction, he fell asleep holding her in his arms, his hand cupping her breast.

  A moment later Phadra too closed her eyes.

  The pounding on the door echoed the pounding in his head. Grant stirred restlessly.

  He moved his hand and winced at the sharp, stiff pain in his arm. Memories flooded his mind. Memories of fake emeralds, highwaymen, and caressing the breasts of Phadra Abbott.

  Grant opened his eyes, wide awake now. Rays of bright sunlight filtered in through the slats of the shuttered window. He didn’t know what time it was, but the day must be well advanced. Curled up next to him, Miss Abbott stretched and then resettled herself closer to him with a contented sigh, oblivious to the knocking.

  She shifted again, and he felt her bare legs brush against his. The soft, feminine curve of her naked hip pressed up against him, and his body responded with a will of its own.

  “Grant Morgan, you bloody fool, what have you done?” he swore softly. His head felt like a thunder-cloud, his mouth tasted of dry cotton and stale liquor—and yet, after the fight with the highwaymen, he remembered little except the pain.

  At that moment the knocking stopped. He lifted his head off the pillow and stared at the door, holding his breath as the handle turned.

  The door opened…and, as if his worst possible nightmare had come true, in marched Sir Cecil and Lady Evans.

  Chapter 11

  “I believe, Sir Cecil, that we have a matter to discuss.”

  Phadra heard Grant Morgan’s words and the serious manner in which he said them. She didn’t open her eyes. She didn’t want to. She’d already heard Lady Evans’s loud denunciations and Mrs. Allen’s claims that she hadn’t known Mr. and Mrs. Abbott were not married.

  No, she had no desire to open her eyes and see how Mr. Morgan accepted that one. So she feigned sleep, listening to Sir Cecil’s courteous “I await your pleasure.” There was an edge to the way he said those words, though, as if the most important ones were left unsaid.

  Until the door shut and his hand came down upon her shoulder, she’d thought that Mr. Morgan wasn’t aware that she was awake. “You can open your eyes now, Miss Abbott. The wolves are at bay. For now,” he added under his breath.

  Phadra complied and discovered herself staring directly into his hard silver eyes. He was angry.

  Aware that she lay half-naked and tangled in the sheets, she managed to sit up and pull the voluminous gown down over her legs with as much dignity as she could muster. He warily watched her movements.

  “How is your shoulder?” she asked primly.

  He grunted a response.

  “Oh,” Phadra answered, as if he’d said something intelligible.

  A knock sounded at the door.

  Mr. Morgan shocked Phadra by leaping out of the bed, heedless of his nakedness, and crossing to the door. He kneaded his wounded shoulder as he called out, “Who’s there?”

  A man’s voice answered, “It’s the innkeeper. I have your clothes.”

  Mr. Morgan opened the door only wide enough for the clothes to be handed to him. Phadra realized that she was staring at his bare buttocks and looked away.

  “They’re still damp,” Mr. Morgan commented.

  “I’m not surprised,” Phadra replied tightly, concentrating on the bedpost knob.

  “Why, Miss Abbott, you’re blushing—or should I say Mrs. Abbott?”

  “I knew you’d be upset about the Mr. Abbott! I knew it.” She turned to him without thinking and then almost gave a sigh of relief when she discovered that the pile of clothing he held with his one good arm covered a good portion—or at least the most important part—of his anatomy. She focused her attention on his face. “And yes, sir, I find this situation somewhat embarrassing.”

  “Somewhat?” he mocked.

  “We’ve done nothing wrong. There is no reason for you to be angry with me.”

  In answer, he threw the clothes in a heap on the chair before pulling out his doeskin breeches with a disregard of her presence that shocked her. Then he sat on the bed and started dressing.

  A student of Miss Agatha’s, if she was a proper young woman, would have looked away. And Phadra did look away—but not until she’d secretly satisfied her curiosity. He was beautiful. She followed the line of his body with her eyes…until her eyes met his.

  “Are you enjoying yourself?” he asked rudely, standing and pulling his breeches up around his waist. He buttoned the buttons before turning and facing her, a hand on his hip. Self-consciously Phadra raised a hand to her hair, which was wild and tangled.

  He drew in a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair. “I’m not angry with you. It’s myself I blame.�
�� Spying his boots, he pulled his stockings out of the clothing pile and then sat down on the edge of the same chair to put on first them and then the boots. “Damned boots are probably ruined.”

  Phadra swung her legs around so that she could sit on the edge of the bed. “Blame yourself for what?” she pressed, afraid of the answer.

  Grant made a great pretense of stamping his feet into his boots before turning to her, his expression bitter. “For this.” The wave of his hand encompassed the room and the bed with its rumpled sheets. Suddenly his brows came together. He crossed to the window and threw open the shutters. The late-afternoon light of an overcast day filled the room.

  He turned to her, his eyes burning like two live coals. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?” The words sounded unnaturally forced.

  “Hurt me?” she repeated blankly. He watched her closely. “No, you didn’t hurt me,” she said. She took a step toward him. “Mr. Morgan, I don’t know what you’re thinking, but I assure you that I was as much a party to what happened between us as—” She paused for a second, as if debating her next words, before finishing quietly, “As you were.”

  His lips curled in derision. “Oh, I have no doubt I was involved. It’s in my blood, you know.” He crossed in front of her to pick up his shirt from the chair.

  “What exactly does that mean?”

  He shoved his head through the neck of the shirt and carefully pulled his wounded arm through the sleeve, refusing her silent offer of help before answering. “I took advantage of you. You’re an innocent, or you were,” he amended, tucking the shirttail into his breeches.

  An innocent? She burst into laughter. “I hate to disillusion you, Mr. Morgan, but you did not seduce me.”

  “Oh, you just hopped into my bed on your own?”

  Phadra felt her cheeks burn with color. “No, it wasn’t quite like that.”

  “So who made the first move, you or myself?”

  She hated the question. “You did.” Then she added, “But I was the one who removed your clothing.”

  He flashed her a look from under his dark lashes. “How daring of you,” he mocked. “Can I expect a carte blanche?”

  “It wasn’t like that,” she said, stung by his sarcasm. “Nothing happened between us.”

  “Nothing?” he demanded.

  “Except that you kissed me,” she confessed tightly. But oh, what a kiss, she wanted to add.

  Silence.

  “You don’t remember the kiss?” She sat down on the bed, stunned by the revelation.

  “Miss Abbott.” He knelt down on the floor in front of her. “I don’t want to hurt you…but a man doesn’t have to have his brain engaged for what happened between us. Especially a Morgan,” he added in a quiet voice.

  “What does that mean?” Her chest felt as heavy as stone.

  His handsome face with its dark shadow of whiskers was so close, almost as close as it had been when he’d stroked her hair during the night. “It means I don’t remember what happened between us,” he said.

  Phadra pulled away from him.

  He reached out and picked up the brandy bottle sitting on the floor, looking to see how much remained in it. With a guilty start, Phadra realized that she had dosed him rather liberally the night before in her concern that he not suffer much pain. He set the bottle down.

  Grant closed his eyes, drew in a deep breath, and leaned his arm on the mattress. He was handling this badly. An image played in his mind of her body next to his, her scent filling his senses.

  He stood abruptly, shocked by the vividness of the image. But he knew what he had to do. He looked at her standing in the window, the sun highlighting her glorious curls.

  He forced himself to say the words. “Miss Abbott, would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

  Her head snapped round to him. “What?” Her question came out as little more than a whisper.

  Grant straightened his shoulders. “I’m asking you to marry me.”

  She stared at him, her eyes turning hard and bright. “Why are you doing this?”

  That wasn’t the answer he expected. “The reason should be as obvious as those rumpled sheets and your state of undress.”

  “All we did was kiss.”

  “And I woke up with you half-naked and in my arms. That should be reason enough.”

  “Not to me. You’re betrothed to another woman.”

  “I assure you, Sir Cecil no longer thinks of me as a suitable candidate for his daughter’s hand. In fact, I am confident that at this very moment Sir Cecil is waiting for me to make the arrangements for our marriage.”

  Phadra studied him for a moment. When she’d first heard him ask her to marry him, her heart had stopped beating—until she’d turned to face him. The stern expression on his face and the almost military stiffness of his body would have been more suited to a man facing a firing squad than to a doting suitor.

  Could it be that he loved Miranda? Phadra dismissed that idea immediately. She asked, “What about your title? What about your future?”

  “It’s of no consequence.”

  Phadra’s lips parted in surprise at his answer. “No consequence? How can something that you’ve dreamed about and worked for—even going so far as to barter your soul in a marriage to Miranda Evans—be suddenly of no consequence?”

  His eyes snapped with anger. “That, Miss Abbott, is my affair.”

  “Your affair?” Her anger swept aside any hurt she might have felt. “You ask me to marry you and then chastise me for questioning your motives?”

  “My motives?” he repeated blankly, as if she were speaking gibberish.

  “Well, I won’t have it,” she announced briskly. “Your suit is rejected, Mr. Morgan. I will not marry you. Good day.”

  He stared at her open-mouthed, as if she’d just struck him.

  Phadra looked at him haughtily. “You may leave the room. Our interview is over. I acquit you from any further obligation to me.”

  “You acquit me?”

  “I pray never to see you again,” she said plainly.

  The expression on his face changed from noblesse oblige to dumbfounded anger. “Madam, you mistake the matter. You have no choice.”

  “Yes, I do, and I’ve made it.”

  His temper exploded like lightning cracking open the heavens. “In God’s name, woman, you could drive a man to madness.” He started toward her but then appeared to change his mind. He crossed the room to stand far away from her. His next words were clear and succinct. “You do not have a choice.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “No! You do not.” He pointed an angry finger at the bed. “If a man did to one of my sisters what I did to you last night, I would kill him. After I’d seen them married!”

  “Then I should thank the heavens that I have no overbearing male relative to avenge my honor, because I have no desire to enter into a marriage of convenience.” Especially with you, she wanted to add. A man who couldn’t even remember kissing her the night before!

  “What? You wish to live a scandal? To be ostracized from polite society?”

  Phadra tilted her chin proudly. “Nothing happened last night for which either of us should apologize. Furthermore, a woman today can take a lover and still find doors open to her—”

  “Only the doors of a bawdy house!”

  “That’s not true!” she shot back. “Mary Wollstonecraft had a lover. She even had a child by him—”

  With a roar, Grant crossed the room in three steps to stand in front of her. “Don’t quote that heretical woman to me right now! I wish with all my being that you’d never heard her name or that of her abominable book.”

  “There! That’s the reason we can’t be married. I could never marry a man who thought he could exercise such control over me. I will read what I wish, think what I wish, and—”

  “Be married before this day is out,” he growled.

  “You can’t make me,” she spat back, her body almost shaking with the force of he
r anger.

  His eyes blazed with angry intensity, but when he spoke, his voice was controlled and tight. “I can and I will. The Bank of England is your guardian, and with or without your permission they will countenance our marriage.”

  They stood toe to toe, his large frame looming over her, but Phadra refused to be cowed. “It won’t be legal. I’ll never sign the license!”

  “You won’t need to. Sir Cecil can sign for you as your guardian. The marriage will be legal.”

  “That’s not true!”

  “Who would challenge it? No judge would set the marriage aside in light of the compromising position the Evanses found you in this afternoon—with witnesses, no less!”

  The truth of his words shocked her. Now she understood the nuances in his brief conversation with Sir Cecil earlier. She stepped away from him, suddenly struck by something else. For all her brave words, Phadra didn’t really want to play the fallen woman. She’d met courtesans among her artist friends, but everything in her upbringing, from what she’d learned at her mother’s knee to the dictums heard at Miss Agatha’s, had preached the ruin of a woman choosing such a road.

  She went back to the window and stared out at the gray clouds. “What about the emeralds? Don’t we still have a problem there?”

  He took so long to answer that she feared he hadn’t heard the question. Finally he said, “I’ll pay the debt.”

  “Can you?” She turned to him in surprise.

  “I can.” With those words, Grant realized completely all that he’d lost. The money he’d planned to spend for an estate in the country would go to pay for an ill-fated treasure hunt and fake emeralds. The dream of a title appeared an impossibility now. Furthermore, enough people knew of his plans to marry Miranda that there would be talk, especially when he suddenly turned up in London married to Phadra, and the gossips would whisper that the apple never falls far from the tree. The set of his jaw hardened at the thought. He had to keep his temper. Too much scandal, and even his present position at the bank could be in jeopardy.

  He looked at the petite woman swimming in the oversized nightgown. The light from the window framed her silhouette. She was a far cry from the aristocratic wife he’d planned to marry one day.