Marquess of Mayhem

by Scott, Scarlett

  Here was some information she could work with at last. “Where has the duke been taken, Mama?”

  “I must sit.” Mama sobbed into her handkerchief. “Oh, it is not to be born. The Duke of Montrose is a scoundrel, but Rayne shall be arrested for murder over this.”

  Leonora met her husband’s gaze, silently urging him to remain strong. Mama was in histrionics, and surely there was more to the story than she had shoddily relayed. She led her mother to a chaise lounge, then helped her to settle herself upon it. “There now, Mama. Think, if you please. Where was the Duke of Montrose taken?”

  “To your old chamber,” Mama answered, her voice pale.

  “I will show you the way,” she told Morgan grimly. Turning back to her distraught mother, she promised, “I shall send your maid Hendricks to you at once, and bid her bring the smelling salts. We will return soon.”

  “Thank you, my daughter.”

  *

  It seemed almost fitting that after Morgan had finally realized what was important in life, it was about to slip through his fingers after a mere twenty-four hours. As he followed Leonie grimly through Riverford House, one litany repeated itself in his mind, a strident chorus of denial.

  It cannot be.

  It cannot be.

  It cannot be.

  But whilst Leonie’s mother seemed to have a flair for the dramatic, she did not appear to be confused about what she had seen, a bleeding Monty being carried into the townhome. Pray God he wasn’t dead. Pray God Rayne, that vicious bastard, had not refused to back down from the duel and faced Monty instead. It was almost too ludicrous to believe.

  Except, Morgan would believe anything of the man who had been El Corazón Oscuro. He had witnessed the atrocities carried out upon enemy soldiers by the guerrillas Rayne had captained. And he could not bear to lose his ne’er-do-well cousin. Could not bear to be the blame for Monty’s death. For all his faults, Monty was loyal down to his marrow, and willing to do anything to aid another. Sweet Christ, Morgan would never forgive himself if…

  Nay, he would not think it. Would not believe it. Not until he knew for certain.

  By the time they reached the chamber in question, he was nearly out of his wits, frantic with worry, fear, and dread. His palms were damp with sweat, heart hammering like a blacksmith upon the anvil, as he found the latch and let himself in.

  The sight that greeted him as he stood on the threshold filled him with relief and perplexed him all at once. Monty lay on a bed, Rayne hovering over him. Both men were bloodstained, Monty’s coat and shirt sleeve cut away to reveal a makeshift linen bandage tied tightly around his upper arm.

  “Has the physician arrived yet?” Rayne snapped, rather than offering a greeting.

  “What the hell is the meaning of this?” Morgan demanded, stalking into the chamber, aware his fretting wife followed on his heels.

  It was unseemly for her to be here, witnessing Monty wounded and in dishabille, but what the devil was he to do about it? Her demonic half-brother appeared to have shot his cousin.

  “This… son of a whore sot me,” Monty offered weakly, his speech notably slurred as he paused, apparently realizing belatedly that he had misspoken. “Shot me.”

  His first thought was thank Christ his cousin was not dead. And his second was good God, why was Monty so thoroughly sotted at this time of the morning? His third thought tore from him with the report of a pistol, echoing in the chamber.

  “What the hell have you done to Montrose, you bastard?” he growled as he reached his cousin’s bedside, uncertain of whether he ought to punch Rayne first and ask questions later, or wait to hear the earl’s explanation.

  Leonie had rushed after him, her sweet floral scent following with her, and the staying touch of her hand upon his coat sleeve leashed the savage beast within him. “Let Alessandro answer,” she murmured.

  Rayne’s dark eyes were cold. “I defended myself on the field of honor. When you failed to arrive, your second decided to face me in your stead. As you can see, he was in no condition to wield a weapon. I attempted to tell him it was fútil, and that I would not face a man in his cups, but he raised his pistol and took aim at my head. It was either the fool, el tonto, or me, so I shot to maim. He can be grateful I did not shoot to kill.”

  The rage in him began to slowly dissipate as he turned to his cousin. “What the hell were you doing standing in for me? I sent word to you yesterday morning to cry off.”

  “You did?” Monty shifted on the bed, then let out a hiss of pain.

  “Cristo, stay still or the bleeding will worsen,” Rayne ordered Monty.

  “Of course I did,” Morgan charged, irritation at his drunken cousin gaining the upper hand over concern for his wellbeing. “Did you not receive it?”

  “I negated my correshpondence.” Monty paused, the expression on his face one of sheer befuddlement as he realized his words were once more wrong.

  Morgan would have laughed if it wasn’t so pitiful and if the situation his cousin’s carousing had placed them all in had not been so dire. “You mean to say you neglected your correspondence. Why? What the hell were you doing, Monty?”

  “What do you suppose he was doing, Searle?” Rayne growled, his tone rife with disgust.

  “Not fit for the earsh of a lady…er, the ears of a lady,” Monty offered with great effort.

  Hell and damnation. He knew Monty caroused, but had he possessed an inkling his cousin would ignore his correspondence and then arrive at the predestined time at Battersea Fields, drunkenly wielding a dueling pistol on his behalf, Morgan never would have asked the fool to be his second. Nor would he have entrusted the all-important task of cancelling the duel to him.

  Judging from his appearance and the strong scent of spirits wafting from Monty, mingling with the copper scent of blood, he had been drinking all night long. Likely in the company of one of his many paramours.

  “Damn you, Monty, I did not want to fight Rayne, and I did not want you to face him on my behalf,” he bit out, his anger returning, this time directed at a target other than his wife’s half-brother. “I wanted this entire business to be at an end. I wanted peace, and now here you lie, bleeding and wounded. The dowager Countess of Rayne is downstairs weeping in the drawing room, convinced you are dead and Rayne has committed murder, and you are so drunk you cannot even string together a coherent sentence. If Rayne had not already done the honor, I would shoot you myself for being so bloody stupid.”

  Wordlessly, Leonie slid her gloved hand into his, her fingers tightening in reassurance. He took comfort in her presence at his side, in her calm in the face of such unnecessary upheaval. They were united, man and wife, one in love and in life, and together, they could accomplish anything, weather any storm, face anything that befell them. He felt it now with such certainty his gut clenched, and he was thankful anew, so damn thankful for the incredibly giving, wonderful woman he was privileged enough to call his.

  He did not deserve her.

  He never would.

  But he would happily hold her in his heart and in his arms every day forward just the same.

  “You did not wish to duel me?” Rayne asked then, interrupting the heaviness of Morgan’s thoughts.

  “No.” He glanced down at Leonie, loving her so desperately, he ached with it.

  She smiled back at him. “Searle has had a change of heart.”

  He found himself grinning into her lustrous eyes. God, she was beautiful. And good for him, so bloody good for him. The balm his soul had been missing, and he had been too prideful to accept. “That is an excellent way to describe it, my love.” He paused, turning his attention to Rayne. “I want to leave the past where it belongs, in the past. I am willing to forgive the part you played in my capture if you are willing to forgive my attempts to use Leonie against you.”

  The earl raised a brow. “I will forgive you for using Lady Leonora if you promise to never again hurt her. If she sheds even a tear because of you, I will hunt you down and show
you no mercy. Are we understood?”

  “Perfectly,” he replied through gritted teeth. “You have my oath. I will do nothing but attempt to make my marchioness as happy as possible for the rest of her life.”

  “I love my husband, Alessandro,” Leonie added, her tone quiet but firm. “You need not worry for me.”

  “Oh, holy hell,” muttered Monty from the bed, his tone notably weaker. “I’m bleeding to bloody death after shuffering a mortal enemy…er, a mortal wound. And the two of you are mooning like sick…lovesick…fuck, I need some whisky.”

  “Whisky is the last thing you need,” Rayne told Monty coolly, before Morgan could say the same thing.

  “You have sent for a doctor?” he confirmed with the earl, for Monty looked pale once more.

  The sight of blood had made him squeamish, even as a child, and Morgan could only guess the reason for his cousin being carried into Riverford House—and the dowager’s subsequent misconception he was dead—was owed to him having passed out at the sight of it.

  “Of course.” Rayne inclined his head. “I am not a savage, though you would like to think me one, Inglés. I have no wish to have the blood of a drunken duke upon my hands.”

  How odd, he thought suddenly, to face the man he had once known only as El Corazón Oscuro, his true identity as a peer who was one-half English, one-half Spanish, revealed. Life was strange indeed. Morgan never could have known the day he had faced the feared Spanish guerrillero that he would one day meet him again in a London townhouse under such circumstances.

  Still, though he would make every attempt to move forward in deference to Leonie, Morgan could not forget the sins this man had committed, be he earl or the common Spanish peasant he had pretended to be.

  “You have blood enough upon your hands,” he could not resist saying.

  Rayne’s jaw tightened. “In that, we are well met. For so do you.”

  Morgan’s nostrils flared, a surge of rage beating to life inside him. “And some of the blood I shed is owed to you, Rayne. I would say we have both sinned, and we are both in need of repentance and forgiveness.”

  “It is my fondest hope that the two of you shall one day be able to put aside your differences and become friends rather than bitter enemies,” Leonie said then.

  Ever hopeful, his angel. Ever too good to be true.

  “She has a heart of gold, this one,” Rayne said then, as if reading Morgan’s thoughts. “Break it, and I will break you.”

  Morgan raised Leonie’s hand to his lips for a reverent kiss, his gaze never leaving hers. “I will never break her heart, and you can thank her for my benevolence. For she is the only reason you are yet cursing the earth with your presence.”

  “Touches my heart,” Monty interrupted. “Truly. But I am bleeding my life’s…blood all…over…the…the…”

  “Cristo.” Rayne muttered the oath. “Where the devil is this doctor? We had more luck finding physicians in the mountains of Spain in the midst of war than I have in London.”

  Monty’s bandage had slipped and loosened, and a fresh pool of blood was working its way into the bedding, running down his arm. The earl swiftly put the bandage back into place and tightened it with hasty, efficient motions.

  “You owe me a debt of honor for this insh-insult,” Monty told Rayne, outraged but notably weakened.

  “Happily,” the earl clipped. “Name your price.”

  “Marry my sister,” Monty said.

  “Done,” Rayne said, his voice cold.

  Leonie gasped. “Alessandro?”

  Lady Catriona was a hellion. Just the sort of wife a man like Rayne deserved. Morgan grinned. “Capital idea, Rayne. What better way to join the families even further?”

  “If she meets my standards, I will wed her,” Rayne said with as much passion as one might muster to describe a speck of lint upon one’s coat sleeve. “Provided she agrees to my terms, I do not object. I am in need of a wife and an heir, and I do not wish to be encumbered with either. My home is not here, though I acknowledge I have duties to the line.”

  “I will…hold you to that promise,” Monty warned.

  “Done,” Rayne said, looking imperturbable even as his hands were covered in Monty’s blood.

  A knock sounded at the door then, heralding the arrival of the physician at last.

  “Get stitched up, Monty,” Morgan told his cousin wryly. “I can hardly thrash a man who is bleeding.”

  “You can hardly thrash me a’tall,” his cousin quipped with an attempt at a grin.

  “Come, my love,” Leonie urged him. “We must allow the doctor to do his work.”

  He let her tug him from the chamber, for he knew well enough to listen to the woman he loved.

  Chapter Eighteen

  All was right and well in Leonora’s world, and the sun rising over London, making its presence known in the slat of golden light it sent through the window dressings, seemed cheerful proof. A fortnight had passed since Morgan had first declared his love for her. The Duke of Montrose was on the mend. Alessandro seemed prepared to honor his promise to wed Lady Catriona, Montrose’s sister. Mama’s delicate constitution had recovered when she had realized Alessandro had not, in fact, committed the duke’s murder.

  But best of all, Leonora and Morgan had spent each day wrapped up in each other. They were not perfect, nor would they ever be. But they had each other, and together, they were stronger than they could ever be apart.

  She kissed his scarred shoulder reverently. Every part of him was beautiful to her, especially here, where his flesh had healed in grooves and puckers, all evidence of his resilience and determination.

  He made a deep, sleepy sound and rolled toward her so their bodies were facing, her leg still slung over his hip but instead of his arse, she now straddled a part of him that was very warm, very hard, and very much awake.

  His eyes opened, a sensual smile curving his lips. “Morning, Leonie.”

  She found herself smiling back at him, love coursing through her. “Good morning, my darling.”

  He brushed some curls from her face, his touch so gentle she could have wept. “I love waking up with you in my bed. With you in my arms.”

  “I love it, too.” She turned her head and pressed a kiss to the palm that lingered, gently cupping her face.

  Since the day he had first told her he loved her, she had spent every evening in his bed, staying the whole night through. When nightmares shook him, she was there to soothe him. When he reached for her in the night, she reached back. Allowing her to see his vulnerabilities had not been easy for him, and she knew it.

  “And I love you,” he told her, his gaze intense.

  She leaned into him, pressing her lips to his, unable to help herself. “I love you, my darling man.”

  Not a day passed that she was not grateful for him, for his love. Her life without him had been fulfilling, but it had also been a mere routine of duties and social engagements. She had spent the last few years longing for a husband, for a family of her own, and now, her waiting had proven most worthwhile. Now, she knew she had been waiting for the right time, the right man.

  For this man, who was no longer broken inside.

  For this man, who had proven he could be whole once more.

  For this man, who made her whole with his love.

  “Thank you,” he told her, fitting his mouth to hers for a slow, lingering kiss.

  When the kiss ended, she was breathless, the sweet languor of desire stealing over her. “For what?”

  “For being you, my fierce little lioness.” Another kiss. “For refusing to give up on me.”

  “In truth, you ought to thank Freddy.” She kissed the corner of his lips. “It is she who convinced me you just needed more love and more persistence.”

  “It would seem I owe Mrs. Kirkwood a debt of gratitude.” He nibbled on her neck, the light rasp of his teeth over her skin making her pulse pound.

  “I will happily accept your gratitude on her behalf,” she s
aid on a sigh when her husband’s large hand found its way to her breast. “Even had Freddy not convinced me, I would have found my way back to you. I will always find my way back to you.”

  He raised his head, his gaze burning into hers. “Do you promise?”

  Her answer was swift. “I promise. I am yours. My heart is yours.”

  “Good.” A small smile flitted over his lips. “Because I am a greedy bastard when it comes to you, my love. I want you, your heart, your body, your today, and every blasted one of your tomorrows.”

  “You have them.” Another inconvenient prick of tears stung her eyes, but this time she knew the reason for her recent susceptibility to shows of emotion. And the unsettled nature of her stomach in the mid-morning. And the tiredness and hunger which seemed to forever plague her over the last few weeks. “You have them all, Morgan, and one more thing as well.”

  “Oh?” He flashed her a rogue’s grin, clearly thinking naughty thoughts. His thumb stroked her nipple, setting off a fresh ache between her thighs. “And what is that, darling?”

  “A daughter or a son,” she said simply.

  He stilled. “Pardon?”

  “A babe, Morgan,” she explained, happiness swelling inside her again now as it had the day before when she had made the realization with Freddy’s aid. They had laughed until the laughter had turned into happy tears, knowing their children would take their first steps together, just as they had wanted. All through the remainder of the day and the evening, Leonora had kept the news to herself, though she fairly burst with it. “We are going to have a babe.”

  “You are certain?” Awe tinged his voice. His hand slid from her breast, gliding over bare skin to settle upon the curve of her belly.

  “As certain as can be,” she said, resting her hand over his. “All the signs are here, and it took a chat with Freddy yesterday to make me realize.”

  “Another debt of gratitude to Mrs. Kirkwood for me.”