by Ruth Langan
“So. It is as I suspected. Beneath the cool facade the lady does have a temper.”
“I told you I would show you how a Scot fights.” She tried to push away, but the hands holding her were too strong.
He dragged her firmly against him. “And I told you I would show you how an Englishman loves.”
“No. You cannot…”
He cut off her protest, crushing her mouth with his.
She felt the rush of heat that always seemed to swamp her at his touch. And then she felt the tremors begin as his mouth plundered hers. Wave after wave of feeling poured through her as his mouth moved over hers.
She pounded her fists on his shoulders until she was exhausted from the effort, but he continued to pin her as effortlessly as if she were a small child.
“Has any Scotsman ever kissed you like this?” he muttered against her lips.
He traced the outline of her lips with his tongue, and she gave an involuntary shudder.
He parted her lips and invaded the sweetness of her mouth. She gasped and tried to pull away, but he was too strong. For long moments he stared down at her, seeing the angry flare that darkened her eyes to midnight blue.
With his hands on either side of her face he kissed her slowly, thoroughly, lingering over her lips until the heat flickered, then flared, then burst into an inferno, threatening to sear them.
“Has any Scotsman ever made you burn like this?” His breath was hot against her cheek.
“Damn you.”
“Aye. I am damned,” he rasped, plunging his hands into her tangles of silken hair. She tried to pull away but his hands tightened, holding her head still.
He bent his head and kissed her again and again until she was forced to take in long, shuddering breaths to fill her lungs.
With a knowing smile he brought his hands around her, moving them slowly along her sides until his thumbs encountered the soft swell of her breasts. Instantly her nipples hardened and his excitement grew. “Damned to want what I should never have.”
He felt her trembling response and thrilled to it. “Has any Scotsman ever touched you like this?”
“Stop. You must stop.”
“Aye. I’ll stop.” He bent his lips to hers. This time she did not pull away or try to avoid his touch. “When you tell me you hate the sight of me, the touch of me.” He muttered the words against her lips and took the kiss deeper.
Without realizing it, her hands fell limply at her sides. Her tongue met his, hesitantly at first, then bolder, until she opened her mouth to him and kissed him as he was kissing her.
Her hands rose to his arms, gripping him for support.
Morgan had intended to prove to her that she would respond to him, no matter how angry. Instead, he had just foolishly fallen under her spell. The very things he had so proudly managed to avoid for all these years had just ensnared him. The touch of her, the taste of her, were his undoing. He wanted her. God in heaven. He wanted her.
“Tell me, Brenna. Has any Scotsman ever made your blood run hot?” He kissed her until she was gasping for breath, and still he could not tear his mouth from hers. Against her lips he muttered, “Has any Scotsman ever made your heart thunder like this?” His hand covered her breast and he felt the wild pounding of her heartbeat. Its rhythm matched his own.
He plunged his tongue into her ear again and again, then once more covered her mouth with his. With one arm firmly around her, he lifted his other hand to the dark tangles of her hair and drew her head back. Before she could catch her breath he ran openmouthed kisses along the column of her throat, then lower, to the swell of her breast. Through her gown he felt her nipple harden at his touch. His excitement grew as he felt her trembling response.
She brought her arms around his neck and clung to him, hating him for being so worldly and knowing just how to make her burn with desire. She hated herself for giving in to this need that pulsed through her, robbing her of her will. And she hated this weakness that had taken over her control.
They dropped to their knees on the floor, entangled in each other’s arms.
“Tell me you do not want this,” he taunted, “and I will walk away.”
He knew it was a lie. At this moment he could not turn away from her even if she pleaded with him. The need for this damnable little woman was stronger than anything he’d ever known.
Brenna lifted her tear-filled eyes to him. The feelings that churned inside her were so new, so frightening, they filled her with terror. She wanted this man. More than anything in the world. Never before had she felt so wild and free. But she feared the feelings that rippled through her, driving her to such wanton behavior.
“Tell me,” he commanded.
“I…” Her throat was so dry she could not speak. She swallowed and tried again. But no words would come out. Instead she merely clung to him and offered him her lips.
The thought of her surrender added to his arousal. Desire clawed at him, stripping him of his pride. He would beg, he would crawl, to have her. The need for her drove him to be ruthless.
“You may deny all you want, my lady. But your body tells me the truth.”
Her breath shuddered from between parted lips. His own breathing was ragged and painful.
Her tears spilled over, running in little rivers down her cheeks. Her words tumbled out, frightened, breathless, causing his heart to stop.
“I am so afraid. I have never been with a man before.”
A virgin. God in heaven. Hadn’t he always known? She was as sweet, as untouched, as a rosebud that had not yet come to flower.
Morgan felt a wave of disgust at what he had almost done. He had driven her mad with his own lust. He had nearly taken her here, on the cold, hard floor. Like some tavern slut.
He dropped his hands to his sides.
Brenna felt a sudden chill and wished that he would hold her. But when she looked up she saw that his eyes no longer smoldered. The hint of a smile was wiped from his lips.
In his arms she had come alive for the first time in her life. Though the feelings he aroused in her were terrifying, they were also exciting. And now that he no longer held her, she felt cold and lifeless. Why had no other man ever aroused these emotions? Had they always been there, waiting for this man? For a few minutes it had no longer mattered that he was English and she was Scots. They were a man and a woman who had come together in naked hunger. Without Morgan Grey, she sensed, she would never again be lifted to such heights.
He misunderstood her silence.
“Forgive me, Brenna.” He lifted a hand to her cheek and wiped away her tears. “With you I am like a man possessed. I have never before tried to force my way with a woman. I had no right.”
Though she yearned to tell him that she shared his needs, she could not find the words. These feelings were still too new, her emotions still too raw.
With great effort he stood and helped her to her feet.
“The goblet.” For the first time she noticed the shattered glass that littered the hearth.
“Leave it. A servant will clean it on the morrow.”
But who would pick up the pieces of her shattered heart?
She chanced another glance at him. His hands were clenched at his sides. His face was grim. “Good night, my lady. You will sleep in my chambers. I will remain here in the sitting chamber.”
“Good night.” She walked to his sleeping chamber. When she closed the door, he was still standing where she had left him. Staring morosely into the flickering flames of the fire.
Chapter Seventeen
The only light that burned in Morgan’s sleeping chamber was the light from the fireplace and from a single candle set in an ornate silver candlestick on a small table. Beside it were a basin and pitcher of water perfumed with rose petals.
The bed hangings had been let down to assure privacy. The coverlets had been turned down for the night. More rose petals had been scattered among the bed linens. Across the foot of the bed an elegant gossamer and lace night s
hift had been carefully laid out.
What was all this? Brenna frowned. So. The servants had already heard. That was why her room had been emptied of all her things, and why Morgan’s room had been so thoughtfully prepared for lovers.
Lovers. She felt the sting of tears and quickly wiped them away. She would not cry over Morgan Grey. He was not worthy of her tears. He did not love her. He had admitted as much. In fact, she thought, struggling with the buttons of her gown, he was probably incapable of loving anyone except himself. He’d been steeped in hatred and bitterness for so long, there was most likely no room left in his heart for love.
Where was Rosamunde? she thought, feeling her temper grow. Had the servants conspired to leave her alone with only Morgan Grey to assist her in undressing? She felt a flush touch her cheeks. Aye. That was exactly what they’d had in mind. They had all retired to their beds early, convinced that the two lovers would prefer to be alone.
Alone. She felt more alone now than she ever had. Her heart tripped over itself each time she was near Morgan. But he was a man who was only capable of hatred and bitterness. She paused. What must it be like to be wed to one who loves another? What pain he must have suffered at the hand of such a callous woman. Quickly she berated herself. Had not her sisters always told her she was too tenderhearted? Soon she would find herself pitying Morgan instead of resenting him.
She undressed quickly and slipped on the night shift. She padded across the room and hung her gown on a peg, then crossed to the bed and snuffed out the candle. Climbing beneath the warm covers, she stared at the flickering flames and was reminded once again of the heat that had flared between her and Morgan. How had she allowed that Englishman to arouse her in such wanton fashion? She had always believed herself strong enough to resist anything. But this man needed only to touch her and some sort of weakness pervaded not only her body but her soul, as well.
He would use her, she cautioned herself. Use her shamelessly, then discard her. The man was incapable of loving anyone.
She stared at the flames until her eyelids fluttered, then closed. Exhausted beyond belief, she slept.
Brenna woke with a start. The fire had burned down to ashes. The room was immersed in darkness. Had she heard a sound? Or had she only dreamed it?
She lay very still, listening. Beyond the balcony she could hear the flutter and chirp of night insects, the rustle of leaves in the trees, the sighing of the wind.
She stiffened. There was the sound again. A door being opened, perhaps? She strained, peering into the blackness. Had it been her door?
She sat up, feeling a chill of apprehension. “Morgan. Is that you?”
For a long moment there was only silence, then the slightest movement, as though someone had stiffened at her words.
“Morgan.” Her words were strained, angry. “I know you are there.”
“Were you hoping for your lover?” There was the stench of ale as the whispered words hung between them.
“Who…?”
“Since you are alone, I would be your lover, too, my lady.”
For a moment she was paralyzed with fear. Then she tried to twist away, but a strong hand caught and held her. Before she could cry out a hand closed over her mouth, cutting off her scream.
She felt the blade of a knife against her throat. “You will do exactly as I say. Do you understand?”
She nodded, unable even to swallow, lest the blade pierce her flesh.
“Good. That is very good, my lady.”
She heard a muted laugh that sent fresh terror through her veins. This was a madman, who would not flinch at the thought of killing her.
Oh, for a dirk at her waist or a sword at her bedside. If she were not a prisoner in this place, she would have a weapon with which to defend herself. But she was rendered helpless.
“Take off your night shift.”
“Please…”
“You have forgotten my first order. I shall have to teach you.”
She felt a sharp pain, then a warmth along her arm. It took her a moment to realize that her attacker had cut her. With a snarl of rage she sank her teeth into his arm and bit down until he howled with pain.
With a savage oath he slapped her once, then again, snapping her head from one side to the other. While she still reeled from the blow, the blade ripped through the delicate fabric of her night shift, slashing it from hem to bodice.
“Now,” he said with a laugh that seemed to grow more shrill with each new act of terror, “I shall teach you my second lesson.”
Shirtless, Morgan sprawled in a chaise pulled up before the fire. The decanter of ale stood on a table beside him. It was his intention to drink the entire contents, if possible. At least then he would be assured of sleep.
The anger he had allowed to fester inside himself for so long seemed nothing compared with the disgust he felt for himself at the moment.
From the first minute he’d seen that cool, haughty Scotswoman, he’d been behaving like a fool. If he were going to be brutally honest with himself, he would have to admit that he dragged her here to England, not to do the queen’s bidding, but because he had not wanted her to spend any more time with the apple-cheeked Hamish MacPherson. He had experienced in those days at her castle his first pangs of jealousy. And he had been too proud to admit it.
In fact, he thought, taking another long swallow of ale, it had been his pride that had been wounded from the first. He had wanted her to fall victim to his charms as most women did. If she had, he realized, he would have used her and discarded her like all the rest. But that damnably regal ice maiden would not behave like all the others. Aye, that was the thorn. She was like no other woman he’d ever met. She fought him when he least expected it. And fought like a soldier, if he would be honest. He loved her strength of will, loved dueling with her, seeing the way her eyes darkened like a summer’s night before a storm. He loved the way she looked, all soft and feminine. Loved the way she constantly surprised him, saying or doing the unexpected. He loved the color of her hair, black as midnight, and her skin, pale as alabaster.
He poured another goblet, then paused, his hand in midair as the thought exploded through him. He loved her. God in heaven. That was the truth. He loved her. It was that simple. His heart contracted. It was that complicated.
But what to do about it? His first marriage had been a mockery of everything holy. It had left him badly scarred. What had Richard said? Aye, Morgan thought with a frown. That he was more a cripple than Richard. ’Twas the truth. And after so long a time, he was no longer certain if he dared to trust again. And after that scene with Brenna in the sitting chamber, he might not get another chance. She was a delicate lady whose sensibilities were no doubt offended by his unbridled passion. He felt another wave of disgust.
He looked up at a sound. A night bird perhaps?
He lifted the goblet to his lips, then paused. There was a sound coming from his sleeping chamber. Was Brenna crying? Dear God. Had she been crying all this time?
He set the goblet on the table and got to his feet. He would not invade her privacy. He had done a thorough job of that earlier. He would merely listen outside the door.
Brenna felt the mattress sag as her attacker leaned over her. In desperation she clutched at the candlestick and brought it crashing against his temple. He swore and snatched it from her hand, sending it rolling across the floor.
One of his hands caught at her hair, pulling her head viciously when she tried to turn away from his lips. Terror rose in her throat as she twisted away, determined to evade his cruel hands.
“No,” she shouted. “You will have to kill me first.”
“So be it.”
She saw the dark shadow of the man loom up in the darkness, the knife poised above his head. With one quick movement she rolled to one side and the knife plunged harmlessly into the pillow where, just moments before, her head had been.
With quick, jerking movements she slid off the bed and raced toward the door. Before she cou
ld pull it open an arm closed around her neck. She was hauled backward against the man’s body while the arm continued to press against her throat, cutting off her air. Though she fought with a strength born of desperation, she could not breathe.
With both hands she clawed at the arm, struggling to break free. But her attacker was too strong for her. She could feel her strength ebbing. Strange lights seemed to dance before her eyes. There was a loud buzzing in her ears. And then, just as she was beginning to lose consciousness, her attacker was suddenly pulled backward. The offending arm loosened its hold on her throat. She fell to the floor, gasping for air.
“God in heaven. Brenna.”
As Morgan’s voice washed over her, light spilled in from the sitting chamber, illuminating her where she lay choking. Blood streamed from the cut on her arm and ran in little rivers, staining the rug beneath her.
In quick strides Morgan was across the room, cradling Brenna in his arms. She clung fiercely to him, fighting the sobs that were wrenched from her bruised, aching throat.
They heard the sound of the outer door slam as the attacker made his escape. As a soldier, Morgan’s first thought was revenge for this brutal attack. But one look at Brenna’s helpless form and all thought of vengeance faded. She needed him. Nothing else mattered.
Seeing the blood Morgan swore savagely, then lifted her tenderly in his arms and carried her to his bed.
“You are wounded.” His face was ravaged as he looked at her. “Oh, what has he done to you, love?”
Love. At his tender endearment she began to cry. And the more she cried, the more concerned Morgan became.
“God in heaven, he hurt you.”
She wiped at her tears, but they would not stop. “It is not deep,” she whispered, touching a hand to the cut on her arm.
“Are there other, deeper wounds? I speak not of cuts and bruises, but of more hateful ways to harm you. Did he—force you, love?”
“Nay. He tried. But you stopped him in time.”
He felt a rush of relief. Burying his face in her hair, he held her close against him and rocked her as tenderly as any infant.
