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
1 he 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 shift 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 bee
n 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 could 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.
"Thank God. If he had harmed you..."
She felt the shudders that passed through him. Wonder of wonders,
could it be that Morgan Grey was as frightened as she had been?
When he had composed himself he drew the coverings over her nakedness
and crossed to the fireplace, where he added kindling and a log to the
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