Sins & Scoundrels Books 1-3: A Regency Romance Series Bundle

by Scarlett Scott

  She did not know why he insisted he did not deserve her or was somehow unworthy, though she suspected it related to the dark days he had spent in captivity. He had yet to share even the slightest crumb of information about that part of his past with her, but she would not press. She would be patient and wait for him to unburden himself, in his own time, in his own manner.

  “You have it,” she promised him, her heart breaking for him. He was so proud and stoic, and she knew now why he had seemed so dangerous to her before she had grown to know him. He was always a solitary figure, forever seeming so alone, so harsh, all rigidity and angles and bleakness. But he was so much more than she had ever supposed. “You have me and my love forever.”

  “Nothing is forever.” An indefinable emotion flitted across his face, but it was gone before she could study it. His countenance was once more unreadable, his jaw hard.

  How beautiful he was, soaked to the skin, on his knees before her, handsome and fervent and hers. One month ago, she had been a maiden. How quickly everything had changed. How quickly she had changed. And she was grateful for those changes, grateful for this man. Grateful to be his.

  “My love is forever,” she promised him, and she meant those words. She meant them with everything in her. “I do not give it lightly. And I have not ever given it to another before you.”

  He did not respond in kind, and neither did she expect him to. This was a man who had made it painfully obvious to her that all he wanted was her body. But she longed for his love. Her feelings for him did not require reciprocation, though her heart certainly hoped for it. She would wait for him, give him all the patience he required.

  “Thank you, darling,” he told her solemnly.

  His hands had lowered to her calves, and he caressed the silk of her stockings, his touch gliding maddeningly upward, beneath her chemise and petticoats, over her knees, past her garters until his bare flesh met hers. A breath hissed from her at the contact, the raw sensation. He had touched her so many times before, but each time felt more potent than the last.

  Wordlessly, he guided her legs apart, and she let him. His thumbs traced slow, wicked circles on her inner thighs. And still, he pushed her skirts higher, all the way to her waist. Until she was nothing but riding boots, stockings, and splayed limbs. Until she was open to him, on display for him, his for the taking.

  “Ah, Leonie.” He trailed his kisses lower, his hands moving over her bare skin, soothing, inciting. His head dipped.

  Her boots skidded over the uneven floorboards. Her thighs fell completely open, and cool air kissed her cunny in the moment before her husband did. His tongue traced her first, licking over her seam, parting her folds, finding the aching bud at her center, and sucking. Her hips bucked. White-hot pleasure seared her.

  “Morgan.” His name left her lips. This time, her fingers found purchase in his thick, wavy locks, sinking into them.

  He licked her, his tongue flitting over her in disparate tempos. Slow and sure, long and fast, hard then soft, quick, a nip of his teeth. “Mmm.” He sucked, then released her, his words spoken into her hungry flesh in yet another form of delicious torture. “So sweet, my Leonie. All of you. Everywhere.”

  Her ability to speak or think vanished. All she could do was feel and surrender to him utterly. His mouth upon her was glorious. She arched toward him, her body leaving the chair, seeking more of him, his pleasure, his sustenance, the release only he could give her. And then, as his mouth worked over her, he sank a finger deep inside her.

  She bucked, taking him deeper.

  “Yes, my darling,” he murmured against her, his tongue flicking over her once more.

  Another finger slid inside her. She was so slick, the wet sounds of him pleasuring her filled the cottage, above the din of the storm outside.

  Leonora’s head fell back, her eyes closing, and she lost herself. Need built within her, tightening into a knot, threatening to break.

  She gave in. Felt her last grip upon her control break free. She reached her pinnacle, tightening around his fingers, thrusting herself shamelessly toward his mouth, seeking, seeking…

  Him.

  Seeking him as if he were all she needed.

  Because he had become that to her, this man she loved. Her husband, the grim, cold stranger. The beautiful, giving lover. He was an enigma, a beautiful mystery, but he was hers, on his knees for her.

  He kissed her inner thigh. “I love watching you spend, Leonie. You take my breath.”

  Just as he took hers. She opened her eyes to find his intense gaze upon her.

  They had the rest of their lives for her to win his heart. And win it, she would.

  *

  “I am wholeheartedly glad to see you managed to weather the storm unscathed, my lord,” Huell Senior greeted Morgan and Leonie at the door upon their return to Westmore Manor.

  “I am not so certain we emerged entirely unscathed,” Leonie said with a secret smile, meeting Morgan’s gaze.

  He could not argue, for it was true. She was wet, her jaunty hat still soaked, her white-gold hair curling in damp tendrils about her beautiful face, her riding habit hopelessly wrinkled and damp, the hem muddied. He was no better, it was certain, in his own wet riding attire. But they had returned from their ride different than they had been when they had left. There was no denying it. Leonie was changing him. Had changed him already.

  And he…he liked it.

  He liked her.

  “I beg your pardon, my lady, were either of you injured?” Huell Senior asked his marchioness.

  “No, but I do thank you for your concern, Huell.” Her cheeks flushing, she tore her gaze from Morgan’s and settled it instead upon the hoary-haired domestic. “I was referring to the cloud that opened up overhead and drowned the both of us. I am certain I must look a fright.”

  “And I am equally certain a lady as lovely as you could never look a fright, even if she emerged dripping from a dip in the River Thames,” Morgan quipped, flirting brazenly with his wife before a domestic and not giving a bloody damn. The boulder had not been removed from his chest, but it felt lighter after the time they had spent together in the old gamekeeper’s cottage.

  A new sensation, strange and bright, laden with possibilities, rose within him.

  It had a name, he thought.

  Hope.

  For the first time in as long as he could recall, he had hope. Perhaps all was not lost for him yet. Yes, perhaps there was a way he could alter his plans. Mayhap he could deliver his vengeance upon the Earl of Rayne in a different fashion than the one he had originally settled upon.

  The smile Leonie sent his way only served to buoy that sensation. He found himself grinning back at her.

  “You flatter me, my lord.” Her tone was sweet and low, and it sent an arrow of heat straight to his groin, which was deuced uncomfortable given he stood in the entry hall of Westmore Manor with his elderly butler as an audience.

  He cleared his throat and attempted to count to twenty in Latin to distract himself.

  Fortunately, Huell Senior dispelled the silence. “I took the liberty of seeing the earl settled in the amber chamber, my lord. He arrived whilst you and her ladyship were off on your ride.”

  The feeling within him froze and withered like a plant beneath the blight of an early winter frost. “I beg your pardon, Huell. Who might be the earl to whom you refer?”

  Huell blinked, a slight furrow creasing his weathered brow. “The Earl of Rayne, my lord, her ladyship’s brother, of course. He did mention he was expected, and weary after a long journey from abroad. Forgive me if I have acted in haste in his placement.”

  The boulder rolled back into place upon his chest, threatening to crush him.

  Rayne was here. Beneath this very roof.

  El Corazón Oscuro.

  “Alessandro?” Leonie asked, her voice ringing with her shock. A shock that matched his. “But how can it be? He is on the Continent.”

  Yes indeed, how could it be? But of co
urse, Morgan knew precisely how. He also knew why. The message he had sent Rayne had reached him. So, too, had the warning, just as he had planned.

  Too soon, he thought. Far too soon.

  The hairs on the back of Morgan’s neck stood on end. His mouth went dry. In a blink, he returned to that horrible day when he had been taken captive by Rayne’s guerrillas. He had been helpless on that day. And helpless on all the days that had come after until he had escaped at last.

  He would not be helpless today.

  A chill settled over him. The boulder was immovable, just as he must be.

  The day of reckoning had arrived.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Morgan paced the length of the Westmore Manor study yet again, irritation surging. His quarry had arrived, and he did not like to be kept waiting. Upon learning of their unexpected guest, Morgan had convinced Leonie to return to her chamber and change from her wet garments. She had reluctantly agreed, though her excitement at the prospect of seeing her brother was evident in her expression.

  He, however, had not bothered to return to his chamber, instead, sending for Rayne and awaiting him in his father’s old study. But though the earl had hunted Morgan down, it would appear he was in no hurry for their confrontation to occur, because he had yet to materialize in the flesh. Leaving Morgan with nothing to do save tramp up and down the faded Aubusson and grit his teeth whilst contemplating storming to the amber chamber and forcing the fox from his den.

  In his next tour of the chamber, he noted a pair of dreary oil paintings depicting the hunt. The former Marquess of Searle had reveled in the sport of killing creatures smaller than himself. Here was one more part of the past that required removal. Morgan would need to replace the carpets and the wallcoverings. Even the desk, an ornate French affair, could go.

  He had no wish for reminders of the man who had sired him. What he did wish for, was the opportunity to face Rayne. He had planned this moment so meticulously, but now that it had at last arrived, he felt oddly uncertain of how to proceed, what he would say first. Indeed, he felt…numb.

  Because when he had first begun to lay the foundation for his revenge, he had never guessed the day would come when he would develop tender feelings for his wife, the woman who was meant to be his instrument of vengeance and nothing more. He had never even imagined Leonie would become so precious to him, nor that she would be so giving and beautiful and sweet.

  He had never supposed she would fall in love with him.

  Christ, what a mess he had made for himself.

  A hell of his own making.

  “Searle.”

  He spun about at the low, accented voice, the same voice that visited him occasionally in nightmares. There stood his nemesis, the Earl of Rayne. Dark-haired, dark-eyed, and soulless, his face an expressionless mask.

  “We meet again, El Corazón Oscuro,” he bit out grimly.

  Rayne bared his teeth, but the snarl on his lips could hardly be called a smile. “Where the hell is my sister?”

  His façade had slipped, and Morgan saw beneath it clearly. The earl was furious. A violent surge of satisfaction tore through him. “Do you refer to my marchioness, Rayne?”

  The earl’s jaw tightened as he stalked forward, fists clenched. Rayne was a large man, and Morgan knew the violence he was capable of, having seen him in action on the Peninsula. But Morgan matched him in size and viciousness. He stood his ground, unafraid.

  “What have you done to her, cerdo inglés?” Rayne demanded.

  English pig, he had called him. Morgan might remind the earl he, too, was half-English. But here was further evidence of how shaken the earl was, allowing his anger and his concern for Leonie—his only vulnerabilities—to show.

  Morgan grinned. “Have you traveled all this way just to wish us happy? What a loving brother you are, my lord. Or shall I call you Brother now that we are family?”

  “You had no right to include Leonora in this,” Rayne spat.

  “The Marchioness of Searle, I believe you meant to say.” He could not resist the jibe. “She is mine now, after all. I took great pleasure in making certain of that.”

  A dull, angry flush crept over Rayne’s face. “If you have hurt her, I will skin you alive, and then I will feed your mangled carcass to my swine.”

  “Your threats mean nothing to me,” he countered, fairly vibrating with a rage of his own. “I am the dangerous one here on English soil, not you.”

  “It was you who had me removed from my post, was it not?” His accent grew even more pronounced.

  Ah, victory. It did not feel as satisfying as he had supposed it would, but here, at last, was his opportunity to gloat. To know he alone had the upper hand. All the power.

  “Did you truly believe I would not notify our superiors of your failure after I learned your true identity?” he countered.

  “I am surprised you learned my identity at all, Searle.” Rayne sneered. “You were always rather estúpido, no? Dull-witted.”

  Despite being the heir to an English earldom, Rayne had spent much of his life in his mother’s homeland, and it showed in his speech. Morgan had conducted his research well, and he knew the strained relationship Rayne had shared with the former earl. He also knew Rayne had allowed his estates to be managed in his absence by an inept steward who was perhaps even swindling him, and that the entail was suffering badly. But above all, he knew Rayne’s infrequent trips back to English shores had been for the sole purpose of seeing to his sister’s wellbeing, the one duty in England which meant enough to him to force his return.

  Leonie.

  And that was where Morgan had decided to strike first.

  “If I am stupid, what does that make you, Rayne?” Morgan countered coldly. “You jeopardized an entire mission by having me taken captive by your own forces.”

  At the time of his capture, Morgan had been leading a network of spies throughout the Peninsula. His mission on the day of his capture by Rayne’s guerrillas had been to make his way behind enemy forces and ascertain their movements and positioning. Because of the danger of capture and the secretive nature of his mission, he had not been told who he was meeting in the Spanish countryside, only that his contact would appear following his and Crispin’s meeting with El Corazón Oscuro.

  “My men were meant to take you captive,” Rayne countered. “I do not suppose Chapin told you that, did the spineless weasel?”

  This information gave him pause. “Chapin told me nothing. I uncovered the information on my own. I know you were meant to escort me to the rendezvous point that day. But instead, in some foolish show of force, you had your men take me prisoner.”

  “It was not a show of force. I am feared enough without needing to take one English lord prisoner.” Rayne’s expression turned mocking. “I was carrying out orders. My men were to take you behind French lines.”

  Morgan thought of the cutthroats who had taken him captive. They had fought back against the French soldiers. Two of them had been killed, the others taken captive along with him. He had never seen them again. It had never occurred to him Rayne had acted in accordance with orders.

  But there was also the very real—indeed, likely—possibility Rayne was lying to him now in order to allay the repercussions of his actions. Even if Chapin had somehow misled him about the true nature of the mission, however, the fact remained that Rayne’s men had failed. And Morgan had been taken prisoner, tortured, and would have swung on the gallows if not for his desperate escape.

  One man and one man alone had sent Morgan to what would have been his bloody, vicious death. One man was responsible for the scars on his back, the demons in his blood, the rage in his soul. And that man was the Earl of Rayne. That man deserved the retribution Morgan would feed him. That man deserved to know suffering, agony, and guilt.

  “I do not give one good bloody goddamn what your orders were that day,” he growled, a fresh tide of anger swelling within him. “You are responsible for what they did to me, and you must pay
for your sins.”

  “If I must pay for my sins, then why the hell did you marry my sister?” Rayne growled.

  He thought of the beatings, the lash of the whip upon his flesh, the smell of his own flesh burning, bitter and acrid. Of his fingers clawing through the soil, tunneling himself free, the darkness and the terror, the fear his tunnel would collapse, burying him alive, the realization spending his last moments breathing in dirt would be better than enduring another day of torment.

  “So I could destroy you,” Morgan answered with grim and brutal honesty. “If I make her miserable, her misery will be your misery. I will keep you from seeing her and any offspring we have together. She is completely in my control now, and you have no rights where she is concerned. I will do everything in my power to make certain you have no contact with her for the rest of your life. I want nothing more than your suffering. I was tortured and nearly killed by the French because of you, and if I must sacrifice your sister to bring you low, so help me God, I will.”

  A gasp tore through the chamber in the silence following his impassioned decree. Not his own, but female.

  Familiar.

  This time, the boulder crushed him as he met the gaze of his wife, who stood on the threshold of the study, freshly changed in a sprigged muslin afternoon gown that was as pale as her lovely face.

  She had overheard his exchange with Rayne. He knew not how much, but he knew it was enough. Jesus, the hurt in her eyes. The accusation, the disbelief. It made him ill.

  “Leonie,” he said, moving toward her instinctively. He needed to explain. The words he had spoken had been meant for her brother. Not for her. Never for her. “It is not precisely as it seems.”

  She held up a staying hand. “No. Do not come any nearer to me, Searle. I demand an explanation.”

  “The explanation is simple, hermanita,” Rayne said before Morgan could begin. “He married you to have his revenge upon me.”

  *

  Leonora felt as if she had received a blow to her midsection. As if all the air had been knocked from her lungs. She felt, for one sickening moment, the same way she had years ago as a girl during her fall from the banister at Marchmont Hall. Plummeting, the realization she could not save herself, the inevitable end awaiting her with all its horrible pain…the knowledge later, when she had wakened with the splint on her leg, knowing she would never again be the same. But now, she was more broken this time than she had been after that fall.