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 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 anymore 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 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 hot coals. Within minutes a crackling fire blazed on the hearth.
He held a taper to the candle beside the bed, then bent to examine her wound. “Though the blood still oozes, it should not cause you any great pain.”
“I have the satisfaction that my attacker also suffers pain,” she hissed.
“You wounded him? But how, love?”
Her eyes blazed. “Aye. With my teeth, which I sank into is arm. With my fingernails, that raked his chest until he bled. With a candlestick against the side of his head. I have left my mark upon him. He will not escape detection.”
Morgan lifted his head and studied her for a moment, then threw back his head and roared. “Forgive me, my regal ice maiden. I believe you. We shall find him. Even if we have to examine the arms, chest and head of every man in England.
“If I had been allowed to have a weapon,” she said through gritted teeth, “he would now be lying in a pool of his own blood.”
He regarded her a moment. “From this night on you shall have your weapon.”
Her eyes widened. “Do you mean it?”
“Aye.” He lifted her hand to his lips. In his eyes was a look she had never seen before. “I will never again leave you helpless, Brenna.”
He left the room for a moment and Brenna felt the tremors begin again. When he stepped through the doorway he saw the fear in her eyes.
“Forgive me. I should not have left you alone.” He rushed to her and drew her into his arms, holding her until the tremors subsided. “But I wanted you to have this.”
He handed her a knife. The hilt was dull gold, set with precious rubies and diamonds that winked in the firelight. Brenna ran her hand along the blade. It had been honed into a razor’s edge.
“It was my father’s. I have carried it since I was a lad.”
“How do you know I will not use it on you, my lord?”
“There may be times when I deserve it. But I pray that you will give me another chance to earn your respect.” He pressed the knife into her hands. “Keep it on your person always.”
At the solemn look in his eyes she nodded. “Aye, my lord. Always. You can be assured of that.”
He dipped a linen square in the basin of water and began to wash away the blood. As he did he found himself marveling at the perfection of her body. Though Brenna had recoiled from her attacker, she lay very still, secure in the knowledge that Morgan would never take advantage of her vulnerability.
The gentle touch of his hand upon her was nearly her undoing. She lay very still, her eyes closed, allowing his tender ministrations to soothe away her pain and fear.
When the blood was removed, he tied a clean linen strip around the cut on her arm. Then he drew the coverings over her and started to stand. Instantly she reached out and caught his hands.
“Do not leave me.”
He saw the way she struggled with her fears. “Do not worry, Brenna. I will not leave you. I will be in the sitting chamber.”
“No. Please. Stay here beside me.”
God in heaven. He wondered if she knew what she was asking of him. To be so close to her and not touch her would be the most terrible of torments for him.
Still, he could see the need in her eyes, in the way her fingers clutched at him.
“Aye. If that is what you need.”
“I could not bear to be alone tonight. As long as you are with me, I will be safe.”
A few short hours ago she would not have said as much.
He pried off his boots and stretched out on the bed beside her. Being careful to keep the coverings between them, he took her hand in his.
“Hold me, Morgan.”
He groaned inwardly. With all the tenderness he could manage he drew her into the circle of his arms. This was the sweetest of tortures. It would take all the willpower he possessed to lie beside her until morning and merely hold her.
She sighed softly. Despite the bed linens he could feel the way her breasts pressed against his chest. He was achingly aware of her thighs, just beneath the thin covering, pressed firmly to his.
“Sleep, little one,” he murmured against her temple.
“You will not leave me?”
“I give you my word.”
She closed her eyes. He felt the wild fluttering of her heart and drew her closer, as if to share his strength.
After what seemed hours her breathing became soft and easy. Her fingers loosened their death grip on his arms. She escaped into blessed sleep.
~ ~ ~
Morgan shifted and drew the covers over Brenna as gently as possible so as not to disturb her rest. He watched her as she fought the demons that pursued her even in sleep.
He had demons of his own to fight.
The woman who lay nestled against his chest was so soft, so inviting. A shaft of moonlight poured through the balcony window, bathing her in a soft golden glow. Her dark hair spilled across his arm, a stark contrast to the snowy bed linens. He bent his face to her and breathed in the fragrance of roses. The perfume of roses was everywhere—on the fresh breeze that wafted from the rose garden; in the water that he’d used to bathe her wounds; even mingled with the linens on which they lay.
He felt her suddenly stiffen in his arms and knew that the bad dream was upon her again. He watched as her fingers tightened on his arm. Her eyelids fluttered. Her lips moved in a soundless protest.
He pressed his lips to her temple and felt himself overflowing with love for her. If only he could, he would absorb all her pain, all her fears. How bravely she had fought her attacker. He thought of the first time he had seen her, facing down hundreds of English swordsmen with that cool, haughty demeanor. By the gods, she was magnificent. She could wilt her enemy with a single look. Yet she was the most tenderhearted woman he had ever met.
He watched as her breathing grew softer once more. Her fingers entwined with his. She slept as peacefully as a baby. But even then he did not relax his silent, watchful vigil.
~ ~ ~
Brenna lay very still, feeling disoriented. A man’s arm was around her, pinning her to him. For a fraction of a second she was gripped by fear. The attacker. Had he come back to finish what he had started? Then she remembered Morgan’s promise. He would stay with her and keep her safe.
Her lids flickered, then opened quickly. Morgan’s dark eyes stared into hers. She wondered how long he had been watching her. It was a strange sensation to be lying so close to him.
She let out a long, deep sigh. “I knew you would be here.”
He loved the way her voice sounded, breathless and still touched with sleep. “Did you?”
“Aye.”
She smiled at him and he felt his heart leap to his throat.
She moved slightly until she lay facing him. The bed linens shifted, revealing the shadowed cleft between her breasts. It was impossible for Morgan to forget that she was naked beneath the covers.
He was wearing neither shirt nor tunic. She had probably noticed that after the attack of the intruder, but in the panic of the moment it had not registered. Now she could not take her gaze from him. How wide his shoulders. How massive his hair-roughened chest.
“Have you slept at all?”
He shook his head.
“But I did not mean to rob you of your sleep, my lord.”
“I would rather watch you. Besides, it is enough to know that you are resting.”
“How long have I slept?”
“An hour or more.”
“I feel as rested as though I have slept the night away.”
“There are many hours until dawn, my lady. You need have no fear. I will not leave you while you sleep.”
Her voice lowered seductively. “I have no need of sleep now.”
He heard the new inflection in her voice and felt himself tense. “Would you have me leave?”
Her hand closed over his. “Nay, my lord.”
Morgan’s eyes narrowed. Never before had the lady behaved in such a teasing manner. Could it be that he misread her meaning?
“If you do not plan to sleep, I must not stay.”
“I want you to stay with me.” Her hand slid along his arm. How different was a man’s arm, with silken hair and corded muscles that rippled beneath her touch.
His tone roughened. “You ask too much of me, Brenna. I am a man, not a saint. How long do you think I can lie here beside you and not touch you?”
Her throat went dry. She touched her tongue to her lips. He watched the movement and had to fight the desire to bend his lips to hers.
“Then touch me, my lord.”
For a moment he could not believe what he’d heard. His eyes flashed. “I do not jest, my lady.”
“Nor do I.”
He caught her chin in his hand and forced her to meet his direct gaze. “You have only just awakened. Perhaps you are confused.”
“I am not confused.”
“Then you are grateful that I saved you from your attacker. Do not mistake gratitude for some other, deeper emotion, Brenna.”
“It is not gratitude I feel.” She held herself very still, as if terrified of her sudden boldness.
He kept his tone deliberately stern, in order to ruffle her composure. “If I touch you, it will not end as it did before. I have not the strength to walk away again. I intend to make love with you, Brenna, the way a man loves a woman. And I will want you to make love with me, as well.”
“That—is what I want, my lord.”
Her gaze never left his. He expected to see fear, or at least hesitation. But what he saw was a look of cool determination. And the first soft stirrings of desire.