Whisper To Me of Love (28 page)

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Authors: Shirlee Busbee

BOOK: Whisper To Me of Love
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The now fashionably cut black curls framing her beautiful face, Morgana was wearing an enchanting gown of lavender muslin, a copy of Lord Bryon's
The Corsair,
which had been published the previous year, lying open on her lap.
To his great irritation, Royce was uneasily aware of the sudden leap in his pulse that the mere sight of her caused, and his voice and words were harsher than he intended as he said without preamble, “I've found you your bloody house! It is located in Tunbridge Wells, and if all goes well, we shall remove there on Friday.” A dangerous glitter in the golden brown eyes, he smiled insultingly as his gaze raked her up and down. “And after our arrival, I trust that before too many hours pass, I'll be able to judge for myself if you're worth the fortune you're costing me!”
In stunned silence, Morgana stared up into his dark face, a myriad of confused thoughts tumbling through her brain. She had seen so little of him since that afternoon in his office that just his presence here in her rooms was startling. Both longing and dreading for him to come to her, she hungrily drank in the sight of his tall, lean body, his arrogant face, dark and forbidding against the white cravat at his throat. As she watched him stride confidently across the room toward her, her gaze paused obsessively on the full bottom lip of that wickedly attractive mouth, and a flutter, part fright, part delight, in the pit of her stomach reminded her forcibly that this man held her fate in his hands ... because she loved him! And because she loved him, he all-unknowingly wielded great power over her—power that she would never admit to him, power that she hated. She had barely grappled with the conflicting turmoil of emotion his appearance created within her when he had hurled those ugly words at her. Pride coming to her rescue, she tilted her chin haughtily and, determined to meet his cool arrogance with some of her own, said brashly, “Perhaps you should worry first that I approve of my bloody house! I am, after all, the one who must be satisfied!”
To say which of them was the most astonished by her words would have been impossible. Royce's face tightened, and appalled with herself, Morgana could not quite believe that she had actually said such an outrageous thing. It ranked right up there with the hasty demands that had gotten her in this position in the first place, and she cursed her unruly tongue. But she wouldn't back down; she had gone too far along this path she unwillingly trod to retreat now, and with a stubborn look on her features, she faced him defiantly.
Royce took a deep breath and regarded her hostilely. “Oh, I don't think there will be any doubt of your liking it,” he sneered. “Although there is a possibility that you may find it a bit too elegant and refined for your liking—it is, for your information, one of the former properties of a Duke. And even if he is a gambler and fool enough to sell it to finance his losses at the faro table, he is a man of excellent birth and breeding—something that can't be said about a little guttersnipe like you!”
There was a wealth of insult in his last words, and infuriated by both his manner and his remarks, Morgana sprang to her feet, her hand flashing to strike his dark face before either of them knew what was happening. The ringing sound of her palm connecting solidly with his cheek seemed to echo in the dangerous stillness that suddenly filled the room.
His eyes glittering with a golden fire, Royce caught her shoulders in an iron grasp and jerked her up next to him. “By God, it only needed
that!”
His mouth came down punishingly on hers and there was no gentleness in him as he forced her lips apart, compelling her to accept the hungry ravishment of his tongue. He meant to hurt her, meant to punish her for not only the violent turmoil she created within him, but also for possessing the rapacious greed of a whore, but ... ah, Jesus, it was sweet to have her in his arms again, so incredibly gratifying to feel her slim body next to his, to fully taste the honied warmth of her mouth once more. Compulsively he kissed her, wanting desperately to make her suffer for what she was doing to him, for turning his life upside-down, for evoking confusing emotions he did
not
want to feel, but against his will, the fury eased, only to be instantly replaced with a powerful, implacable desire.
The moment Royce had laid hands on her, Morgana had stiffened, and she had begun to struggle to escape even before his mouth came down so brutally on hers. Equally enraged, she had fought him, wanting to hurt him as he was hurting her, her fists striking viciously about his broad shoulders and tawny head as she had tried furiously to escape from his intentionally bruising kiss. But it was to no avail as ruthlessly he took what he wanted, her lips parting helplessly beneath the fierce onslaught of his. The blood thudding violently in her temples, she battled to break away from him, to escape from the insulting heartlessness of his kiss, but he easily captured her flailing arms and crushed her even closer to the hard wall of his body.
Blind fury at her helplessness burst through her, and in that moment, she actually hated him. How
dare
he treat her this way! And yet, even as that thought flashed through her mind, she was dimly aware of a subtle change within him. There was still no escape, he still held her clamped tightly against him, and his lips and tongue still ravaged her mouth, but there was something different in the way he embraced her.... The sudden swell of his manhood against her belly was stunning, and a new, wildly potent emotion, still fierce but having
nothing
to do with anger, erupted between them. Locked relentlessly in his hungry embrace, his urgent arousal boldly evident, it wasn't surprising that the memory of his naked body thrusting deeply into hers washed over Morgana, making her cling where once she had fought so wildly to escape. Instinctively she responded to the difference in him, her body pressing against his, her lips softening, almost hesitantly seeking the further plunder of his tongue.
A primitive desire, not untouched by the fury that had racked Royce and Morgana both only a second before, swept them relentlessly onward as Royce's hands impatiently found her soft breast, his fingers cupping and teasing their slight shape, creating a savage flood of wanting within Morgana. She trembled, her breasts tight and throbbing under his touch, her loins contracting almost painfully with the blunt force of the hunger that knotted and clawed in her belly. He had awakened her to passion, and her slim body now knew the meaning of that frantic, pulsating ache that grew deep within her, knew that the ache would only grow until it overshadowed everything but the wholly elemental need to have him possess her.
Consumed by the same inexorable emotions that gripped Morgana, Royce lost control, and with a muffled oath, he swung her up in his arms and blindly found his way to her bedchamber. Following her body down onto the silken coverlet, he hurriedly swept her clothing aside, his fingers feverishly seeking the sweet heat between her pale thighs, his own body aching and eager to take hers.
At his probing touch, Morgana moaned, her hips surging upward against his hands, clearly revealing her own helpless arousal. His heart pounding wildly, barely aware of his actions, Royce tore open his breeches and, with an animalistic exclamation of pleasure, in one frenzied movement buried himself deeply within her. Passionately he kissed her, his big body driving urgently time and again into the eagerly receptive heat of hers, the intensely erotic sensation of flesh sliding silkily against flesh hurtling them both almost instantly into rampant ecstasy.
For a long time afterward, they lay locked together on the crumpled coverlet, Morgana stunned and ashamed that such a wantonly violent act could have given her such undreamed-of pleasure. Could that wild creature thrashing and moaning beneath Royce have been herself? Could one go from such intense anger and rage to such intoxicating oblivion so swiftly? Her body ached and tingled from his ungentle taking, and to her everlasting mortification, she could not deny that she had actually taken pleasure in their fierce lovemaking.
With a start, she felt Royce move away from her, and highly embarrassed and shocked by not only what had just transpired between them but also the licentious picture she must make with her skirts tossed up about her shoulders, her thighs still half-splayed from locking him to her, she sat up quickly. A hot flush stained her face and there was a distinct tremble to her hands as she hastily arranged her rumpled skirts into some semblance of order. Unable to meet his gaze, she kept her face averted from him, her eyes fixed dully on the satin coverlet of the bed.
Silently Royce regarded her delicate profile, the haughty little nose and stubborn chin, for once at an utter loss for words. Nothing like this had ever happened to him before, and he was staggered and unnerved by his almost savage actions, by the uncontrollable passion that had obliterated every thought from his mind, but the compelling need to possess her. He had never treated a woman as he had just treated her—there had always been a lazy sensuality about his lovemaking, an unhurried appreciation of the love act, not this, this wild, almost frenzied compulsion to brand her with his body. It was as if, by possessing her, he could lose the demons that rode him, that in those moments of burning ecstasy, when his body merged with hers, he could forget what lay between them, purge from his mind the knowledge that it was only greed that gave him command over her body... .
His mouth tightened. And what the bloody hell was it he wanted from her? he wondered acidly. Love? A bitter smile twisted his mouth. Jesus! She must have bewitched him entirely if he could think something like that! Disgusted with himself, furious and confused by his own emotions, Royce glanced at her almost with hatred and said coldly, “I suppose that this little incident is going to cost me something more than just a mere trinket to show my appreciation of that lovely little body of yours.”
There were many things that Morgana could have expected him to say, but that hadn't been one of them. She was so enraged by his words that momentarily she forgot the role she had chosen. A wrathful glitter in the stormy gray eyes, her breasts swelling angrily beneath the lavender muslin, Morgana glared at him. “Get the hell out of my room, you cold-blooded bastard! Haven't you humiliated me enough? Must you add to it?”
For a long moment he stared at her, taking in the bright, furious eyes and the angry flush on her cheeks. She looked magnificent, her mouth still rosy and slightly swollen from his kisses, the silky black locks disarrayed by his lovemaking curling in wild disorder about her face, reminding him forcibly of the little street urchin he had first brought home. His chest tightened uncomfortably, a powerful emotion knifing sharply through him. A pang of regret? Or something else? Some deeper emotion? Whatever it was, he knew he didn't want to leave her like this, and almost without volition, his fingers touched her cheek gently. “I apologize,” he said softly, his eyes searching hers intently as if the answer to some great puzzle could be found in their clear gray depths.
His apology astonished her, and dumbly she stared back at him, not certain what to say or do, her eyes meeting his with the same intensity with which he gazed into hers. She could tell nothing from those tiger's eyes, their expression shuttered and hidden from her, and she wondered resentfully how she could have been such a fool to fall in love with him—more important, how she could have been such a blind,
bloody
fool to let herself become his mistress. Hadn't her mother's bitterly sad ending taught her anything? Anything at all? Angry with herself, bewildered and ashamed by her uninhibited response to him, Morgana tore her gaze away from his. “It doesn't matter—
that's
why I'm here, isn't it?” There was the furious glitter of tears in her eyes as she swung back to stare at him. A brittle smile on her soft mouth, she added, “What does anything matter? I was born a pawn! First the one-eyed man's thief and now your whore!”
Her statement hit him with the force of a blow, and a queer combination of rage and pain balled in his chest. There was nothing he could say; he could not refute what she said, there was too much truth in it, and yet ... and yet he was almost sick with rage to hear her say those ugly words. His fingers dropped from her cheek, and his eyes cold and bleak, he said harshly, “At least I will not keep you in some damned hovel living like a half-wild animal, or put you in danger of Newgate and a hanging on Tyburn ... nor,” he added with a steely thread in his voice, “will I
ever
allow you to escape me.”
There were no other words between them, both of them prey to so many violently conflicting emotions that it was almost with relief that they parted. Morgana threw herself facedown on the satin coverlet the instant he disappeared from view. There were no tears from her, though; she was too confused, too angry, to cry. She could only lie there and curse with great facility a fate that had allowed her to ever cross his path.
Royce did a great deal of cursing at fate also, and it can't be said that his swearing was any less colorful or imaginative than Morgana's—he just did it longer. Even that night as he lay wide-awake in his bed, he was still cursing himself, Morgana, fate—any disagreeable thing he could conjure up. It didn't help, as he had known it wouldn't, and as the hours passed, he finally admitted that whatever he felt for Morgana Fowler—and he wasn't about to put a name on it—that emotion was so deeply embedded within him that he doubted he'd ever be able to tear it from him.
In the distance Royce heard a clock strike four, and sleep was finally beginning to steal over him when there was a sound nearby that had him stiffening in his bed, every nerve in his body suddenly alert. Vainly his gaze tried to pierce the darkness, and not moving a muscle, he listened carefully, attempting to find the source of the sound that had disturbed him. It came again, a faint click and the soft hush of his bedroom door shutting. But had someone entered or left? Instinct told him that someone had entered the room, was in fact
still in the room,
and every nerve in his big body told him that whoever it was, whoever stood there hidden in darkness, had not come here for any good deed.

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