With This Kiss (16 page)

She had never visited Morgan’s bedchamber before. That had not stopped her from forming an opinion as to what she might find inside, however. She expected to see a masculine version of her own opulent chamber, replete with satin drapery, lush carpets, magnificent oil paintings, and an exquisite suite of expensive furniture. Instead she stepped into a large room that was almost medicinal in its starkness. A bank of tall windows flooded the space with light. In the center of the chamber stood a tall four-poster that had been dressed in crisp linen sheets and plump feather pillows. A simple chest of drawers occupied one corner. There were no rugs, but the oak floors had been polished to a high sheen. Glancing around, she saw no personal belongings whatever. The only soft touch was the sheer muslin curtains that hung limply in the midday heat.

Morgan stood with his back to her, peering into a small mirror as he dragged a razor blade across his chin. The shallow puddles that surrounded a large tin tub told her that he had just emerged from his bath. His dark hair clung in sleek, wet waves to his scalp. His feet were bare, as was his back. Judging from the way his pants hung loosely about his hips, they were still unfastened.

“I hope you didn’t trouble yourself boiling hot water this morning,” he called over his shoulder. “I certainly didn’t need it in this heat.”

Julia hesitated. “No, I wouldn’t think so.”

The long, steady strokes of Morgan’s razor halted in midair. After a moment he set the blade upon a nearby washstand. Moving his hands to the front of his trousers, he made a motion that could only be interpreted as buttoning his fly. Then he turned to face her. His cool gray eyes offered neither welcome nor warmth. “I was expecting my valet.”

Heat suffused her cheeks. “So I gathered.” Her gaze skimmed briefly over his chest, focusing on a thin, reddened scar that looked relatively new. A knife wound, she realized, immediately attributing it to their recent altercation. “I didn’t realize you had been hurt,” she said.

“It’s nothing,” he replied. “Another beauty mark. Imagine how the women would be swooning over me if I wasn’t already taken.”

Although there was no doubt he meant the remark sarcastically, Julia couldn’t help but wonder if there wasn’t some truth to it. Morgan’s body had been deeply scarred; there was no denying that. His back and shoulders, hands and arms, had been brutally ravaged, profoundly damaged by the flames. Yet the dark bronze beauty of his chest remained undisturbed. The incongruity was strangely compelling. Darkness and light. What he was now and what he had been. The rake and the Beast.

Moreover, Morgan St. James radiated a wealth of virility and strength. His muscles were lean and long, giving an athletic grace to his movements. Generations of nobility were bred into his chiseled features. His gaze smoldered with heat and purpose. Despite the havoc the fire had wreaked upon his body, the man exuded a raw masculine beauty that was utterly captivating.

Abruptly realizing that her husband had been politely enduring her penetrating inspection, Julia quickly returned her gaze to his. Lost in the awkwardness of the moment, but determined to say something optimistic, she observed, “They say life leaves its mark on us all.”

He folded his arms across his chest and regarded her levelly. “Yes. In my case, however, I had hoped it might leave a less indelible impression.”

“You’re still a very attractive man.”

A tight smile twisted his lips. “Love is blind.” That said, he lifted his razor and resumed his task of shaving.

Julia noticed a streak of soapy film on his left shoulder blade. She moved to the washstand, removed a clean cloth, and immersed it in a basin of tepid water. Without thinking the matter through, she pressed the cloth against Morgan’s shoulder, gently removing the soapy residue from his skin. His muscles instantly tensed beneath her touch.

He set down his razor and turned to face her once again. “May I ask what you’re doing?”

Embarrassed by her action, she lifted her shoulders in what she hoped would be interpreted as a shrug of cool nonchalance. “It will itch unmercifully if you don’t remove the soap properly.”

“Fascinating, if only I had known. All this time I thought it itched because the flesh had been burned from my bones.”

“My apologies. I was simply trying to help.”

“If I find myself in need of a nursemaid, I shall hire one. I have other uses in mind for my wife.”

“Indeed,” she concurred briskly. “Whom would you heap your abuse upon if I were not here?”

“My servants have become quite adept at that task.”

“I imagine so. Years of practice, no doubt.”

A ghost of a smile flashed across his face. “No doubt.” His smile slowly faded as a look of somber intensity entered his eyes. “As there obviously appears to be some confusion on the matter, I wonder if I should further define the uses I have in mind for my wife.”

Julia felt a flush of heat that had nothing to do with the weather. “I can assure you that’s entirely unnecessary. You’ve made your wishes abundantly clear in that area.”

“I’m delighted to hear it.”

There was a firmness to his tone that was unmistakable, a hard edge running just beneath the surface. Her gaze moved to his body once again. A shudder of nervous apprehension tore through her as she studied his sinewy strength and unyielding masculinity. She swallowed hard, willing herself not to show her fear. But Morgan’s body was so totally foreign to her own — so much larger and more powerful in every way. Even if she willingly complied with his demands, how could their encounter not be one of sheer dominance on his part? The thought was not a pleasant one. She returned her gaze to his face just in time to see a muscle leap to life along his jawline.

“I sincerely regret it,” he said tightly, “but this is the best I can do.”

She blinked at him in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve tried all the cures, princess. Packs of mud, herb balms, holy water, vinegar solutions. One esteemed physician — whom I shall have the grace to allow to remain nameless — swore that bathing in a foul concoction of milk and cat urine would restore the youthful luster to my skin. As you can see, none of it worked.”

Her eyes moved over his ravaged skin. Gathering her courage, she quietly asked, “What was it like?”

“Bearable.”

She regarded him in silence for a long moment. “That sounds very polite, and very untrue.”

“It pacifies most people who ask.”

“Does it?”

“Yes.”

She turned her attention to the washcloth she held in her hands, absently twisting it between her fingers. “I don’t want to pry.”

“But you will anyway.”

“I would like for us to be able to speak frankly to one another, without fear of reprimands or reprisals. If that is too much to ask, however—”

He gave a beleaguered sigh and replied flatly, “Apparently the smoke didn’t weaken my lungs.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’m told my screams could be heard all the way to Newcastle.” He leaned one broad shoulder against the window casing, regarding her with a look of cool detachment. “Is that what you wanted to hear?”

Julia hesitated. She knew she was asking too much, wanting him to share a memory that was so intensely personal. But the fire was part of him — a central part. Her need to know what he had gone through went beyond mere prying. That understanding seemed central to their relationship, critical to building their future together. She was also aware, however, that to him her rationale would sound undeniably selfish, nothing but a convenient excuse to satisfy her curiosity. So in the end all she did was nod. “Yes.”

“Very well.” He shifted slightly, folding his arms across his chest. “You were right. It wasn’t bearable at all. It was unending, unendurable. The worst of it was the isolation. Weeks on end, lying alone in my bed, wracked by pain so intense, there were days I thought I might lose my mind. Yet it was worse when someone entered the room. The faintest disturbance of air seemed to whip my skin raw. Perhaps it was just the suspense that made it feel that way. For I knew if someone was in the room, they would want to touch me. To change my bandages or apply a salve. That was an agony all its own.”

His tone was flat and dry, as though the memories he shared belonged to someone else.

“I remember experiencing an unendurable longing to ride, to leap on my mount and race through the cool, dark streets of London, shrouded in a soothing mist of early morning fog. That longing was particularly strong later in my recovery, when my physician allowed me visitors. I suspect my friends meant well, but they were never quite able to hide their pity and horror when they looked at me. After one of their well-meaning visits, I would wallow for days in shame and rage. In the end it was easier to bar everyone entirely.”

Julia struggled to find her voice. “What pulled you through it?”

“Prayer,” he replied succinctly. At her nod of understanding, a wry grin curved his lips. “Not the kind of prayer you’re thinking of, I’m afraid. As I was convinced God had turned his back on me, I turned my back on Him. I tried to strike a deal with the devil instead. My eternal soul in return for his turning time back just twenty-four hours before the fire. That’s all I wanted. A mere twenty-four hours to have that day and live it all over again.”

She lowered her gaze, appalled at the casual blasphemy.

“I thought it a very blackened, depraved soul. A fit bargain in every way. But the devil must have reckoned me beneath his notice, for he never showed his heathen face. In the end I despaired of ever being heard at all.” He hesitated for a long moment, and then said, “Yet I was. Someone was listening to my lurid ranting — although I can’t imagine why.”

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

“A traveling minister came to my room at my lowest moment. I could feel my strength draining away and remember being vaguely relieved. I knew I could simply let go and it would all be over. I wouldn’t have to fight any longer. I was falling in and out of a troubled sleep, contemplating death. That was when he appeared at the foot of my bed. My servants must have announced him, but when I questioned them later, none remembered doing so. I have no idea of his name, merely the memory of a fair-haired man wearing the collar of a cleric. We talked, and he brought me a strange sense of peace. When he left, I was committed to live. I felt there was still purpose in my life. You may question my sanity, but he was there. He was real.”

Julia felt a shiver run down her spine. “I sometimes think angels come into our lives just when we need them most.”

Morgan must have felt he had revealed too much, for he took a step back, moving away from her physically as well as emotionally. They had enjoyed a momentary truce of sorts, but apparently it was over. “I thought that was your role, princess,” he said.

“I’m no angel.”

“No? Society’s ultimate redeemer,” he intoned dramatically, “out to save all of London. The whores, the thieves, the orphans, the poor and downtrodden. So pure you should have wings. In fact, I find myself constantly searching for a trail of downy feathers in your wake.” He paused, a sardonic smile curving his lips. “But I never do. Neatness must be one of your virtues as well.”

“Must you make a joke of everything?” she asked tightly.

He shrugged. “After the fire I was furious with the world, beside myself with rage. When that subsided, I wallowed in self-pity. That was even more disgusting. Morbid humor is infinitely preferable, don’t you think?”

Julia said nothing, watching as he lifted a shirt of finely woven white lawn and shrugged it on. Next he slipped on his socks, then stepped into a pair of beautifully crafted leather riding boots. As he went through the motions of dressing, he seemed to withdraw even further from her. It was almost as though he used his clothing as a weapon of defense, or perhaps simply as a barrier between them. Standing scarred and half naked before her Morgan had emanated a vague air of male vulnerability, reminding her of Samson with his shorn locks, or a medieval warrior who had lost his sword. But that momentary weakness — if it had existed at all — was gone now. He appeared coolly aloof once again, projecting an air of almost icy indifference.

Nevertheless, she was not yet ready to abandon their discussion. “You must take some comfort in the way your wounds were acquired,” she said. “You were a hero to go in after those children.”

“I was an idiot,” he corrected curtly. “If I had to do it all over again, I wouldn’t.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Suit yourself.”

“There was a little girl you saved,” she pressed. “I remember reading about her in the paper. She was taken in by her aunt and uncle after the fire. Emily, wasn’t it?”

Morgan stilled for a moment. He slowly turned his attention to a drawer of neckties. After much contemplation, he lifted a piece of pale gray silk and wrapped it around his throat. “Yes,” he said at last. “Emily.”

“I understand you regularly send her a sizable amount of money.”

He shrugged. “It’s nothing. A bit of pin money to help assuage my guilt.”

“Pin money? The sum of one thousand pounds per annum? That’s quite generous.”

“Is it?” he retorted. “Tell me then, how do you compensate a five-year-old girl for watching her family burn to death before her eyes? One hundred pounds per annum? Five hundred? So sorry about the fire, my dear, but here’s a few quid for your trouble. Run along and buy yourself a pretty new doll, and you’ll forget all about it.” A look of naked disgust showed on his face. “The generous lord of the manor.”

“It wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t have predicted—”

“No, but I could have prevented it.”

“It was the Lord’s will.”

“Really?” he parried dryly. “I thought it was the will of some madman named Lazarus. Isn’t that what brought us to these heights of marital bliss?”

A knock sounded on the door before she could reply. At Morgan’s call to enter, the valet he had been expecting earlier entered with a freshly pressed navy linen suit jacket. He draped the garment over a wooden clothes-horse and said, “Andrew has asked me to relay that your coach is waiting.”