Sins and Scoundrels Books 1–3

by Scott, Scarlett

  And she had to agree. She was at home in his arms, and she could not shake the feeling, running to her marrow, that it was where she belonged. But she could not luxuriate in it either. For she knew all too well that it, like her marriage to Searle, was founded in deceptions and half-truths.

  For the moment, however, nothing felt better than being in her husband’s bed, his warm body pressed against hers. “For tonight, I agree,” she said.

  And holding tight to him, she fell into deep, dreamless slumber.

  *

  Morgan woke with the swell of a deliciously full, warm breast in his palm. He woke with his face buried in a sea of white-blonde curls, his arms wrapped around his wife. He woke with the most painful cockstand he had sported in recent times, a feat achieved no doubt by the combination of his lust for his wife, his several days of forced celibacy, and the fact that his prick was currently nestled against the delectable curve of Leonie’s rump.

  Against her delectable, nightdress-covered rump.

  There was a most unwanted scrap of fabric keeping him from his wife’s smooth, creamy skin. But it was just as well, for he had other, far greater concerns to consider than the conundrum of waking in his own bed with his glorious wife all around him, yet still unable to roll her to her back and wake her in the manner she deserved.

  With his tongue upon her cunny.

  The mere thought was enough to make his mouth water.

  No. He caught himself and his wayward mind, for he must not dwell on the lust for her coursing through him. He had a decision to make this morning, and last night had proven to him it would be far more difficult than he had ever supposed.

  Gently disentangling himself from her, he rolled to his side, taking in the sight of her, listening to the sweet music of her gentle, deep breaths. A fierce ache tore through him as his eyes drank in her sleep-softened features, the early morning sun casting her in an ethereal glow.

  This time, the ache was not just desire. It was bigger than that, stronger too, more complex. More confusing. When he looked upon her, he felt the urge to protect her, to make her happy. He felt the urge to wake every morning just as he was, with her scent in the air, her in his bed. When he looked upon Leonie, the ugliness inside him abated, drowned out by the way she made him feel.

  Realization hit him with more force than one of Monty’s fists.

  The sensation in his chest, the lump in his throat, the dread and the guilt seizing him when he contemplated never again waking with his glorious wife in his arms, when he imagined living without her, when he thought of the babe she may be carrying in her womb this very moment…it was…it was…

  “Love.” He said the word aloud, testing the single syllable upon his tongue.

  Such a simple, concise means of conveying an emotion more profound than he could even comprehend. An emotion he had, until this moment, believed a fiction. How impossible it seemed that four letters strung together could encompass the vastness of feelings inside him.

  But somehow, it did. So, he said it again. “Love.”

  And again, this time louder. “Love.”

  Leonie stirred at his side, a sigh of contentment leaving her lips and lodging in his heart as she nestled closer to him. He gathered her to him, burying his face in the silken cloud of her hair. What a fool he had been to believe he could not forfeit his revenge, when all along the one thing he truly could not bear to lose had been right here.

  Her.

  He loved Leonie. His marchioness, his wife. His life.

  The discovery was big, far too big to keep to himself. The need to tell her rose within him. “Leonie.”

  She made a kittenish sound in her throat as she nuzzled his chest. She was so damn sweet, one-half innocent, one-half seductress. Completely his.

  “Leonie,” he persisted, stroking her thick curls back from her face so he could see her. “I love you, Leonie.”

  Her eyes were still closed, but she stretched like a cat, the bedclothes sliding down to reveal her lush breasts straining against the fine fabric of her nightdress. “Mmm. Morgan?” Slowly, her lashes fluttered open, and she looked adorably befuddled to find him gazing down upon her. “Is something amiss?”

  “No.” He shook his head slowly, a smile he could not suppress lifting his lips. “Everything is precisely as it ought to be.”

  “It is?” A frown furrowed her brow. “I do not understand.”

  No, she would not. Neither did he, if he were brutally honest with himself, but perhaps they could make sense of things together. He cupped her face gently, staring into the vibrancy of her eyes. He saw all the answer he needed in the depths of her gaze. He saw there a woman who was strong and giving, who loved him enough to fight for him even when he did not deserve her perseverance.

  And he was going to tell her the undeniable truth rising like a tide within him. He was going to unburden himself. To lay himself bare before her. His past still lived inside him, and nothing would erase it, or the scars he bore on his body. But maybe today could be the start of something new.

  The beginning of his healing. Mayhap it was not impossible.

  As he looked at her now, he had to hope, to believe.

  The words left him. “I love you.”

  “You…”

  He swallowed as a fresh knot threatened to climb his throat, forced down the uncertainty wrought by watching his parents tear each other to pieces with their mutual hatred, by allowing the hatred he felt toward Rayne and his captors to nearly consume him. “I love you, Leonie.”

  She was silent and still as his revelation hung in the air.

  A wild combination of terror and elation stole through him.

  Just when he thought he could not bear another moment of awaiting her response, those perfect, rosebud-pink lips of hers moved.

  “You love me?”

  He nodded as the terror was chased away entirely by elation. The words, the sentiment, the woman before him…it all felt right. “I love you.”

  Her smile was stunning. “Are you awake?”

  Morgan chuckled. “Yes.”

  “Am I awake?” she asked next.

  “I believe so.” He could not resist closing the distance between their mouths, taking hers in a long and slow kiss before pulling his lips free. “It would seem you are.”

  “Yes,” she agreed, her voice hushed. Her hands caressed his. “It would seem I am. But, this sudden change, Morgan…what brought it on? What altered between last night and this morning?”

  “Nothing altered that quickly.” His response was effortless. “Rather, it has occurred slowly, over time, within the last month.”

  Since they had been wed, he meant, and he watched as comprehension dawned on her lovely features. “Oh, Morgan. Do you mean it?”

  “I have never meant anything more,” he said, and he spoke the avowal with all his heart, with every conviction he had, so deep and so strong his voice shook. “I am sorry it took me this long to realize what has been before me, what has been happening every minute of each day I have spent as your husband. I could have spared you so much hurt, Leonie.”

  This time, it was Leonie who initiated their kiss, tugging his head back down to hers and sealing their mouths. This meeting of lips was more ravenous than the last. Tongues and teeth clashed. He bit into the plush fullness of her lower lip. They kissed longer and deeper, and this kiss was different than the rest. Different because it signified the beginning, the true beginning of their union.

  Their hands moved over each other’s bodies, her palms skimming over his shoulders, down the plane of his back, tightening over his buttocks. His fingers sank into her hair, trailed over the ripeness of her breasts, the hardness of her pebbled nipples still concealed beneath the nightdress. And then his hands found the generous flare of her hips, worshiping her by feel.

  He rolled them as one, so that she was flat on her back beneath him, the hem of her nightdress riding high on her thighs as he parted her limbs and settled himself between them. Tearing
his lips from hers, he rocked against her, his rigid length probing her wet heat through the barrier between them.

  Bracing himself over her, he met her gaze. “I will not fight the duel with Rayne.”

  “Do you promise?” she whispered, looking thoroughly kissed and thoroughly delectable.

  He wanted to devour her. Need for her raged within him, drowning out everything else. “I promise, Leonie. I am so sorry, so damned sorry for what I have done. Sorry for deceiving you, for lying to you. Sorry for ever being the cause of your pain. If you cannot forgive me for my sins, I do not blame you. I was wrong. I thought making Rayne pay for what I endured would soothe the demons within me until I met my own fate. But the truth is, you are what soothes my demons. You are what can heal me. Only you.”

  Tears welled in her eyes, then slid down her cheeks. “I love you, Morgan.”

  “And I love you.” He kissed her again. “Let me show you how much.”

  “Yes.” She kissed his lips, the corner of his mouth, his chin.

  Once she started, it seemed she could not stop, and she kissed him everywhere, upon his jaw, his ear, his neck. Her tongue flicked over his skin, soft and slick, leaving a trail of fire wherever she tasted him.

  Together, they divested her of her nightgown, and then no more barriers remained between them. He worshiped his way up and down her body, stopping only when he could not bear to prolong the pleasure another moment.

  “Look at me,” he commanded her as he stilled, on the brink of claiming her.

  Her lashes lifted, and he fell into twin pools of blue as he slid inside her in one hard thrust. They were one. He took her hands in his, entwining their fingers as he began to move.

  “I love you, Leonie.” His mouth was upon hers once more.

  He kissed her lingeringly, making love to those pretty pink lips, licking and biting and savoring as he made love to her body the same way. Slow and steady. Deep and gorgeous. The ache inside him built, his ballocks tightening, and when she cried out her second release, trembling beneath him, he could not hold himself back any longer.

  A pinnacle of need and white-hot release bathed him in sensation, filling him with not just love but rightness. With the sure, unshakeable knowledge he was where he was meant to be, and that if anyone could help him to heal, it would be her, his angel.

  He kissed her cheek then, her nose, any part of her his mouth could find. “I was right, darling. You do feel at home in my arms. But not just for last night. For every night that comes after, and every day, too.”

  And he knew precisely what he needed to do next.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The conveyance carrying Leonora and Morgan arrived at Riverford House the following morning. As the phaeton came to a stop, she could not help but marvel how strange it was to return to her old home with her husband at her side. They were presenting a united front in their first visit to Alessandro since the duel had been called off, she could not help but to feel as if a massive weight had been removed from her chest.

  She and Morgan had spent much of the previous day in each other’s respective bedchambers, alternately making love, talking, and laughing like young sweethearts after Morgan had sent word to his cousin, the Duke of Montrose, that the duel would no longer be happening. As Morgan’s second, the formal arrangements of the duel occurred between Montrose and Rayne’s second, his old friend Viscount Hampstead. The moment Leonora had watched Morgan close the missive bearing his bold scrawl, her heart had sung.

  Part of her could scarcely believe he loved her. It felt like a dream, almost too wonderful to be real, and she could not shake the lingering sensation that at any moment, she would wake to discover Morgan loved her only in her fanciful imagination.

  Her husband alighted from the phaeton first and then reached a hand up to help her descend, as well. She met his gaze as she did so, searching. “Are you certain you wish to face Alessandro today?”

  His jaw hardened, a hint of the shadows haunting him crossing over his features. “He is your half-brother, Leonie. I must face him, for your sake, and put an end to the bad blood between us. What better day to do so than the day I was meant to duel him?”

  Gratitude filled her then at the effort he was making on her behalf, for she knew what it must cost him. Giving up on the vengeance that had propelled him for so long could not be easy. Nor, she suspected, was swallowing his pride before Alessandro, the man he held responsible for his captivity and torture.

  “Thank you, Morgan,” she said softly.

  “You need not thank me for doing what is right,” he said wryly. “In truth, I allowed my anger and hatred to consume me, and it is I who is thankful to you for loving me enough to see me through it.”

  “Always,” she promised.

  Arm in arm, they approached Riverford House. They had scarcely crossed the threshold and waited while the somber butler announced them. But what they found within the familiar drawing room was not Alessandro at all. Rather, it was Mama, her face pale and stained with tears.

  “Oh, Leonora,” her mother cried, rushing to her and throwing herself into her arms with a sob, “it is horrible news, is it not? I do not know what we shall do now.”

  Frowning, Leonora cast a look over Mama’s shoulder at an equally perplexed looking Morgan. She patted her mother consolingly. “Whatever is the matter, Mama?”

  “Did you not receive my note?” Mama’s voice bordered on hysterical now as she clutched Leonora tightly. “I thought it was why you had come. Rayne has killed the Duke of Montrose.”

  Horror warred with disbelief. “Good heavens, Mama. What are you talking about?”

  “The duel.” Her mother released her and spun about suddenly, facing Morgan. “That accursed duel was your fault, and you refused to fight it. Now we must all pay the price.”

  Morgan’s face lost color, going ashen, and she could see him shuttering himself off, the old demons inside him mingling with an onslaught of new, prompted by the news Mama had just delivered. News which, if true, would be…

  Devastating, to say the least.

  “Where are my smelling salts?” Mama asked weakly, the cap on her head fluttering beneath the strength of her dudgeon, as if she stood in a stiff breeze.

  “Do settle down, Mama,” Leonora urged, trying to remain calm herself. “There was no duel, for Searle instructed Montrose to cry off on his behalf yesterday.”

  “Of course there was.” Mama sniffled, then held a handkerchief to her nose. “Rayne went off to Battersea Fields before dawn this morning, though I begged him to act with care for the law and for his title both. And now, he has returned with a bleeding Montrose.”

  Here was some information she could work with at last. “Where has the duke been taken, Mama?”

  “I must sit.” Mama sobbed into her handkerchief. “Oh, it is not to be born. The Duke of Montrose is a scoundrel, but Rayne shall be arrested for murder over this.”

  Leonora met her husband’s gaze, silently urging him to remain strong. Mama was in histrionics, and surely there was more to the story than she had shoddily relayed. She led her mother to a chaise lounge, then helped her to settle herself upon it. “There now, Mama. Think, if you please. Where was the Duke of Montrose taken?”

  “To your old chamber,” Mama answered, her voice pale.

  “I will show you the way,” she told Morgan grimly. Turning back to her distraught mother, she promised, “I shall send your maid Hendricks to you at once, and bid her bring the smelling salts. We will return soon.”

  “Thank you, my daughter.”

  *

  It seemed almost fitting that after Morgan had finally realized what was important in life, it was about to slip through his fingers after a mere twenty-four hours. As he followed Leonie grimly through Riverford House, one litany repeated itself in his mind, a strident chorus of denial.

  It cannot be.

  It cannot be.

  It cannot be.

  But whilst Leonie’s mother seemed to hav
e a flair for the dramatic, she did not appear to be confused about what she had seen, a bleeding Monty being carried into the townhome. Pray God he wasn’t dead. Pray God Rayne, that vicious bastard, had not refused to back down from the duel and faced Monty instead. It was almost too ludicrous to believe.

  Except, Morgan would believe anything of the man who had been El Corazón Oscuro. He had witnessed the atrocities carried out upon enemy soldiers by the guerrillas Rayne had captained. And he could not bear to lose his ne’er-do-well cousin. Could not bear to be the blame for Monty’s death. For all his faults, Monty was loyal down to his marrow, and willing to do anything to aid another. Sweet Christ, Morgan would never forgive himself if…

  Nay, he would not think it. Would not believe it. Not until he knew for certain.

  By the time they reached the chamber in question, he was nearly out of his wits, frantic with worry, fear, and dread. His palms were damp with sweat, heart hammering like a blacksmith upon the anvil, as he found the latch and let himself in.

  The sight that greeted him as he stood on the threshold filled him with relief and perplexed him all at once. Monty lay on a bed, Rayne hovering over him. Both men were bloodstained, Monty’s coat and shirt sleeve cut away to reveal a makeshift linen bandage tied tightly around his upper arm.

  “Has the physician arrived yet?” Rayne snapped, rather than offering a greeting.

  “What the hell is the meaning of this?” Morgan demanded, stalking into the chamber, aware his fretting wife followed on his heels.

  It was unseemly for her to be here, witnessing Monty wounded and in dishabille, but what the devil was he to do about it? Her demonic half-brother appeared to have shot his cousin.

  “This… son of a whore sot me,” Monty offered weakly, his speech notably slurred as he paused, apparently realizing belatedly that he had misspoken. “Shot me.”

  His first thought was thank Christ his cousin was not dead. And his second was good God, why was Monty so thoroughly sotted at this time of the morning? His third thought tore from him with the report of a pistol, echoing in the chamber.