by Regan Walker
The countess entered her room to ask, “You’ll have the footmen with you tonight?”
“Yes, Albert has promised to wait at the stage door while Robert will accompany the carriage in front of the theatre.”
Rose also remembered the words Morgan had spoke to her. I will be there.
The thought excited and comforted her.
* * *
Morgan drew his greatcoat tightly about him, damning the cold night as he waited across the street from the side door through which he knew Rose would emerge. As he fixed his gaze on the dark alley, faint rays of moonlight broke through the clouds and allowed him to see shapes and people. He recognized the livery of one of the countess’s footmen, though the countess’s carriage still lingered on the other side of the theatre.
He’d been wrestling with himself since taking Rose home three days before. How did a man know when he’d met the woman with whom he wanted to share his life? He could not explain it, but he knew that Rose Collingwood, the woman who’d traveled all this distance to “become” Portia, was she. There were many things about the blonde beauty that drew him, not the least of which was her independent attitude, quick mind and desire to make more of herself than most women. She had courage. It mattered less and less that she was English. Lord, how he wanted her. But he had to convince this English daughter of a baron to marry an Irish barrister, probably over her family’s objections.
She was definitely compromised. It was only a matter of time before the story circulated; Roger had told him that Alvanley began blubbering about an English rose on an Irish horse while foxed at White’s the evening of their ride in the park, singing a little ditty he thought quite funny, which if one knew the incident was quite damning.
He’d enjoyed Rose’s performance this night, once again captivated by her talent, but he’d left early to stand at his current post to be sure he caught her as she left. Glancing at the clouds overhead, he hoped she came out before the threatening rain finally fell.
The stage door opened, and several cast members departed laughing about some scene or another. Rose was not among them, so Morgan continued to wait. The alley was soon quiet and deserted again, all except for the waiting footman. The door opened and Rose stepped out, a swath of light from the entrance falling on the alley for a brief moment before the door shut behind her. Lifting the hood of her cloak, she approached the waiting servant.
Morgan had nearly reached them when a dark figure crept from the shadows and lifted what appeared to be a cudgel. Rose screamed, the cudgel fell and the footman crumpled to the ground. The dark figure grabbed Rose’s hand and uttered words that made Morgan think him deranged.
“Aye, a fine replacement for me lost Sarah. The same—”
Morgan tore her assailant’s hand from Rose, causing him to turn. He threw his fist into the man’s face and was surprised when the blackguard fought back. Fists like a dockworker’s, huge and callused, slammed into Morgan’s ribs. He grimaced at the pain but was ready for more. The two grappled, each trying to gain mastery.
“No!” Rose shouted as the blackguard landed another punch, and she hit him in the head with her small fists. It was enough to knock the man sideways, and Morgan seized the advantage to regain his balance. A moment later the villain reached into the pocket of his cloak.
“Rose, stand aside!” Morgan yelled. He had seen the glint in the dark figure’s hand, and now he circled carefully, avoiding his foe’s quick slashes with a knife. Given those dark, menacing eyes and that fixed jaw, Morgan could tell the man knew how to wield the weapon.
But Morgan had grown up in the neighborhoods of Killarney, and notwithstanding his educated family he had acquired skills by sparring with his brothers and cousins as well as boxing for sport. Holding his hands wide, he feinted right then left, appearing to reach for the knife and confusing his attacker. Then a sharp kick from his boot knocked the blade from the man’s hand and Morgan flew at his disarmed foe with his fists, knocking him to the ground and not stopping until his enemy lay still.
Panting from the exertion, Morgan leaned back on his heels. From behind him Rose exclaimed, “You were…magnificent!”
Rising, Morgan took her in his arms. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, I think so.” Her words belied her shaking.
“You’re safe now, Rose,” he said, drawing her close and kissing her temple. “You’re safe.”
“Oh, Morgan, if you hadn’t been here… It was so terrifying! And you…you saved me!”
The possibility the man could have abducted her was a kick to the gut. Morgan didn’t want to think about losing her to anyone, let alone a madman. He would marry this woman and keep her safe; their families’ prejudices be damned.
Rose looked down at the footman lying on the ground, but Morgan restrained her, not wishing her to see the blood.
“I must see to Albert,” she said.
“No, Rose. Allow me.”
Before Morgan could reach the footman, the coachman and a second footman arrived; they had gotten worried after Rose failed for so long to appear. Morgan briefly explained what had happened, and the footman knelt before Albert the moment he was certain Rose was unharmed.
“He’s still breathing,” they were told. It was very good news.
Morgan held Rose more tightly. She was still shaking, perhaps from the cold as well as from fright. He needed to see to that.
“You’re safe now, Rose,” he promised. When she leaned her head on his shoulder and began crying he whispered, “Shhhhh. It will be all right now.”
Her attacker was still unconscious. The coachman and Robert the second footman agreed to summon help from the theatre to deal with him before seeing the injured Albert back to Claremont House.
Morgan asked Rose, “Did you recognize him?”
“I cannot be certain,” she said, “but he looks like one of several men who have been in the front row at all of my performances.”
“He said something about you replacing another. Perhaps he lost a woman who looked like you…? It matters not. The magistrate will deal with him. Come, I must get you out of the cold and home. We can take my carriage.”
All the way back to Claremont House, Morgan held Rose. She had stopped crying but appeared exhausted.
“You were quite brave tonight, my love,” he announced. “You striking the man gave me the time I needed. Not many women would have done that.”
Rose looked taken aback. “Why, I had to! I could not allow him to hurt you.”
“Ah, my brave Portia.” He smiled and kissed her forehead, relieved she was safe.
“I was rather brave, wasn’t I?” She had a satisfied look on her face, and it was all he could do to stifle a laugh of pure joy.
* * *
By the time they arrived at Claremont House, Rose had fallen asleep in his arms. He carried her through the front door and, barely acknowledging the alarmed Cruthers, took her into the parlour and laid her on the sofa. A fire warmed the room.
The countess entered shortly thereafter. “What has happened?”
Rose began to wake. Morgan explained from where he sat beside her, holding her hand. “A man waited in the shadows at the side of the theatre, and when she came out after the performance attacked Albert and tried to take her. Fortunately I was there.”
“How dreadful!”
“Countess,” said Rose. “Mr. O’Connell rescued me.”
“I believe he did, my dear,” the countess said. Walking forward, she saw their joined hands and stared pointedly at them, then at Rose still reclining on the sofa. “You are well, my dear?”
Rose sat up but kept Morgan’s hand. “I am fine.”
“I was not quick enough to save your footman,” Morgan admitted.
“Give the girl some brandy, Mr. O’Connell,” the countess said with a small smile, “and I’ll see to Albert.”
Morgan poured Rose a glass as the older woman departed. When she had taken some, he raised her hand to his lips and press
ed a kiss on her knuckles.
“It seems you need looking after,” he began.
“Do I?”
That was more than just gratitude in her eyes, he believed. He hoped. “Yes, and I’m just the man to do it. You have a spirit I cannot resist. I believe I love you, Rose Collingwood, so you’d best marry me. My shamrock and your rose. I like them together. I like us together.”
Desperate to kiss her, he took her in his arms and pressed his lips to hers. His kiss must say what words could not.
* * *
Rose gave in to Morgan’s strength and the comforting warmth of his embrace. She didn’t seem to be able to tell the Irishman no…but she didn’t really want to. He was intelligent, dashing and daring. He was the adventure she’d come to London to find—or at least the start of it. She realized that now.
His lips teased hers and she opened to him, accepting not just his kiss but the man himself. His hand caressed her breast, and though an alarm sounded in her head at that unprecedented intimacy she was unable to find the will to protest. No man had ever touched her in this way, but with Morgan it felt right. Her hands rose to his nape and she pulled him close.
“I assume you are sealing a promise to wed with that kiss,” said a stern voice.
Morgan pulled slightly away, but he still held Rose in his arms, and they turned their heads as one to the doorway where the silver-haired dowager stood, a decided crease between her brows.
“As far as I’m concerned,” he said, “we are. With your approval, of course. Though Rose has yet to give her assent.”
“That, I daresay, after what I have witnessed, is a mere formality,” the countess admonished.
“But Countess—,” Rose protested.
“My dear, when you allowed Mr. O’Connell to kiss you in that manner, you gave him your ‘yes.’ Aside from that, I have yet to inform you that Alvanley is circulating some tale that the two of you were seen in a compromising position in the park. Atop Mr. O’Connell’s horse.”
Horrified, Rose glanced from the countess to Morgan.
“I told you,” Morgan said, “and, if the countess approves, I am ready to send for the vicar this very moment.”
The countess smiled. “There is no need for such haste, Mr. O’Connell. I think a fitting day for the wedding—so that Miss Collingwood’s mother might attend—would be the day the Irish celebrate the feast of St. Patrick next month. It will allow me time to prepare a proper wedding.”
Morgan turned back to Rose. Letting her go to grasp her hand he said, “Rose? Will you have me?”
“She’ll have you, O’Connell,” said the countess emphatically.
“I want to hear it from her lips,” said Morgan.
His gaze was fixed upon her. Did she want to be the wife of the Irish barrister? Rose knew it could mean one day living in Ireland. If she chose this Irishman, it might well take all she had to stand by his side. Just like the words she’d heard so many times in The Merchant of Venice, the words written on the lead chest:
“Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath.”
Nodding her head, she smiled. “Yes…oh yes.”
He kissed her then, right in front of the countess, who sounded a loud “Humph!”
* * *
They were wed on St. Patrick’s Day with many friends and family in attendance. Fitting for the occasion, Rose wore a satin gown of Paris green, which pleased Morgan’s Catholic relatives, it being the day for the wearing of the color. Her betrothed, delighted, remarked that the hue matched her eyes.
Rose’s mother had traveled south to be with her, and of course Morgan’s uncle Maurice was there as well as Morgan’s two younger brothers. His famous cousin, Daniel O’Connell, sent a letter approving the match, and acknowledging another Protestant in the family. Morgan’s friend Roger, whom Rose had met since they’d become engaged, brought a lovely young woman named Judith that he introduced as his fiancée. Mr. Colman from the theatre and Lord and Lady Ormond, whom the countess had introduced to her when she’d first arrived, also joined in the celebration.
When the ceremony was concluded, the countess was the first to congratulate them.
“You take good care of her, Mr. O’Connell. I’ll be watching that you do!”
“I will do it and gladly, Countess,” said Morgan. “I have many plans for my lovely English Rose.”
Lady Emily Picton was next to hug Rose and wish her well. “Now that you are wed, I think I must be the last of the countess’s single friends to hold out against matrimony.”
“I was caught by a man’s smile,” Rose replied, looking at her new husband fondly.
“I never shall be,” insisted Lady Picton.
“You won’t stand a chance if Lady Claremont is set upon a match for you,” said Rose. “She can be quite determined.”
Lady Picton just smiled confidently and waved as she sallied forth into the crowd.
The countess had insisted upon giving them an elaborate reception, held in her grand room. Both Alvanley and Sir Alex came, and with good grace they added their wishes for much happiness. Rose was glad she couldn’t hear whatever it was Alvanley whispered to Morgan. All she heard was Morgan’s reply: “But she is mine now.”
After the dinner feast, but before the guests had drunk the last glass of champagne, Morgan swept Rose upstairs. He carried her over the threshold into the bedchamber prepared for their wedding night, bathed in soft candlelight where a fire crackled. As he set her feet on the rug, Rose saw the white linen sheets in the large four-poster bed turned down and the entire bed covered with red rose petals. On a small table near the fireplace was a bottle of champagne and two glasses.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispered.
“I have eyes only for you, sweetheart,” Morgan answered in a voice that unmasked his Irish lilt. Turning her in his arms, he took the pins from her hair and let her long tresses fall down her back. “Ah, the hair I have longed to run through my fingers.” Then, as he did: “It’s like soft Irish rain.”
He slipped her gown over her head then unlaced her corset. “These must go.” Left with only her chemise, he turned her again and stared. “You are so beautiful, my love.”
Rose shivered as Morgan brushed his warm lips over the tops of her shoulders and up the side of her neck where he nibbled on her earlobe. His hands lifted her chemise and tossed the offending garment to the floor, but nervous and altogether naked she felt herself blush and brought her arms up to cover her breasts.
“I see the problem,” he said, and quickly doffed his clothes.
The sight of his bare male body was a shock to Rose’s innocence. Broad muscled shoulders narrowed to slim hips just as the dark hair on his chest narrowed to a thin line leading to a wealth of dark hair that lay at the base of his…oh my! His man’s flesh stood erect and was so large as to frighten her.
“That has been my condition since our ride in the park,” he said, grinning. “Do not be alarmed. Soon it will bring you much pleasure, wife.”
Rose was alarmed, but he gently pulled her arms from her chest to wrap around his waist, drawing her breasts against his warm, hard chest. He kissed her, and their two bodies melded together as his tongue leisurely stroked hers. She’d never tire of his kisses.
Forgetting she had never been with a man before, Rose brought her hands up to circle Morgan’s neck. His own hands swept down her back in response, to her bottom where his palms covered her buttocks and pulled her more tightly against his aroused flesh. He was now her husband, Rose reminded herself with delight. Her breasts tickled at the feel of his warm skin.
“The bed, I think,” he whispered in a husky voice.
Lifting her effortlessly, he walked to the bed and laid her on the rose petals, pausing to let his blue eyes sweep over her form. She shivered as though he touched her. Then suddenly he was next to her, drawing her close, his chest flush with her breasts, and his body touching hers to their toes. He kissed her deeply, his tongue stroking hers and his hands roami
ng her hip and down her thigh, and she felt a warm wetness between her legs. When his hand swept over her breasts, a fire burst forth wherever his fingers touched.
“Oh…,” she moaned.
His thumb had teased the sensitive flesh of her nipple until he replaced his thumb with his tongue. Her body was sensitive to his every touch, and she clung to him, combing her fingers through the dark curls on his head. He seemed to hear her plea, and he took her nipple into his mouth and sucked gently while slipping his leg between hers. She lifted her hips to embrace his leg, wanting she knew not what.
* * *
Morgan had wondered what kind of a lover his virgin bride would be. She had been so responsive to his kisses that he was certain he would not be disappointed—and he was not. Her passionate response was driving him mad.
He had an overwhelming need to plunge into her warm, willing flesh, but Morgan also knew he must slow his ardor until she was ready or all she would remember was the pain of their first joining. So while his mouth moved to her other breast to once again feast on her sweet flesh, he stroked her inner thigh with his hand, moving slowly in circles toward the bud that would call forth her initial pleasure.
Returning his lips to her mouth for another kiss, his fingers tested her readiness. He heard a small gasp, and to reassure her he whispered, “This will bring you pleasure, my love, as I prepare you to receive me.”
He had barely touched the sensitive nub when she began to move her hips against his hand. After a few slow strokes, her breath came in pants and she moved against his fingers.
“Now, my love, let me show you,” he said. “A brief moment of pain and then pleasure.”
Rising above her, he settled his hot, hard member against the tight entrance to her woman’s passage. Slowly, he entered her. Slowly, slowly… Then, unable to hold back any longer, he plunged into her and past the barrier.
She stilled and tensed, and regretting the pain he said, “Try and relax and all will be well.”
He kissed her then, to draw forth the honeyed cream. It took but a moment. He thrust again until he was deeply lodged within her, and now he could not retain the stillness. His passion demanded he move, and he did. So did she. In no time she lifted her hips to meet his thrusts, and they moved together, finding a rhythm that flooded him with pleasure as he felt the tension build. Her release, when it came, struck deep in his soul. Their sweat-soaked flesh melded together as his seed flooded her passage.