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.
The bedroom was almost in total blackness, but a tiny shaft of moonlight from a partially opened drape at one of the windows allowed him to barely make out the faint shapes of furniture near him, and carefully his gaze moved from one object to the other, searching for something out of the ordinary, something that would pinpoint the danger. And there was danger; Royce could feel it emanating from the as yet unidentified person lurking in the darkness, and his muscles tensed for action.
Concentrating intently on the menace-filled silence, straining to hear any betraying sound, Royce did not call out, did not demand identification of the person he was positive had just so stealthily entered his room. He had an extremely strong premonition that he would get no reply anyway, but would instead give away the fact that he was awake ... and therefore not the easy target his intruder might have expected to find.
It was a deadly little game they played, Royce alert and ready to fight, yet unwilling to move, afraid of betraying his only advantage, his wakefulness, while his opponent skulked in the darkness, choosing his moment to strike. And the creature would strike; Royce never doubted it for a moment. And he cursed himself, knowing the dangers as he did, for not having taken precautions—even if nothing more than sleeping with his pistol or knife beneath his pillow. But was his intruder, he wondered tensely, a mere housebreaker, or an assassin sent by the one-eyed man?
He didn’t have long to speculate; almost immediately he heard the whispering glide of feet across the carpet heading directly toward his bed, and his heart pounded heavily, his body preparing itself to fight. His eyes half-slitted to give the impression of sleep, Royce lay there frozen, waiting impatiently for his intruder to come closer.
The intruder made an unexpected, swift rush to the side of the bed, and it was that tiny bit of moonlight that saved Royce’s life, the silver shaft of light gleaming ever so faintly on the long-bladed knife that was suddenly poised over him. With explosive, lightning speed, he surged upward, his fingers closing brutally around the wrist of the hand that held the knife.
There was a male’s snarl of enraged shock and then the intruder began to fight with a maniacal strength, nearly tearing his wrist free from Royce’s powerful hold. They fought savagely in the darkness of the room, the man viciously trying to escape and yet at the same time plunge that deadly blade into Royce. As their bodies twisted together, the knife between them, their breathing was harsh and loud, and the occasional scrape and crash of furniture added to the increasing sound of the violent battle as they stumbled and careened around the room.
Royce guessed they were fairly matched in siz
e and condition, but as they continued to fight, he became unpleasantly aware of the inherent dangers in fighting a clothed opponent when one is stark naked. The blade painfully nicked and sliced his bare flesh here and there in those desperate moments when he could not quite avoid or control the man’s wild slashings. Once, his toes were cruelly smashed beneath the booted foot of the other, and only by sheer willpower was he able to ignore the burst of pain and keep his attention focused entirely on the constantly seeking knife. Aware that he was bleeding from a half dozen cuts, grimly, methodically, he grappled with his assailant, knowing that unless he did something immediately, soon that wicked blade would inflict grievous damage.
Suddenly several things happened at once. The door that separated his rooms from Morgana’s flew open. “Royce, are you safe? What is happening?” Morgana called anxiously, a candle flickering in her hand. At the same time she appeared on the scene, at the hall entrance to his room, Mr. Spurling, the valet, stammered nervously, “S-S-Sir? I-I-Is everything a-a-all right?” And in that instant the ferocious battle between the two men brought them into the tiny ray of moonlight that beamed into the room, and Royce caught a fleeting glimpse of his opponent. The one-eyed man!
There was no mistaking the black patch at the eye, but the majority of the man’s features were obscured by the slouch brim of his hat, which was pulled low across part of his face. Those portions of his face that could be seen in the faint moonlight were so contorted by hatred and fury that they were nearly unrecognizable as human. Royce had halfway been prepared for some sort of attack, but he had never really believed that it would be directed against him personally, that someone would actually try to kill him, nor had he ever considered that the one-eyed man himself would be the attacker, and for just a split second, sheer astonishment loosened his grasp on his assailant.
With a surprised grunt, the one-eyed man tore free and, like a striking snake, made a reckless thrust with the knife in Royce’s direction. Royce, leaping backward to avoid the vicious lunge, stumbled into one of the overturned chairs and went down with a heavy thud. The one-eyed man wasted no time with him, but hurtled toward Morgana, his intention, whether to hurt her or to take her with him, unclear.
She had no time to think, only to react, and with action born of desperation, she boldly jabbed the candle into his good eye. Screaming with anguish, the one-eyed man dropped his knife, his hands ripping the candle from hers, before spinning around and racing to the opened doorway, where Spurling stood there frozen. Knocking the poor valet aside, he disappeared into the darkness.
CHAPTER 18
Pandemonium reigned for several wild seconds, Morgana’s frantic exclamation hanging in the air as she flew across the darkness to kneel beside Royce’s struggling form where he fought furiously to disentangle his lower limbs from the wooden arms of the chair. Clucking fearfully to himself, Mr. Spurling finally recovered sufficiently enough from his fright and the force of the one-eyed man’s impact to scrabble around and hastily find a candelabra and light it. Almost immediately, with an angry curse, Royce kicked free of the chair and bounded to his feet, Morgana hovering anxiously at his side. Adding to the confusion, Zachary, roused by the racket, suddenly loomed up behind Mr. Spurling, a cocked pistol in his hand as he demanded grimly, “What the bloody hell is going on?”
Somehow, Morgana was in Royce’s arms, her hands moving urgently over him, as if reassuring herself that he was not greatly harmed, her voice full of concern as she asked huskily, “You’re not hurt? He did not stab you?”
Oblivious to his nakedness, to the blood that trickled down his body from the half dozen or so cuts that the one-eyed man had inflicted during their violent struggle, barely aware of his arm protectively around Morgana’s slender shoulders, he dragged her willy-nilly along with him as he strode over to where Zachary and Mr. Spurling crowded in the doorway. The expression on his face must have been fierce, because Zachary and Mr. Spurling instantly gave way before him, and stepping into the hallway, he glanced disgustedly up and down, his gaze meeting silent darkness.
“The bastard got away!” he muttered viciously under his breath as he swung around and reentered the room.
“The one-eyed man!” Zachary said excitedly. “He sent an assailant after you?”
Ignoring Mr. Spurling’s fluttering attempts to clothe him in a flamboyant dressing robe of black silk heavily embroidered with gold and crimson thread, Royce glanced at Zachary and smiled—trust his cousin, with youth’s eager seeking of adventure, to be thrilled about tonight’s events! Amusement dancing in the golden eyes, Royce murmured, “Ah, better than that! The one-eyed man himself paid me a visit!”
Mr. Spurling had by now managed to get Royce into the robe, and almost absently Royce’s arm once more went around Morgana’s shoulders, unconsciously holding her next to his side as if he were reassuring himself that she was unhurt. Morgana unashamedly clung to him, still not quite able to convince herself that the one-eyed man had not harmed him, and her eyes darkened with alarm when, through a gape in the dressing robe, she caught sight of the blood on his chest.
“You’re bleeding!” she cried softly.
Zachary and Mr. Spurling exclaimed anxiously, converging on Royce, but he waved them away. “It is nothing—mere scratches, although I’m sure that the one-eyed man wishes they were far more serious.” He glanced at Morgana, his arm tightening slightly about her. “You are not hurt? He did not touch you?”
She shook her head. “No. Everything happened so fast that he didn’t have time to harm me.”
It wasn’t to be expected that the noise of the fight could go unnoticed by the rest of the household, and Chambers, a lighted candle in his hand, suddenly appeared in the doorway, a concerned expression on his features; just beyond him, Ivy hovered, her eyes big and alarmed in her pleasant face. Explanations were swiftly given, and though Royce continued to protest that he was not seriously hurt, no one paid him any heed. While Chambers disappeared to the kitchen for hot water and bandages, as well as some whiskey and brandy, Zachary, a nervous Mr. Spurling at his heels, conducted a thorough search of the downstairs. There was no sign of the one-eyed man, but they did discover the servants’ entrance door at the rear of the house standing wide open. Further examination revealed that there was no new damage done to the lock, and the conclusion was inescapable that someone in the house must have opened the door to let him in....
Royce didn’t seem surprised when Zachary reported what he had found; in fact, it was almost as if Royce had expected it. By this time, Chambers had returned with the supplies needed, and in a remarkably short period of time, Ivy and Morgana were busy cleaning and examining Royce’s cuts and scrapes. As he had said, the wounds were not grave, and once the two women had seen for themselves the truth of this and had the ugly gashes dressed to their satisfaction, everyone began to relax and discuss the attack. Royce remained silent through most of the animated discourse, and it was only when they had begun to speak of more mundane things—the earliness of the hour, the daily routine that would soon begin—that he entered the conversation.
His room had been hurriedly put to rights and he was lounging in a chair covered in a deep ruby velvet, the richness of his vividly embroidered black silk robe intensified against the fabric of the chair. Aching just a little from his many cuts and bruises, Royce looked steadily at Mr. Spurling and asked softly, “And how was it that you were so providentially nearby tonight, Mr. Spurling?”
Every eye was suddenly on him, and Mr. Spurling started, his neat features congealing into an expression of alarm. “M-M-Me? N-N-Nearby?” he stammered uneasily, his pale blue eyes darting from one face to the other. “I-I-I’m not certain w-w-what you m-m-mean, sir.”
“Oh, I think you do,” Royce replied slowly, his gaze boring unwaveringly into the other man. “Surely it is not your normal practice to roam about the house at night. Why weren’t you upstairs in your quarters like all the others?”
Mr. Spurling swallowed convulsively, his
agitation and distress clearly evident to everyone else. Suspiciously, he was still garbed in day wear, the dark, discreet clothes—breeches, white shirt, modestly tied cravat, and nicely fitting jacket—that plainly betrayed his profession. He was a small man, with thinning brown hair, which he kept neatly groomed, and his features were quite unremarkable. He easily blended into the background—an often necessary attribute for a valet. Watching him closely as he stood there nearly wringing his hands in distress, Royce wondered idly if some of his nervousness might not be the result of suddenly finding himself the cynosure of everyone’s interest, or was it something else ... ?
“No reply?” Royce asked with deceptive gentleness.
Mr. Spurling drew himself up as tall as his diminutive height would allow, and taking a deep breath, he said weakly, “I could not sleep, sir, and d-d-decided that since Mr. Chambers had informed me of our unexpected r-r-removal to the country on Friday, I would s-s-start packing some of your clothes.” Anxiety clouding his features, he added passionately, “Sir! You cannot believe that I had anything to do with that creature’s attack on you! I swear to you that I am telling the truth!”
Aware of the earliness of the hour and that it was highly unlikely he would gain anything from further questioning of Mr. Spurling, Royce made some noncommittal reply and dismissed his valet, along with Ivy and Chambers. When they had left, Zachary moved from his position where he had been leaning against one of the bedposts of Royce’s bed and demanded, “Do you think that poor old Spurling is in league with the one-eyed man?”
Whisper To Me of Love Page 29