Precisely how they came to be lying completely naked on a blanket beneath the dappled shade of an oak tree, Morgana never quite remembered. Vaguely she could recall Royce furiously removing his boots and jacket and her little, pointed-toe slippers, but when her gown and chemise disappeared, or who divested him of the remainder of his clothing, remained somewhat hazy. All she clearly remembered of that afternoon was the fierce sweetness of his lovemaking.
The patches of golden sunlight that filtered through the thick green foliage of the tree were warm where they touched her, but no warmer than the intoxicating heat of Royce’s mouth as it moved from her lips to her breast, nor warmer than the sensual glide of his hand up her thigh. The wine, the warmth of the fading sunlight, were drugging, but no more drugging than the pull of Royce’s mouth against her breast, no more drugging than the beat of her blood as his hands explored her pale, slender body. She was boneless beneath his skilled touch, melting in a welter of wanton sensations, her mouth aching for more of the fierce pressure of his, her nipples tight and hard, yearning for the feel of his lips and hands, and between her thighs, oh, there the lascivious, insidious demand for his touch, for his powerful possession, was the strongest....
Willfully her fingers explored the wide expanse of his muscled chest with its whorls of tight, tawny curls, and a fission of delight shivered down her spine when he groaned as she teased the stiffened nipples she found there. But her explorations did not stop at his chest; her brazen fingers continued to caress and skim across the warm, hard flesh of his steel-muscled body, the long sweep of his back, the tightly bunched mass of his buttocks, and she smiled dreamily when her seeking fingers trailed low across his stomach and she heard the harsh, swift intake of his breath. Of its own accord, her hand slid lower until it encountered the rigid magnificence of his swollen organ, and sighing pleasurably, she curled her fingers around the warm, solid width of him.
There was great pleasure to be had in stroking her husband this way, in exploring his lean, tall body, in discovering the things that gave him pleasure, but this fondling of him, this intimate examination, only increased her own passionate longings. Wordlessly she arched up against him, wanting his touch, desperately wanting him to give her succor from the hungry demands of her own flesh.
Royce did not deny her, his mouth compulsively reacquainting itself with the sweet curves and gentle slopes of her slim body, his hands gliding with increasing urgency over her flesh, inflaming her further, teasing her with the promise of the shattering pleasure only he could give her. He kissed her timelessly, his lips locked on hers, his tongue stabbing hotly into her welcoming mouth, giving them both a heady prelude of what he meant to do to her with his body. But he did not content himself with mere kisses; his hands cupped and kneaded her small, hard breasts, his thumb rubbing arousingly across her throbbing nipples, increasing the warm, aching yearning between her thighs.
Frantically she encouraged his erotic activities; the spasmodic tightening of her fingers around his bulging shaft, the helpless twisting of her body, and the soft moans of pleasure she gave drove Royce onto greater excesses, his lips tenderly ravaging her breasts, his hands trailing slowly down her trembling body, to seek the silken flesh between her legs. With his wicked mouth hungrily pulling against her breasts and the insistent probing of his fingers at the very source of all her delirious yearnings, Morgana was nearly submerged in a turbulent sea of wanton delight.
Not immune to her blatantly seductive actions, Royce shuddered time and again beneath the sensual glide of her fingers along his swollen flesh, the exquisite torment of her stinging little bites at his ear and shoulders. His breathing ragged, knowing that if he did not take her soon, he would shame himself, he fought for control, wanting to prolong this sweet agony, wanting to increase her pleasure before their joining. With a mighty effort he twisted away from her all-too-arousing ministrations, and seeing the half-full bottle of wine lying above her head, a sinfully erotic vision suddenly danced before his eyes and he reached for the bottle.
A frankly carnal smile on his mouth, he glanced into her startled face and slowly poured the cool wine down the center of her slender body. Morgana gasped in surprise as the liquid touched her flesh, but Royce was mesmerized by the sight of the pale gold liquid sliding in sensual rivulets between her pink and white breasts, across her taut little stomach, down to the tight black curls at the juncture of her slim alabaster thighs.
Almost dazedly Royce tossed the empty bottle aside and hungrily began to trace the path the wine had followed with his warm, seeking mouth. Sipping the liquor from between her breasts, his lips straying now and then to her throbbing nipples, he muttered thickly, “Ambrosia! Pure nectar for the gods!”
There was something wildly titillating about the cool moistness of the wine followed by the heat and suction of Royce’s mouth, and Morgana moaned, arching against the sweetness of his exploring lips, reaching out frantically to touch him. She was desperate for his possession, and with soft, incoherent sounds, she tried to tell him of her need, even as her arms tried to pull him to her.
Royce, too, was struggling against the tide of passion that threatened to overcome them, his body aching with the need to bury itself within her, but he was too powerfully addicted to the potent flavor of the wine sipped from her warm body to stop, and compulsively his searching mouth slid lower down across her stomach, to the black ringlets of hair at the juncture of her thighs. Shifting slightly, oblivious to the faint, shocked stiffening of her body, he slipped between her thighs, his hands sliding beneath her buttocks to lift her to him, his mouth and tongue hotly exploring the soft, wine-dampened flesh he found beneath the tight curls.
A piercing spasm of pure sensual pleasure arrowed up through Morgana’s body at the first thrusting flick of Royce’s tongue and she twisted violently upward, to her shameful astonishment, suddenly on fire for more of the decadent things he was doing to her. Her fingers clenched into the blanket as he continued to taste and probe between her legs with his knowing tongue, the most divinely erotic sensations splintering upward and through her entire body with increasing frequency and strength until Morgana was certain there could be no greater pleasure than this most sinfully intimate ravage-ment by her husband. She thrashed like an untamed creature beneath his hungry exploration, craving a release from the sharp, coiling need that seemed centered underneath his tongue as his hands gripped her buttocks tightly, controlling the helpless undulations of her body. Suddenly her entire body went rigid and a high, keening sound of utter joy was torn from her as sweet ecstasy exploded through her, wave after wave of intense pleasure crashing over her.
The exciting feel of her convulsing flesh beneath his tongue, the intoxicating sound of her release, was very nearly more than Royce could bear, and he fought to keep from spilling himself on the ground. It was only when the powerful spasms that racked her slender body stilled that he lifted his head and, sliding upward, pulled her into his arms, his hands caressing her, gently easing her descent to earth again.
Stunned, Morgana could only lie there in his arms, amazed at what she had experienced, hardly able to believe what he had done to her or the wonderful pleasure she had derived from such a wanton act. How long they lay there together, her head cradled against his shoulder as her body slowly returned to normal, she didn’t know. It could have been a mere second or an hour, but suddenly, her thoughts still erotically hazy, she became aware of the rhythmic motion of his thumb as it rubbed her nipple, and more important, a quiver of renewed desire shot through her when she noticed the astonishing size of his swollen manhood against her hip.
“Royce?” she asked breathlessly, her breasts boldly peaking beneath his touch, her eyes cloudy with awakening passion.
He smiled, a lazy, possessive smile, and murmured, “I wondered when you would notice my predicament and decide to help, er, rid me of its embarrassing presence... .”
Already the willing victim of her body’s reawakened demands, Morgana dazedly nodded he
r head and reached eagerly for him. He brushed her seeking fingers aside and groaned, muttering, “No, I don’t think so—I am like a cannon that has been primed once too often.... Touch me and I’m afraid that we will both be disappointed—you, of course, more than me!”
The golden eyes glittering with all the suppressed passion he had within him, Royce pulled her to him and kissed her ravenously, his hands sliding over her body, swiftly bringing her once again to a point of pleading delight. Nearly out of control himself, he rolled onto his back, and guiding Morgana’s eager body over him, he thrust upward violently, burying himself within her tight, warm sheath, impaling her with his bulging shaft.
Mindless with pleasure, filled with him, recklessly Morgana rode his arching body, her hips grinding down against him. It was a violent, hungry mating, both giving each other such fierce pleasure that when the raging storm of ecstasy hit them, Royce fairly exploded within her, shouting aloud his release, and Morgana, her body shaking from the force of her rapture, collapsed bonelessly against him, blissfully certain that one really could die of pleasure.
CHAPTER 28
Lost in the world that only lovers share, through the deepening purple twilight they slowly walked back to the house, their arms entwined, Morgana’s dark head resting against Royce’s shoulder. There was little sign of the wild passion they had shared such a short time ago, although a sharp eye would have noticed instantly that Royce’s cravat was not as meticulously tied as it had been and that Morgana’s curls were riotously tousled and that the spangled pink ribbon was mysteriously missing.
The sweet rapture that existed between them at this moment was a rare and splendid thing, and neither one of them was eager for the fears and anxieties that hovered just beyond conscious thought to intrude. Each was utterly enchanted by the other, and though the word “love” had not been spoken aloud between them, it would have been blatantly obvious to anyone who saw them that they were deeply, irrevocably, in love.
Perhaps the danger that threatened Morgana made these moments even more cherished, Royce didn’t know; he only knew that he had never known or had never expected to know such fierce pleasure in the act of lovemaking, nor the depth of the warm contentment he experienced just having her near him. She was infinitely precious to him, but it never occurred to him to tell her so, it never dawned on him to say the words that would have banished the last lingering doubt in her mind, Instead, that night, as they lay in their marriage bed, he worshiped her again and again with his body, revealing with his hungry kisses and urgent possession all the love and tenderness that was within him.
Long after Morgana had fallen asleep in exhausted slumber, Royce lay awake, watching her as she slept in the golden flicker of the one remaining candle that was still lit, still not quite able to believe that he had been so fortunate, so very blessed, to have found her. It didn’t matter who she was—there was a part of him who savagely wanted her to be just “Pip,” with no ties to anyone, nothing to bind her to anyone but him! But as his loving gaze moved over those sweet features of hers, features that were stamped clearly with the look of the Devlin family, he knew with a hollow feeling in his chest that it would be impossible for her relationship to the Devlins to remain hidden forever.
Unwilling to speculate further about that particular problem, he lowered his eyes and appreciatively his glance strayed down the slender length of her body. The night was warm, and in her sleep, she had tossed the sheet aside, the rumpled white folds of linen ending bunched near her knees. She was lying on her side, facing him, and he frowned as his wandering gaze encountered the scar on her right buttock.
Reaching for the candle, he leaned forward, examining the sharp outlines of the scar against her pale skin. It was not, as he had noticed before, just an aimless network of scarring from an old burn; it had a definite design within its round shape. It was actually quite a large scar, about the size of an English penny, and his frown growing, Royce stared at the mark, his troubled gaze following the entwined initials HD, a rose above the letters, a pair of crossed sabers below. It looked, he thought with a curious feeling of disbelief, uncommonly like the crest of a coat of arms.
He studied the design for a long, long time, the certainty growing within him that it was indeed a crest that he was staring at, that someone, at some time in her young life, had, with calculated cruelty, branded Morgana. It was obviously an old scar, but why, he wondered, would someone go to such lengths? Mere viciousness? Or had someone wanted Morgana to be clearly identified by the crest? Again, why?
He had no trouble believing Stephen Devlin capable of such a cold-bloodedly barbaric act, but since the Earl had plainly abandoned Morgana at birth, why would he want to have her marked as his child? Her startling resemblance to the Devlin family should be proof enough! Royce grimaced. He didn’t recognize the crest, although he was positive, now that he considered it, that he had seen it before—even so, he wasn’t sure that it belonged to the Earl of St. Audries! But if it did, and Royce had a strong feeling that it did, then whose initials were inscribed within it? The D, he thought slowly, no doubt stood for Devlin, but the H? Certainly no one whom he had ever heard of within the immediate family had the initial H. Perhaps a distant relative? Was it possible that Morgana was not Stephen’s daughter, but the offspring of some minor member of the family? But then, why the brand of the crest? Not just any member of the family was allowed to use it.
Morgana moved in her sleep, and half-waking, she smiled drowsily at him. Becoming aware of the candle in his hand and the fact that he was sitting upright in the bed, she murmured, “What are you doing? Is something wrong?”
Royce shook his head, and quick to reassure her, he said lightly, “Everything is fine; don’t worry.”
Becoming fully awake and puzzled by the candle, she frowned slightly and asked, “Are you looking for something?”
“At something might be more appropriate,” he replied, smiling faintly. She smiled back at him, and realizing that now was as good a time as any to satisfy himself about the scar, he asked carefully, “I was examining that scar on your right hip... . When did you get it?”
Leaning up on her elbow, she squinted at the scar. “I don’t know,” she answered, mystified. “I’ve always had it—it’s been there ever since I can remember.” A small smile curved her mouth. “Mum said I came with it!”
Royce took a deep breath, not quite certain what to make of her words. “Came with it?” he repeated casually.
“I mean born with it, or whatever,” she replied with a shrug.
Picking his way with caution, Royce put the candle down and asked seriously, “Didn’t you ever look at it closely? It’s not a birthmark.”
Thoroughly confused, Morgana stared at him and then looked at the scar. “Royce,” she explained patiently, “it’s only a scar, and no, I haven’t examined it. You forget that I haven’t always had the luxury of a change of clothes, nor a bath—I slept in my clothes and wore the same garments for months on end.” She flushed and muttered, “I’ve been naked more since I first met you than all the previous times of my life put together!”
A sensual smile suddenly appeared on his chiseled mouth. “And for that I am devotedly thankful!” But his light mood vanished almost immediately, and a frown between his eyebrows, he said, “Morgana, it isn’t just a scar—I’m almost positive that it is a crest from a coat of arms. Are you sure that you don’t remember anything about it? When you received it? Anything?”
Astonished, she glanced at the scar and then at his sober features. “A crest?” she asked doubtfully. “Why would I have a crest on my hip?” Her eyes widened and she swallowed painfully. “My father?” Her eyes widened even further as something else occurred to her. Her voice very low, she asked, “Do you think that it has anything to do with what happened last night?”
“I don’t know,” Royce answered levelly, “but I wouldn’t be at all surprised. It identifies you without question.” Honesty compelled him to add, “And it could
be your father’s crest. I don’t recognize it, but I’m almost positive that I have seen it before.”
Morgana sat up in bed, the linen sheet modestly covering her body. She had skirted around the issue of her father for weeks now, and it suddenly seemed the most important thing in the world to her to find out the truth—she had procrastinated long enough. Besides, what was there to fear? He couldn’t hurt her! And pushing aside a cowardly desire to remain happily ignorant about the disdainful stranger who had fathered her, she demanded quickly before she could change her mind, “Tell me about him! Jane always claimed that my blood was blue. If, as you seem to believe, the scar is a crest, then that scar would seem to give credence to her statement.” Her eyes locked on his, she questioned urgently, “Who is he? I want to know.”
Reluctantly, and not even sure why he was so reluctant, Royce said baldly, “The Earl of St. Audries, Stephen Devlin.”
If it was possible, her eyes grew even bigger, becoming almost round. “An Earl?” she repeated in a voice of disbelief. “Mother didn’t make any bones about being a ‘high-flyer’; I just never realized that she had flown quite that high!”
He could see little reason to keep the entire truth from her now that she had asked about her father, and taking a deep breath, he said, “It seems very likely—you bear an uncommon likeness to other members of the family; I noticed it immediately. The fact that you are a St. Audries cannot be denied.” He frowned. “But the brand on your hip ... Ever since I saw it the other night, I have been troubled by it—I just can’t fathom a reason for it ... especially if it does prove to be the St. Audries crest. Stephen made absolutely no provisions for you, and from your mother’s unwillingness to tell you about him, it would appear that he didn’t want to claim you, or she was so frightened of him that she dare not tell you, so what possible reason could there be for you to be branded in such a way? And if he was behind last night’s attack on you, why? He’s never intruded into your life before, so why would he want to kill you now?”
Whisper To Me of Love Page 44