Marquess of Mayhem (Sins & Scoundrels Book 3)

by Scarlett Scott

  He turned his head and then pressed a kiss to her palm. “Not when you touch me, it doesn’t.”

  A shadow passed over her features. “Why, Morgan?”

  “Because you are an angel, Leonie, just as I’ve always said. Of course you would have the power to heal as well.” Though he deliberately misunderstood her, he meant the words he spoke.

  Her eyes glittered with unshed tears. “I am not an angel. Just a flesh and blood woman. But you know very well I wasn’t speaking of your bruise. I am talking about this horrible need for vengeance against my brother.”

  He released her hand. “I will not speak of it.”

  Indeed, he could not, for the mere question made bile rise in his throat. It restored to him the memory of every lash he had suffered, every burn. It took him back to the beatings, to the dark nights when he had been convinced he would die, when he had been sure he had been broken at last, body and mind and spirit crushed by his enemies.

  A sweat broke out on his brow, and the pounding in his head returned, intensified a hundredfold. He was back in the dirt, burrowing with his bare hands, tunneling for his life, listening for the slightest hint of sound, heart hammering from the knowledge that at any moment he would be caught and hanged.

  “Searle.” Leonie’s face was before him, dispelling the bleak reveries that threatened to consume him. “You are pale. Do you need to sit? Shall I fetch you something?”

  He shook his head. He did not often suffer such a crippling return to those dark days whilst he was lucid. Only his dreams were ordinarily haunted.

  “Searle?” she repeated, concern in her mellifluous voice.

  “I require a moment.” He forced out the words, his tongue feeling thick and dry in his mouth.

  “Come.” She led him to the drawing room, stopping before a striped divan. “Sit, my lord.”

  He stood, unmoving before the piece of furniture. He wanted to sit, and yet, he didn’t. He desired his wife’s attentions, her calming presence, her soothing touch, and yet he wanted to push her away. His head throbbed. His skin was cold. All he could think about was the darkness, tunneling through the earth, scrabbling for his life, what he had done just before making his desperate bid for freedom…

  Her small palms found his shoulders, guiding him downward, and he allowed it. The action took him back to the day he had come upon her in the salon at the Kirkwood ball, and their roles had been reversed. That day, he had been the one to see she was suffering and in need of aid.

  She sat beside him, one arm going around him as her other hand found his, and she laced their fingers together. “Take slow, deep breaths, Morgan.”

  He did as she ordered, inhaling through his nose and exhaling from his mouth. His grip on her fingers tightened. He did not want to need her. Did not want to take comfort from her. And yet, he was helpless. If he had needed further proof she was an angel, here it was. She alone could calm him. She alone could force the violence and the memories and the madness away.

  She alone could save him.

  But did he want to be saved? Could he be saved? Or was it too late?

  “Will you tell me?” she asked softly. “I want to know what happened to you so I can help you.”

  “I do not want your help,” he forced himself to say. “The only thing that will help me is facing Rayne on the field of honor and putting my bullet in him.”

  She flinched.

  He ought to be ashamed of the virulence within him, the hatred festering and seething for the Earl of Rayne. The man was Leonie’s half-brother, after all. But it was how he felt. He hated Rayne with the scorching intensity of a thousand blistering suns. Bloodlust surged inside him, replacing the sick sense of anxiety.

  “How can you truly believe harming anyone will make you whole?” Leonie demanded.

  Her hand still clasped his, and her arm was still around him, holding him to her. And damn it if he did not take comfort in it. In her.

  “Nothing can make me whole,” he told her truthfully. “What happened to me…it changed me. I will never again be the man I was. You saw the evidence of what they did to me, Leonie, and that is not nearly the half of it.”

  “Tell me,” she urged.

  He forced himself to look down into her upturned face. She was so trusting. So bloody caring, even when he did not deserve it. He could not be certain which was worse, her silence or her nearness. Both were torture in equal measure.

  “I killed a man,” he found himself saying, lost in the depths of her gaze. Lost in her.

  “Death is a part of war.” Her hand clasped his more tightly in reassurance. “You were a soldier, Morgan.”

  “You misunderstand, Leonie.” He paused, a violent surge of nausea stealing his breath for a moment. “The night I escaped from the enemy soldiers holding me captive, I killed my guard with my bare hands. He had come to do violence upon me, the sort you cannot imagine, the sort I have no wish for you to ever know…and I could not bear it. I choked him, and I watched the life leave him. I faced many soldiers on the field of battle but this was different. They broke me that night. I became a monster.”

  “You did what you needed to do to survive.” Her tone was fierce, and a tear clung to her long, golden lashes. “There is no shame in any of your actions, Morgan. You were brave, so very brave to free yourself.”

  He caught the tear on his forefinger. “Do not weep for me. I am not worthy of your sadness.”

  He had hurt her. Lied to her. Manipulated her. He had married her with the intention of meeting her half-brother in a duel. He was plagued by demons, covered in scars. There was no good in him. And yet, Leonie looked upon him with such tenderness. No pity, no sympathy, just…

  Love.

  Naked and raw, pure and true, love. Her love for him was written on her face. So real, such a force, he almost believed in it. Almost believed love could be real, that it could heal him, and that she could heal him, if he only let her.

  “But you are worthy, Morgan. If you would only look inside yourself, you would see that.” She kissed the tip of his finger, and the wetness of her tear clung to her lips.

  Something inside him snapped. His mouth was upon hers in the next breath, his tongue tracing the seam of hers, licking the saltiness of her sorrow from her lips. She opened for him without hesitation, and she tasted sweeter than she ever had. Bittersweet.

  He cupped her face, angled her to where he wanted her, and deepened the kiss. Need for her burst forth, flooding him. He was helpless. He forgot about the duel. Forgot about Rayne. Forgot about the awful, ugly sins of his past. And he kissed his wife. He kissed her as if she were his last meal, laid before him, as if he could consume her.

  Suddenly, he no longer wanted dinner. To hell with food. To hell with anything but Leonie. They kissed and kissed, breaths mingling. Her heartbeat was so fast and strong he felt its flutter beneath his fingertips.

  Yes, this was what he had been missing for the past two days. What he had been missing all his life. Just this woman, this one incredible woman who loved so fiercely, whose heart was so good, who knew suffering well enough to understand what he needed before he knew it himself. And he wanted everything she had to give him. When he kissed her, she chased away the darkness. When he drank her in, she washed away the pain, the memories.

  She shook him. Rocked him to his very core. Humbled him, too. After everything he had done to her, after everything he had said—each cold word and colder deed—she was still showing him such tender concern.

  She tore her mouth from his, and he allowed it. Gave her the space she needed, respected her boundaries. “It is too much, Searle,” she whispered. “Too fast.”

  He nodded and released her, because he understood, and he did not want to push her. The last thing he wanted was to make her feel forced into returning to his bed. He had sent her from him, and he deserved her punishment now. He deserved her silence and her reticence. Christ, he deserved her scorn, which she had yet to truly show him. Perhaps she was too good, incap
able of experiencing the rancor which led him to the brink of madness on a daily basis.

  But there was one question he dared to ask. One answer he needed to know. “Can you forgive me, Leonie?”

  Her long lashes swept down, guarding her secrets, hiding everything from him for a beat. And then she glanced back up at him, the conflict within her evident in her expression. “I cannot make any promises, but I will try. In return, I ask one favor of you.”

  He stiffened, anticipating her question before she even asked it. “The duel will carry on, Leonie. It must.”

  Her face lost all its softness as she went rigid. “All I ask is that you reconsider crying off the duel. You do not have to promise me a thing.”

  Morgan wanted to deny her outright. His every instinct demanded that he must. He had always been a man who believed in justice. Bringing Rayne to his knees was all that mattered. The thought of standing over the earl’s prone form, pistol in hand, victorious, had been carrying him through his days far longer than Leonie’s sweet kisses, creamy flower-scented skin, and tight cunny had.

  He did not owe her the promise he would consider walking away from his only chance to right the wrongs which had been perpetrated against him. He did not even owe her a response.

  But she was awaiting his answer now, her expression grave, and she looked so fragile and delicate, as if one wrong move from him would send her toppling like a felled tree. The haunted look in her eyes troubled him in turn. He had no wish to be the cause of this woman’s sadness, nor the source of any of her tears.

  “I will reconsider,” he allowed grudgingly, for it was the only answer he could give her, even if it was not the one she deserved. “But I promise nothing.”

  She smiled sadly. “That is no more and no less than you have always promised me, my lord.”

  In defeated silence, the boulder of dread within him swelling to the tremendous burden of a mountain once more, he led his marchioness to dinner.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Leonora woke in the night to a familiar sound.

  Searle was suffering from nightmares again.

  Her only instinct was to throw back the covers. Though she had not long been a resident of Linley House, she knew her way well enough to hesitantly step through the darkness of her chamber. His strangled scream of undeniable horror made a shiver slide down her spine.

  Whatever had happened to him during his imprisonment, it was enough to terrorize him months later. He had alluded to the horrors earlier in the drawing room, sharing more with her than he ever had. She could not imagine, did not wish to imagine, the full extent.

  She could only hope and pray that Freddy was right and that her plan would work. That the experience of his capture had left him so scarred and fraught it had created a beast within him, a beast which demanded Alessandro’s blood as forfeit and would accept nothing less. But Freddy had suggested if Leonora could give Searle comfort, show him he need not be alone, that working through his demons at her side would be far better than making new demons and ruining lives, the duel could be avoided, and Alessandro and Searle would both be saved.

  Leonora could not help but to wonder as she blindly fumbled for the latch on the door adjoining her chamber to Searle’s if there was any hope at all. It seemed her husband’s scars ran too deep. His bitterness and rage and helplessness had all poured from him earlier in the drawing room, and it had been heartbreaking.

  But not as heartbreaking as the sounds of agony being torn from him now. As she made her way inside his chamber, she heard his breath emerging in pants. Moving as swiftly as she could, she went to his side, mindful of the violence of his response the last time she had awakened him from a nightmare.

  She groped through the murk of the night, finding the edge of his bed. “Morgan,” she said softly, pausing where she stood.

  He stirred, groaning, then ground his teeth together with such force she shuddered at the sound. But still, he slept, trapped within the horrors of his mind, reliving the days of his imprisonment.

  “Morgan.”

  “No! Do not touch me!” he cried out with perfect, horrible clarity.

  “Oh, Morgan,” she whispered, tears pricking her eyes.

  She hated what he had done. She hated his intention of dueling with Alessandro. She hated that he had manipulated her and used her and made her believe theirs could be a true marriage rather than one founded in lies and his own need for revenge. But she could not hate him.

  Not when she loved him so, and not when the undeniable sound of his agony over what he had endured echoed through the night.

  She reached for him then, thankfully finding his hand in the bedclothes, and holding tight. “Morgan, it is Leonie,” she said again, this time with a firm voice. “You are safe. I am here. Wake up, my love.”

  He jerked beneath her touch, and as her eyes adjusted to the filmy moonlight filtering past the window dressings, she discerned his silhouette as he sat up in bed, breathing harshly.

  “Leonie?” His fingers tangled with hers, tightening. “Is that you?”

  “Yes.” She squeezed back, telling herself she could not cry. She must not cry. Why, oh why, was she so easily overcome with emotions these last few days? It seemed as if she was forever on the verge of tears. But he would not appreciate her weeping all over him—his pride would not have it—and she knew it too well. “I am here, Morgan.”

  “Did I hurt you?” he asked hoarsely.

  Yes, but not in the manner you refer to.

  “No.” Without thought, she brought his hand to her lips, kissing the back of it.

  He was so strong, so tall and powerful, every bit of him lean and masculine, honed to perfection. And yet he was, just as Alessandro had said, a man broken. Broken on the inside. Estar roto. Shattered by what had happened to him. And he had attempted to paste his pieces back together with hatred instead of with love.

  Could her love be enough to heal him, to make him whole? Was it possible? Or was she too late?

  “Leonie?” Her name in his deep voice did not fail to have an effect upon her.

  “Yes?” She kissed his hand again, unable to resist inhaling the scent of his skin. So familiar, so beloved. His hand was vital, filled with life and strength, and she clung to it, just as she clung to hope he would change his mind about facing her brother on the field of honor.

  “I am sorry.”

  Her heart swelled.

  “For waking you,” he added.

  The hope blossoming inside her wilted. “It was not your fault, my lord.”

  He was silent for a moment, and she sensed he was attempting to calm himself and gather his wits. “I am also sorry for hurting you. I did not apologize to you earlier, when I had the chance, and I should have.”

  The foolish hope was revitalized, like a dry flower given a much-needed drink of rain. “Thank you.”

  She said nothing else, simply stood there in the darkness by his bedside, clasping his hand, pressing it to her cheek to absorb the heat and the vitality of him. For an indeterminate amount of time, he held on as if letting go meant she would fall from the edge of a cliff. And she held on, too, because she felt the opposite, that releasing him meant the end.

  Of them.

  Of everything.

  But she was also the girl who should have died when she fell from the bannister all those years ago. She believed in healing and second chances. She believed in purpose and joy and meaning where it otherwise seemed there could be none.

  So, she refused to let go. She needed to believe she could change the path upon which they found themselves. That hope remained for him to find his way back to her, and for her to await him, arms open. Vengeance was not the answer, and she knew it to her soul. Love was. It always had been. Freddy was right.

  “Leonie?” he asked at last.

  “Yes, Morgan?”

  “Thank you for coming to me and waking me. Christ knows you ought to have let me suffer in my sleep. Not even I would have blamed you.”

/>   She turned their hands as one, kissing his inner wrist, just where his heartbeat pulsed against her lips. “I would have blamed me.”

  “Angel,” he said without heat.

  “Not an angel,” she denied. “Merely your wife.”

  “You do not owe me anything,” he was quick to say, his tone growing cool.

  But she would not allow him to build up the walls between them with such unobstructed ease. “I am here because I care about you, Morgan. Not because I feel obliged to be here. There is a difference.”

  “Is there?”

  “Yes.” Her response was instant. Perhaps too quick, and perhaps she revealed too much. But her response was already there, hovering in the thickness of the air between them. “I have never felt obligated where you are concerned. I have only ever wanted to be a good wife to you. I fear I have not.”

  “Of course you have. You are the best wife a man could ask for, and the only wife I want. Never doubt how selfless and inspiring and wonderful you are, Leonie.” His voice was low, almost savage in its intensity. “Never let that be taken from you. You are the only good part of my life, and that is the absolute truth.”

  “I wish I could believe that.” She could not keep the sadness from her voice, for it was there, pulsing, burning, a painful bud unfurling in her heart.

  And yes, how she wished she could believe him. But she could not, could she?

  “Believe what you will. I may not have always offered you the truth, but what is between us Leonie, this passion, that has never been a lie.”

  She longed to believe that as well. Good heavens, how deeply and how thoroughly and how desperately she longed for it. But he had already proven her easily influenced, and she had no wish to feel any more the fool than she already did when it came to this man.

  “I want to believe you,” she allowed slowly. Hesitantly.

  “Believe what you must.”