Stormswept (17 page)

The words drove deep. “I’m not playing at being innocent.”

“One day you’ll admit the truth. But in the meantime, I expect you to obey my commands as you promised to do when you spoke your vows so frivolously. So take off your clothes. Now! ”

That was his plan? To take her by force?

She thrust her chin out at him. “Make me.”

He started. “I will, you know. I’ll tear the clothes off you myself. And I’d hate to ruin such a lovely and expensive gown.”

Yet he made no move toward her. And when she didn’t take off her clothes, he growled, “Fine. I’ll go first.” He
removed his neckcloth, then his cutaway and waistcoat. “Your turn.”

“I won’t. You can’t force me to.”

He stepped toward her, fists clenched. “Take your damned clothes off! I wish to see what I paid in blood for! ”

The frustration in his face gave her pause. Perhaps she should attempt a different tactic. If this wasn’t just about punishing her by humiliating her, if he still actually desired her, then somewhere inside him was the Rhys she’d married—the one who’d actually been in love with her.

There was only one way to be sure.

So she unfastened her stomacher, then her bodice, skirt, hoop, and petticoats. And as she bared her arms and shrugged out of her armor, she was rewarded by his gaze darkening and his face growing taut with undisguised hunger.

He
did
still desire her. That was something, at least.

“The stockings,” he said hoarsely. “Take off your stockings.”

Heart pounding, she stepped out of her slippers, then lifted her shift only high enough to untie the garters and draw down her white silk hose. She felt his gaze following the slide of them down her legs. In spite of everything, it sent a thrill through her.

“Now the corset.” His voice sounded more unsteady.

“I can’t undo it by myself.”

Her words seemed to jerk him from some dark prison. With a curt nod, he came to stand behind her. She sucked in a quick breath when she felt his fingers unknotting her
laces, brushing her skin as he drew the corset apart. It reminded her of what they’d been like together in that inn room on their wedding night.

Could they ever be that way again?

When the corset dropped to the floor, he stepped in front of her, his eyes devouring her. “Now the shift.”

“Your turn,” she said coolly.

He tensed, then gave her a tight nod. “Very well. Perhaps you
should
see what your betrayal wrought.” Jaw clenched, he tore off his shirt. “Have you ever witnessed a man being whipped? Have you any idea what happens to a man after several floggings with a cat-o’-nine-tails?”

When he pivoted to show her his back, she gasped. She’d expected scars, but the reality was far worse. There were no scars on the upper back at all. It was simply an expanse of mottled skin that looked like healed pulp. There were scars lower down in the small of his back, however, where the cat apparently hadn’t reached as well, leaving a dense mesh of white lines on the skin.

She’d heard of the horrors men suffered in the navy, but she’d never dreamed anyone could be so cruel to another human being. His beautiful back, so proud and finely shaped, was covered with healed welts. What pain had he endured to have a back like that? And what other pains had he not yet told her of?

He left nothing to her imagination. “They clean the cat after every stroke, to make sure it doesn’t become so clotted with blood and flesh that it’s ineffective. And when they’re done, they wash the back with brine so it will heal. Men generally pass out from the shock of salt water against torn
flesh—if they haven’t passed out already. But the skin does heal. Until the next flogging, of course.”

Bile rose in her throat. How many such floggings had he suffered? And how had he endured them at all? No wonder he was so furious at her, if this is what he’d thought she’d done to him.

He whirled to face her. “The law supposedly allows no more than six strokes, but a tyrannical captain may order up to three hundred with impunity. And I had a tyrannical captain . . . a cruel man who hated the Welsh, especially known radicals.” He stared past her at the wall. “He had me flogged for the least infraction, and for some I didn’t commit.”

Pity welled up in her. “Oh, Rhys, I’m so sorry you suffered.”

His gaze snapped to hers. “I didn’t tell you so you could pity me. I told you so you’d understand a fraction of what you did to me when you decided marriage didn’t suit you after all.”

“I didn’t—”

“Enough! ” he thundered. “I don’t want protestations of innocence from you, nor pity, either. I want only one thing from you tonight. So take off your damned shift! ”

The violence of his words shook her, but she refused to let him cow her. Somewhere inside was the man she’d once loved. She knew it. And perhaps seeing her in the flesh would remind him of how they’d been together, and stop his attempts to torment her.

As her shift slipped to the floor, he dragged in his breath and scoured her with his gaze, pausing at her breasts, her
belly, the juncture of her thighs. She swallowed hard. If he could endure countless floggings, she could endure this. So when his eyes moved slowly back up her body, burning like blue flames as he assessed her every attraction, she made herself stand proud.

By the time he brought his gaze back to her face, his expression had altered, softened. “Do you know how many times I survived a flogging simply by remembering you? The curve of your hips . . . the full weight of your breasts . . . the silkiness of your skin . . .” He walked up to her, then lifted his hand to run a finger down her throat, over the swell of one breast and then over her belly.

It was such a sensual gesture, almost sweet, that for a moment she forgot how much he’d changed. For a moment, she half-believed that the old Rhys stood before her, coming to her as she’d dreamed of him doing every night for the past six years. She waited, breath held, for him to kiss her.

Instead he shook his head, as if coming to his senses. He yanked his hand back. “Lie down,” he commanded, unbuttoning his breeches. “On the bed.”

She stared at him, shocked by the change in him. Was this really what he planned—to take her like an animal, to reduce their former lovemaking to a bestial act in payment for the many bestial acts committed against him?

No. She wouldn’t let him.

“Lie down, I said! ”

“Not when you’re like this. I won’t let you punish me by doing something you will regret later.”

“I won’t regret it,” he bit out, as if trying to convince himself. “I swear I won’t.”

Faced with his stubbornness, she kissed him. To remind him of what had been, of who they’d been together.

He froze, and for a moment, she wondered if she’d made a mistake. But then his mouth opened over hers, and he was kissing her roughly, deeply, with soul-devouring thrusts of his tongue that made her weak in the knees in spite of everything.

Then his hands were caressing her breasts, and his mouth was ravaging her, and she was truly lost. This couldn’t be the same man who’d coldly told her a few minutes ago to undress, who’d threatened to take her with violence. This man was a lover.

Or a seducer. With a shudder, she fought the flood of warmth that centered in her loins. It was all a trick. She must stop this.

But she couldn’t. She simply couldn’t.

She fought to concentrate on how he’d believed her brothers’ lies, but she could only remember what he’d been to her. And when he bent to close his mouth over her nipple, hot and sweet, drawing and tugging on it, she went soft all over.

“Please . . .” she whispered, hating him for making her capitulate so easily.

His hand slipped down between their bodies, cupping her, fondling her intimate places. Wherever he rubbed, she burned, and when he continued the magic, she opened her eyes, amazed that he could still rouse her body so thoroughly after all the years of silence.

He had closed his eyes and was now sucking her breast as if he’d craved it for an eternity. Suddenly his finger slid
inside her, delving deep. She couldn’t help it. She moaned and closed her arms about his waist.

At the touch of her hands on his back, he stiffened and his eyes shot open. He glared at her, his breath unsteady, his face a mask of anger.

She watched him in total confusion. What had she done?

“Damn it all, Juliana! ” Cursing foully in Welsh, he shoved away from her. He buttoned up his breeches with furious movements, though his arousal was still visible beneath them.

She stared at him. “Why are you angry? This was what you wanted, wasn’t it?” Her voice grew bitter. “To seduce me, have me fall into your bed willingly again?”

“It took very little to get that from you, didn’t it?” he snapped. “It took very little to have you moaning and writhing with pleasure! ”

At first embarrassment made her blush, but as she realized that he seemed angry that she’d responded, she grew cold inside. “If you didn’t want me to have pleasure, then what did you intend? To make me fear you?”

He scowled at her, not saying a word.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” The truth created a hollow ache in her stomach. “You meant to make me suffer as you suffered, to punish me.”

“ ’Tis what you deserve! ”

“It isn’t. And somewhere in that bitter heart of yours, you know it. You don’t truly want to hurt me. ’Tis why you gave me pleasure, why you touched me with gentleness.”

“That’s a lie! ” He stalked toward her as if to renew his
assault. But when she lifted her face to him in challenge, her eyes unafraid, he whirled on his heel and headed for the door.

“Damn you! ” he hissed. Then he unlocked the door and stormed out.

She held her breath, waiting for him to return and make a liar of her by attacking her in earnest. But when he merely locked the door from the outside and strode away cursing, she collapsed onto the bed, finally allowing her tears to flow.

She didn’t care what he claimed. For a few minutes, he’d forgotten all the lies he believed about her. For a brief time, he’d been the Rhys she’d loved.

And that glimpse heartened her. Somehow, she’d won the first battle.

But how many more battles like this could she endure?

O how I long to travel back,

And tread again that ancient track!

That I might once more reach that plain

Where first I left my glorious train

—HENRY VAUGHAN, “THE RETREAT”

L
ettice opened the door to her son’s room, careful not to wake him. It was a nighttime ritual, checking on Edgar before she went to bed.

Tonight the full moon cast its kindly light over his sweet face, kissing his soft cheeks with moonbeams. His childish features were so painfully familiar to her. She’d tried not to notice over the past few years how much more he looked like Morgan with every passing day, but it was impossible not to.

Darcy, however, saw none of it. It sometimes amazed her that he never questioned why his “son” didn’t resemble him.

She closed the door, her throat tightening. If Darcy ever did realize how she’d tricked him . . . what would he do? What would
she
do?

Glancing around the modestly furnished bedroom she shared with Darcy whenever he visited, she sighed. In truth, Darcy treated her like a queen. He came to her often and brought her endearing gifts. She had her own cottage away from prying eyes, and plenty of time to care for it.

Of course, the townspeople looked down on her for being the mistress of a married English nobleman whom they despised. Still, she tried not to let it bother her. At least she had a home for her and her son.

Besides, Darcy treated Edgar well, since his wife had given him no children. Although he couldn’t acknowledge Edgar as his son except to her, he gave Edgar a generous allowance and promised to educate him as a gentleman. And Edgar thought the world of “Uncle Darcy.”

So why wasn’t she content? Why was it that, whenever she looked into Edgar’s sparkling black eyes, she thought of the one man who’d made her melt with just a touch? Darcy couldn’t do that. Their lovemaking was pleasant and adequate . . . but with Morgan it had been a glorious feast, a celebration of joy.

A knock at the door downstairs disturbed her thoughts. Darcy? He’d said the engagement party would go late and that he wouldn’t see her for a day or so, but perhaps he’d changed his mind.

She hurried down and opened the door without a second thought. “I didn’t expect—”

Her words caught in her throat. Standing before her was a ghost—a flesh-and-blood ghost she’d never hoped to see again.

The years melted away. “Morgan! Is it really you?”

His only answer was a hard stare.

She wanted to throw herself into his arms and cry for joy, but the chill in his expression halted her. What was wrong? Why did he look at her so sternly?

Then she remembered. She was another man’s mistress now. And he couldn’t have found her without learning that.

Her heart sank. He’d changed a great deal. His clothing was richer than before, and he wore it with the arrogance of a man of position. A jagged scar creased one of his cheeks, and his hair was quite long.