The feeling within him froze and withered like a plant beneath the blight of an early winter frost. “I beg your pardon, Huell. Who might be the earl to whom you refer?”
Huell blinked, a slight furrow creasing his weathered brow. “The Earl of Rayne, my lord, her ladyship’s brother, of course. He did mention he was expected, and weary after a long journey from abroad. Forgive me if I have acted in haste in his placement.”
The boulder rolled back into place upon his chest, threatening to crush him.
Rayne was here. Beneath this very roof.
El Corazón Oscuro.
“Alessandro?” Leonie asked, her voice ringing with her shock. A shock that matched his. “But how can it be? He is on the Continent.”
Yes indeed, how could it be? But of course, Morgan knew precisely how. He also knew why. The message he had sent Rayne had reached him. So, too, had the warning, just as he had planned.
Too soon, he thought.Far too soon.
The hairs on the back of Morgan’s neck stood on end. His mouth went dry. In a blink, he returned to that horrible day when he had been taken captive by Rayne’s guerrillas. He had been helpless on that day. And helpless on all the days that had come after until he had escaped at last.
He would not be helpless today.
A chill settled over him. The boulder was immovable, just as he must be.
The day of reckoning had arrived.
Chapter Thirteen
Morgan paced thelength of the Westmore Manor study yet again, irritation surging. His quarry had arrived, and he did not like to be kept waiting. Upon learning of their unexpected guest, Morgan had convinced Leonie to return to her chamber and change from her wet garments. She had reluctantly agreed, though her excitement at the prospect of seeing her brother was evident in her expression.
He, however, had not bothered to return to his chamber, instead, sending for Rayne and awaiting him in his father’s old study. But though the earl had hunted Morgan down, it would appear he was in no hurry for their confrontation to occur, because he had yet to materialize in the flesh. Leaving Morgan with nothing to do save tramp up and down the faded Aubusson and grit his teeth whilst contemplating storming to the amber chamber and forcing the fox from his den.
In his next tour of the chamber, he noted a pair of dreary oil paintings depicting the hunt. The former Marquess of Searle had reveled in the sport of killing creatures smaller than himself. Here was one more part of the past that required removal. Morgan would need to replace the carpets and the wallcoverings. Even the desk, an ornate French affair, could go.
He had no wish for reminders of the man who had sired him. What he did wish for, was the opportunity to face Rayne. He had planned this moment so meticulously, but now that it had at last arrived, he felt oddly uncertain of how to proceed, what he would say first. Indeed, he felt…numb.
Because when he had first begun to lay the foundation for his revenge, he had never guessed the day would come when he would develop tender feelings for his wife, the woman who was meant to be his instrument of vengeance and nothing more. He had never even imagined Leonie would become so precious to him, nor that she would be so giving and beautiful and sweet.
He had never supposed she would fall in love with him.
Christ, what a mess he had made for himself.
A hell of his own making.
“Searle.”
He spun about at the low, accented voice, the same voice that visited him occasionally in nightmares. There stood his nemesis, the Earl of Rayne. Dark-haired, dark-eyed, and soulless, his face an expressionless mask.
“We meet again,El Corazón Oscuro,” he bit out grimly.
Rayne bared his teeth, but the snarl on his lips could hardly be called a smile. “Where the hell is my sister?”
His façade had slipped, and Morgan saw beneath it clearly. The earl was furious. A violent surge of satisfaction tore through him. “Do you refer to my marchioness, Rayne?”
The earl’s jaw tightened as he stalked forward, fists clenched. Rayne was a large man, and Morgan knew the violence he was capable of, having seen him in action on the Peninsula. But Morgan matched him in size and viciousness. He stood his ground, unafraid.
“What have you done to her,cerdo inglés?” Rayne demanded.
English pig, he had called him. Morgan might remind the earl he, too, was half-English. But here was further evidence of how shaken the earl was, allowing his anger and his concern for Leonie—his only vulnerabilities—to show.
Morgan grinned. “Have you traveled all this way just to wish us happy? What a loving brother you are, my lord. Or shall I call youBrothernow that we are family?”
