“You had no right to include Leonora in this,” Rayne spat.
“The Marchioness of Searle, I believe you meant to say.” He could not resist the jibe. “She is mine now, after all. I took great pleasure in making certain of that.”
A dull, angry flush crept over Rayne’s face. “If you have hurt her, I will skin you alive, and then I will feed your mangled carcass to my swine.”
“Your threats mean nothing to me,” he countered, fairly vibrating with a rage of his own. “I am the dangerous one here on English soil, not you.”
“It was you who had me removed from my post, was it not?” His accent grew even more pronounced.
Ah, victory. It did not feel as satisfying as he had supposed it would, but here, at last, was his opportunity to gloat. To know he alone had the upper hand. All the power.
“Did you truly believe I would not notify our superiors of your failure after I learned your true identity?” he countered.
“I am surprised you learned my identity at all, Searle.” Rayne sneered. “You were always ratherestúpido, no? Dull-witted.”
Despite being the heir to an English earldom, Rayne had spent much of his life in his mother’s homeland, and it showed in his speech. Morgan had conducted his research well, and he knew the strained relationship Rayne had shared with the former earl. He also knew Rayne had allowed his estates to be managed in his absence by an inept steward who was perhaps even swindling him, and that the entail was suffering badly. But above all, he knew Rayne’s infrequent trips back to English shores had been for the sole purpose of seeing to his sister’s wellbeing, the one duty in England which meant enough to him to force his return.
Leonie.
And that was where Morgan had decided to strike first.
“If I am stupid, what does that make you, Rayne?” Morgan countered coldly. “You jeopardized an entire mission by having me taken captive by your own forces.”
At the time of his capture, Morgan had been leading a network of spies throughout the Peninsula. His mission on the day of his capture by Rayne’s guerrillas had been to make his way behind enemy forces and ascertain their movements and positioning. Because of the danger of capture and the secretive nature of his mission, he had not been told who he was meeting in the Spanish countryside, only that his contact would appear following his and Crispin’s meeting withEl Corazón Oscuro.
“My men were meant to take you captive,” Rayne countered. “I do not suppose Chapin told you that, did the spineless weasel?”
This information gave him pause. “Chapin told me nothing. I uncovered the information on my own. I know you were meant to escort me to the rendezvous point that day. But instead, in some foolish show of force, you had your men take me prisoner.”
“It was not a show of force. I am feared enough without needing to take one English lord prisoner.” Rayne’s expression turned mocking. “I was carrying out orders. My men were to take you behind French lines.”
Morgan thought of the cutthroats who had taken him captive. They had fought back against the French soldiers. Two of them had been killed, the others taken captive along with him. He had never seen them again. It had never occurred to him Rayne had acted in accordance with orders.
But there was also the very real—indeed, likely—possibility Rayne was lying to him now in order to allay the repercussions of his actions. Even if Chapin had somehow misled him about the true nature of the mission, however, the fact remained that Rayne’s men had failed. And Morgan had been taken prisoner, tortured, and would have swung on the gallows if not for his desperate escape.
One man and one man alone had sent Morgan to what would have been his bloody, vicious death. One man was responsible for the scars on his back, the demons in his blood, the rage in his soul. And that man was the Earl of Rayne. That man deserved the retribution Morgan would feed him. That man deserved to know suffering, agony, and guilt.
“I do not give one good bloody goddamn what your orders were that day,” he growled, a fresh tide of anger swelling within him. “You are responsible for what they did to me, and you must pay for your sins.”
“If I must pay for my sins, then why the hell did you marry my sister?” Rayne growled.
He thought of the beatings, the lash of the whip upon his flesh, the smell of his own flesh burning, bitter and acrid. Of his fingers clawing through the soil, tunneling himself free, the darkness and the terror, the fear his tunnel would collapse, burying him alive, the realization spending his last moments breathing in dirt would be better than enduring another day of torment.
“So I could destroy you,” Morgan answered with grim and brutal honesty. “If I make her miserable, her misery will be your misery. I will keep you from seeing her and any offspring we have together. She is completely in my control now, and you have no rights where she is concerned. I will do everything in my power to make certain you have no contact with her for the rest of your life. I want nothing more than your suffering. I was tortured and nearly killed by the French because of you, and if I must sacrifice your sister to bring you low, so help me God, I will.”
A gasp tore through the chamber in the silence following his impassioned decree. Not his own, but female.
Familiar.
This time, the boulder crushed him as he met the gaze of his wife, who stood on the threshold of the study, freshly changed in a sprigged muslin afternoon gown that was as pale as her lovely face.
She had overheard his exchange with Rayne. He knew not how much, but he knew it was enough.Jesus, the hurt in her eyes. The accusation, the disbelief. It made him ill.
“Leonie,” he said, moving toward her instinctively. He needed to explain. The words he had spoken had been meant for her brother. Not for her. Never for her. “It is not precisely as it seems.”
She held up a staying hand. “No. Do not come any nearer to me, Searle. I demand an explanation.”
“The explanation is simple,hermanita,” Rayne said before Morgan could begin. “He married you to have his revenge upon me.”
