He looked like the man who had hurt Leonie, and he hated that man. He hated himself. The Duke of Whitley’s words returned to him suddenly, echoing in his mind, landing somewhere in the vicinity of his chest.
Let the past die. Let it go, or it may well kill you.
He thought of Leonie, of how alive he felt whenever he held her in his arms. When he touched her. When he kissed her and made love to her. And he wanted that feeling, wanted it more than the hollowness of vengeance.
But if he let go of his need to exact revenge upon Rayne, what did he have left? Retribution had been his driving force, the only emotion to propel him forward. He had been raised by two strangers who hated each other, and then he had spent the last few years mired in the hell of war. He did not have gentleness in him. He could not be the man Leonie needed. The man she deserved. She loved him, and he…he did not believe in love.
Did he?
Of course, he had most certainly killed whatever it was she felt for him. Lust, longing, desire, regardless of the name, he was sure he had replaced it with hatred instead. How fitting. Perhaps the son was forever doomed to repeat the mistakes of his father.
Disgusted with himself, he left his chamber and descended to the dining room. His head was aching with the after-effects of the claret he’d consumed with Monty, and no doubt the blow he’d received as well. He needed some of Monsieur Talleyrand’s rich French cuisine to take away the edge, or else he needed more claret. Whichever he could get his hands on first.
But as he reached the main floor, he forgot about sustenance and drink, and his pounding head altogether. Because there stood his wife, dressed in a blue evening gown with gossamer net, Forget-me-nots woven through her white-blonde curls, and she had never been more lovely than she was in that moment.
“My lady,” he said, his tone roughened by the burst of longing shooting through him.
Did the flowers in her hair hold a deeper meaning? Something within him dared to hope. Two days had passed since their picnic by the stream at Westmore Manor, but it may as well have been a lifetime.
“My lord.” She dipped into a formal curtsy as he reached her.
He bowed, her sweet scent overwhelming him. Her expression was guarded, her lovely pink lips compressed. “You are a most welcome sight this evening.”
And she was. He could not deny it, regardless of how impenetrable he wished to be. She melted the hardness inside him, purified the ugly, jagged shards into something better. Something worthwhile. Replaced the darkness with her brightness, even though he did not wish the transformation.
“Thank you, Searle.” Her gaze traveled over his face, lingering on his jaw. “Have you been engaged in a bout of fisticuffs? I do believe you have a bruise.”
He rubbed the sore area gingerly. “A bit of sport with my cousin, Monty, nothing more.”
She surprised him by raising her hand and gently tracing his jaw with a tender touch. “It looks as if it must hurt.”
Morgan swallowed against a sudden knot in his throat at the caress of her fingers over his skin. Longing slammed into him. He had not allowed himself to admit how shaken her defection had left him. Without thought, he clasped her hand in his, holding it to his freshly shaven skin.
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…
