"Stop. You must stop."
"Aye. I'll stop." He bent his lips to hers. This time she did not pull away or try to avoid his touch.
"When you tell me you hate the sight of me, the touch of me." He muttered the words against her lips and took the kiss deeper.
Without realizing it, her hands fell limply at her sides. Her tongue met his, hesitantly at first, then bolder, until she opened her mouth to him and kissed him as he was kissing her.
Her hands rose to his arms, gripping him for support.
Morgan had intended to prove to her that she would respond to him, no matter how angry. Instead, he had just foolishly fallen under her spell. The very things he had so proudly managed to avoid for all these years had just ensnared him. The touch of her, the taste of her, were his undoing. He wanted her. God in heaven. He wanted her.
"Tell me, Brenna. Has any Scotsman ever made your blood run hot?" He kissed her until she was gasping for breath, and still he could not tear his mouth from hers. Against her lips he muttered, "Has any Scotsman ever made your heart thunder like this?" His hand covered her breast and he felt the wild pounding of her heartbeat. Its rhythm matched his own.
He plunged his tongue into her ear again and again, then once more covered her mouth with his. With one arm firmly around her, he lifted his other hand to the dark tangles of her hair and drew her head back.
Before she could catch her breath he ran openmouthed kisses along the column of her throat, then lower, to the swell of her breast. Through her gown he felt her nipple harden at his touch. His excitement grew as he felt her trembling response.
She brought her arms around his neck and clung to him, hating him for being so worldly and knowing just how to make her burn with desire.
She hated herself for giving in to this need that pulsed through her, robbing her of her will. And she hated this weakness that had taken over her control.
They dropped to their knees on the floor, entangled in each other's arms.
"Tell me you do not want this," he taunted, "and I will walk away."
He knew it was a lie. At this moment he could not turn away from her even if she pleaded with him. The need for this damnable little woman was stronger than anything he'd ever known.
Brenna lifted her tear-filled eyes to him. The feelings that churned inside her were so new, so frightening, they filled her with terror.
She wanted this man. More than anything in the world. Never before had she felt so wild and free. But she feared the feelings that rippled through her, driving her to such wanton behavior.
"Tell me," he, commanded.
"I..." Her throat was so dry she could not speak. She swallowed and tried again. But no words would come out. Instead she merely clung to him and offered him her lips.
The thought of her surrender added to his arousal. Desire clawed at him, stripping him of his pride. He would beg, he would crawl, to have her. The need for her drove him to be ruthless.
"You may deny all you want, my lady. But your body tells me the truth."
Her breath shuddered from between parted lips. His own breathing was ragged and painful.
Her tears spilled over, running in little rivers down her cheeks. Her words tumbled out, frightened, breathless, causing his heart to stop.
"I am so afraid. I have never been with a man before."
A virgin. God in heaven. Hadn't he always known? She was as sweet, as untouched, as a rosebud that had not yet come to flower.
Morgan felt a wave of disgust at what he had almost done. He had driven her mad with his own lust. He had nearly taken her here, on the cold, hard floor. Like some tavern slut.
He dropped his hands to his sides.
Brenna felt a sudden chill and wished that he would hold her. But when she looked up she saw that his eyes no longer smoldered. The hint of a smile was wiped from his lips.
In his arms she had come alive for the first time in her life. Though the feelings he aroused in her were terrifying, they were also exciting. And now that he no longer held her, she felt cold and lifeless. Why had no other man ever aroused these emotions? Had they always been there, waiting for this man? For a few minutes it had no longer mattered that he was English and she was Scots. They were a man and a woman who had come together in naked hunger. Without Morgan Grey, she sensed, she would never again be lifted to such heights.
He misunderstood her silence.
"Forgive me, Brenna." He lifted a hand to her cheek and wiped away her tears.
"With you I am like a man possessed.
I have never before tried to force my way with a woman. I had no right. "
Though she yearned to tell him that she shared his needs, she could not find the words. These feelings were still too new, her emotions still too raw.
With great effort he stood and helped her to her feet.
"The goblet."
For the first time she noticed the shattered glass that littered the hearth.
"Leave it. A servant will clean it on the morrow."
But who would pick up the pieces of her shattered heart?
She chanced another glance at him. His hands were clenched at his sides. His face was grim.
"Good night, my lady. You will sleep in my chambers. I will remain here in the sitting chamber."
"Good night." She walked to his sleeping chamber. When she closed the door, he was still standing where she had left him. Staring morosely into the flickering flames of the fire.
Chapter Seventeen
1 he only light that burned in Morgan's sleeping chamber was the light from the fireplace and from a single candle set in an ornate silver candlestick on a small table. Beside it were a basin and pitcher of water perfumed with rose petals.
The bed hangings had been let down to assure privacy. The coverlets had been turned down for the night. More rose petals had been scattered among the bed linens. Across the foot of the bed an elegant gossamer and lace night shift had been carefully laid out.
What was all this? Brenna frowned. So. The servants had already heard.
That was why her room had been emptied of all her things, and why Morgan's room had been so thoughtfully prepared for lovers.
Lovers. She felt the sting of tears and quickly wiped them away. She would not cry over Morgan Grey. He was not worthy of her tears. He did not love her. He had admitted as much. In fact, she thought, struggling with the buttons of her gown, he was probably incapable of loving anyone except himself. He'd been steeped in hatred and bitterness for so long, there was most likely no room left in his heart for love.
Where was Rosamunde? she thought, feeling her temper grow. Had the servants conspired to leave her alone with only Morgan Grey to assist her in undressing? She felt a flush touch her cheeks. Aye. That was exactly what they'd had in mind. They had all retired to their beds early, convinced that the two lovers would prefer to be alone.
Alone. She felt more alone now than she ever had. Her heart tripped over itself each time she was near Morgan. But he was a man who was only capable of hatred and bitterness. She paused. What must it be like to be wed to one who loves another? What pain he must have suffered at the hand of such a callous woman. Quickly she berated herself. Had not her sisters always told her she was too tenderhearted? Soon she would find herself pitying Morgan instead of resenting him.
She undressed quickly and slipped on the night shift. She padded across the room and hung her gown on a peg, then crossed to the bed and snuffed out the candle. Climbing beneath the warm covers, she stared at the flickering flames and was reminded once again of the heat that had flared between her and Morgan. How had she allowed that Englishman to arouse her in such wanton fashion? She had always believed herself strong enough to resist anything. But this man needed only to touch her and some sort of weakness pervaded not only her body but her soul, as well.
He would use her, she cautioned herself. Use her shamelessly, then discard her. The man was incapable of loving anyone.