Chapter 14

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“ M organ, enough ,” Duncan snarled, stepping in front of him.

Panting, sweating and seeing red, Morgan let out a defiant growl as he tried to step past Duncan. The fight had not been that bad. He had caused greater injuries in the past and had received much worse in return.

“I can go another match,” Morgan insisted. “You hear that crowd out there? They are clamoring for me to go back out.

He should have known better than to agree to Duncan coming with him that evening. Since the first night he had discovered Morgan’s underground fighting habits, Duncan had tagged along a dozen or so times to see the fights.

Save for tonight, his friend had always been quiet and had never become personally involved, no matter how bloody the match became. Tonight, however, was different for both of them.

Morgan had poured himself into his fighting, letting it become a conduit to release his mounting pressure. He had been savage with his fists, but so had his opponents, and he had earned every bruise that now covered his body. The only difference was that he had won, whereas the rest of the fighters were receiving wound care in the back room. He had gone through three fighters that evening, and Morgan felt as if he could go through a hundred more.

“I do not know what has gotten into you tonight, brother, but this is not the way to handle it,” Duncan whispered, his tone tense. “If you continue along this path you are either going to kill someone or get killed yourself.”

Morgan knew Duncan was right, but he had no choice. After his lessons with Helena he had tried being with other women, but it had never been satisfying. They could never give him what he needed to drive away the yearning in his bones. Fighting allowed his mind to focus on something other than his growing need to spend time with Helena.

Morgan recalled how sensitive her body had been to everything he had done to her. Naked and vulnerable, she had swallowed her fear, trusted him, and allowed herself to be at the mercy of his teachings.

Morgan’s mind flashed to the way she had gasped as he poked the tip of the hair pin into her nipple; how she had undulated while he rolled the sharp, five-pointed star down her hip; when he had applied it to her sex and caused her to orgasm. He had been certain his thundering heart would stop.

His mind then raced to the sight of her crawling to him; her sky-blue eyes wide with yearning and a touch of shame. Not enough to make her stop, but enough to appease the monster in him that roared when a woman exhibited a modicum of shame for her willingness.

His hands itched inside his gloves, yearning to slap the beautifully curved cheeks of her backside once again. She had loved the sting of a heavier hand and her reaction had driven his body into chaos. He had broken his promise to himself not to explode in his trousers, and had an urge to make up for his transgression.

Helena’s body and curious spirit was, by definition, a revelation, but it was also her emotional pain that called him. Just as he had not wanted to be a duke, she did not want to proceed with her impending marriage. She was being thrust into the position without a choice, just as he had been.

Morgan yanked on the sweaty black bandit mask that covered his face from his hairline to his nose, wanting nothing more than to rip it off. Duncan had insisted he do more to hide his true identity, and since he held Morgan’s secret in the palm of his hands, he had acceded to his request.

“Step away with me, brother,” Duncan urged over the roar of the crowd behind the curtain. “Any more bruises and our brothers will surely catch on that you have been up to something.”

Morgan’s brow furrowed. He had already promised another fight to the organizer. To go back on the deal would create an uncomfortable rift; one he might not be able to mend. But he could not have the others asking him questions. Duncan knowing was more than enough.

Duncan was altogether too insightful for his own good. He had seen the minuscule crack in Morgan’s persona and had used every excuse possible to join him in work matters, have tea or whiskey during one of his unexpected visits, and attend his secret boxing matches.

Duncan would never ask him what was wrong, and Morgan appreciated him for that. However, Duncan would continue to give him knowing looks; he would continue invading his space until that minuscule crack widened into a crevice, at which point Morgan would confess.

Being around Ambrose had become a burden. He knew he had no one to blame but himself for feeding the fire that would no doubt destroy their friendship, but he had become addicted to and obsessed with Helena. Her willingness. Her obedience. She wanted to be his. He had seen it in her eyes, and her yearning equaled his own.

His second orgasm had been explosive. He had released it from within his soul as Helena undulated in his lap, her beautiful, reddened cheeks bouncing on his lap as she worked her wet petals against the side of his throbbing rod. It was better and more transcendent than any other release he had ever experienced.

However, the brief euphoria had ended shortly after he had sent her home in his carriage. As he watched her leave, he felt his earlier bliss transform into an active addiction. Now he needed her. Again. And again. And again.

And she needed him.

“Clawhammer, what say you?” The announcer asked, swinging through the curtain with an enraged expression. “You beatin’ another arse or not?”

Duncan leveled Morgan with an intense stare, and his silence carried a deadly warning.

“Not,” Morgan spat out, meeting Duncan’s stare with equal intensity. “Take back my winnings as compensation. I am out.”

Neither Duncan nor Morgan saw the surprised expression on the man’s face, nor did they hear his pleasant goodbyes, obviously pleased that he could simply pocket the money for himself.

“Good lad,” Duncan acknowledged.

Morgan broke his gaze the moment they were alone and went to see Boris to retrieve his clothes.

“You are a right bastard, sometimes, you know that?” Morgan huffed, shrugging on his shirt.

“I have been called far worse by people far more important,” Duncan quipped back with a shrug.

“Now that was a witty retort,” a deep voice called out.

Morgan’s equally witty retort died on his tongue as he heard the aristocratic accent filter down from the staircase. There were times when Morgan or Duncan would spot a familiar face in the fighting pit, but it was an unwritten rule that they never spoke to one another and never acknowledged each other’s presence.

A handsome blue-eyed man in his mid-twenties wearing a black suit, top hat, and opera cape came into view. Morgan noticed tufts of blonde hair poking out from under the man’s hat and saw the steely shimmer of his eyes, but the man was only vaguely familiar to him.

“Apologies, I know this is not the way things usually go, Lord Grandhill, but I just wanted to offer you my congratulations on your success. It was quite a good night for my pocketbook,” the man stated, holding out a friendly hand.

Morgan and Duncan remained silent and neither of them accepted the stranger’s hand.

“That is…appreciated,” Morgan eventually said as the man drew his hand away.

“You know my name but I am afraid I do not know yours, Lord…?”

“Luke Ayles, Viscount of Ashfield,” said the man, introducing himself with a slight bow of his head.

“Ah, yes,” Duncan spoke up. “That is why we do not recognize you. You inherited your title from a relative a few years ago, am I correct?”

There was trace of resentment behind the man’s pleasant smile as he looked from Morgan to Duncan.

“You are correct, Lord Baxter,” he conceded with a tilt of his head. “I have spent much of my time acclimating to my new title, but now that I am better settled, I am on a mission to find some likeminded gentlemen with whom I can spend my time.”

He motioned towards the door that Boris was guarding.

“Gentlemen who enjoy outings such as these.”

As Morgan studied Luke, something in the back of his mind growled protectively. There was something about his face that made him want to punch it. Morgan liked fighting quite a bit, but it had never become personal.

“Perhaps we will run into one another,” Morgan replied and decided it was time to leave. With a nod of his head he stepped around the gentleman and Duncan quickly following.

Luke simply raised his hat to them.

“Perhaps we shall,” he called back.

As they left the man behind, Morgan heard him murmur the name Curtis and stopped walking.

“Come on, let us get out of here before he follows us home like a lost pup,” Duncan urged.

Though he wanted to turn around and ask Luke who he was talking about, Morgan heeded his friend and let his curiosity die in the night air.