Chapter 23

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

“ B loody hell,” Morgan muttered, pressing the ice cube filled rag against his left cheekbone. It was swollen and bruised in four distinct colors, and a laceration sliced through its center. He had another on the right side of his jaw, and he was not even going to attempt to count the ones that covered the rest of his body.

It was not often he risked a fight during the daytime, but after his run-in with Helena in the park and then Ambrose on the street, he had needed a fight like a fish needs water. This time there was no Duncan to pull him away, and he had finally been able to fully unleash himself. Six fights. More than he had ever accepted in one day, and he had won them all, though he had barely scraped by during the last one. His fury had decreased slightly, but his strength had dried up completely, and he’d had to resort to a head butt.

“Morgan.”

Helena’s soft voice resounded in the silence of his library, and Morgan felt his heartbeat stammer as he looked away from the small mirror. His body instantly tensed and warmed as he saw her standing before him, a look of terror marring her beautiful face.

“Helena, what are you doing here?” he rasped, shocked by her sudden presence.

A deep, pulsating sense of pleasure began to spread through his chest at the realization that she had come to him , even after how he had behaved today and how angrily he had glared at her. He had regretted it the moment he walked away, which was the reason he had gone to the fights.

Morgan’s heart wrenched as he saw tears well up in Helena’s eyes.

“I am all right,” he whispered as she rushed towards him.

“What happened to you? Who did this?”

Her soft voice was full of worry as she delicately touched and inspected the wounds on his face, her eyes still filled with terror as she no doubt thought the worst.

“Easy, little one,” Morgan soothed, capturing her hands in his own. “I am fine. They are just bruises, and they will fade.”

“Just bruises? Just bruises?” Helena hissed, picking up the rag of ice he had just placed on the table.

“You know the four of us like to box,” he continued, letting her press the ice back to the bruise on his cheek.

“Ambrose did not do this to you, did he?” she asked, and the look of increasing rage on her face made him chuckle, then wince as pain bloomed in his ribcage.

“No, little one. I box with other men sometimes. In an arena where the rules are not so…strict.”

“The rules are strict to protect the fighters,” Helena replied, giving him a stern look. He fought the smile that was trying to spread across his face. She was adorable when she was angry with him.

“Sometimes a man needs to fight without rules,” he replied defensively as she began to dab salve onto his wounds.

Helena paused her ministration to gently grip his chin with her clean hand. She looked at him with calm intensity. Morgan stared back into blue eyes that were riddled with alarm and need.

“Tell me what is going on,” Helena commanded. Her voice was soft and seductive, knowing somehow that she did not need to add bark to her delivery.

Morgan continued drilling his intense stare into her for another long moment to scare her into looking away, to force her to submit to him as she had done so many times before. But this time she did not yield.

Beneath her hold on him, Helena felt a shiver ripple over his skin, almost like the shiver she had felt when she had been exposed to him. Something in her heart, ethereal and full of emotion, picked up the faint vibration, and latched onto it as if it were meant to bond with hers.

She refused to break his stare or back down from his warning glare. Wild and untamed feelings coursed through his veins as she protectively gripped his chin. Her touch had delivered a hot rush of need into his groin, but an arrow of alarm had also found its way into his heart. The combination was making his heart race and his anger rise. How dare she? How dare anyone look so deeply into him?

“Morgan,” Helena beckoned. Her voice was like silk; a siren song that made his blood sing in response. In a desperate whisper, she softly and gently commanded him, “tell me.”

“I had an older brother, you know.”

His secret, the one he had kept even from his adopted brothers, spewed from the depths of his soul and poured out of his mouth as though he had no choice in the matter. With it came the pain he had worked so diligently to mask. Helena’s eyes widened as curiosity and concern shadowed her expression and her grip on his chin transformed into a calming caress. Without a word she returned to tending to his wounds, and in her silence he felt a gentle push for him to continue.

“His name was Liam, and he was everything, and I mean everything he was supposed to be,” he went on, feeling his pain transition from physical to emotional. “My father loved him much more than he loved me, and rightfully so. I was a fool when I was younger. But Liam cared about me just as I was. He was to be the duke — not I — so what did it matter what I did?”

He fell silent as memories of his brother flooded his mind. Liam laughing at his pranks. Liam urging their father not to be so hard on him. There was never any need to worry because Liam was the heir. Liam was going to take care of everything.

“What happened to Liam?” Helena asked, her tone gentle as her fingers massaged the tense muscles at the back of his neck.

Her touch reduced the emotional ache that radiated from him, and he leaned into her touch. Helena sighed with relief as he rested her head against her breasts and draped his arms around her waist.

“It was the most senseless accident,” he sighed nuzzling into the comfort she offered him as he relived that tragic day. “The three of us and some other gentlemen were out in the country on a fox hunt with the dogs, the year before my father died.

“The horses had hunted with us dozens of times, and there was no reason for Liam’s mount to be skittish. He was an excellent horseman, but it all happened so quickly. One minute he was in the saddle, and the next he was flying from a rearing steed; then he was gone, flung down a ravine. There was no time. It was over in a second. Yet I remember it as if it had taken hours to occur.

“Father was instantly furious, and that fury took the place of shock, sadness, mourning and heartache. Everyone was to blame, especially me. He said it should have been me, that I was the one always being daft and errant, how had it not been me?”

Morgan startled himself as he heard his own voice break with a raspy quiver, and he cleared his throat to chase it away. He tried then, gently, to push Helena away, but her arms had banded tightly around his head.

“His dislike for me turned into hatred that day,” he continued, now feeling as if he needed to let all of it out. “He did not beat me. He did not need to. His words were his weapon of choice, and they were full of poison and curses. Never again was he kind or even impartial. He swore upon the devil that he would outlive me now that he had no proper heir.”

He stopped there, the irony of what his father had said to him hanging heavily in his heart. He had said those words like a commandment and then died a year later, almost exactly to the day, leaving Morgan the only one left to take on the title and the weighty responsibility.

“Your father had no right to say that to you,” Helena whispered, stroking her fingernails soothingly through his hair.

Her gentle, nurturing touch forced another shivering breath from his chest, and although his muscles tensed at feeling so exposed, he did not try to let go again.

“Morgan, I am so sorry that you lost Liam. He sounds like he was a wonderful spirit. But your father was wrong. You have done so well with your land and your responsibility. You are still known as a jester, but Grandhill is also known for its constantly expanding trade. That is solely because of your dedication and hard work.”

Morgan startled at Helena’s praise, raising his head so he could look at her.

“Do you think I do not notice such things?” Helena asked, one of her brows rising slightly as a slow, kind smile spread across her face. “We all notice, Morgan. I think that is why Ambrose gets so annoyed at you sometimes, because you can be the jester and the duke so effortlessly.”

That raw, vulnerable sense of being seen overtook Morgan once again as Helena spoke, and with it came a hungry, sucking void of realization. He was going to lose her; one of the rare people who saw him for who he was and still cared for him. It was too much, and no matter how soothing her touch was, it did not erase the pain and enormity of his loss.

Morgan pulled Helena down into his lap. His hand lifted to her throat as his lips claimed possession of hers, coming down on them, hot and demanding. Helena responded immediately, trying to curl herself around him as she opened her mouth for his kiss. He grabbed her wrists, unable to give her any more control, and it made his heart bleed even more when Helena did not stop him, respecting his need to regain dominance.

He nearly groaned in agony when he broke the kiss. He wanted so much more. Not just in that moment, he realized, but in his life. He wanted Helena completely to himself, but he could not have her.

“You should go,” he rasped, his voice strained with emotion as he brought them both to their feet.

Helena looked back at him longingly, still dazed, her lips still swollen from his demanding kiss, and he had to force his hands to let go of her.

“But, you are hurt…” she all but whimpered.

In so many ways, little one.

“I will be fine,” he forced himself to say. “And so will you. I apologize again for today. It will not happen again.”

“Morgan…”

“Go,” he commanded, this time more gruffly. “I will send for you when I am ready.”