Someone to Watch Over Me (10 page)

Morgan seemed not to hear.

“Where is Jack?” she asked again, kneeling before him, staring into his averted face.

The green eyes shifted, his gaze meeting hers with searing impact.

“Please,” she said softly. “You know the worst about me. Surely you can trust me this far. Tell me.”

Dark color crept over his face. It seemed as if some terrible secret were leaking poison inside him. Just as she thought he would not answer, he spoke in a rusted, halting ramble, so softly that she could not hear some of the words. “I went back for Jack when I was able…had secured a promise of work for him at a fishmonger’s stall where I cleaned and wrapped fish. I knew they would let him leave the orphanage if…some relative were to speak for him. I was nearly fourteen, a man by most standards, ready to take care of him. But when I went to Lady of Pity and asked for Jack…they told me he was gone.”

“Gone?” Vivien repeated. “Had he run away?”

“Smallpox. Half the children in the orphanage had it. Jack died without me there…without anyone who loved him.”

Words failed her. She regarded him sorrowfully, pressing her hand hard against her thigh to keep from touching him.

“And I knew,” he said quietly, “that if I had come sooner…I could have saved him.”

“No,” Vivien replied, shocked. “You mustn’t think of it that way.”

“It’s a fact. There’s no other way to think of it.”

“You’re not being fair to yourself.”

“I failed him,” he said flatly. “That’s all that matters.” He stood in one fluid movement and turned to the fire, staring into the sputtering coals. Snatching up a poker, he jabbed at a log until it erupted into fiery life.

Vivien stood as well, her hands clenched into fists as she stared at his broad, hard back, his dark head silhouetted in fire-glow. Her compassion for him overrode any concerns about her own problems. Morgan had devoted his life to saving others because he hadn’t been able to save his brother. Yet no matter how many times he rescued and helped and served others, he would never be able to absolve himself of his one great failure. He would be haunted by guilt for the rest of his life. Her entire being was filled with one aching wish…that she could find some way to help him. But there was nothing she could do.

Her hand touched his shoulder, lingered, then slid to the hot nape of his neck. His entire body seemed to stiffen at her touch, and she felt the ripple of nerves in his neck. He jerked away with a muffled curse, looking as if she had stabbed him. “No,” he said savagely. “I don’t need pity from a—”
He stopped, choking off the rest of the sentence.

The unspoken word floated in the air between them.

Vivien knew perfectly well what he had been about to say, and the hurt of it jolted through her. But why hadn’t he completed the sentence? Why had he reined in his temper in a last-second attempt to spare her feelings? She stared at him curiously, while a feeling of artificial calmness descended on her. “Thank you,” she said with only a slight tremor in her voice. “Thank you for not saying it.”

“Vivien,” he said gruffly, “I—”

“I shouldn’t have asked such personal questions,” she said, clinging to her meager supply of dignity as she began to retreat from the room. “I am very tired, Mr. Morgan. Perhaps I’ll go upstairs and rest.”

She heard him begin to say something else, but she fled the library as quickly as possible, leaving him to his brooding contemplation of the fire.

Morgan left the town house well before supper, while Vivien dined in solitude. She wondered what companions he would seek tonight, if he would lounge in a coffeehouse and take part in some political discussion, or visit his club and play cards while a saucy wench perched on his knee. There would be no shortage of available women for such a man. Morgan had the appearance of a gentleman, but he possessed a hint of street swagger, a combination irresistible to any female. No doubt he had
inspired countless fantasies among the women of London, both high and low.

A cold heaviness settled in her chest, making it difficult to eat more than a few bites of supper. Taking several books with her, Vivien retired to bed and read until midnight. However, the books failed to work their magic. She couldn’t lose herself in the written word when an array of problems seemed to hover over the bed like malevolent spirits.

Someone had tried to murder her, and would possibly try again when it was discovered that she was alive. Although she had faith in Morgan’s ability to protect her and uncover the identity of her assailant, she also knew that he was not infallible. And instead of being a help to him and supplying the information that would solve everything, she sat here like a dunce, all relevant facts locked away in some impenetrable vault in her mind. It was maddening.

Setting the book aside, Vivien rolled to her stomach and contemplated the shadows cast by the bedside lamp. What would become of her? She had ruined herself by choosing a path that no decent woman would venture along. There were few options left, other than to return to prostitution, to find some man who might condescend to marry her, or to try her hand at some kind of respectable work that might yield enough to support her. Only the third choice held any appeal. But who would employ her when she had a publicly ruined character?

Morosely Vivien stared at a lock of her own
flamboyant red hair as it curled across the mattress. Without vanity, she understood that her looks were sufficient to attract men, whether or not she desired their attentions. And she would never be able to hide the fact that she had once been a prostitute. The truth would always come out. No matter what position she held, there would be men, insulting and propositioning, offering sexual bargains if she wished to retain her job.

Vivien wrestled with the increasingly unpleasant thoughts before falling into an uneasy sleep. More nightmares awaited her, dreams of water and drowning and choking. She twisted against the sheets, kicked and struggled until the bed was a shambles. Finally she awakened with a low cry and sat bolt upright, breathing hard, eyes staring blankly in the darkness.

“Vivien.”

The quiet voice made her quiver in startled reaction. “What—”

“I heard you cry out. I came to see if you were all right.”

Morgan, she thought, but his familiar presence did not make her relax. For a split second she feared that he had come to demand that she take him into her bed. Or his bed, as the case was. “It was only a nightmare,” she said shakily. “I’m all right now. I’m sorry if I bothered you.”

Vivien saw Morgan’s outline in the darkness, a huge shadowy figure that approached the side of the bed. Her heartbeat fluttered and faltered in alarm. Shrinking to the center of the mattress, she went rigid as he reached for the covers. In a few
quick, deft motions he straightened the linens and folded the top of the sheet over the edge of the blankets. “Would you like a glass of water?” he asked matter-of-factly.

The question was reassuringly innocuous. Although Vivien didn’t remember any of her previous knowledge about men and sexual matters, it didn’t seem likely that a seducer would offer a woman a glass of water before ravishing her. “No, thank you,” she murmured, reshaping a pillow behind her. A shaky laugh escaped her. “Perhaps you could light the lamp? The nightmares are so vivid, I’m afraid to fall asleep again. Silly, isn’t it? I’m no better than a child afraid of the dark.”

“No, it’s not silly.” His voice changed, becoming very gentle. “Let me stay with you tonight, Vivien. It’s only a few hours until morning.”

She was silent with confusion.

“I’ll hold you as a friend,” he said quietly. “As a brother. All I want is to keep the nightmares away.” He paused, and a subtle trace of laughter wound its way through his next words. “Well, that’s not
all
I want…but the rest will keep for later. Shall I stay, or would you prefer me to light the lamp?”

With more than a little surprise, Vivien realized that she did indeed wish him to stay. It wasn’t the wisest of decisions. She was certainly inviting trouble. But the comfort of another human being would indeed keep the nightmares at bay…and it hardly hurt that he was a large, strong male who feared nothing.

“First let me ask something,” she said cautiously. “What are you wearing?”

“What do you mean, what am I wearing?” he asked blankly.

She decided to be blunt. “You aren’t naked, are you?”

“I put on a robe before I came in here,” he replied flatly. “Disappointed?”

“No,” she said, so quickly that it drew a catch of laughter from him.

“I’m a fairly impressive sight without my clothes.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“Let’s have it, Miss Duvall…Shall I stay or leave?”

Vivien hesitated a long time before replying. “Stay,” she said softly.

T
he mattress depressed beneath Morgan’s considerable weight. Vivien sucked in a deep breath and pressed her fists hard in the lee of her stomach to calm the nervous flurry inside. The covers were lifted and his long, large body slid beside hers. Immediately she was suffused with warmth as they were coccooned beneath the layer of linen and wool.

With extreme care, Morgan curved his arm around her waist and pulled her back against him, so they were pressed together spoon fashion. Vivien couldn’t prevent a small gasp at the animal heat and hardness of his body, evident through the nightclothes that separated them.

“You’re not afraid, are you?” he murmured at the soft sound.

“No,” she replied breathlessly. “But…I’m
having a difficult time thinking of you as a friend.”

The arm at her waist tightened a minute degree. “Good,” he said thickly.

Vivien was quiet for a time, absorbing the sensation of being held by him. She was surrounded by the scents of soap and clean male skin, and the heat that warded off the night-chilled air. Her limbs turned heavy and relaxed, and she felt her spine conform to the shape of his body. She inched backward, seeking more of the delicious contact with him. Gently his hand fell to her hip, keeping her still.

“Don’t wiggle about.” He sounded a bit gruff. “I’m not a eunuch.”

A wave of mortification engulfed her as she became aware of the burning shape of his arousal, wedged high against her buttocks and the small of her back. “I don’t think this is a good idea,” she managed. “I’ll never fall asleep this way.”

“Do you want me to leave?”

Considering the question in confounded silence, Vivien struggled with the heedings of her conscience and the pure physical pleasure of being in his arms. Her conscience was soon to be disappointed. “Well…” she said uncertainly. “I’m not sleeping, but at least I won’t have nightmares.”

He chuckled. “I’m glad you trust me. I expected you to turn down my offer.”

“I almost did,” she replied. “But it occurred to me that if you were going to ravish me, you had a few opportunities before tonight.”

“I would never force myself on an unwilling woman.”

“I should imagine you rarely encounter one of those.”

“Oh, there have been a few,” he said dryly.

Resting quietly against him, Vivien felt his breath stir the downy fuzz on the nape of her neck. One of her bare feet touched his ankle, the brush of wiry masculine hair tickling her skin pleasantly. He was an excessively masculine creature, and the knowledge that all his strength and virility were held in check but for one word from her should have frightened her. Instead she was fascinated. Flirting with danger was an undeniably heady feeling.

“Grant?” she said softly. “Why have you never married?”

He laughed softly. “I’m not the marrying kind.” He picked up the braided rope of her hair and played with the feathery ends.

“You never intend to have a wife and children?”

“What reason is there? I feel no overwhelming need to continue a damned undistinguished family line. Neither do I have great confidence in my ability to stay faithful to one woman for a lifetime. When I want female companionship, I can get it. My servants look after the household and see to my meals and my comfort. What use would I have for a wife?”

“You’ve never met a woman you couldn’t live without?”

She felt him smile against the back of her head. “You’ve read too many novels.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” she said ruefully. “Nevertheless…won’t you regret it when you’re old
and gray, and you have no life’s companion to reminisce with—”

“And no grandchildren to dandle on my knee,” he finished. “Thank you, but I have no ambitions to produce offspring who will yank my whiskers and hide my walking stick behind the settee. I’d rather enjoy some peace in my old age…if I live that long.”

“How cynical you are.”

“I am,” he acknowledged evenly. “The strange part is, you are too. But to listen to you, one would think you’re an idealistic innocent.”

“I don’t feel cynical,” she remarked after a moment. “I don’t feel like anything you’ve told me I am.”

A contemplative silence followed, while the warm pressure of his hand settled at her shoulder.

“Grant,” she said with a stifled yawn, “how long before I’m allowed to visit my town house?”

“When Dr. Linley says you’re fit to be up and about.”

“Good. He’s coming to see me tomorrow. I’m sure he won’t have any objections to my going.”

“Why the hurry?” Morgan asked softly. “What do you hope to find at the town house?”

“My memory.” She pressed her head deeper into the welcoming softness of the pillow. “When I see my familiar possessions and all my own books, I’m positive that everything will come back to me. I’m so weary of feeling so…so
blank
.”

“You don’t have many books,” he said. “I don’t recall seeing more than a handful.”

“Oh.” She twisted to face him, their noses nearly
touching in the darkness. “Why do I like things now that I didn’t like before?”

“I don’t know.” His breath, scented with cinnamon and the slightest hint of coffee, puffed against her chin. “Perhaps Linley will have an answer for that.”

“What do you think will happen when I regain my memory? Will I change back to the way I was before?”

“I hope so,” he muttered.

“Why?” she asked, hurt by the blunt statement. “You don’t like me the way I am now?”

“I like you too damned much,” he said brusquely. “And you’re going to make it bloody inconvenient for me to…”

“To what?”

He didn’t reply, only growled a curse that set her ears on fire. “I warn you, Vivien, if you’re playing some kind of game with me, I’ll probably end up killing you myself.”

“I’m not playing a game,” she replied with injured dignity. “Why would I? If I had anything to tell regarding the person who tried to drown me, believe me, I would come out with it right away. I won’t be safe until he’s caught, will I?”

“No, you won’t. Which leads to one last point…You’re not to go anywhere without me.”

“Of course. I’m not stupid.”

His large hands turned her over to face away from him and urged her to the center of the bed, until they were at least an arm’s length apart. “Now, stay there,” he said. “And mind you don’t
roll against me in the night, or you won’t like what happens.”

“There’s no danger of that,” she responded pertly. “This bed is so large, we may as well be in separate counties.”

Somehow, against Vivien’s expectations, she did fall asleep that night, and she wasn’t troubled by a single dream. Once or twice she awoke and saw the dark outline of Morgan’s body. There was a novel comfort in sleeping with a man, a sense of being utterly protected. Perhaps they did have their uses, she reflected drowsily, before sinking into a satisfying slumber.

It was one of the worst nights of Grant’s life. Offering to stay with Vivien had been pure madness, and he had paid for it dearly. He had tried to be kind—a mistake he wouldn’t soon repeat.

No, he amended sourly, trying to be honest with himself…kindness had nothing to do with his offer. He had simply wanted to hold her. His reluctant liking for Vivien, combined with a powerful physical attraction, made it impossible to stay away from her. He wanted to become the one person she would turn to, to fulfill all her needs. And that was wrong.

Why was his simple plan of revenge becoming such a muddle?

Because Vivien was warm, spirited, and unexpectedly intelligent, everything he admired in a woman. He hadn’t made love to her even once, and already he knew a night, a week, a month with her wouldn’t be enough. He wanted her for a long
time. And he wanted her like this, without her memory, without the sophistication and vanity that had made her so repellent before.

Damn Vivien, it would be so much easier if she had stayed that way. Then he could have cheerfully used and discarded her, and laughed in the face of her annoyance, telling her she deserved her comeuppance. But that wasn’t possible now. He couldn’t hurt Vivien, and he would probably kill anyone else who tried.

Opening his sore, scratchy eyes, Grant stared broodingly at the slender form cuddled so trustingly against his. She had moved up against him at least an hour ago, causing his every nerve to screech in protest. His hands actually trembled with the urge to pull up her nightgown. He thought of taking her now, before she had even awakened, thrusting inside her sweet feminine warmth until he had brought them both to ecstasy. But he wouldn’t abuse her trust…and he couldn’t make himself push her away. So he had stayed like this, suffering and waiting, his groin hot with carnal needs he could hardly control.

Grimly he reviewed the past few hours, each one more exquisitely torturous than the last. Every movement of Vivien’s body, every shift of her head on the pillow and sigh that escaped her lips, had teased and titillated him beyond bearing. He, who had always prided himself on being the master of his own passions, had been reduced to a mindless fool. All because of one small female who had already slept with half the men in London anyway. He was beginning not to care about that now, he
was even making excuses for the legion of lovers she had taken. Damn them all, he just wanted to be one of them.

Her quiescent body fit perfectly against his, the hem of her nightgown twisted around her knees. Her trim ankles and calves were tucked neatly beside his own legs. She was as petite and dainty as a doll. The smell of her warm, unperfumed skin was making his blood race until he was light-headed. He pressed his scratchy jaw into the red silk of her hair, longing to unbraid the rippling locks and spread them over his own chest and throat.

As if the intensity of his thoughts had somehow been communicated to her, she sighed in her sleep, one small foot insinuating itself between his.

That was his undoing. Grant couldn’t keep from touching her any more than he could stop his lungs from taking in air or his heart from beating. He settled his hand over the indentation of her waist, his thumb brushing the low edge of her rib cage. Her body was resilient and soft beneath his hand. Inflamed, he moved higher, his fingers exploring the sweet undercurve of her breast, cupping gently beneath the plump rise. Filling his palm with the soft roundness, he wondered what it was about Vivien that made her so different from any other woman he had known. It seemed as if she had been made for him alone. How many other men had felt that way about Vivien? he thought bleakly, struggling with the primitive need to put his own stamp on her, erase every kiss and caress that had not come from him.

He drew his thumb in a slow circle over the tip of her breast, and again, repeating the gentle stimulation until he felt the gathering response of her nipple. It was not enough to feel her through the fabric of her high-necked gown. He was dying to stroke her bare skin, taste it, press his mouth to every part of her. As he caught the sensitive point of her nipple between his thumb and forefinger, he heard Vivien’s breathing change, the relaxed rhythm turning shallow and rapid.

There was a barely detectable motion beneath her stillness, a deep trembling that betrayed her. She was awake…she knew he was touching her…and she wasn’t trying to escape him. That meant something, though whether she was holding still from shock, willingness, or just plain curiosity was difficult to ascertain. Cautiously he released her breast and slid his hand down her midriff…slowly, slowly, reaching the low plane of her abdomen and the soft springiness where fragile cotton concealed a thatch of cinnamon curls. He felt her body quiver, and her weight shifted in preparation to escape.

Lowering his mouth to the side of her throat, he worked his way up to the tiny hollow beneath her ear, whispering reassurances, telling her that he wanted her, needed her, that he would be gentle and patient. He slid his hand further between her thighs, cupping lightly, while the pressure of his erection rose hard against her hip. He allowed her every chance of moving away, if that was what she desired. But Vivien stayed with him, responding with a strange awkwardness, like an ardent, overwhelmed
virgin. Breathing jerkily, she twisted in an effort to face him, her eyes tightly closed as she brought her hands to his shoulders. He kissed her, his mouth slow and searching, his tongue engaging hers with teasing strokes. She moaned and slid her hands further around his back, holding him close as he rose above her—

The door vibrated with a perfunctory knock. It was pushed open before a reply was given, the usual routine of a housemaid come to clean the grate and light the morning fire. The maid entered the room and saw instantly that the bed was occupied by two people instead of one. She stopped with a sound of dismay.

Becoming aware of the intrusion, Vivien froze beneath Grant, her blue eyes filled with panic.

Grant raised his head and glared at the housemaid. “Not now,” he said curtly.

“Yes, sir,” she mumbled, and fled the room, closing the door behind her.

It was not the girl’s fault, of course. The servants at the Morgan household were largely unused to goings-on of this sort, as Grant was inclined to visit his occasional bed partners at
their
homes rather than bring them to his. He had never demanded a great degree of privacy in his own bedroom. However, that was about to change. Savagely Grant made a mental note to tell the housekeeper that a new system was to be instituted right away.

It was clear from Vivien’s stricken expression that any amorous inclinations had fled. Her body was stiff beneath his, and she was scarlet with embarrassment. Scowling, Grant rolled to his side and
watched her scramble out of bed. His groin throbbed viciously with an erection that was slow to subside. If he didn’t find relief soon, he would likely be crippled.

Pulling on a pelisse to cover her nightgown, Vivien hastily tied the garment closed. She went to the washstand and poured some cold water into a bowl, industriously splashing her pink cheeks. Grant watched her intently, noting her rigid spine and the determined haste of her movements. She patted her face dry with a cloth, squared her shoulders…and turned toward him with the expression of someone facing an unpleasant task.