Treasured Vows (26 page)

“Anne and I did it all, taking care of the little ones and everything.” He poured the heated water into the tub.

“What do you mean, ‘and everything’?”

Grant shrugged. “Father left debts. Matters that had to be settled.” He smiled at her. “My lady’s bath awaits.”

“Grant…,” she started uncertainly.

Before she could utter another protest, he slipped the robe off her, lifted her up, and lowered her into the warm tub. “You need this.”

And she discovered she did. The warm water soothed the tenderness between her thighs. She sighed at the luxury. “I’ve never had anyone prepare my bath for me before.”

He dropped to his knees beside the tub. “We’ve done several things you haven’t experienced before,” he said, grinning. He picked up the bar of soap that he had fetched a moment earlier and dipped his hands into the water.

“What are you doing?” she asked, edging away as far as she could in the tub.

“I’m giving you a bath,” he responded evenly, and brought his hand out to show her the bar of soap. He then lathered his hands and began rubbing the soap across her neck and shoulders, his hands slipping underneath her hair.

It felt heavenly. Her tense muscles relaxed. The soap had the clean, masculine fragrance he used every day. Finally he removed his hands; thinking him done, she closed her eyes, sinking deeper into the water.

His hands dipped lower and then brushed the crests of her breasts. Phadra came up with a start. Unrepentant, he flashed her a smile that deepened his dimples and stole her heart—and warned her that he had something other than a simple bath in mind.

She tilted her head in his direction, arching one eyebrow suspiciously. “Did you plan this?”

“All of it, or just the bath?” he asked, his knowing fingers lingering a moment between her legs before sweeping up the inside of her thigh. He lifted her leg and made a show of lathering it, his strong hands kneading, caressing the muscles.

Phadra was finding it hard to breathe, let alone
think coherently. “Any of it,” she managed to say before breaking off in a sigh as he kissed and nibbled a sensitive spot on the inside of her knee.

He looked up, his quicksilver eyes warm and admiring. “Perhaps it would be better to say that I thought it would be fun.”

Phadra pulled her leg from him and sat up in the tub. She covered her breasts with her arm. “Fun? Grant Morgan is actually unbending enough to have
fun?
”

Grant sat back on his heels. Gently he reached out and twisted one of her wet, unruly curls around his finger. “Actually, Grant Morgan isn’t unbent at all.” She didn’t even begin to understand his meaning until he leaned over, kissed her, and then rose to his feet and began unbuttoning his breeches.

The modest part of Phadra wanted to hide, but another part of her surged with pride. There was no doubt as his breeches fell to the floor that this man wanted her. And she wanted him. Already her need thrummed through her body—but still she was slightly shocked when her staid, conservative banker stepped into the tub.

“It’s not big enough for both of us,” she protested.

“Yes, it is,” he said. “Trust me.” Lifting her up as easily as if she were a doll, he sat down in the tub and brought her down on top of him.

“Grant, this is—” She struggled for a word as he shifted himself to cradle intimately against her. His hands wrapped themselves around her breasts. “Ecstasy,” Phadra finished, leaning forward until her breasts flattened against the soft, wet mat of hair on his chest.

Phadra sighed with the contentment of a well-fed
cat, her head beneath his chin as he stroked and lathered her. “Phadra?” his low, deep voice asked.

She looked up, her nose so close to his lips. “Can you do it again?” he asked.

“Oh, yes,” she answered, the slow glow of desire starting in her belly. She started to stand up, but his broad hand held her in place. “Here?” she asked, shocked.

He smiled, a wicked smile. “Phadra,” he chastised with mock seriousness, “you dare to question the Lord of Love?”

Her eyes met his. She was surprised by his lazy teasing. Then his strong hands molded and shaped her buttocks, lifting her and then setting her down so he could fill her. Phadra sat up straight, her eyes wide with surprise at the sensation of warm bath water and hot, hard man.

He laughed quietly a moment before gently instructing her to move. Phadra still wasn’t sure what he meant until he lifted his mouth up to hers and began stroking a gentle rhythm with his tongue. Almost without conscious thought, Phadra slowly began to copy that rhythm. Her movements became more sure, less hesitant, as his eyes closed and his body arched to meet hers, giving her a sense of her power.

He let her set the pace. His breathing became harsher, more labored. His hands stroked her arms, and he whispered words to her, love words that made her feel strong and wonderful. And then her need took over, driving her to a pace that sloshed the water back and forth in the tub and onto the brick floor. This was what it was about, her heart sang. This give-and-take between a man and a woman. This was marriage. This was love.

He came, his body thrusting up into hers and holding her while he shouted her name to the world around them. Throwing her arms around his neck, Phadra gave in to her own wild release, collapsing on top of him.

Long, wondrous minutes passed before either of them moved. He moved first, his hand relaxing and then tiredly caressing the small of her back. She felt his face curve into a smile, and he released a sigh of pure satisfaction. Lifting her a moment, he settled the two of them more comfortably in the tub.

“I hope Henny and Wallace don’t ever come back,” she said, rubbing her cheek against his shoulder.

He chuckled, the sound low and warmly masculine. “If they did come back right now, I don’t think I could move even if my soul depended on it.”

“Me neither,” she agreed, tracing a swirling line in the damp hair on his chest. The emerald on her ring winked at her.

“Grant?” she asked, raising her head until she could look him squarely in the face. “We’re going to be all right, aren’t we? I haven’t ruined you completely, have I?”

For a second she thought she saw a hesitation beneath the lids of his half-closed eyes, but then just as quickly it wasn’t there and she could believe she’d imagined it. “We’ll be fine,” his deep voice reassured her. Then he hugged her so tightly, she chose to believe him.

Later, after they’d managed to find their way back to their bedroom, she wrapped a dry bandage around his chest and shoulder. He folded her up in his arms and they made slow, lazy love one last time. He
warned her she would be sore in the morning, but she didn’t care. She didn’t care about anything but having him hold her close and listening to the steady, strong beat of his heart.

Dear Lord, she loved him. The truth of it went straight to the very core of her being. She loved Grant Morgan. And then she said those words aloud, softly, against the silky hair of his chest, as her eyes closed and she drifted off with a sigh into the deepest sleep she’d had since the moment they’d met.

Grant didn’t know if she’d meant for him to hear that quiet declaration. For a brutal moment, he wished that he hadn’t heard it.

But he had…and then bit by bit, measure by measure, a miracle began to happen. Those words, simply said and honestly given, began to work magic upon him. A magic he’d never known he needed.

It was as if he’d lived his life in a shell as rigid and hard as stone and then, in the next minute, that shell began to break away piece by piece, freeing the man inside. Freeing
him.

The rain had stopped and the brilliance of a full moon beamed through the window down on him, gilding the bed and everything on it with a sheen of silver. There, bathed in silvery light, Grant Morgan, the man who knew what he wanted and how to get it, realized that the course of his life had been unalterably changed.

The realization was humbling…and the woman next to him was a treasure more precious than gold.

Grant wasn’t there when she woke the next morning. Phadra sat up on the bed, disappointed to find herself alone in a room filled with flowers and the earthy
scent of their lovemaking. A note lay on the pillow next to her.

He’d written that he’d gone to the bank, would return before noon, and wished her a good morning.

The note seemed sparse after what they had shared the night before. But then, that was the type of man he was…always economical, with both words and money. Wincing slightly as she moved and discovered that she was indeed sore in places she hadn’t dreamed existed until the previous day, she amended her verdict. Economical, yes, but not when it came to making love.

The thought filled her with happiness. Outside the bedroom window, the sun shone in the kind of clear sky that followed a day of rain, and birds sang—or was that her heart? Suddenly Phadra realized that she felt better than she ever had in her life. She bounced out of bed and started dressing. Her body’s stiffness all but disappeared, and she found herself humming. The dress she chose was one of her favorites, a yellow and rose design copied after a painting of Helen of Troy. She felt as though she could launch a thousand ships that morning!

A timid knock sounded on the door. In answer to her call, Meg, the lady’s maid, entered. “Oh, Mrs. Morgan, you’re already dressed,” she said. Meg started to bob a curtsey and then stopped, knowing Phadra didn’t like the formality. “Mr. Morgan told me not to disturb you. Oh, look at the flowers!”

Phadra grinned, absurdly pleased at Meg’s reaction. “Come help me carry them downstairs. I’m sure they need fresh water, and I want to make sure there’s a bouquet in every room of the house.” As Meg helped to gather the flowers, Phadra fastened her
bronze bracelets around her wrist and then picked up the gladioli. “When did he leave?”

“Mr. Morgan left over an hour ago. Said he had to get to the bank and finish some business.”

That sounded so much like Grant that Phadra smiled to herself.

They took some of the flowers downstairs to the dining room, and Phadra ordered Meg to bring down the rest while she searched for vases. Meg hadn’t been gone for more than a few seconds when a voice in the doorway caught Phadra’s attention. “I suppose you’re pleased with yourself,” Henny said sagely. She walked into the room. “Someone made a terrible mess in the kitchen last night.”

Phadra threw her arms around the older woman’s neck. “Henny, isn’t this day wonderful? Isn’t the world wonderful?”

Henny made a pretense of feeling Phadra’s forehead. “She’s not running a fever,” she said to the world in general. She cocked her head and studied Phadra’s face. “But she looks flushed, and there is a slight giddiness.”

Phadra laughed, kissed her on her cheek, and practically danced away. “Yes! You’re right,” she admitted. “I’m in love. Wonderful, wonderful love. And he loves me.”

“Ah, child,” Henny said expansively. “I’m so happy for you.”

“Not as happy as I am for myself,” Phadra blurted out. “Henny, he is the most honest, caring…
handsome
man I’ve ever known. And he loves me, Henny. He loves
me
—”

Someone rapped on the front door. Since Wallace wasn’t readily available, Phadra thumbed her nose at
propriety and crossed into the hall to open the door herself. Immediately she wished she hadn’t done it. Miranda Evans stood on the front step.

“Ah, Mrs. Morgan,” she said with false sweetness. “Is your husband here? Or has he already left for that important meeting at the bank?”

Phadra didn’t like the emphasis she’d placed on “that important meeting,” as if she knew something Phadra did not. “He’s not here,” she replied, and pointedly refused to invite the woman in.

At that moment Meg came down the stairs, her arms full of flowers. “This is the last of them, Mrs. Morgan.”

Phadra had turned at the sound of the maid’s voice. “Yes, thank you, Meg. Please put them in the dining room.”

“Oh, flowers,” Miranda said with obvious interest. “From your husband?”

“Yes,” Phadra replied with a proud lift of her chin.

“Well, how nice,” Miranda said benignly, but Phadra caught the hint of a secret smile. And Phadra’s instinct was confirmed as Miranda continued smoothly, “Then I guess Grant will be able to report to the directors this morning that he has managed to bring his wife in
line
.” She shook her head with a commiserating “tsk” before adding, “This morning I overheard Father telling Mother about Sir Robert’s ultimatum. It must be so embarrassing for you to know that Grant will lose his position, his livelihood, if he can’t control you. Makes a person wonder what you’ve done, hmm? But then it seems Grant has brought you in line nicely for the price of a few posies—”

Phadra slammed the door in her face.

“Phadra?” Henny’s worried voice said from behind her. “You can’t believe everything that she-devil has to say.”

Phadra didn’t answer. She couldn’t. What Miranda had said was true. The evidence was in the way he’d planned her seduction, the way he’d manipulated her. She leaned her forehead against the cool wood of the door and let wave after wave of pain at his betrayal wash over her.

He didn’t love her. She was merely a means to an end. How could she have been so stupid, so naive?

And then suddenly it was almost more than she could bear.
Fool, fool, fool,
she told herself over and over, not even feeling the hot tears that rolled down her cheeks.

Henny gathered her in her arms. “Phadra, what is it?”

It almost hurt to talk, to repeat Miranda’s words, but Phadra made herself say them, hoping Henny would deny them for her. That Henny would say it was all malicious spite on Miranda’s part.

But Henny didn’t. Instead she stared at Phadra. A terrible sense of foreboding tied Phadra’s insides into a knot. “Henny, why do you look that way? Tell me, Henny.”

Henny cupped Phadra’s face in her hands. “It’s nothing.”

Phadra pushed her away. “Tell me.”

Henny looked toward Wallace, who had quietly joined them in the hall. “Tell me, Henny,” Phadra commanded again.