Forbidden Love (6 page)

“Nevertheless, you will obey me,” he added grimly, daring her to contradict him. She could smell the faint scent of horses and cigars and what she vaguely recognized as pure man smell that emanated from him. The mixture was oddly pleasant, and soothing to the nerves, if she had been of a mind to be soothed. But she was not. She glared at him, her head tilted back. He loomed over her, far taller and bigger than she, but she refused to allow his physical size to intimidate her.

“If you make me go back to school, I’ll only run away again,” she warned him truculently. He muttered an oath, and he gripped her arms again, crushing the puffed muslin sleeves but not really hurting. He gave her a slight shake. Megan met his black frown unflinchingly.

“You run away again, my girl, and I really will paddle you,” he promised. From the set of his jaw, Megan knew that he meant what he said. The sheer hopelessness of her position infuriated her; her eyes glittered with all the reckless fury of her Irish ancestry.

“Why can’t I come to London with you?” she
demanded fiercely. “I’m too old for school! I’m not a child anymore: I’m a woman!”

His eyes, swiftly running the length of her, acknowledged the truth of that. She was a woman—physically, at least. But her mind was that of a wayward child, determined to get her own way at any cost. And Justin knew he couldn’t have that.

“I told you, it isn’t possible,” he answered, his voice harsh. “Next year, when you turn eighteen, will be time enough. In the meantime, you’re going back to school. And that’s all I intend to say on the subject!”

This autocratic pronouncement was like a match to the fuse of Megan’s temper. “You can’t make me!” she screamed, struggling against the hands that still gripped her. He pulled her closer in an attempt to control her rebellion. For one brief moment Megan was conscious of the hard strength of his body against hers, the warmth of him, the half-painful, half-pleasurable sensation of his chest against the softness of her breasts. Then she jerked away from him, catching him by surprise; she was able to put perhaps a foot of space between them. Drawing back her slippered foot, she kicked him squarely in the shin.

The kick hurt her far more than it hurt him. He barely flinched while she felt like howling with pain. But it did serve to ignite his anger; she could see it blazing in his eyes.

“Why, you little… ” he rasped, biting off the epithet. Before Megan realized what he intended, he
had swept her off her feet and was striding around the desk with her, sitting down and putting her across his knees. Megan fought like a wildcat, kicking and scratching with frantic strength, but he held her easily. Megan felt him lifting her skirt; she writhed furiously against the hard shelf of his knees, but there was no stopping him. He delivered three stinging slaps to her backside, which was protected from his blows only by her muslin pantalets, then stood up abruptly, setting her on her feet.

“Beast!” she cried, jerking free of his hold. He merely looked at her, his eyes glinting in a way she found impossible to decipher. She saw that a deep red color had risen to stain his hard cheekbones, and put it down to his loss of temper.

“Get your things together,” he ordered, turning away and striding across to the long window that overlooked the back lawn. It was as if he couldn’t trust himself to keep his hands off her. “We’ll be leaving right after luncheon.”

“I won’t!” Megan quivered with outrage, but, clearly, he wasn’t in the mood to stand any more of her tantrums. For once in Megan’s life, prudence raised its cautious head, and she was silent. She could feel his eyes boring into her back as she whirled and stalked from the room.

After she was gone, Justin drew a long breath and sat down at his desk, staring unseeingly into the cold embers of last night’s fire. He had not intended to lay a hand on her—indeed, he had never before touched
a woman in violence—but she was behaving like a spoilt child and what else could she expect? But there was more to it than that, for as soon as his hand had encountered her soft, rounded bottom he had been conscious of an almost overwhelming desire to let his fingers linger, to stroke and caress her quivering flesh instead of bruising it. Disgust at his own thoughts rose like bile in his throat; he had released her at once. But now, more clearly than ever, he could see the need to get her safely out of harm’s way before any damage was done. Something about the chit aroused him; this was the second time in as many days that he had found himself wanting her in a way no guardian should want his ward. In the last twenty of his thirty-six years of life, he had desired many women, and taken most of them. But never had he found himself battling such an overwhelming sexual attraction, or one that was so clearly impossible to pursue.

He was still staring moodily into the darkened fireplace when Donovan came into the room. Seeing Justin, he stopped, and with a muttered word of apology began to back out.

“Did you want something, Donovan?” Justin asked wearily, feeling more annoyed at himself than ever as he observed the butler’s attempts to escape his notice.

“Oh, no, my lord,” Donovan assured him hastily, regarding his master with every appearance of trepidation. “I thought your lordship had gone out with Miss Megan!”

Justin eyed his butler. Plainly Donovan was disconcerted
to find him still in the library, and he suspected that the bottle of Irish whiskey that was always kept in a bottom desk drawer had been the man’s object.

“What do you mean you thought I’d gone out with Miss Megan?” he asked sharply. “Miss Megan has gone upstairs.”

Donovan looked even more unhappy.

“Oh no, my lord, if you’ll excuse me saying so. Miss Megan went out through the kitchen dressed in her riding clothes just a few minutes ago. She was saying something about your lordship under her breath, and we—that is, Mrs. Donovan and I—assumed that she was going riding with you. Seeing that she was wearing her riding dress and all, my lord!”

“Damn it to hell!” Justin surged to his feet, looking so furious that Donovan backed away. “The disobedient little wretch! This time I really will peel the skin from her backside!” He rushed past Donovan and went up the stairs, two at a time. He stopped to shout down to Donovan. “Have someone saddle me a horse. A good one, mind you, and not that nag I arrived on!”

According to Justin’s calculations, by the time he had changed clothes and mounted, Megan had a good twenty minutes’ start on him. Jem, the young groom, had seen his mistress head off down the road toward the tiny village of Maam’s Cross, a few miles away. Justin realized that this time the baggage really meant to give him the slip. There was nowhere she could hide in so small a place. So he went the other way. After an
hour’s hard riding—his mount, a mettlesome black stallion was the fastest thing in the stables—he saw her. She was mounted on a small gray gelding, and she was setting a brisk pace.

As he quickly closed the distance between them, he noticed that she sat her mount with innate grace. She didn’t hear him until he was less than forty feet away; then the sound of his horse’s hoofbeats caused her to cast a quick glance back over her shoulder. When she saw him, her face reflected fear, then anger, then sheer determination. Clapping her heels into the gelding’s side and uttering what sounded for all the world like a wild Indian’s war cry, she was off. Justin grinned savagely as he sent his mount streaking after her. This time, when he caught up with her, he’d definitely cure her of running away. And no amount of tears and pleading were going to sidetrack him!

It was an unequal contest, as he had known from the first. His horse was faster and larger than hers, and he was by far the better rider. In seconds he was pulling up alongside her. She was bent low in the saddle, doing her best to give him a run for his money, but both he and she knew he had won. He flashed her a savage grin as he leaned forward, reaching for the gelding’s reins.

“No!” she cried, trying to jerk the animal’s head around, but it was too late. He grabbed the reins, and as both animals began to slow, once again she cried “No!” and brought her riding crop down hard on his stallion’s rump.

After that, everything happened in a blur. His horse reared furiously at such unaccustomed mistreatment. Justin, already off-balance from reaching for the reins, went somersaulting through the air. Megan screamed as he landed with a thud, hitting the rain-softened ground so hard he bounced. The stallion, eyes rolling, went streaking past his fallen rider, his hooves coming within inches of Justin’s head. Megan dragged her own horse to a stop, flinging herself from the saddle and running to kneel beside her guardian’s body. He was lying on his back, sprawled at what Megan knew instinctively was an unnatural angle; all the blood had drained from his face, leaving it a pasty white. Megan, shuddering convulsively, was very much afraid that he was dead.

CHAPTER
4

Megan sat huddled in a tall armchair near Justin’s bed, her chin resting on her drawn-up knees, her arms wrapping her slender calves. Her nightgown, all she had on, was of fine white lawn and offered scant protection from the chill of the room which was not noticeably lessened by the fire which blazed and crackled in the hearth. To keep warm, she had taken a quilt from her own bed. She snuggled into it and waited.

From the depths of the cavernous four-poster she could hear the steady rasp of Justin’s breathing. He had not awakened since she had caused him to be thrown from his horse. Megan was suffering from a remorse so intense that it was like a physical pain inside her. The doctor, who had left hours ago, long before night had fallen, had assured her with bluff sympathy that Justin would not die, but this was small comfort. If he was not on the verge of death, he had been gravely injured in the fall; the doctor said so. Besides the blow to the head which had knocked him unconscious, he had broken his left leg high up in the
thigh where it would take a long time to heal. The doctor had assured her that this was the worst of his injuries; the rest, except for the blow to his head, were little more than scrapes and bruises. But despite the doctor’s well-meaning assurances, Megan knew that her part in what had happened was inexcusable.

Mrs. Donovan, at Megan’s insistence, had gone to bed about an hour before. Despite the lady’s offer to sit with the Earl—and everyone had agreed that he shouldn’t be left alone at least until after he had regained consciousness—Megan was determined to stay with him herself. After all, she had been the cause of his injury, and it was up to her to make what amends she could. She meant to nurse him devotedly. She was the cause of it all, and she would accept his chastisement without complaint.

The only light in the huge chamber was the soft glow cast by the fire and a single flickering candle on the bedside table. The rest of the room was bathed in deep shadows. Megan cast an occasional apprehensive glance at the dark corners, and wished that the rich walnut paneling the walls had not been so artfully decorated with the heads of grinning gargoyles and demons. Megan knew that she would never be able to sleep a wink if her own bedroom had been embellished in such a manner.

While she was lost in thought, Megan’s eyes had drifted away from the figure in the bed. Some change in his breathing made her look at him. He was moving. His long body, made cumbersome by the splint on his
leg, jerked spasmodically. Anxiously Megan arose from the chair and bent over him. She was astonished to find herself looking into the golden depths of his eyes.

“What the hell… ?” he muttered, frowning as his eyes moved over her slender shape so imperfectly concealed by the thin nightgown. Megan smiled mistily at him, so relieved that he was awake that she could have cried.

“Be still, my lord,” she said, her voice low. “You’ve been injured.”

His eyes traveled over her body, which was clearly silhouetted by the glow of the fire behind her.

“I remember.”

Megan was surprised at the wryness of his voice. He sounded blessedly normal.

“I’m so sorry,” she murmured, hovering helplessly over him. He tried to hitch himself up against the soft pillows, his face twisting in a grimace at the pain the movement caused him. Megan instinctively put a hand on his shoulder, which was as bare as the rest of him. After the doctor left, it had been decided that it would subject him to too much discomfort if Donovan tried to dress him in his nightshirt.

He looked at her hand, so small and cool and pale against the bronzed width of his shoulder. “Next time you’re feeling murderous, it would be more sporting if you gave me advance notice. Then I’d take care to stay clear.”

Her mouth quivered at his words, which were meant mostly in jest. She looked stricken. Justin swallowed
an oath, and reached for her hand which she had pulled away as if he had burned her.

“I was only teasing,” he said impatiently, capturing her hand and holding it firmly despite the pain that shot through his abused body. “Don’t worry about it: It was as much my fault as yours, for being such a damned cow-handed rider.”

Megan laughed with a little catch in her voice. Justin saw the liquid sheen of tears in her eyes. Before he realized what he was doing, he lifted her hand to his mouth, brushing it with his lips. The faint scent of jasmine—a sachet tucked in with her nightclothes and undergarments—teased his nostrils. He half-closed his eyes, instinctively savoring the sweetness of her. Then an awareness of what he was doing snapped his eyes open again, and he quickly released his grip on her hand.

“Is there any water?” he asked gruffly. She was looking down at him with a soft glow in those violet eyes, and he was desperate for something to distract her attention. On no account must he let her know of this ridiculous attraction that he was finding harder and harder to ignore. If she had any inkling of the effect she had on him, their guardian-ward relationship would become impossible to maintain.

“I’ll get some.” She turned away from the bed to the small table, where Mrs. Donovan had left a jug of water and a glass along with a sleeping potion recommended by the doctor if his patient should suffer too much pain. Megan filled the glass with hands that
were not quite steady, feeling the imprint of Justin’s mouth on her skin as if he had branded her. Never had she felt anything like it before; she had to fight to keep from pressing her lips to the spot on her hand where his lips had been.