Suzanne Robinson (36 page)

“But I love Highcliffe.”

Morgan shook his head. “I know, and I confess, your band of unworthies has somehow captured my affection, except for Twistle.”

“Then what are we to do?”

“No doubt Christian or Derry will know someone who could look after the place during the times we’re away.”

“Someone capable of dealing with Ponder Cutwell.”

“And Twistle.”

Morgan said nothing more while he took one of her hands, opened it, and kissed the palm. Then his gaze went distant.

“There have been no more visions.” he said.

“Mayhap there never will be.”

“Know you for certain?”

Pen shook her head. “I don’t even understand my own gift, but mayhap now that you’ve been to the standing stones, nothing more will happen.”

“God’s eyes, Pen, I like not this visitation of past
happenings. It’s like living with ghosts. And don’t smirk at me, you little mischief. You’ve had years in which to accustom yourself to it.”

Pen laughed anyway. Morgan stood back from her and folded his arms over his chest, then gave her a slow assessing look graced with a smile.

“No doubt,” he said lazily, “no doubt God sent me these visions apurpose as a sign that I’m needed to govern this island and its willful mistress.”

“Or they’re a sign that you’re in need of governance, my lord Morgan St. John.”

He came closer, tangled his fingers in a strand of her hair, and bent to kiss it. “Mmmm. I believe I’m going to enjoy your trying to—govern me. Come. We’ll go to your chamber so you can begin.”

Before Pen could protest, he took her arm and turned to leave the wall walk. They had gone several steps before Pen stopped and danced away from him.

“Your brother and Lord Montfort await us!”

“They may continue.”

Morgan gave her one of his long I’m-going-to-consume-you looks and she felt another of those damnable blushes creep over her face.

“Please, Morgan.” She put her hands to her burning cheeks and refused to look at him.

He laughed. “This once, I’ll relent.”

Pen eyed him warily. He was capable of doing just as he pleased.

Morgan sighed, gathered her in his arms, and gave her a leisurely but thorough kiss that forced her to regret her protest. Then he released her.

“If I must suffer, you’ll suffer as well, my stubborn-sweet mistress.”

Her voice faint, Pen straightened her gown. “That seems only fair.”

She summoned her wits. Saints, but this man could rout them simply by looking at her. Govern him indeed. He took her hand and pulled her to the battlements, and they gazed out at the sea. A breeze played with her curls, and he captured one in his fingers. Pen covered his hand with hers.

“Morgan, Tristan, I love you.”

She barely got the words out before he covered her mouth with his lips. When he ended the kiss, she touched his mouth with wondering fingers.

“Morgan?”

“Aye, my love.”

“There’s going to be a storm.”

He looked out at the cloudless sea.

“I see nothing.”

Pen smiled at him with her old, bright smile. “Believe me, my sweet, sweet Tristan, there’s going to be a storm.”

S
UZANNE
R
OBINSON
has a doctoral degree in anthropology with a specialty in ancient Middle Eastern archaeology. After spending years doing fieldwork in both the U.S. and the Middle East, Suzanne has now turned her attention to the creation of the fascinating fictional characters in her unforgettable historical romances.

Suzanne lives in San Antonio with her husband and her two English springer spaniels. She divides her time between writing and teaching.