The Mysterious Heir by Edith Layton

flustered and withdrawn and made him feel a ravening beast. Though she never joked or held long conversation, he was so lost in love he saw no lack of humor or intellect in her, but only lack of confidence in herself. He knew there were worlds to discover in her deep dark eyes. The only real fear he had for their forthcoming marriage was as to how he would overcome that shyness and lead her to physical enjoyment of their union. But he was confident. He had been loved all his life and he was three-and-twenty and had lain with five women and knew he could win her to him, in both mind and body.
    He did not attempt to make her his wife physically till they had been wed for more than two weeks. He waited till they had been together for a space, he waited till they had reached the solitude of their rooms in the estate he had rented in Scotland for their honeymoon. He would have wished to take her to some exotic clime to match her mood and style but had no desire to risk her safety, and travel abroad was out of the question due to the armed camp the Continent had become. But after two weeks in her constant company he could wait no longer. He could not wait till he had gotten to know her better, for in truth she was still slow of speech and shy and he could wait no longer.
    After much whispering of assurance to her, after long starts and stops, after slow sweet extended embraces, he at last took her to him to complete their union. Suddenly from her armor of reticence she grasped at him, she came forth boldly and clutched him and writhed with him and overwhelmed him completely, making him feel as a child might who stepped into a still pool and found himself carried over a cataract of rushing waters. Later, his mind still whirling as he lay there exhausted, she spoke softly in the stillness of the room.
    “You know, of course,” she said, lying quiet now, and studying the lofty ceiling of their room.
    “Yes,” he said, wondering what it was he was supposed to know.
    “It was only that once,” she whispered.
    And whispering, she told him of the stableboy that had overpowered her and taken her when she was only fifteen.
    “Do you hate me for it?” she asked in a sad, flat voice.
    “Hate you?” he cried, reaching for her again. “No, never, how can you say that? You are my wife. I love you.”
    And she smiled into his hair as they renewed their union, again and again.
    The weeks that followed, while they rested at their honeymoon home, were a sensual blur to Morgan. If he had had time to think, if he were not so totally immersed in his senses, he might have wondered how it was that she knew so much more than he, how she knew so many ways to please him, how she could be, after that one brute encounter in a stable, so endlessly eager. But their only communication was through their bodies, and he had no time, no thought for thought, until even he, at three-and-twenty, was exhausted and wanted some surcease from the endless demands of her body and time for communion of a different sort.
    But she yawned through the art galleries he took her to in nearby Edinburgh, and sat with sphinxlike smile as they toured the antique streets, and fanned herself with uninterest within medieval castles, and toyed with her fan at concerts. In the end she told him with a small smile that she would prefer he went on his sightseeing without her, as she needed her rest.
    He had thought it might be a child on the way. So he left her to rest in her warm bed while he toured the vicinity. And on that one Wednesday afternoon, he had been standing in a great picture gallery when his gaze fell upon a portrait of the Madonna and Child that looked so like his dear Kitty and the babe of his fantasies that he slapped his hat against his knee, bit back a grin, and turned to hurry home to her. To surprise her with his early return and his reawakened desire.
    Her maid flew at him from a shadowed part of the corridor and tried to call him away from their bedroom. She