Just One Kiss (28 page)

And also the most painful.

Remembrance swept in like the rushing tide.

I won't lie, Morgan. He—he kissed me. He wouldn't leave until he had. But if you must blame anyone, blame me. I should have stopped him sooner, I know. But it showed me once and for all that what I once felt for Nathaniel is no more. Don't you see? I felt nothing! All I could think about was you!

He clenched his teeth hard. He couldn't forget what he'd seen so easily. Yet despite all, he wanted to trust Elizabeth. He wanted to believe in her.

He didn't dare.

It was too much like before. Amelia and Nathaniel.
Elizabeth
and Nathaniel. True, Elizabeth had fallen for Nathaniel long before he'd ever laid eyes on her; yet neither Elizabeth nor Amelia had been immune from his roguish brother's charms.

And that was what he couldn't forget. What if it happened again? What if Elizabeth succumbed once more?

One long arm tucked beneath his head, he stared at the hazy spears of sunlight spreading on the ceiling. His thoughts were brutally tormenting. He gritted his teeth, recalling how her hips had churned madly beneath his. A bittersweet shadow crept over him. Sweet as they were, her lips might easily lie, though her body did not. She
had
found pleasure in his arms.

But had she also found pleasure in Nathaniel's arms?

And then there was Nathaniel. What the devil had he gotten himself into now? Elizabeth had been adamant that he was in trouble. His lips thinned. That sounded like Nathaniel. He'd always had a knack for finding trouble. Or was it another of his lies—a pretense—a way to elicit Elizabeth's sympathy?

Elizabeth was awake by the time he'd finished bathing and dressing. Clad in pale gray trousers, jacket, and vest, he was so tall and handsome, he stole her very breath. He looked up just as he finished snapping shut a small leather bag.

Intercepting Elizabeth's questioning glance, he came to sit on the edge of the bed, very near but not touching her. "I'm leaving for New York this morning to check on some investments," he said by way of explanation. "I won't be back for several days."

Elizabeth sat up slowly, running her fingers through sleep-tousled long curls, careful to keep the sheet tucked over her bare breasts. Morgan's manner wasn't cold, but he appeared very somber and reserved.

Impulsively she spoke. "Are you still angry about last night?" She held her breath and waited, forever, it seemed.

His gaze darkened. "I don't know. Wary, perhaps." His eyes held hers in a thorough study. "And frankly, Elizabeth, I often wonder where your true loyalty lies—with me or with Nathaniel."

Elizabeth caught her breath. There was no bite in his tone; she had the feeling he wasn't lashing out, but was merely being unfailingly honest.

Her hand came out to cover his lightly where it rested atop the counterpane. "I can understand why you should feel skeptical. But it's just as I told Nathaniel. You are the one I married, Morgan.
You
," she stressed softly. "My loyalty will always lie with you."
And so will my heart
, she thought achingly.

Eyes the color of storm clouds roamed her upturned features, as if he would search out the very depths of her soul. Elizabeth didn't flinch from his scrutiny, but met his gaze evenly, her own eyes wide and unwavering.

He made no answer. Instead his gaze was drawn to their fingers. Elizabeth couldn't look away as he lifted her hand, weaving their fingers together. The contrast was startling. Bronzed skin against fair. His so long and lean, hers so dainty and small.

At last he sighed. The merest of smiles grazed the stark beauty of his mouth. "I must be off." he murmured. He brushed his lips across her knuckles and rose.

She sensed his reluctance. Her pulse bounded forward. Her heart leaped with wild elation.

Halfway to the door, she called his name. "Morgan."

He turned, his bag in hand.

Elizabeth slid from the bed, wrapping the sheet around her nakedness. She ran to him, her cheeks flushed a rosy pink as she stopped before him. One small hand crept to his chest. "Come home soon," she whispered. Closing her eyes, she wordlessly offered her lips.

Morgan's free arm caught her close. His mouth came down on hers. From that moment, the kiss raged out of control, a storm of desire unleashed. Her body arched against his. There was no hiding the answering upsurge of desire in his.

His chest heaving, he raised his head. His gaze rested on the moist temptation of her lips. "I'd better go," he muttered hoarsely.

"Yes," she murmured, "you should." But she was smiling. Her lids fluttered open. The gleam in her eyes was half-teasing, half-sultry. She wound her arms around his neck.

The sheet puddled around her ankles.

Morgan's bag dropped to the floor.

A groan erupted from his chest. He swept her high in his arms and carried her to the bed. It was a long time later before he once again said his goodbyes…

Elizabeth was humming when she finally made her way back into her own room. Hands on her hips, Annie stood in the center of the floor. Her ruddy features were utterly perplexed as she gazed at her mistress's bed, which clearly hadn't been slept in.

Behind her, Elizabeth cleared her throat. Annie whirled around. Her eyes grew wide as the moon; they shifted from her mistress to the connecting door, which still stood ajar, and back to Elizabeth. Her shocked expression was precious. Elizabeth couldn't help it; a bubbly laugh escaped.

"Good morning to you, too, Annie."

The little maid recovered quickly. "Yes," she beamed, "it is a fine morning, isn't it, ma'am?"

The rest of the morning was lazy. Elizabeth enjoyed a leisurely soak in the bath, savoring the memories of the past few hours.

Her husband was a man who was sparing in his praise. But he had whispered of his passion, his fiery hunger for her, how exciting he found the abandon of her hips driving wild and wanton against his, how he loved the feel of her mouth and hands wandering over his aroused flesh.

Nor was he a man to declare his emotions for all and sundry to hear.

She paused, standing near her bureau. Her hand crept unknowingly to her heart, for it was there that a frail tendril of hope took root.

For the first time, she allowed herself to wonder if it was more than just mere desire that Morgan felt for her. More than just the yearning for a woman—any woman—to ease his masculine needs. As she had lain in his embrace in the sweet aftermath of love—not an hour since—there was no more need for words. His arms were possessive. Protective. But far more important, she had felt herself surrounded by a feeling of closeness—of oneness—that surpassed all else. Did she dare to think he might love her after all?

She was afraid to believe… just as afraid not to.

She sighed, shaking herself from her reverie. Glancing idly down, she noticed that the lid on her jewelry case was ajar. Inside, a black velvet case was open and empty. She remembered then that she'd neglected to put away her pearls last night.

They weren't on her dressing table. Her brow furrowed in concentration, she stared down at the spot where she'd thought she had dropped them. She was almost certain she'd left them there on the dressing table, but it must have been elsewhere.

Only they were nowhere to be found.

Alarm clamored in her breast. She called for Annie, and together they searched every drawer and crevice in her room, under and behind furniture, all to no avail.

When Annie left her to go about her duties, Elizabeth tried to piece together the events of last evening. After leaving the Porters', she'd come home and immediately prepared for bed. It was while she was brushing her hair that she'd noticed the strand still encircled her neck. Yes! That was when she'd removed them, just before Nathaniel…

Nathaniel.

"No," she said faintly. "Oh, no…"

An awful assumption crowded her brain. Nathaniel had come for money. She didn't want to believe it, yet what choice did she have? Nathaniel had remained in her room while she was in Morgan's study.
Nathaniel
, she thought.
Oh, Nathaniel, how could you do this
?

Ten minutes later, she was sitting stiffly inside the carriage, her lips pressed firmly together. She hoped she was wrong, that Nathaniel hadn't stolen her pearls; not so much for her sake—or even because they'd been a gift from Morgan—but for his.

She alighted from the carriage almost as soon as it rolled to a stop before the shabby redbrick building. Willis hadn't even stepped down from the driver's box. Intent on her purpose, she gave only a cursory glance at a tall, thin man wearing a brown derby who had just emerged from the alleyway behind the building.

She waved Willis back to the seat. "Please wait here," she instructed crisply. "I shan't be long."

Her posture square and upright, she marched down the walkway. Her indignant anger kindled with every step that carried her closer to Nathaniel's door. She rapped the brass knocker sharply against the wood.

Nathaniel didn't come to the door.

Under normal circumstances, Elizabeth would have left, assuming that he wasn't at home. Instead she knocked harder with her closed fist. If he was sleeping off the effects of last evening's indulgence, perhaps he hadn't heard. If so, she was determined to wake him. This was no casual affair to be swept aside.

Still no answer. Elizabeth persisted. From the carriage, Willis gazed at her, then tipped his hat back. "Would you like me to help, ma'am?"

"No, thank you, Willis."

She turned back to the door. In sheer frustration, she wrapped white-gloved fingers around the door handle, intending to jiggle it soundly.

It turned easily.

So. He was home after all, the wretch! Elizabeth pushed the door wide and stepped inside. "Nathaniel!" she called. "Nathaniel, I know you're here, so you may as well come out."

Empty silence greeted her.

But no—there was a faint sound from the rear of the house. Too angry to be afraid, Elizabeth charged forward to the drawing room.

She stood in the doorway, the tilt of her head conveying her disapproval. The curtains were still tightly drawn. The room was dim. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the gloom, but Nathaniel wasn't here. The lazy scoundrel must still be in bed, she thought stingingly. She was just about to search out his bedroom when she heard something—the faintest of sounds, almost like a low moan.

It was then she saw what she had overlooked—a long form sprawled on the floor before the fireplace. He lay facedown, his head turned away from her.

She stepped toward him. "Nathaniel!" she scolded. "Nathaniel, for heaven's sake, it's afternoon! Don't you have sense enough to—"

Abruptly she stopped. Her eyes flew wide. All at once her heart began to pound. There was a huge stain on the floor next to him.

She emitted a horrified gasp. Dear God, it was blood!

She was beside him on her knees in an instant. "Nathaniel!" she cried, struggling to turn him over.

She succeeded in rolling him to his side. As she did, he moaned. "Oh, thank God, you're alive!" She gave a dry half sob. But his face was white as flour. The front of his shirt was bright crimson, nearly soaked through with blood.

Lurching upward, she picked up her skirts and ran for the door. She burst outside as if she were half-daft. The startled driver blinked at the sight of his mistress tearing down the walk. "Willis!" she nearly screamed. "Come quickly!"

«
^
»

"Knife wounds," Stephen said grimly. "Two of them. Not a very pretty sight, I'm afraid."

Dread coiled heavy and tight in the middle of Elizabeth's belly. Stephen was right. It wasn't a pretty sight. There was a long, jagged wound in Nathaniel's left shoulder, yet another tearing slash just below his rib cage on the other side.

They stood in an examining room at Stephen's office. Nathaniel lay stretched out on a high, narrow table. Willis had driven at breakneck speed to get there. Panic-stricken and desperate, Elizabeth had raced into his house. She was certain his housekeeper was convinced she was a madwoman.

Stephen finished cutting away the rest of Nathaniel's shirt and dropped it into a basin at the bedside. Beneath was a tightly wadded swath of Elizabeth's petticoat. She'd used it to try to stanch the bleeding in his shoulder, the worst of the two. Using a pair of tongs, Stephen plucked it away. That, too, was tossed into the basin.

Fresh blood welled bright and crimson. She winced at the sight. Swearing under his breath, Stephen swabbed it away. "They're both deep," he muttered, "especially this one. I'll have to close them both or he'll never stop bleeding."

Elizabeth's gaze was riveted on Nathaniel. He looked ghastly. His skin was almost colorless, nearly as white as the sheet beneath him. He lay pale and motionless, his breathing weak and shallow.

"He's still unconscious. Is that normal?" She battled to keep the hysteria from her voice.

Stephen was bent over his patient. "I wouldn't worry yet. Besides, it'll be easier to close these wounds if he's not awake." He straightened. "Are you up to giving me a hand? Otherwise I'll call Mrs. Hale." Mrs. Hale was the housekeeper and also served as part-time nurse.

Elizabeth swallowed bravely. "I'll stay."

After scrubbing her hands, she stepped up to the table, steeling herself for what would come next. With steady hands and unfaltering gaze, she held a small tray of instruments and bandages, watching as Stephen worked. The point of the needle punctured Nathaniel's skin again and again, dipping and pulling.

At last the wounds were closed, jagged edges pulled together. By the time the last stitch had been secured, Elizabeth was feeling quite proud of herself. Stephen proceeded to bandage both gashes with snowy white gauze. Oddly enough, it wasn't until Nathaniel's torn, mangled flesh was hidden from sight that reality finally hit. Her stomach began to churn.

"There. It's done. Fine job, Elizabeth." Stephen turned to find his makeshift assistant looking decidedly peaked. "Are you all right?"