Just One Kiss (25 page)

Their hips met in a driving, pagan rhythm. Elizabeth couldn't look away from the sight of his manhood lunging into her furrowed warmth, hot, torrid strokes, again and again. She began to pant and writhe, her pelvis churning wildly. Her limbs turned to water, even as a tight coil of heat gathered there, in the place he possessed so fully. Pleasure burst within her, shimmering along her veins. She cried out her ecstasy. With a hoarse groan he pumped his scalding seed deep within her, erupting at the very gates of heaven.

When the coolness of the evening air brushed her heated cheeks, Elizabeth realized what they'd just done—in the library yet! She hid her face against his neck. A giggle caught in her throat as she recalled how she'd once conjured up that very image in her mind.

Never had she thought the deed would indeed be done—or in the
way
it had been done.

She yawned, rubbing her cheek against the sleekness of his shoulder. The night had aged considerably when Morgan finally put her from him. Wrapping a shawl around her body, he carried her up to her room. Elizabeth stirred sleepily as she felt the mattress beneath her back. Her eyes fluttered open. Morgan stood naked beside the bed, tall and magnificent. A little thrill shot through her.

She held out her hand.

He sank down beside her, and soon they were flying among the clouds once more.

It was a long time later that her voice stole into the silence of the night.

"Morgan?"

"Hmmm." He lay on his back, a lean arm cradling her close against his side.

"Who
did
kill Amelia?"

Between one breath and the next, everything changed. One moment he lay relaxed and lazy against her; the next he was stiff as a wooden beam. She nearly cried out when he flung the covers away. His legs swung to the floor, every line of his body taut and unyielding as he arose.

Elizabeth clutched the sheet to her breasts and sat up. "Morgan. Morgan, please! What did I say that was so wrong? I just thought perhaps Amelia's murderer had been discovered—"

"He wasn't."

"But surely you tried to—"

"The subject is closed, Elizabeth, once and for all."

Her jaw sagged. "What! You mean you'll never discuss it again?"

"Precisely." He yanked on his trousers. "It's over and done with. Amelia is dead and there's nothing that can bring her back."

She stared at him, stung and confused by his cold withdrawal. "You sound as if you don't want to know."

"I don't." His voice was clipped and abrupt.

"My God, she was your wife!"

His lip curled. "My wife. You want reasons, Elizabeth? Fine. Let me tell you about my dearly beloved. In all but the first year of our marriage, there was an endless parade of lovers in and out of her bed. When she died, I just wanted to forget the hell she put me through. And that reminds me, I'll thank you not to question Stephen about Amelia again—or anyone else for that matter."

Angry tears burned her throat. "But I only went to him out of concern—"

"Concern for whom, I wonder. Were you worried I might murder you in your sleep?"

"I-I didn't even know she'd been murdered until after I spoke to him!"

He paid no heed. "Tell me, Elizabeth. Would you have married me if you'd known I'd once been charged with murder—the murder of my wife no less?" His mouth twisted. "The proper English lady married to a common criminal."

"You're not a criminal."

"But I might as well be." His tone fairly dripped with contempt. "Rest assured, the good people of Boston have never forgotten. Why should my highborn English wife?"

"Highborn? I would remind you I was nearly penniless when I arrived here!"

"It didn't have to be that way, Elizabeth. All you had to do was stay in England and marry. Then you'd have had your share of your father's money. I won't stand in your way, if that's what you want. Go back to England. I don't care one way or the other."

Elizabeth clenched her fists. "You have made that quite clear," she managed to say. Her rage suddenly fired as hot as his. "You tell me nothing. You
feel
nothing. Well, let me tell you something, Morgan O'Connor. I feel like a fool. I feel used."

Her voice vibrated with the tenor of her outrage. "At the cottage, I thought we had something we could share. But it seems I'm no better than—than your mistress! What was it you said? 'We shared nothing but a mutual enjoyment of each other's bodies.' "

She swept a disdainful hand wide across the rumpled bedclothes. "Is that what
this
was? Is that what you intend our marriage to be?"

His silence was oppressive. He said nothing… and in so doing he said everything.

Elizabeth gave a low, choked cry. "Well, that's not a marriage," she said feelingly. "That's nothing but a prison, for both of us."

She thought it could get no worse.

She was preparing the next week's dinner menus in the drawing room the next day when Simmons announced Nathaniel was waiting in the foyer.

Elizabeth couldn't help it. Morgan's warning the day they had returned from the cottage reverberated in her mind like a cannon.

Don't return until you're invited.

She bit her lip, then made a split-second decision. She set aside her paperwork. "Please show him in, Simmons."

Nathaniel entered a moment later. He was dressed as impeccably as always, but there were dark circles under his eyes. He looked positively unwell.

"Hello, Nathaniel." Her smile was tentative. "Please sit down."

Nathaniel glanced around, his expression distinctly wary. "Morgan's at the office?"

She nodded, watching as he took the chair opposite her. He appeared visibly relieved. "He had business out of town this morning," she said quietly. "He won't be back until evening." What she didn't say was that Morgan hadn't told her himself; he'd left it to Simmons to tell her.

"Would you like coffee or tea?"

"No. I just came to—to apologize to you." He had the grace to look sheepish.

"About what happened the day before yesterday?"

"Yes."

Elizabeth clasped her hands in her lap. "You don't owe me an apology, Nathaniel." There was a significant pause. "But I think you owe one to Morgan."

"Morgan!" His snort was rather eloquent. "Why should I apologize to him?"

His regard had turned belligerent. Elizabeth met it with chin high, refusing to back down.

"Your behavior was rude and insensitive, to say nothing of inexcusable," she said evenly. "You wanted to stir up trouble. You wanted to belittle him in front of his wife."

"And what if I did? He took you from me—he stole you away!"

"No, Nathaniel. I did what I had to—what was right for me. I married Morgan of my own free will. You have to understand that." She was firm. "It was my choice to marry him."

"You don't love him, Elizabeth!"

Her heart wrenched. Her gaze flitted away.
Not then
, she thought achingly.
But God help me, I do now
.

But she couldn't tell that to Nathaniel. Just as she acknowledged that she'd never really loved Nathaniel, not in the way she loved Morgan. She'd been swept away. By the glitter of London. The gaiety of life. By his charm and laughter.

No. She could hardly tell him so. She couldn't wound him like that. It simply wasn't in her nature to deliberately hurt another.

She didn't realize that something of her melancholy mood must have shown. Nathaniel seized on it.

"You see? I was right. He'll make you miserable. He has already, I can see it! Elizabeth, he'll do the same thing to you that he did to Amelia. He'll rob you of any chance at happiness—"

"Don't!" The word was rapier-sharp. Her eyes were snapping. "Don't say another word against him, Nathaniel. If you do, I'll have to insist you leave."

His lips pressed together sullenly, but he said no more. Instead he surged upward and thrust his hands in his pockets. Back and forth he paced. Back and forth. It was on his third pass that Elizabeth's delicate nose caught the distinct aroma of spirits.

She was up and on her feet in an instant. "Nathaniel!" she cried in dismay. "You've been drinking again!"

He stopped abruptly. For the first time Elizabeth noticed his eyes were red rimmed and bloodshot.

His mouth turned up in a hard smile. "Just so you know, Elizabeth, it's a rare occasion these days when I'm
not
drinking."

"Nathaniel! I hardly think it's anything to boast about!"

He scowled. "Why shouldn't I? I've got nothing better to do. And it helps to pass the time."

She was horrified. "That's why you do it? To pass the time?"

He shrugged.

"But there are dozens of other things you could do!"

"Such as?" His tone was sullen.

Elizabeth's lips pressed together. "Something useful," she said baldly. "Something constructive."

"Constructive? You mean Morgan hasn't told you?" he sneered. "I'm a good-for-nothing, Elizabeth, as he's so fond of saying."

Frustration bit deep. Why were the two constantly at odds? Why? screamed a tiny voice in her breast. She was more certain than ever that there was something she didn't know, something vitally important.

"Then prove him wrong, Nathaniel! Not to spite him, but for yourself, your own pride! There must be some kind of work you could do. Find something to occupy your time—your mind!"

"I'm surprised Morgan hasn't told you. That fancy education he paid for was a waste. I've been let go from every position I've ever had."

Elizabeth shook her head. "Nonetheless, you need to work, Nathaniel." She linked her hands together before her, her mind turning furiously. "Wait!" she exclaimed. "I have the perfect solution. What if I spoke to Morgan about a position at the shipyard?"

"Elizabeth—"

She waved aside his protests. "There must be something you could do," she mused aloud. "Are you good with figures?"

"I used to be," he admitted.

"Good! Perhaps you could take on some of the bookkeeping. I know Morgan finds it tedious…" She was adamant—and convinced this was quite the thing to do.

She laughed softly to herself as the evening wore on. If Morgan were to see that Nathaniel was capable of proving his worth, surely his opinion of his brother would improve. Perhaps this might well be the first step toward healing the breach between the two.

It was quite late when Morgan arrived home, but Elizabeth was ready and waiting. Downstairs she heard his footsteps. The door of his study opened. Good. He'd missed dinner, so she'd asked the cook to prepare a plate for him; there was a generous slice of ham, savory beans, and bread. Picking up the tray, she went downstairs.

Her slippers made no sound as she entered the study. The yellow glow of a lamp lit the corner. Morgan stood near the window, staring out at the moon-drenched sky. For the space of a heartbeat, she drank in the sight of his cleanly etched profile. His features were utterly somber. There were deep channels carved beside his mouth. Even his posture was subdued. He appeared so incredibly weary that she couldn't help it. Her heart went out to him.

The rustle of her night-robe alerted him to her presence. He turned.

Holding her breath, she held out the tray. "You missed dinner," she said breathlessly. "I thought you might be hungry."

For a moment he didn't move. Elizabeth had the oddest sensation she'd startled him. Finally he came forward, taking the tray from her. Their fingertips just barely brushed, yet heat streaked through her like a fork of lightning.

"Actually I'm famished," he admitted.

She smiled. The relief that flooded her was immense. After her outburst last night, she'd been afraid his reception would be distant and unyielding. While he took his seat behind the desk, she settled herself in the chair directly across from him. As he ate, she chattered idly about how warm the weather had been of late, Simmons's rheumatism, the dinner party at the Porters' next week.

When he'd finished, he pushed away the plate and arose. Rounding the desk, he came to stand in front of her. Before Elizabeth knew what he was about, he'd pulled her upright.

Small, slippered feet were aligned squarely between his. He had yet to release her hands.

"Thank you," he murmured. "This was very thoughtful."

She smiled up at him, all at once feeling absurdly happy. "You're very welcome," she told him. "I-I just wanted to do something special for you. I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all." His gaze roved the upturned beauty of her features. Her eyes were green and sparkling, her cheeks were pink and becomingly flushed. Her hair fell down her back, a rippling, golden waterfall. Her nightgown was just barely visible beneath the edge of her night-robe. Delicate white lace covered the ripe mounds of her breasts; it stirred with every breath she drew, more an enticement than if she had stood naked before him.

Desire struck like a fist planted low in his belly. More than anything, he longed to lay her down, strip away their clothes, and drive hard and deep within her silken flesh.

His grip on her hands tightened. But before he could say a word, he heard her.

"I'm so glad you're not angry about last night."

Last night. God, he could barely think, let alone remember last night. His pulse was clamoring. His blood had begun to heat.

"I hope you don't mind, but I've a favor to ask of you."

Lord, she was sweet. She could have asked for the moon and the sun and the stars, and he'd have done anything in his power to see that she got what she wanted.

"Morgan, about Nathaniel… He needs something with which to occupy himself. I'm convinced he could make something of himself, if only he tried. And I was thinking… perhaps you might allow him to come work for you…"

Her request was slow to register. When it did, it was like an icy wave of seawater.

"Nathaniel? He was here, wasn't he?" All at once the atmosphere was stifling.

"Yes. I know you told him not to come back until he was invited," she clarified quickly. "But he came to apologize." She wasn't about to let on that Nathaniel came to apologize to her, not him.