Just One Kiss (27 page)

A flicker of unease went through her. Nathaniel's hat was slightly askew, his manner harried. He seemed out of breath, as if he'd been running. "What then? What's happened?"

He crushed his hat in his hands and began to pace. "Elizabeth, I need money. A lot of it. I can't ask Morgan. I know he'll refuse. So I came to you."

Elizabeth was stunned. "Money," she echoed. "Nathaniel, whatever for?"

"I don't have time to explain now. I'll tell you tomorrow, I swear. Elizabeth, please, you have to help me! I need whatever I can get my hands on."

Her unease sharpened to apprehension. "You're in trouble, aren't you?"

His laugh was short and harsh. "Yes. Yes, you might say that."

"What sort of trouble?"

He thrust his fingers through his hair. "Elizabeth, I don't have time now. I swear, I'll tell you the next time I see you. For now, I need whatever money you can lay your hands on."

He sounded so frantic; she couldn't help but sense his desperation. She shook her head helplessly. "I-I'm not sure I can help you. I've an allowance at Morgan's bank—I don't know how much since I've never used it—but it won't be open until Monday."

He groaned. "Christ!" he swore. "If I don't come up with enough to—"

"Wait!" she cried. "The household funds are in Morgan's study. I don't know how much there is—"

"Anything at all will help, Elizabeth. Anything."

She nodded. "Wait here. I'll get it for you."

Her feet fairly flew down the stairs. In Morgan's study, she grabbed the key from beneath the porcelain vase. Hurriedly she pulled open the drawer and unlocked the small metal box stashed at the very end. She grabbed the pile of bills inside, slammed the lid down and locked it. Her hands were shaking as she jammed the key back beneath the vase.

Back in her room, Nathaniel was standing near the window. He glanced around as she entered. Wordlessly she held up the wad of bills.

He broke into a laugh. "Bless you," he beamed. "You are truly a godsend." He took it from her and stuffed it into the inside pocket of his jacket. Turning back to her, he paused. Something flashed across his face, something that might have been regret.

Elizabeth glanced toward the door. "Nathaniel," she pleaded, "you'd better hurry. Morgan may be home any second now."

His eyes glimmered. "A kiss," he proclaimed with the same teasing grandness that had so charmed her in London. "Grant me one last kiss, Elizabeth, and I'll be gone."

"Nathaniel, no! It's not proper!"

His laugh was deep and hearty. "When have I ever done what was proper? Come now, Elizabeth. All I ask is a kiss. I won't leave until you agree."

Elizabeth's mouth opened, but there was no time to protest. Hands on her shoulders, he drew her to him. His mouth came down on hers.

It was odd, how she felt nothing, no excitement, no warmth, no shivery tremors the way she did with Morgan. The magic was gone, she realized. She allowed the kiss to linger a heartbeat more than she should have, but there was a part of her that needed to know for certain that all she had once felt for Nathaniel was no more…

Now she knew.

She broke it off and stepped back. "Nathaniel," she urged, "you must hurry."

With a nod and a wave, he departed. In her doorway, Elizabeth watched as he blended into the shadows. When she was certain he'd escaped unnoticed, she breathed a tremendous sigh of relief. If Morgan knew Nathaniel had been here, he would be livid…

Morgan did know.

And he was indeed livid, for behind the sheer lace curtains was the unmistakable silhouette of man and woman locked in a long, ardent embrace.

His eyes remained fastened on the window of his wife's room. From around the corner came the rustle of bushes, then thudding footsteps.

That would be Nathaniel.

Morgan's hands clenched into fists at his sides. He didn't go after him. He didn't dare. If he touched him, he would tear him limb from limb.

Inside the house he strode straight to the library—and the brandy decanter. His fingers closed around the neck of the decanter; he filled a crystal glass nearly to the brim. But he didn't drink. His jaw clenched. He stared at the ruby liquid as if it had been brewed by the devil himself.

Once before his lofty wife had pushed him to this point, a point at which he despised himself for his weakness, for sinking to such depths. He reminded himself savagely that if he gave in yet again, he was no better than his drunken father—no better than Nathaniel.

But the temptation to forget, to cast himself into oblivion, was too strong. Too powerful to fight.

The glass tipped. Brandy burned a path of fire as it slid down his throat.

By the time it was empty, his thoughts and actions had blurred, but his anger was fired as hotly as ever.

He climbed the stairs to his bedroom. He stood for a moment, staring blackly at the connecting door that led to Elizabeth's room.

Bitterness crystallized within him. He remembered how she'd looked the other morning, her naked form shaped against his side. The sweep of her nape lay bare and delicate, the smoothness of her shoulders fragile and white, feminine and vulnerable. Much like the woman herself… But no—no, that wasn't right. Elizabeth wasn't vulnerable. She was strong and possessed a will of her own. Just like Amelia.

Just like Amelia.

He flung his jacket to the bed, cursing himself for the blind stupid fool he was. He'd been duped twice.
Twice
. First Amelia. Now Elizabeth.

A crimson mist of rage clouded his vision. In his mind's eye he pictured Elizabeth and Nathaniel once more, lips clinging, arms wrapped around each other.

Directly across from him was the framed painting of the clipper ship she'd given him. Snatching it from the wall, he hurled it to the floor. It hit with such force the frame splintered into pieces.

So did his heart.

Elizabeth paused, one knee poised on the bed. The other slim leg was extended downward, bare toes still curled into the plushness of the carpet. She cocked her head toward Morgan's room. She could have sworn she heard something strike the floor.

All was quiet.

A yellow sliver of light glowed beneath the connecting door. Moving very quietly, almost stealthily, she crept across to the door, still straining to hear.

Still there was nothing.

Holding her breath, she let her fingers curl around the doorknob. She twisted it slowly, possessed by a force she couldn't deny. Pushing it ajar, she peered inside. There upon the floor, the frame splintered and scattered in pieces, lay the painting that had been her gift to her husband.

No accident had rendered it so.

Sheer pain throbbed in her breast. This was what she'd heard, and the knowledge was like a fist crashing down on her heart.

Suddenly the door was wrenched from her hold and thrust wide. A tall, masculine form replaced it. Her eyes wide and stricken, Elizabeth looked up at her husband.

He regarded her with frightening intensity. His eyes were bloodshot but glittering. They stood so close, not even the span of a hand separated them; it was then she caught the pungent fumes of liquor.

He was drunk. The man she had never seen partake of spirits in all these weeks… was drunk.

She was suddenly terrified.

With a cry she whirled and tried to bolt. Quick as she was, he was quicker. Strong arms imprisoned her, dragging her back against the unyielding breadth of his chest. She strained against his hold, but it was useless. Three steps brought them back within his room.

Half-afraid to move, even to breathe, she turned to face him.

For once his gaze was unshuttered. But the look in his eyes was terrible. She could almost believe he
had
killed Amelia…

"Morgan," she cried. "What is wrong? Why are you acting like this?"

He released her, only to walk in a slow circle around her. Elizabeth's heart was in a frenzy. She flinched when a blunt fingertip came out to trace the delicate sweep of her collarbone, yet his touch was as gentle as fleece… a touch wholly at odds with the venom in his eyes.

Several paces separated them, yet the gulf between them seemed far more immense. Her lips barely moved. "Please let me go, Morgan. You're drunk."

"So I am, Elizabeth. So I am." His smile was brittle. "But I wonder—is there something you'd like to tell me, sweet?"

She blanched. He knew. Heaven help her, he knew… "Oh, no," she whispered numbly. "Don't tell me you saw—"

His smile had vanished. "Oh yes, Elizabeth." His tone was lashing. "I saw my oh-so-virtuous wife in the throes of an embrace with my
brother
."

Elizabeth's mouth had gone dry. She stared at him, wanting to tear her eyes away but unable to do so. His gaze seemed to burn clear through to her very soul.

"Tell me, though. If I hadn't seen him here for myself, would you have told me?"

Her insides twisted in dread. She swallowed. Speech eluded her.

"I told him not to return until he was invited, Elizabeth. So tell me—did you invite him into your bedroom?"

At last she found her voice. "No!" She shook her head frantically. "Morgan, it's not what you think!"

"Then what was it, Elizabeth? How does one mistake two lovers caught in an embrace?" His voice was drilling. With his eyes he pinned her, a ruthless echo of his condemnation.

She stared at him beseechingly. "Morgan, I swear, it wasn't what you think! Nathaniel was here, yes. But I didn't know he was coming, nor did I invite him. He's in trouble, Morgan. He needed money, so I—I gave him the cash set aside for the household—"

"And what else did you give him, Elizabeth? What else?"

The words were like a slap in the face. Elizabeth went pale, but she held her ground. He couldn't argue with the truth, could he?

"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!"

His jaw was clenched hard. Yet something flickered in his eyes. "Then show me, Elizabeth. Come to me and show me."

The gauntlet had been thrown. Elizabeth realized she had no choice. She must take up his challenge or he might never believe her.

Slowly she crossed to him, her knees quaking so that she feared her legs would fail her. She moistened lips that were suddenly parched. "I-I don't know what you want me to do," she whispered.

His eyes were on hers, glittering points of silver, his expression stormy. "Kiss me, Elizabeth. We're brothers, Nathaniel and I. Brothers should share, don't you think? Even wives."

Elizabeth cringed inside. Must he forever mock her? But it was too late to change her mind. If she did, he might never forgive her.

Forgive her
. Oh, but that was rich! Morgan O'Connor was surely the most unforgiving man alive! He had yet to forgive Nathaniel, for whatever misdeed Nathaniel had done! She didn't know how or why, but she'd never been more certain of anything in her life.

"I'm waiting, Elizabeth."

Her insides quivering, she placed her fingertips on his shoulders. Levering herself upward, she pressed tremulous lips to his.

He was cool and unresponsive, his lips pressed into a grim line. His stance was wooden. She could feel his tension; his body was rock-hard and unyielding. Intensifying her efforts, she deepened the kiss, turning her head first one way, then the other. She molded her mouth against the hardness of his, wordlessly urging him to yield. Her hands stole to his nape, an unconscious caress. Bringing her tongue out of hiding, she traced the beautifully sculpted outline of his mouth. His lips parted ever so slightly; their breath mingled and meshed.

Her head was spinning when at last she drew back. Their eyes cleaved together. His were still blistering—not with anger… but with something else, a fiery blaze of hunger that nearly sapped her courage.

"Undress me." His voice had thickened.

Her pulse leaped. She was sorely tempted to spring around and run, yet she couldn't deny the very thought of being the aggressor—the initiator—was oddly exciting.

Her fingers fell to the buttons of his shirt. Inwardly she was quaking, but she managed to free them without clumsiness. He said nothing as she drew the shirt from his shoulders and arms and let it drop to the floor.

His trousers were next. Elizabeth sank to her knees before him. The buttons there were more difficult, rendered so by the straining pressure of rigid flesh beneath. But at last they were free; a tug and the trousers fell to his ankles. The spear of his manhood sprang free and unencumbered. His trousers were kicked aside.

He would have bent to lift her to her feet, but with a slight shake of her head she stayed the movement. Glancing upward, she shyly beseeched him. Her fingertips framed the bony ridge of slim, narrow hips.

His hands on her shoulders grew still. For the space of a heartbeat it was as if the entire world held its breath.

With her mouth she touched him, delicately tasting his essence. With her tongue she discovered the shape of him, darting and swirling. He seemed to swell to even greater dimensions.

His fingers slid into her hair. "God," he said hoarsely, and then again: "
God
!"

Knowing she pleased him heightened her own excitement. Her fingers dug into his hips. He cast back his head and groaned his pleasure aloud.

When he could stand no more he caught her and pulled her upright. Tumbling her to the bed, he plunged the spear of his manhood deep—deep!—inside her satin cave. She clung tight to his shoulders, crying out her yearning. It was a union that was fiery and tempestuous, with heated, wanton whispers and breathless cries of rapture…

The first of several that night.

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It might have been just a dream.

But Morgan awoke to find his wife huddled close against his side, gloriously sleek and naked. Though his head pounded and his mouth was as dry as sawdust, the night just spent had been the most incredible night of his life.