DD-Michaels-END.rtf (32 page)

Now.
Ethan heard his own silent cry as he levered himself over her, moving his kiss from her breast to her mouth, but keeping his hand moving, moving..
.
while he settled himself between her legs.

One swift, strong thrust, and he was inside her, the last barrier breached, and Morgan was clinging to him, her fingers splayed on his back even as she lifted her legs onto his buttocks, allowing him to nestle completely into her.

She was wildfire, she was quicksilver, she was animal heat and Eve's handmaiden. She was everything in the world, nothing that had ever been before, and she made him want to be the world to her, as well.

He would die for her, he would kill for her. He would keep her secrets, dry her tears, share her laughter.

He would love her until he died, and beyond.

He stilled his finger against her when he felt her begin to move, pulse out her pleasure, and when she pushed back her head with a cry of wonder, he buried his mouth against her throat and drove into her one last time, the force of his own fulfillment shattering his every nerve, so that he collapsed against her, perspiration sheening his body.

Morgan lay very still for a few moments, nearly overcome with emotion, before she took Ethan's head between her hands and began showering kisses over his face, his eyes, his mouth.

As her pounding heart at last began to slow, she kissed him one last time, then pressed her cheek against his shoulder and sighed deeply.

No words. There was no need for any more words.

Ethan smiled as he slid his arms around her back, holding her close as he turned onto his side, still inside her, loath to leave her.

Morgan wrapped her arm around him as she settled into the hollow of his shoulder, and was asleep in moments, leaving Ethan to he there with her in the spill of moonlight, stroking her dark hair back from her face, occasionally kissing her forehead, and feeling sorry for every man in the world who wasn't him....

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Morgan carried her bandbox outside the next morning, once again not wanting Louise's prying eyes to see its contents. Of course, if the woman had wakened just ten minutes earlier, she would have had an even worse surpris
e
—
s
eeing her mistress climbing in through the window.

Smiling, feeling wonderfu
l
—
a
live!
—
M
organ waved hello to the half-dozen outriders who had shown up sometime during the night and were now milling around as only men can do, looking busy while doing nothing.

They would reach Becket Hall before dusk, especially if she could talk Ethan into splitting the outriders, taking only his three along as the two of them rode across Ro
m
ney Marsh, the coaches left to follow.

She couldn't wait to show Ethan the marsh,
her
marsh. They'd ride straight to the Channel, straight past Becket Hall, and they'd introduce Alejandro to the sea.

Anything she could do to delay the moment when Ethan and her papa met, the moment the family would stand between them, judging Ethan, gauging him.

Would they see just the London gentleman? Or would they see what she saw? The man. The man who was so much, and didn't even realize how much more he could be? Her other half..
.
the half that made her whole.

She walked around to the rear of the stables, knowing the horses hadn't yet been brought out and placed between the braces, for she'd poked her head into the small common room and seen Saul still shoveling eggs and country ham into his mouth.

Jacob hadn't been there, and she was in no great hurry to see him, so she didn't hunt him out to ask him to put her usual saddle on Berengaria. She'd unearth it from the boot of the traveling coach and do so herself.

And when she mounted Berengaria, Ethan would smile. Not scold, not argue, not even raise an eyebrow to slightly mock her, act as if he was
indulging
her rather than treating her as his equa
l
—
h
is equal in all things. He accepted who she was, without reservation, without question. He gave without question.

He'd only asked for all of her in return, and she was
f
inding out that all of her was what she wanted to give him.

Morgan smiled in the bright sunlight, knowing it was Ethan who had taken away all her shadows.

Swinging the heavy bandbox, humming quietly as she walked, very aware of her body in a way she'd never been before, and picturing Ethan and herself flying over the soft marsh ground, the wind in their faces, the smell of the sea coming to them, Morgan turned the corner of the stables. She took a few more steps before something bothered her, stopped her.

Where was the guard?

Even at a small country inn such as this one, chosen by Ainsley Becket precisely because it was so small, and away from the more heavily traveled, more direct roads, coaches weren't left unattended, not for a minute. Especially when they were fully loaded and ready to move.

"This is what happens when there are too
many men about," she grumbled to herself. "Each thinks the other is doing the job, and none of them are doing more than standing about, bragging and spitting."

She turned to retrace her steps, then realized she still held the bandbox. She'd put it in Ethan's coach,
then
go tear a strip off somebody's hide for being so careless.

But as she passed the first coach somebody grabbed her arm and pulled her between the vehicles, causing the bandbox to fall from her grasp, and she looked up to see a well-dressed stranger glaring at her as if she were an inconvenience he didn't need at the moment.

"Who are
—let me go!"

The man said nothing, only dragging her with him as he peered out from between the coaches before pulling her along to the third one. Ethan's crested coach.

She didn't make it
easy for him,
but she was
no match for the man, either, which infuriated Morgan to the point where her safety became only a secondary consideration.

She struck out at him with her fist, aiming for and hitting his exposed Adam's apple, and the man howled, cursed, then punched her. His blow glanced off her chin because she'd been expecting nothing less of the man, but still connected with enough force that, when he let go of her arm, she fell to the ground.

"Ethan!" she yelled as loudly as she could, scrambling to her feet once more as the man climbed up into the boot, then just as quickly jumped down to the ground again, to yank open the far door of the coach.

"Thief! Thief!"
Morgan shouted, picking up a large stone from the ground next to her and throwing it at the man's backas he stepped away from the coach, Ethan's satchel in one hand, a pistol in the other.

"Too pretty to die, but so unfortunately
loud.
Be silent,
chérie
,"
he said, grinning down at her, aiming the pistol at her as she once more prepared to go on the attack. "I leave you now. A thousand pardons for the inconvenience,
ma chou
."

"Get away from her! Bastard!"

Both Morgan and the Frenchman turned to see Jacob running toward them, struggling to pull the pistol from his waistband.

"Jaco
b
—
n
o!" Morgan cried, but it was too late.

While he still fought to free his weapon, Morgan heard the bark of the other man's pistol, and flinched as if expecting the ball to enter her body.

But it was Jacob who fell.

"Jacob!"

Morgan rushed to him, falling onto the ground beside him even as the man who'd shot him stepped over Jacob's legs. "The puppy dies for you,
mam’se
ll
e.
So unnecessary. And now I must leave you."

"The devil you will!" Morgan pulled Jacob's pistol from his waistband and held it in front of her, cocked it. "Stand where you are, you French bastard!"

Jacob moaned, distracting Morgan's attention for a moment, as she'd been sure he was dead, and the Frenchman made a move toward her, toward the pistol.

It was the last move he made, unless anyone chose to count his f
a
ll to the ground, a small, ugly red hole precisely between his eyes.

Morgan looked at the man dispassionately, then threw the pistol from her and bent to Jacob once more. There was a wet, red stain on his shirt, and it was spreading rapidly.

"Oh God," she said, pressing her hands against
h
is shoulder. "Please God, please God,
please.
Jacob!"

She felt hands on her shoulders, and shook them off.

"Morgan," Ethan said, his gaze on the man who lay dead on the ground, blue eyes open as he looked up at the sky and saw hell. "Morgan, you have to let us help Jacob."

"No." She shook her head violently. "So much blood." She pressed her hands harder. "I have to stop the bleeding."

But Ethan ignored her protest and slid his arms around her waist, bodily lifting her up and away from Jacob so that the men from Becket Hall could pick him up, carry the boy into the common room.

Three of them stayed with the coaches, weapons drawn, as if expecting a new attack.

"Jacob!" Morgan struggled to be free of Ethan's hold, and when
he wouldn't release her, but only turned her around so that he could hold her close to him, she beat against his chest. His white shirt, her bloody fists.

"It's all right, Morgan," Ethan told her over and over, looking past her to one of the men, who was shaking his head at the hysteria of women, he supposed.

"I have to go to him!"

Ethan pulled her nearer, to whisper in her ear. "No, you have to stay here. Come on, Morgan, behave, stop hitting me. We have an audience, and I think they might be expecting me to control you rather than kiss you."

He looked past her again, to the men of Becket Hall, and added more loudly, "Jacob's fine. He'll have a lovely sling, and a scar he can brag about to the ladies. It's all right
,
darling, it's all right."

"How can you know that?" Morgan asked, the fight suddenly leaving her. She felt weak all over, a part of her wondering how she managed to stand upright.

"The wound's too high for real trouble, that's how I know. And Jacob's quite the hero, isn't he? That was one hell of a shot from the boy. Took a steady hand and a fair amount of bravery."

The men watching and listening nodded in agreement, two of the three looking fairly incredulous, but
s
till nodding. Jacob was a hero.

Morgan blinked up at Ethan, then remembered. She'd acted, not thought, all of her attention concentrated on Jacob..
.
and then on the man who'd shot him. She barely remembered yanking Jacob's pistol from
his waistband and raising i
t
... firing it.

She turned her head, saw the Frenchman sprawled face-up on the ground, the satchel still beside
h
im
.

It had been an easy shot; the man hadn't been more than four feet from her. She'd aimed, she'd squeezed the trigger. And a man was dead.

And that was just fine with her. Jacob was a hero. Jacob was a
man;
they'd all see him as a man now.
 
She'd taken so much from
him, she could give
him this. He deserved it.

"Jacob," she said quietly as she watched Ethan pick up the satchel. "He'll..
.
he'll really be all right?"

"Morgan..." Ethan soothed her quietly, putting his arm around her as they walked toward the inn. "I saw what happened. Not all of it, but the end. I wasn't sure you'd want anyone else to know, you understand? But I know, and I'm more proud of you, and worried for you, than you probably know. Did I say the right thing?"

She leaned her head against his shoulder. "You said exactly the right thing. Jacob's a hero. And
I'm fine. My jaw's a little sore from the Frog's sloppy punch, but that's nothing. But nobody else will be fine when I find out
who was supposed to
be guarding that damn satchel of yours."

For the first time since he'd heard Morgan yell his name, and he'd begun running toward the coaches, Ethan began to relax. "My God, imp, you're unbelievable."

She smiled up at him, reaction taking a firmer hold on her, so that he could feel her trembling against him. "Yes, I know."

He pulled her tighter. "You're also incorrigible."

"Yes, I know."

"And I love you so very much."

"Yes,
I
—
"
She looked up at him, her eyes wide. And then she smiled.

She was still smiling, walking slowly and frequently stopping to look back at Ethan, after Louise appeared out of nowhere, clucking like a hen with one chick, to lead her away even as she called for hot water and a tub to be brought to Miss Bec
k
et's room immediately.

Ethan didn't move until she was
outof sight
,
then gave a small head signal to Harold, who always seemed to be present when
he was needed. The groom called to
his
two mates, who all followed Ethan back to the coaches.

They had a Frenchman to bury....

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

"Are you going to tell me what's in that thing and why a Frenchman would dare to come here in order to steal it?" Morgan asked as they headed out of the inn yard in Ethan's coach, the satchel on the facing seat.

Rather than answering, which he was still loath to do, Ethan noticed a gold chain peeking out above the neckline of Morgan's riding habit and tugged on it. "Perhaps. If you'll tell me what this is. A locket? A keepsake? I don't remember you wearing jewelry before now."

Morgan opened the top button on her jacket so that she could pull out the chain and what it held. "It's my
gad,"
she said, "a gift from Odette, and one I'd best be wearing when I see her. Strangely, it didn't seem to go well with my silks and satins."

He took the thing in his hand, frowned at it. "All right. My question still stands. What in blazes is this?"

"My
gad.
My protectio
n
—" she lowered her voice and looked at him mischievously "—
a
gainst all manner of evil influences. Voodoo, Ethan, voodoo." Then she sat back, smiled. "It's an alligator tooth soaked in a conglomeration of things that would both shock and dismay you were I to tell you about them. Odette believes very firmly that our
gads
are what keep us all safe."

"And you believe her?"

Morgan shrugged. "The last thing I did before leaving my chamber this morning was to put this chain over my head. Jacob was wearing hi
s
—
I
saw it when I went to see him after the surgeon left. I've learned not to ask too many questions when Odette is involved. Now, are you going to tell me what I nearly died for, or not?"

Ethan reached for the satchel, working open the leather straps and lifting out the slim, heavily engraved, two-foot-long silver cylinder, which he handed to Morgan. "Not what you were expecting, I'd imagine?"

Morgan ran her fingers over the engravings, frowning when she encountered what looked to be a repair where the cylinder had been cut open at some point, then sealed again. "Do the engravings mean anything? They're pretty, but it's difficult to believe they're significant."

"It's what's inside that's important," Ethan said, retrieving the cylinder, slowly turning it until he found the mark pressed into it. "My friend thought it amusing to use this. To remind the English government of the man who made it. See here?"

Morgan squinted. "What is that?"

"That, my dear, or so I'm told, is the mark of a certain silversmith, one Paul Revere. The man's dead now, but there are many in our government who remember the name."

Morgan shook her head. "I suppose we can discuss that later and
you
can tell me more. But for now, what's inside that cylinder, and what are you doing with it? Chance knows, so it's only fair that I do, too."

"Ah, that's a novel though
t
—
t
hat the world might be fair."

"Don't interrupt with logic, please. Why must you take this thing to Becket Hall? Or isn't that where you're taking it? Are you leaving me, riding to Dy
m
church? And before you answer me, remember that I've already told you a secret."

"Not that you'll hold that over my head, or anything similarly female," Ethan said, replacing the cylinder and closing the leather straps once more. "Very well. After all, it's only the king's secret I'm telling. Nothing important. Although I'd probably lose my head for telling i
t
—
b
ut you shouldn't worry
your
head about that."

"I won't," Morgan said, trying not to smile. "Now, tell me."

"So nice to know you care, imp. Very well. There are some in our government who believe a war with the United States can be averted if calmer heads are allowed to rule."

Morgan frowned, completely confused. "This isn't about Napoleon? But that...
t
hat
man,
he was French.
America?
Papa talks about that at the dinner table all the time. It's all very troubling to him. England doesn't need another war, but he sees war as inevitable and, partial as he is to England, he also very much admires America. Go on."

Morgan smiled. "How wonderful not to have to explain every detail. I really look forward to meeting your father. In any event, some in our government, some in the American government, have been
......
corresponding this past year, hoping to find a middle ground that gives both sides some satisfactio
n
—"

"Thus averting a war," Morgan finished for him. "And you? What part do you play in all of this?"

"I'm
no more than the lowly messenger," Ethan told her as the coach rocked on increasingly rough roads through the early afternoon, their departure having been delayed until Jacob's wound was tended. "A supposed trading ship slips into a small harbor, the cylinder is delivered to the War Office, opened, its contents read. There is a response written, the cylinder is closed
,
and I return it to wherever I'm told, then go back to my useless life until I'm summoned again."

Morgan was slightly crestfallen. "That's all? Wait. You said your
f
ri
end.
Is that why yo
u
—
n
o, I still don't understand."

So Ethan explained how and why he'd become involved
,
ending with, "But I don't think she worried about more than someone intercepting a message and changing it to one that was more in keeping with whatever the more bloodthirsty of our government may want. In other words, she trusted her messenger to deliver her messages to London, but trusted me to safely transport any reply back to her."

Morgan nodded. "She didn't want to put her own messenger in danger, in case he was followed once he was
in London. He would slip into the city easily enough, but possibly not leave quite so alone as he arrived. Yes, I understand that. And
if you're the messenger she wants to bring back a response from the king, it could only mean she trusts you implicitly." Morgan kissed his cheek. "And you call yourself useless. Shame on you."

"Yes, thank you," Ethan said, slightly abashed. "However, I don't think she realized that the French would have begun to take an interest, although
we
should have. The
Marianna'
s
been in these waters too often not to have someone take notice."

"Marianna. Is that your friend's name?"

"Yes, both my friend and the ship. An old friend, Morgan," Ethan explained. "An old friend married to an old friend. They emigrated to Virginia to begin a shipping company."

"Go on," Morgan said, deliberately teasing him. "She's married and...?"

"Widowed, sadly. Richard was aboard one of his newest ships, flying the American flag, naturally, when it was stopped and boarded by our navy. They were looking for English sailors to press into service, and Richard objected to being taken. A fight broke out, as I understand it, and he was killed. Now Marianna has devoted herself to avoiding any more bloodshed."

"But why? I don't understand that. I'd want war. I'd want to
make
war myself."

"Yes, imp, I'm convinced you would. I'll try very hard never to get myself killed, if only to save
th
e world from your wrath."

Morgan sniffed, then sat quietly for a few moments, drinking about everything Ethan had said. "So. You meet this Marianna woman. Where? You didn't tell
me where."

"This time? This most probably last time? The
Marianna
will be anchored off Becket Hall on Sunday night. At least that was the
plan as Chance helped to work it out with the minister at the War Office. At my suggestion, since I'd found this sudden need to see Becket Hall."

"Because you were curious," Morgan said.

"Because I wanted to ask you father for your hand in marriage," Ethan corrected. "You still don't really believe that, do you?"

"I'm beginning to," she said, not realizing she'd reached up a
hand to press it against the
gad
once more hidden beneath her jacket. "And everything was going according to your pla
n
—
y
ours and Chance's pla
n
— until that Frenchman showed up at the inn, correct? I think I understand why he wanted the cylinder. The French would welcome England's troops and ships being divided between fighting fronts, wouldn't they? They've somehow learned about the messages, and wanted to disrupt them, possibly even substitute their own message, one that would be highly provocative."

"Yes," Ethan said, sure he could look into Morgan's eyes and all but see her brain working. God, she delighted him! "Perhaps something on the order of 'Die, you filthy pig Americans,' and then signing Prinny's name."