Just One Kiss (26 page)

Morgan went utterly still. "You want me to hire him? To give him a position?"

"Yes. You see—"

The pressure of his hands around hers tightened so that she nearly cried out. Then she was practically flung from him.

"No."

Elizabeth blinked. "Morgan," she began, hoping to make him see reason. "Of course, he doesn't expect to work hand in hand with you—"

"He won't be working
with
me, Elizabeth. He won't be working
for
me. Do I make myself clear?"

"But—"

His tone was brittle; he was completely unyielding. "There will be no discussion, Elizabeth. I won't have him working for me. It's out of the question."

Her eyes were riveted to his face. His expression was dark and dangerous. The air around them seemed to thunder and pulse. He swept an arm toward his desk, the tray and empty plate. "All this was on behalf of poor Nathaniel, wasn't it? You were hoping to convince me, to soften me so I wouldn't refuse."

Elizabeth was aghast that he could think so little of her. "No. No, of course not!"

His lip curled. His gaze raked over her from head to toe. Elizabeth was left feeling stripped to the bone, naked and exposed.

"You surprise me, Elizabeth. I thought you were more of a
lady
." He said it as if it were a curse. "Tell me, did you intend to seduce me? Just how far would you go for your beloved Nathaniel? Would you whore for him too?"

Elizabeth's temper boiled over. Her hand shot out before she thought better of it. There was a loud crack as she delivered a stunning open-handed slap to the hardness of his cheek.

His reaction was instantaneous. He snatched her against him, so close she could feel the iron brand of his legs taut against hers. His hold was ruthless, his hands like shackles circling her delicate wrists. His eyes impaled her with their fierceness.

"If I were you," he said between clenched teeth, "I would think twice before daring to do that again. Because I promise, my dear wife, the next time won't go unpunished."

Elizabeth managed to wrench herself free. There was a suffocating tightness in her breast. "Damn you," she burst out. "Nathaniel is your brother! You owe him no less than a chance!"

Morgan's expression was rigid. "By God," he said tightly, "I owe him no more!"

Elizabeth's voice shook with the depth of her rage. "Then you are a man with half a heart, a man with half a soul! If I had a brother or sister, there is nothing that could break the bond between us. I would do all I could to help him, while you—I do believe you would do anything to be rid of him! How can you hate your own brother—your own flesh and blood? How, I ask you?"

The question hung between them, the tension never-ending. When she realized no reply was forthcoming, she gave a choked little cry and darted from the study.

Morgan remained where he was, his entire body taut. Though his expression was carefully blank, an unseen hand seemed to close about his heart and squeeze.

I don't hate Nat
, came his answer at last.
He's my brother. My brother
…

Pain ripped through him, like a sword drawn from his throat to his belly. For locked fast in those two words lay a wealth of pain, a world of heartache.

His shoulders slumped. He dragged a hand down his face, a gesture of weary resignation.

No, he thought again. He didn't hate Nat. He loved him. After all the ugliness that stained their past, he still loved him…

That was the hell of it.

«
^
»

There was another man in Boston who was less than pleased with Nathaniel O'Connor.

Only this man's intentions were far more devious, far more ominous.

Perhaps even deadly.

His name was Jonah Moreland. He'd arrived in Boston several weeks earlier from New York; prior to that he'd come from London. In the little time he'd been here, he'd formed the opinion that these Yankees were brash and bold, surely the most uncivilized lot on the face of this earth.

And the one particular man he'd tracked here was not especially bright.

Ah, but quick and easy was not his way. Jonah enjoyed his profession far too much. He preferred the fervor of the chase, the battle of wit and will, the culmination of the hunt. That was what gave him such zest for his work. Still, he prided himself on his fairness—and his shrewdness.

Ah, yes, Nathaniel O'Connor would be given a chance to repay a debt long overdue. If Jonah was feeling particularly generous, perhaps two chances.

But never more.

His employer on this particular case was Viscount Phillip Hadley. He and Hadley had done business on several other occasions. Admittedly, few men were daring enough—or foolish enough—to try to cheat Viscount Hadley.

That was Nathaniel O'Connor's first mistake.

His second was failing to make restitution.

His third was failing to expect retribution.

It was no accident that Jonah had chosen this particular establishment. Indeed, his quarry was a frequent patron at the Crow's Nest. Even now, Nathaniel O'Connor sat in the corner, swilling his liquor like water, an arm about the harlot with whom he'd spent the evening.

Jonah's pale eyes narrowed to thin slits. He absently rubbed the scar on his cheek. No doubt Nathaniel O'Connor had thought himself so very clever when he'd fled London all those months ago. But in Jonah's estimation, the wretch was incredibly stupid.

He was also amazingly predictable.

Jonah glanced at his pocket watch. Unless he was mistaken, O'Connor would soon rise and depart. He would make his way home, where he would sleep off the effects of his indulgence. Late the next afternoon, he would repeat the routine of the previous day. He would spend the evening gambling and imbibing, with some well-dressed whore at his side. In short, it appeared Nathaniel O'Connor had but three interests—gambling, spirits, and women.

Just then O'Connor staggered upright, said his goodbyes to his companion, and ambled toward the door.

Jonah Moreland swallowed the last of his wine, carefully blotted his mouth with his napkin, and flipped his pocket watch shut. He lagged four paces behind O'Connor as he passed through the doorway and out into the night.

O'Connor never even noticed.

He didn't make his presence known until O'Connor was nearly home. With the quickness that was his trademark, he collared the younger man and dragged him into an alleyway between buildings.

At O'Connor's throat he held his instrument of choice, shiny and glinting.

Jonah smiled. "I must say, O'Connor, you've led me quite a merry chase from London."

"Wh-who are you?" Nathaniel gasped.

"Think of me as a messenger from Viscount Hadley. Were you aware he has no tolerance for thieves? No, I don't expect so, considering where we are. I must warn you then. He was generous enough to loan you a considerable sum—why, half a fortune! But as you can imagine, he was quite distressed when you left London without repaying him so much as a farthing!"

The pressure on his throat eased. Jonah allowed him to slowly turn around but kept the dagger pointed straight at his heart. O'Connor swallowed as he beheld his assailant. He couldn't take his eyes from the thin white scar that bisected Jonah's cheek from his ear to the corner of his mouth.

His smile was pure menace. "Of course, you realize that's the reason for my presence here. Viscount Hadley doesn't like loose ends."

O'Connor's voice was a hoarse croak. "Wh-what do you want?"

"Only what is due the viscount, my good man. Only what is due."

"How soon? I'll need some time to—"

"Three days," Jonah said coldly. "You have three days. I'll collect the money at the establishment you just came from. Is that understood?"

The younger man nodded. By now speech was clearly beyond him.

"Good." As he spoke, he ran his fingers up and down along the blade of the dagger. "Now, be off before I change my mind."

Nathaniel spun around and ran headlong toward home.

Jonah smiled, dusted off his jacket, and sauntered away.

Elizabeth was miserable.

The foundation of her marriage had always been shaky. But now it was as if it crumbled further with every day that passed. She and Morgan behaved like strangers. Though she longed to put aside the bitterness of their quarrel, it seemed neither could forget. She tried on several occasions to engage him in simple conversation, but he was distant and formal; it was clear he was hardly so inclined, which only riled her temper all over again. No, it was impossible to behave as if nothing were wrong, when she felt the world was collapsing all around her.

Her heart knew no peace, particularly when she realized her monthly cycle was late—never before had such a thing happened. Good heavens, she couldn't have a baby, not now! Yet Stephen's prediction echoed in her mind.
No doubt it'll happen sooner or later—probably sooner than later
.

She wavered between wonder and despair. A child of hers… a child of Morgan's. What would he or she look like? A girl, she thought longingly. She would so love a tiny baby girl.

But what about Morgan? Should she tell him? No. She wasn't even certain of her condition yet. Besides, now was not the time. But what, she asked herself half-hysterically, if the right time
never
came?

The night of the dinner party at the Porters arrived. Elizabeth dreaded the occasion—and for good reason, as it turned out. It proved every bit the ordeal she feared.

In the carriage, a thick silence was all that passed between them. She'd worn her pearls, with a fragile blossom of hope he might admire how they looked—how
she
looked.

She hoped in vain.

Not long after they were greeted by the Porters, they were separated. Morgan was seated at the far end of the dining room table, while she sat near their hostess. He spared neither a smile nor a look toward the woman he'd married.

After dinner there was music in the drawing room. Elizabeth smiled and chatted until her face felt frozen, speech an endless blur in her mind. Her eyes swept the room. She hadn't seen Morgan in quite some time…

It was the woman she saw first, dressed once again in crimson, her profile lovely and flawless. Elizabeth's eyes cut back to her.

It was her, the woman from the opera. His mistress. Morgan's
mistress
.

Just then someone stepped aside. Elizabeth was afforded a glimpse of the woman's companion.

It was Morgan.

Pain, stark and raw, clamped around her heart. The world swam dizzily, dark and gray. How she remained upright, she never knew.

When she looked again, the pair was still there. The woman's head was lifted to Morgan's. Her lips hovered just beneath his. Her hand lay possessively on his arm.

Anguish welled inside her so that she nearly cried out. Had she driven him back to the arms of his mistress?
Stop it
! a voice inside her reasoned. He'd been at home every night of late. In the very next room…

But what about tonight?

"You're looking a bit peaked, Elizabeth. Are you feeling all right?"

Elizabeth nearly jumped out of her skin. But it was only Stephen.

"No," she said, hating the catch in her voice. She couldn't stay. She couldn't stand to look at them. If she did, she would burst into tears, tears that might never stop…

"Actually, I have a terrible headache. I'm hardly very good company, so I may as well leave." She tried to smile and failed. "Would you mind asking someone to have the carriage brought around?"

"Of course not," he said. He raised his head, his gaze scanning the crowd. "I'll tell Morgan you're ready to leave—"

"No," she protested quickly. "There's no need to ruin his evening, too. After Willis takes me home, he can return and wait for Morgan."

Stephen frowned heavily. "Are you sure you're all right?"

"Yes… yes, of course."

"Then why don't I come with you, just to make—"

"No, Stephen. Truly it's not necessary. I just need to lie down and I'll be fine. Really. I just need to have the carriage brought around. And please tell Morgan I'm indisposed…"

Half an hour later she was upstairs in her bedroom. After Annie unhooked the back of her gown, Elizabeth dismissed her, wanting nothing more than to be alone. She changed into her nightgown and robe, her movements slow, as if it hurt to move.

She sat down at the dressing table and freed her hair from its tight coil at her crown. Would Morgan even come home tonight? The ache in her breast was nearly unbearable. His mistress—heavens, she didn't even know her name!—was so beautiful, like a bright, fragrant flower in full bloom. No doubt Morgan found her fascinating and exciting, alluring and beguiling…

… while he found his wife nothing but a tedious nag.

She stared at her reflection. Her hair tumbled thick and heavy over her shoulders. Green eyes stared back at her, dark as jade. Her skin was rather ashen. All at once she felt like a pale, wilted blossom. Frowning, she picked up her brush and began to stroke it through her hair. It was then she noticed she'd forgotten to take off her pearls. Her fingers were clumsy, but she managed to undo the clasp. The pearls were dropped in a small heap on the dressing table. She would return them to their case tomorrow. For now, she was simply too tired.

Just then there was a small sound at the hallway door—a knock? Her head cocked to the side, Elizabeth turned and listened. It wasn't Morgan. He wouldn't have knocked. But there it was again, a small, hushed knock.

The door was thrust wide just as she opened her mouth. Nathaniel stepped inside.

Elizabeth rose with a gasp, clutching her robe over her breasts. "Nathaniel!" she cried. "What are you doing here? You can't be in here!"

"I had to see you, Elizabeth." His tone was urgent. "When I saw that Morgan didn't come home with you, I knew it had to be now, so I sneaked in through the kitchen."

She shook her head. "Nathaniel, if it's about the position, I'm sorry. I spoke to Morgan and he refused—"

He waved his hands. "It's not that, Elizabeth."