Just One Kiss (20 page)

Before he knew it he stood before her. Hands beneath her elbows, he brought her upright. He could feel her trembling and longed to reassure her. But the feelings that swamped his chest were as tangled as his mind.

His knuckles beneath her chin, he brought her face to his. Scarcely daring to breathe, he lowered his head. Their lips brushed, a featherlight caress. Again… and then again.

She sighed, a wispy exhalation of air. Her lashes fluttered closed. Slowly he deepened the kiss.

Her lips flowered beneath his, giving back all he sought and more. A hard arm curled around the slightness of her waist. With a low groan he brought her tight within the cradle of his thighs. She stiffened slightly, but she didn't withdraw as he thought she might. His free hand stole to her breast, cupping that sweet mound and claiming it for his own. With his thumb he circled the very peak, again and again.

It was a test—a test he despised himself for—but he couldn't help it. Her swiftly indrawn breath echoed in his mouth. He knew he had startled her…

Her nipple tightened into a hard little knot. With a breathy little sigh she arched into his palm.

His chest heaving, reluctantly he broke off the kiss. Trying to calm the wild racing of his heart, he pressed her face into the hollow of his shoulder.

"I have a small cottage on the coast north of here." His voice wasn't entirely steady. "I was thinking… we could spend the next week or so there, just you and I." He leaned back so he could see her. His gaze roved her face intently. "Would you mind?"

Her cheeks flushed a becoming pink. Wordlessly she shook her head.

Morgan needed no further invitation. Like a starving man presented a sumptuous feast, he kissed her again, long and lingeringly. Coaxing her tongue out of hiding, he smothered a groan as she shyly began to learn the taste and texture of his mouth even as he explored hers.

His hands grew bolder still.

A groan erupted deep in his throat. It was heaven. It was hell, knowing she wouldn't stop him. But he didn't dare carry this through to its natural conclusion. Not now. Not
here
.

Besides, he wanted her too much. He didn't want to scare her off when she came willingly.

And this time he wanted their union to be all it hadn't been the first time.

Nonetheless, it was a very long time later before he finally raised his head. He had just one thing to say:

"We'll leave in the morning."

«
^
»

The coastline was rocky and rugged, but there was a wild, unrestrained beauty to it that Elizabeth found irresistible. Like a child on her first visit away from home, she peered eagerly through the glass, watching the landscape roll by. The day had dawned rather cloudy, but she didn't let it dampen her spirits. Her husband sat across from her, his expression faintly indulgent, long legs angled out before him. Though the pair had been silent throughout most of the journey, it was not an uncomfortable silence.

As they came around a jutting point of land, he sat forward. "There," he said softly, extending a finger. "Do you see it?"

Elizabeth leaned forward, straining to see. Below, a sandy stretch of beach lined a small cove. There was even a tiny, grassy island.

She frowned. "No—" she began.

Just then the sun emerged from behind a cloud. Streamers of sunlight unfurled, spreading like liquid silver on the waters below. It was then she saw it—a square, weathered gray house nestled amid a tall stand of pines. A wooden porch wrapped around the three sides visible to her. There was even a love seat that looked out over the ocean.

She couldn't help but catch her breath in wonder and surprise. It was lovely—and so she said.

Morgan made no reply, but she sensed he was pleased.

Once they arrived, Morgan helped Willis unload their bags and supplies onto the porch. "If we need anything else," he explained, "the town is only half a mile or so further north."

When they'd finished, Willis climbed back onto the seat and tipped his hat. "Enjoy your stay," he called.

He wouldn't return for one full week.

Somehow, even as she waved a cheery goodbye, that single fact was all she could think of. She would be alone with Morgan for the whole of seven days…

And nights.

She exhaled, a long, shaky breath. Thank heaven, Morgan didn't seem to notice anything amiss. He was busy fishing a key from the pocket inside his jacket. "You may be disappointed," he warned as they mounted the steps. "It's very small, and not at all grand."

Elizabeth couldn't help but be wounded. Did he truly consider her so pretentious? Never had she looked down upon another—never! Why couldn't he see that? The cry of hurt trembled on her lips, but in the end, she kept silent. Above all, she didn't want to begin this trip on a tense note.

Once they were inside, the thought was forgotten. True, the entire cottage would have fit in the drawing room of his house on Beacon Hill. Two plump chairs and a divan stood across from a huge fireplace. She exclaimed in delight over a built-in seat near the front window. It was piled high with cushions and looked out over the ocean.

Next came the bedrooms. There were two, Morgan explained. The smaller of the two, he had converted to a study where he could work when he was here. The other was bright and filled with afternoon sunshine.

There was but one bed.

The realization jumped out at her before she could stop it, and then it was all she could do to tear her gaze from the huge four-poster piled high with soft, downy quilts.

With a casualness she was suddenly far from sharing, she watched as Morgan retrieved their bags from the porch and set them on the bed. He turned to her.

"Would you like to look around outside?"

Her nod was of almost frantic relief.

"Let me change," he said, "and then we'll be off."

He rejoined her on the porch a few moments later, wearing a light cotton shirt and trousers any of his yard workmen might have worn. It seemed momentarily odd to see him dressed so informally, yet it struck her that even while his clothing lent him an undeniably rugged masculinity, his presence was far less intimidating than usual. Or perhaps it was simply that for whatever reason, the tension that always charged the air between them had dwindled. As she fell into step beside him, she acknowledged that the change was indeed a very welcome one.

A series of small stone steps led down to the beach, where gentle waves slapped the shore. Elizabeth's eyes widened when she spied a small boat resting on the sand.

"Oh, a boat!" she exclaimed.

"A dinghy," he corrected.

She wrinkled her nose at him, then glanced longingly toward the island. "Do you think we might row over there and explore?"

He hesitated. "Do you swim?"

A hand pressed against her throat, she feigned amazement. "What! You mean you won't rescue me?"

Morgan's middle tightened as if a fist had plowed into it. He suspected his lovely young bride had no idea of the enchanting picture she posed—her eyes green and sparkling, roses on her cheeks from the wind, wisps of bright golden tendrils escaping from her temples and nape. The vibrant promise of having her so near fired a hungry ache in his loins, an ache he prayed would manifest itself no further!

God
, he thought.
And who will rescue me from you
? As if to torment him still further, a sudden burst of breeze swirled hard, outlining the lithe promise of supple young breasts beneath the fabric of her bodice.

He gritted his teeth against the fiery demands of his body. "Well?" he prompted, dark brow raised askance. "Do you swim?"

She made a face. "If you must know," she said with an exaggerated sigh, "like a fish."

His mouth turned up in a lazy smile. "In that case, how can I refuse?"

Minutes later they were rowing smoothly across the cove. They spent half an hour walking about, and Elizabeth was thrilled when she found a patch of ripening strawberries. Not far away she found a spot beneath a gnarled old oak tree that she pronounced a lovely place for a noonday picnic.

The sun was a fiery ball of bronze in the western sky when they finally pushed off towards shore. Just as he had when they'd left, without a word Morgan swept her high in his arms and deposited her in the dingy. He'd discarded his shoes and rolled his trouser legs up above his knees, as well as his shirtsleeves. The lines beside his mouth had softened. He appeared younger, far less stern. The muscles in his forearms flexed again and again as he commanded the oars with ease, slicing through the waves in perfect symphony and pushing them forward.

Elizabeth tipped her head to the side. "I must say," she remarked, "that doesn't look at all difficult."

Heavy jet brows shot up. "Would you like to try?"

A dimple appeared beside her mouth. "Actually," she confessed, "I would."

They exchanged places. Elizabeth swayed a little as she rose. Immediately strong hands closed warmly about her waist, holding her steady and guiding her to the seat now vacant. By the time she sat, she was breathless—doubtless from excitement, she assured herself.

Morgan showed her how to grip the oars. "The key is to think of them as extensions of your arms. Stroke in deep, wide circles," he instructed. "Dip and pull, up and return, all in one fluid movement."

Elizabeth nodded eagerly. Biting her lip, she tipped one oar daintily in the water.

His mouth had relaxed into a smile. "It won't break, Elizabeth."

In all honesty, the dratted oars were heavier than she'd expected, and rather awkward to handle. She wrestled with the pair, her brow furrowed in concentration as she tried to do as he'd instructed—dip and pull. Dip and pull.

Looking on, Morgan sat back and shook his head at her bewildered frustration.

The flat of one oar struck the water. A jet of water shot high, spraying her full in the face. "Oh!" she gasped.

"What's wrong, my highborn London lady?" he teased. "Afraid you'll melt?"

Elizabeth glared her indignation. So he thought she was amusing, did he?

Ten minutes later, she lost her grip on the right oar; it slid through the lock. Unthinkingly she pitched forward after it, trying to grab it. "No!" she cried. "Oh, no!" It was only Morgan's quick reaction that saved them both—herself and the oar. One hand caught the handle of the oar; the other arm wrapped hard about her waist and pulled her down beside him.

Unable to help himself, he laughed outright, the sound rich and full.

It was then the strangest thing happened. Elizabeth went very still. Her hands came out to touch his lips. "You laughed," she said slowly. Wonderingly. "I've never heard you laugh. And I've never seen you smile, the way you are just now." She touched the raspy hardness of his face, the tips of her fingers tracing the grooves etched beside his mouth, an unconscious caress.

His smile faded. For the span of a heartbeat—then another and another—their eyes caught and held. His grip on her waist tightened ever so slightly. And all at once she felt as if she certainly
would
melt, not from the water but from the searing heat of his gaze, so intense she felt scorched by it.

What might have happened, she would never know. The dinghy surged upward on the crest of a sudden swell, breaking the curious spell that had cropped up between them.

Morgan glanced out over the waves. "It's getting a little rough," he frowned, reaching for the oars. "We'd better get back."

They returned to shore. While Morgan beached the dinghy, Elizabeth went back to the cottage. The day had been warm, and she was still flushed from exertion. In the bedroom, she poured water from a pitcher into a flowered basin. Unbuttoning the bodice of her dress, she tugged it from her shoulders and let it drop to her waist. Wringing out a cloth, she wiped her face and neck, the valley between her breasts where they swelled above the top of her camisole.

There was a slight sound behind her. Elizabeth half turned to find Morgan filling the doorway. His eyes wandered from her face and down her throat.

It didn't stop there.

She could feel the rapid rise and fall of her breasts. Her pulse began to thrum. Only days earlier, she might have counted his presence an invasion of her privacy. Now, she didn't retreat as he looked his fill; protest was the last thing on her mind. Indeed, all she could think was that she hoped her body pleased him. She wanted him to like what he saw…

Oddly, he was the one who turned away first.

Their meal that evening was simple: fresh bread baked that morning, a thick wedge of cheese, chicken that the cook had sent along.

Afterward they sat outside on the porch, while twilight's violet haze crept over the earth. One by one the stars came out. True to the day, a sense of serene contentment wrapped itself around her.

"It's so peaceful here," she said with a sigh. "I think I could live here forever."

"Summers are wonderful," Morgan said with a faint smile. "But it's rather wild in the winter. Storms blow in, and the wind howls like a banshee." There was a brief pause. "I like watching the storms. It's a little like being at sea all over again."

"You were at sea?"

He nodded. "I started out as a deckhand when I was fifteen."

Elizabeth regarded him, her head tipped to the side. "I didn't know you were a sailor."

His lips quirked. "I could hardly be a shipbuilder without being a sailor," he said dryly.

Elizabeth laughed. "Yes, I suppose so." She fell silent, lifting her face to the kiss of the evening breeze.

Morgan frowned. "Are you cold?"

"Perhaps just a little."

The next thing she knew, strong arms encircled her. She felt herself drawn back against the solid breadth of his chest. A tiny smile curled her lips, for he didn't withdraw. Instead his arms wrapped snugly around her. She was nestled fast within his embrace, his hands clasped atop her own.

"Do you miss it?" she asked after a moment.

"Sailing?"

"Yes." Her voice was slightly breathless.

"Not as much as I used to," he admitted. "At first I did it for the money. I signed on with a salty old captain named Jack McTavish." He chuckled. "Believe me, I earned every penny I made. But I managed to save most of what I earned so Nathaniel could go to a decent school. But it wasn't long before I realized I was free like never before."