Megan's Mate

by Nora Roberts

  Before she fully realized her intent, her hand was swinging up and slapping hard across his face. “Don't you ever speak about my son that way.”

  When his hand cracked across her cheek, it wasn't pain she felt, or even shock, but rage.

  “Don't push me, Megan,” he said, breathing hard. “Don't push me, because you'll be the one to take the fall. You, and the boy.”

  As crazed as any mother protecting her cub, she lunged at him. The power of the attack rammed them both against the wall. She landed two solid blows be­fore he threw her off.

  “You still have that passionate nature, I see.” He dragged her against him, infuriated, aroused. “I re­member how to channel it.”

  She struck out again, a glancing blow, before he caught her arms and pinned them against her body. So she used her teeth. Even as Baxter cursed in pain, the door burst in.

  Nathaniel plucked him off the floor as he might a flea off a dog. Through the haze of her own vision, Megan saw there was murder in his eye. Hot-blooded. Deadly.

  “Nathaniel.”

  But he didn't look at her. Instead, he rapped Bax­ter hard against the wall. “Dumont, isn't it?” His voice was viciously quiet, terrifyingly pleasant. “I've heard how you like pushing women around.”

  Baxter struggled for dignity, though his feet were inches off the ground. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Well, now, it seems only fair you should know the name of the man who's going to rip out your damn heart with his bare hands.” He had the pleasure of seeing Baxter blanch. “If s Fury, Nathaniel Fury. You won't forget it—” he rammed a fist low, into the kid­neys “—will you?”

  When Baxter could breathe again, his words strug­gling out weakly, he wheezed, “You'll be in jail be­fore the night's out.”

  “I don't think so.” His head snapped around when Megan started forward. “Stay back,” he said be­tween his teeth. The hot leap of fire in his eyes had her coming to a stop.

  “Nathaniel.” She swallowed hard. “Don't kill him.”

  “Any particular reason you want him alive?”

  She opened her mouth, shut it again. The answer seemed desperately important, so she offered the truth. “No.”

  Baxter drew in his breath to scream. Nathaniel cut it off neatly with a hand over the windpipe. “You're a lucky man, Dumont. The lady doesn't want me to kill you, and I don't like to disappoint her. We'll leave it to fate.” He dragged Baxter outside, hauling him along as if the man were nothing more than a heavily packed seabag.

  Megan raced to the door. “Holt.” A shiver of re­lief worked down her spine when she spotted Suzan-na's husband near the pier. “Do something.”

  Holt merely shrugged. “Fury beat me to it. You should go back in, you're getting wet.”

  “But—he's not really going to kill him, is he?”

  Holt considered a moment, narrowing his eyes against the rain as Nathaniel carted Baxter down the pier. “Probably not.”

  “I hope to God you can't swim,” Nathaniel mut­tered, then threw Baxter off the pier. He turned away and was striding to Megan before the sound of the splash. “Come on.”

  “But-”

  He simply scooped her up in his arms. “I'm knocking off for the day.”

  “Fine.” Holt stood, his thumbs in his pockets, a look of unholy glee in his eyes. “See you tomorrow.”

  “Nathaniel, you can't—”

  “Shut up, Meg.” He dumped her in the car. She craned her neck, and wasn't sure whether she was re­lieved or disappointed to see Baxter heaving himself back onto the pier.

  He needed quiet to pull himself back from vio­lence. He detested the temper that lurked inside him, that made him want to raise his fists and pummel. He could rationalize it, under the circumstances, but it always left him sick inside to know what he was ca­pable of if pushed.

  There was no doubt in his mind that he would have come very close to murder if Megan hadn't stopped him.

  He'd trained himself to use words and wit to re­solve a fight. It usually worked. When it didn't, well, it didn't. But he continued, years after the last blow he'd taken from his father, to remember, and regret.

  She was shivering by the time he parked the car in his driveway. It didn't occur to him until that mo­ment that he'd forgotten Dog. Holt would see to him, Nathaniel figured, and plucked Megan from her seat.

  “I don't-”

  “Just be quiet.” He carried her in, past the bird, who squawked greetings, and up the stairs. Megan was ready to babble in shock by the time he dumped her in a chair in the bedroom. Without a word, he turned away to rummage through his dresser drawers. “Get out of those wet clothes,” he ordered, tossing her a sweatshirt and sweatpants. “I'm going to go down and make you some tea.”

  “Nathaniel-”

  “Just do it!” he shouted, gritting his teeth. “Just do it,” he repeated quietly, and shut the door.

  He didn't slam it; nor, when he was down in the kitchen, did he put his fist through a wall. He thought about it. But instead, he put on the kettle, got out the brandy. After a moment's consideration, he took a pull of the fiery liquid, straight from the bottle. It didn't calm him very much, but it took the edge off his sense of self-disgust.

  When he heard Bird whistle and invite Megan to come to the Casbah, he set her spiked tea on the ta­ble.

  She was pale, he noted, and her eyes were too big. So were the sweats. He nearly smiled at the picture she made, hesitating in the doorway, with the shirt drooping off her shoulders and the pants bagging at her ankles.

  “Sit down and have something to drink. You'll feel better.”

  “I'm all right, really.” But she sat, and lifted the mug in both hands, because they tended to shake. The first sip had her sucking in her breath. “I thought this was tea.”

  “It is. I just gave it a little help.” He sat across from her, waited until she sipped again. “Did he hurt you?”

  She stared down at the table. The wood was pol­ished so brightly she could see her own face in it. “Yes.”

  She said it calmly. She thought she was calm, until Nathaniel put his hand over hers. Her breath hitched once, twice, and then she put her head on the table and wept.

  So much washed out with the tears—the hopes she'd once had, the dreams, the betrayal and the disillusionment, the fears and the bitterness. He didn't try to stop her, only waited it out.

  “I'm sorry.” She let her cheek rest against the table a moment, comforted by the cool, smooth feel of the wood on her skin and Nathaniel's hand on her hair. “It all seemed to happen so fast, and I wasn't pre­pared.” She straightened, started to wipe the tears away, when a new fear glazed her eyes. “Kevin. Oh, God,ifBax-”

  “Holt will take care of Kevin. Dumont won't get near him.”

  “You're right.” She gave a shuddering sigh. “Of course, you're right. Holt would see to Suzanna and all the children right away. And all Baxter wanted to do in any case was frighten me.”

  “Did he?”

  Her eyes were still wet, but they were steady. “No. He hurt me, and he infuriated me, and he made me sick that I'd ever let him touch me. But he didn't frighten me. He can't.”

  “Attagirl.”

  She sniffled, smiled weakly. “But I frightened him. That's why he came here today, after all this time. Be­cause he's frightened.”

  “Of what?”

  “Of the past, the consequences.” She drew an­other, deeper breath and smelted Nathaniel—tobacco and salt spray. How oddly comforting it was. “He thinks our coming here is some sort of plot against him. He's been keeping track of me all this time. I didn't know.”

  “He's never contacted you until today?”

  “No, never. I suppose he felt safe when I was in Oklahoma and hadn't any connection with Suzanna. Now, not only is there a connection, but I'm living here. And Kevin and Alex and Jenny... Well, he doesn't seem to understand it has nothing to do with him.”

  She picked up her tea again. Nathaniel hadn't ask
ed anything, he'd simply sat and held her hand. Perhaps that was why she felt compelled to tell him.

  “I met him in New York. I was seventeen, and it was my first real trip away from home. It was during the winter break, and several of us went. One of my friends had relatives there. I guess you've been to New York.”

  “A time or two.”

  “I'd never experienced anything like it. The peo­ple, the buildings. The city was so exciting, and so unlike the West. Everything crowded in and colorful. I loved it—rushing along Fifth Avenue, having coffee in some hole-in-the wall in Greenwich Village. Gawk­ing. It sounds silly.”

  “ No, it sounds normal.”

  “I guess it was,” she said with a sigh. “Everything was normal, and simple, before... It was at this party, and he looked so handsome and romantic, I suppose. A young girl's dream, with those movie-star looks and that sheen of sophistication. And he was older—just enough older to be fascinating. He'd been to Eu­rope.” She stopped herself, squeezed her eyes shut. “Oh, God, how pathetic.”

  “You know you don't have to do this now, Meg.”

  “No, I think I do.” Steadying herself, she opened her eyes again. “If you can stand listening to it.”

  “I'm not going anywhere.” He gave her hand a comforting squeeze. “Go ahead, then, get rid of it.”

  “He said all the right things, made all the right moves. He sent a dozen roses the next day, and an in­vitation to dinner.”

  She paused to choose her words and pushed ab­sently at a pin that had loosened in her hair. It wasn't so horrible, she realized, to look back. It seemed al­most like a play, with her as both actor and audience. Vitally involved and breezily detached.

  “So I went. There was candlelight, and we danced. I felt so grown-up. I think you only really feel that way when you're seventeen. We went to museums and window-shopping and to shows. He told me he loved me, and he bought me a ring. It had two little dia­mond hearts, interconnected. It was very romantic. He slipped it on my finger, and I slipped into his bed.”

  She stopped, waited for Nathaniel to comment. When he didn't, she worked up the courage to con­tinue.

  “He said he would come to Oklahoma, and we'd make our plans for the future. But, of course, he didn't come. At first, when I called, he said he'd been delayed. Then he stopped answering my calls alto­gether. I found out I was pregnant, and I called, I wrote. Then I heard that he was engaged, that he'd been engaged all along. At first I didn't believe it, then I just went numb. It took me a while before I made myself believe it, made myself understand and deal with it. My family was wonderful. I never would have gotten through it without them. When Kevin was born, I realized I couldn't just feel grown-up. I had to be grown-up. Later on, I tried to contact Bax one last time. I thought he should know about Kevin, and that Kevin should have some sort of relationship with his father. But...” She trailed off. “When there was ab­solutely no interest, only anger and hostility, I began to understand that it was best that that didn't hap­pen. Today, maybe for the first time, I was absolutely sure of it.”

  “He doesn't deserve either of you.”

  “No, he doesn't.” She managed a small smile. Now - that she'd said it all, for the first time in so very long, she felt hollowed out. Not limp, she realized. Just free. “I want to thank you for charging to the rescue.”

  “My pleasure. He won't touch you again, Meg.” He took her hand, brought it to his lips. “You or Kevin. Trust me.”

  “I do.” She turned her hand in his, gripped. “I do trust you.” Her pulse was starting to skip, but she kept her eyes on his. “I thought, when you carried me in and upstairs... Well, I didn't think you were going to make me tea.”

  “Neither did I. But you were trembling, and I knew if I touched you before I cooled off, I'd be rough. That it wouldn't be right, for either of us.”

  Her heart stuttered, then picked up its pace. “Ace you cooled off now?”

  His eyes darkened. “Mostly.” Slowly, he rose, drew her to her feet. “Is that an invitation, Megan?”

  “I—” He was waiting, she realized, for her to agree or refuse. No seduction, no pretty promising words. No illusions. “Yes,” she said, and met his lips with hers.

  When he swept her up this time, she gave a quick, nervous laugh. It slid back down her throat when she met the look in his eyes.

  “You won't think of him,” Nathaniel said quietly. “You won't think of anything but us.”

  Chapter 8

  She could hear her own heartbeat pounding, pound­ing, in counterpoint to the rain that pounded against the windows. She wondered whether Nathaniel could hear it, too, and if he did, whether he knew that she was afraid. His arms were so strong, his mouth was so sure each time it swooped down to claim hers again.

  He carried her up the stairs as if she weighed no more than the mist that swirled outside the cottage.

  She would make a mistake, she would do some­thing foolish, she wouldn't be what either of them wanted. The doubts pinched at her like fingers as he swept her into his bedroom, where the light was dim and the air was sweet with wisteria.

  She saw the spear of purple blooms in an old bottle on a scarred wooden chest, the undraped windows that were opened to welcome the moist breeze. And the bed, with its sturdy iron headboard and taut cotton spread.

  He set her down beside it, so that she was all too aware of the weakness in her knees. But she kept her eyes on his and waited, terrified and aching, for him to make the first move.

  “You're trembling again.” His voice was quiet, the fingers he lifted to stroke her cheek were soothing. Did she think he couldn't see all those fears in her eyes? She couldn't know that they stirred his own.

  “I don't know what to do.” The moment the words were out, she closed her eyes. She'd done it already, she realized. The first mistake. Determined, she dragged his head down to hers for an aggressive kiss.

  A fire kindled in his gut, flames leaping and licking at the ready fuel of his need. Muscles tensed in reac­tion, he fought back the urge to shove her back on the bed and take, take quickly, fiercely. He kept his hands easy, stroking her face, her shoulders, her back, until she quieted.

  “Nathaniel.”

  “Do you know what I want, Meg?”

  “Yes— No.” She reached for him again, but he caught her hands, kissed them, fingertip by fingertip.

  “I want to watch you relax. I want to watch you enjoy.” His eyes on hers, he lowered her hands to her sides. “I want to watch you fill up with me.” Slowly he began to take the pins from her hair, setting them on the table beside the bed. “I want to hear you say my name when I'm inside you.”

  He combed his fingers through her hair, contenting himself with the silky texture. “I want you to let me do all the things I've been dreaming of since I first laid eyes on you. Let me show you.”

  He kissed her first, his mouth soft, smooth, seduc­tive. Endlessly patient, he parted hers with teasing nips and nibbles, with the persuasive caress of his tongue. Degree by torturous degree, he deepened the kiss, un­til her hands clutched weakly at his waist and her shudders gave way to pliancy.

  Hie lingering taste of brandy, the faint and very male scrape of a day's beard against her cheek, the patter of rain and the drifting scent of flowers. All this whirled in her head like a drug, both potent and pos­sessing.

  His lips left hers to journey over her face, to trace the line of her jaw, to nuzzle at her ear, waiting, pa­tiently waiting, until he felt her slip over to the next stage of surrender.

  He stepped back, only an inch, and slipped the shirt up her torso, over her head, let it drop to the floor. His muscles coiled like a snake. She thought she saw the lightning flash of desire that darkened his eyes to soot. But he only skimmed a fingertip down her throat, to the aching tip of her breast.

  Her breath caught; her head lolled back.

  “You're so beautiful, Meg. So soft.” He pressed a kiss to her shoulder while his hands gently molded, caressed, arou
sed. “So sweet.”

  He was afraid his hands were too big, too rough. As a result, his touch was stunningly tender, humming over her heating skin. They slicked down her sides, leaving tremors in their wake as he eased the loose pants from her hips.

  Then those fingertips moved over her, gliding over curves until her shaking breathing turned to unsteady moans.

  He undressed, watching her heavy eyes flutter open, seeing the misty blue focus on him, the pupils dilate.

  Now, she thought, and her heart stuttered madly in her throat. He would take her now, and ease this glo­rious ache he'd stirred to life inside her. Sweet and ea­ger, her mouth lifted to his. He gathered her close, laid her on the bed as gently as he might have laid her in a pool of rose petals. She arched to him, accepting, braced for the torrent. He used only his lips, soft as the rain, savoring her flesh as though it were a banquet of the most delicate flavors. Then his hands, big and hard-palmed, skimmed, lingered, discovered.

  Nothing could have prepared her. If she'd had a hundred lovers, none could have given more, or taken more. She was lost in a gently rocking sea of sensa­tion, undone by patience, weakened by tenderness.

  Her breathing slowed, deepened, even as her heart rate soared. She felt the brush of his hair on her breast before his mouth claimed it, heard his quiet, satisfied groan of pleasure as he suckled. Heard his sign as he circled and teased with his tongue.

  She sank, fathoms deep, in warm, clear waters.

  She didn't know when those waters began to chum. The storm gathered so slowly, so subtly. It seemed one moment she was drifting, and the next floundering. She couldn't get her breath, no matter how deeply she gasped for air. Her mind, suddenly reeling, struggled for the surface, even as her body coiled and tensed.

  “Nathaniel.” She grabbed at him, her fingers dig­ging into his flesh. “I can't—”

  But he covered her mouth with his, swallowing her gasps, savoring her moan, as the first dizzy climax racked her.

  She reared against his hand, instinctively urging him on as hot red waves of pleasure swept her up. Her neat, rounded nails scored his shoulders before her hands, her body, even her mind, went limp.

  “Megan. God.” She was so hot, so wet. He pressed his tips to her throat as he fought to level his own breathing. Pleasuring a woman had always pleasured him. But not tike this. Never tike this. He felt tike a king and a beggar all at once.

  Her stunned response aroused him unbearably. All he could do was wallow in her, absorbing her shock waves, and his own, feeling each and every nerve in his body sizzle and spark.

  He wanted to give her more. Had to give her more. Strapping down his own grinding needs, he slipped inside her, letting himself rock with the pleasure of her quick shudder, her broken sigh.

  She was so small. He had to remind himself again and again that she was small, all delicate bones and fragile skin. That she was innocent, and nearly as un­touched as a virgin. So while the blood pounded in his head, his heart, his loins, he took her gently, his hands fisted on the bedspread for fear he would touch her and bruise.

  He felt her body contract, explode. And then she said his name.

  He pressed his lips to hers again, and followed her over.

  The rain was still drumming. As she slowly swam back to reality, she heard its steady beat on the roof. She lay still, her hand tangled in Nathaniel's hair, her body glowing. She realized she had a smile on her face.

  She began to hum.

  Nathaniel stirred himself, pushed back lazily to lean on his elbow. “What are you doing?”

  “Singing. Sort of.”

  He grinned, studying her. “I like your looks, sugar.”

  “I'm getting used to yours.” She traced the cleft in his chin with a fingertip. Her lashes lowered. “It was all right, wasn't it?”

  “What?” He waited, wisely holding back a chuckle until she looked at him again. “Ob, that. Sure, it was okay for a start.”

  Sbe opened her mouth, closed it again with a little humming sound that wasn't at all musical. “You could be a little more... flattering.”