Morgan's Marriage

by Lindsay McKenna

  Lighting the fire, Morgan slowly eased upright and watched the tongues of flame lick eagerly at the wood. That was how he felt toward Laura: like a blazing flame wanting to lick and touch every inch of her skin. He wanted to taste her, feel the pressure of her lips against his, tunnel his fingers through her thick blond hair and then…

  Making a sound of disgust, Morgan slammed shut the stove door and jammed his hands into the pockets of his jeans. What the hell was the matter with him? Where was this high-minded concern for others that Laura had spoken so well of? His reasons for wanting Laura were far from high-minded. No, they were strictly selfish.

  Chapter 6

  Laura emerged from the tiny bathroom in a pink flannel nightgown falling to her ankles, covered by a white chenille robe. She carried her brush. The hot bath had been reviving, and she touched her cheek, which felt warm and flushed, as she padded out into the living room where Morgan was reading.

  The cabin was pleasantly warm from the heat thrown out by the stove. A sense of peace filled Laura as she halted in the doorway. Morgan sat on the couch, newspaper in hand, deep in concentration. Little by little, as the evening had passed, he had truly begun to relax, and for that Laura was supremely grateful. Dinner had been somewhat stilted, but afterward, when she took out her needlepoint and sat in the living room, leaving him alone, he’d eventually come in and sat down, too.

  A tender smile pulled at her mouth now as she absorbed the sight of him sitting so peacefully. Moving into the room, she lowered herself to sit on a thick sheep’s fleece in front of the hearth. Leaning her back against the chair closest to the rug, she slowly began to brush her hair. She felt more than saw Morgan shift his attention to her.

  Morgan scowled as he felt Laura’s presence. When she walked past him, he automatically inhaled deeply, and the scent of orange blossoms filled his flaring nostrils. Laura looked thin in the nightgown and robe, and the observation struck him hard. Always before, he’d seen her in a dress or suit, bulky winter clothes that disguised her thinness. He frowned.

  “You’re skinny as a rail,” he growled, laying the newspaper aside.

  Laura stopped brushing her hair for a moment. Morgan was studying her darkly, his hands clasped between his thighs. “Skinny?”

  “Yes.”

  Smiling slightly, she began to brush her hair again. “I lost twenty pounds or so, as you did,” she said softly.

  With each stroke of the brush, Morgan felt an aching need grow within him. Laura was so incredibly graceful, her face serene—in sharp contrast with his burgeoning emotions. The little makeup she’d worn was gone, replaced with the fresh-scrubbed look of a college girl. Morgan found it tough to believe that Laura had borne two children. His children, he reminded himself awkwardly. Her hair glinted molten gold in the lamplight, the shadows gently shaping her clean features. Yes, Laura was beautiful to him.

  Forcing his gaze down to his hands, he said grimly, “You didn’t eat enough for a bird tonight at dinner.”

  “No…”

  “Why not?” He’d eaten like a lumberjack. Laura had prepared steaks, a mountain of fried potatoes, steamed broccoli, and homemade garlic toast. The food, his first real meal since being released from the damn hospital, had tasted delicious. But halfway through the meal he’d realized she was merely picking at her steak, cutting it into smaller and smaller pieces but not eating much of consequence. He hadn’t said anything at the time, but seeing now how gaunt she actually was, he couldn’t remain silent.

  Placing the brush in her lap, Laura stared down at it. The tortoise shell object, which had once belonged to her mother, was smooth and comforting in her hands. “I—don’t know, Morgan.”

  “People don’t eat because they’re upset, or something’s bothering them.”

  “I suppose that’s true.”

  “So what’s bothering you?”

  His abruptness was like a physical blow to her, and Laura felt herself wince at his question. Nervously, she turned the brush in her hands. “I really haven’t felt like eating since the kidnappings, Morgan.”

  “But we’re all back now. We’re safe. You should be eating more.”

  Struggling against anger and hurt, Laura lifted her chin and met his flat, searching stare. How like Morgan to address the issue so bluntly, with no preamble. He wasn’t known for his diplomacy, and he certainly wasn’t showing any here, with her. “You might feel safe enough—emotionally stable enough—to resume your normal eating patterns.”

  “You’re saying you don’t feel safe?”

  Hot tears flooded Laura’s eyes, and she looked away from him. Her voice grew strained. “Morgan, you forget that I’m still trapped.” She forced herself to look at him. “I don’t have a husband. The man who used to love me is still lost to me. I—I’m alone, Morgan, and when I try to eat, I feel nauseous.”

  Her words carved pain into his chest. He bowed his head, unable to hold her anguished look. The line of Laura’s lips told him how much she was fighting not to cry in front of him, and he felt like hell—as if all this was his fault. Angry at hurting her, because she didn’t deserve that kind of pain, he abruptly got to his feet.

  “Go to bed,” he said gruffly, then turned and walked stiffly out of the room toward the bathroom.

  “Damn…” Laura whispered tautly, her fingers clenched tightly on the brush. She heard the bathroom door shut a little more loudly than was necessary. What could she have said differently so as not to upset Morgan? She was at a loss. Maybe she should have lied. No, that wasn’t right, either. With a sigh, she got to her feet and went into the bedroom.

  Laura chose the bed nearest the window. How could she possibly sleep with Morgan so close to her? Placing the brush on the dresser, she eased out of her robe and laid it across the foot of her bed. Fatigue lapped at her, and as she snuggled down beneath the covers, she realized she might fall asleep anyway. The flight had been long, and travel in general always sapped her energy for a day or two.

  As her head sunk into the pillow, she closed her eyes. The wool blanket was scratchy against her neck, but she didn’t care. Exhaustion stalked her. As she felt herself spiraling downward toward badly needed sleep, she made a mental note to call Susannah Killian tomorrow morning and talk to her, and then to Jason. She worried how he was getting along. Katherine was too young to realize what had happened, so Laura felt easier about her. Vaguely, she heard the shower running. Morgan must be washing up. It was the last coherent thought she had as sleep dragged her deep within its embrace.

  Morgan ruefully rubbed his damp hair with a towel as he quietly entered the bedroom. The lukewarm shower had felt good on the healing wounds on his back from whippings he couldn’t remember. He’d stood under the shower nearly half an hour, letting the water slough away his anger and frustration. Just being able to bathe so luxuriously was like a gift to him.

  The light from the living room cascaded silently into the bedroom. He halted just inside the door, taking in the way the light slid across the pine floor and up and across Laura’s bed, making burnished gold of her lightly tousled hair. Dropping the towel on the dresser, Morgan ran his fingers distractedly through his own damp strands. His gaze was focused on Laura—and so was his body.

  How beautiful she was, he thought as he quietly padded to the side of her bed. He placed his hands in the pockets of the dark blue terry-cloth robe he wore, afraid of reaching out and touching that thick, cascading hair. Her lips were gently parted, one hand beneath her cheek as she slept, and the covers had slipped down to reveal her small but proud shoulder covered by the pink flannel nightgown.

  As he stood looking at her, Morgan began to realize how stress affected Laura. She had beautiful, well-placed cheekbones, but her skin was stretched tautly across them, and bluish purple shadows showed beneath her eyes even in sleep. Her breathing was soft and shallow. Though aching to reach out and touch her hair, to see if it really felt as silky as it looked, Morgan forced himself to step away and take off his robe.

/>   Beneath it he wore only blue-and-white striped pajama bottoms. If he weren’t sleeping in the same room with Laura, he’d wear nothing at all. He didn’t like clothes binding and twisting around his body as he slept. Wondering if the old Morgan had felt that way, he dropped the robe at the end of his bed. He pulled back the covers, then walked quietly into the living room and shut off the lights.

  The darkness was complete, and he stood where he was for a moment, the soft crackle and snap of wood in the stove soothing his tense body. The rush of water in the creek outside the cabin filled him with an odd sense of peace. A feeling of safety wrapped around him as he padded back to the bedroom, his eyes now adjusted to the dark.

  Even in the darkness, a thin slice of moon outside glimmered down to reveal the canyon’s craggy cliffs. As he sat on the edge of his bed, his hands resting on his thighs, he saw the gentle moonglow envelop like a whitish halo about her still, sleeping form, caressing her features, silhouetting her full, parted lips and the thick lashes resting against her cheekbones. She slept deeply, and for some reason, that made Morgan feel good. Laura had said his presence helped her feel safe.

  Warmth threaded through his heart at that realization as he sat watching her take slow, regular breaths. Faintly, he could detect the fragrance of the orange-blossom crystals she’d used in her bath. His mind gyrated back to the fact that Laura was thin. Too damned thin. He hadn’t realized the depth of destruction this ordeal had wreaked on her until now—because he’d been too busy feeling sorry for himself and his lost memory, he reminded himself sulkily.

  His gaze rested for a moment on the photos Laura had placed on the dresser—of their children and the rest of his family. Everything she was doing was for him, he realized. But what was Laura doing to help herself recover from the kidnapping? Angry that he hadn’t even bothered to ask her what had happened during her imprisonment with Guillermo Garcia, Morgan promised her silently that he would try to repair that bridge between them in the next few days.

  Hope came on the heels of his realizations. Unconsciously, Morgan rubbed his thickly haired chest. Something was miraculously at work within him that he couldn’t quite define—yet. Still, it was there. Intuitively, he knew he had to follow those feelings, retaining an almost blind faith in believing that possibly, just possibly, part of his memory would return with it.

  A ragged sigh escaped as he eased himself onto his bed. Hope was such a fragile, tentative thing. He saw it in Laura’s eyes, heard it in her voice, all the time. As he pulled up the covers and turned on his side, facing her, he closed his eyes. Morgan had no idea if he’d sleep or not. Having Laura this close to him was a new experience, and he didn’t quite trust himself because he wanted her on such a selfish, primal level. It wasn’t right, he told himself harshly. She was still recovering from her own terrible trauma. Determined to ask her about her experience with Garcia tomorrow, Morgan closed his eyes. In moments, he was asleep.

  A whimper awakened Morgan, and he sat up instantly, his heart pounding, adrenaline heightening his senses. He’d heard a woman cry out. Laura. Jerking his attention to the left, he gazed over at her. She seemed fine.

  He had no idea of the time. The sleep torn from him, he threw off his covers and sat up, the pine floor cold under his bare feet. The room was chilly—the fire in the stove had obviously gone out.

  Rubbing his face to get reoriented, Morgan sat rigidly, wondering if he was having another nightmare. He’d heard Laura’s cry—he’d swear he had. Yet she lay sleeping quietly. Or was she? It took more precious moments for him to come fully awake. His pulse was bounding. He felt and tasted fear. Why? As his gaze ruthlessly moved across Laura again, he realized something was wrong.

  Her bed covers were twisted around her, and her nightgown had ridden up above her knees, bunching between the soft, white curve of her thighs. She was lying in a fetal position, her hands and arms pressed tightly against her. Her beautiful hair was tangled, and as he rose unsteadily to his feet to move to her side, Morgan realized she must have been thrashing her head from side to side on her pillow to mess it up so much.

  Without thinking, he leaned over and pressed his hand lightly to her shoulder. My God, her nightgown was wringing wet! Scowling, he ran his hand down her arm and felt a slight tremble, finally realizing she was sleeping through a nightmare that held her tightly in its grip. The once-soft line of her mouth was compressed, the corners pulled inward with pain.

  When Morgan’s fingers touched her lower arm, he felt the cool dampness of her skin. She could catch her death of pneumonia! Reaching down, he brought the covers up and over her, tucking them in around her shoulders. It was then he realized her breathing was ragged and shallow, almost as if she were panting. A moan tore from her lips, and she jerked her head to one side.

  Morgan eased himself down on the side of the bed, his hip resting against her. He couldn’t stand to hear her whimper. Instinctively he stroked her hair and instantly her mouth lost some of its tension. Marveling that something so small as a light touch could have so much effect, he grew bolder. His heart felt as if it was tearing from his chest as he watched Laura wrestle with something he could neither see nor hear. What he could see was its impact on her.

  “It’s all right, Laura,” he rasped, gently tunneling his fingers through her hair. “You’re safe…safe….” he crooned as he leaned over, his lips near her small, delicate ear. Her hair felt like fine, strong silk to him. The joy of getting to touch her thrilled him as nothing had since he’d awakened from the coma. Her hair was thick and slightly curly, the strands yielding to his strokes, curving about his exploring fingers.

  Morgan watched in amazement as her breathing began to slow and become more regular. He felt her whole body relax as he continued his gentle ministrations. Allowing his hand to move more boldly, he slipped it downward, across her blanketed shoulders. Her lips lost their tense line entirely and slowly parted. Good. How greatly he’d underestimated the importance of touch for a person in pain. Then he recalled Laura’s admissions earlier this afternoon on the boulder about how she had held him and allowed him to cry against her.

  His eyes glinted with tenderness as he absorbed the sight of her sleeping features. A powerful mixture of joy, gratitude and other, undefined emotions mushroomed through his chest. Just the act—the privilege—of touching Laura was more than enough for him right now, Morgan realized humbly. Before, he’d wanted her sexually. Now, at her bedside, tenderly touching her hair and back, he was filled with such a sense of peace that it shook him deeply.

  Morgan loved the way her lips slowly parted to reveal their lush fullness. Trusting his feelings, he leaned over even farther, enough to touch her lips with his own. The moment his mouth met hers, something deep and powerful exploded within him, radiating outward through every inch of his body. Her lips were just as soft as he’d imagined. As he tasted their texture, he felt her move beneath him.

  Panicked, he broke contact with her mouth, his hand automatically going back to her hair. He saw her thick eyelashes flutter and barely open, to reveal drowsy blue eyes.

  “Go back to sleep, Laura,” he rasped huskily. “You’re safe…safe…”

  Morgan watched her lids droop closed again. What was going on here? Just the guttural tone of his voice, certainly off-key, had soothed her. Laura snuggled her face into the pillow, a sigh slipping from her lips. Afraid to move, afraid she might wake up and discover him with her, Morgan remained sitting next to her for a good five minutes. But it was no longer torture but pure heaven to be here with her, his hand stilled on her thick hair, his hip pressed pleasantly against her now-relaxed body.

  If there were such things as miracles—and Morgan didn’t really believe in them—then this moment with Laura was as close as he’d probably ever get. It shook him that his touch and voice could have such a profound, healing effect on another human being. Laura was relaxed, her breathing slow and cadenced. Whatever nightmare she’d been inhabiting had fled. Somehow, in his blundering need
to help her, he’d chased it away.

  Slowly he eased his hand out of the tangle of her hair. He’d kissed her. He’d tasted her lips. Staring down at Laura, he wondered with panic if she would remember him stealing that kiss from her. And it was a stolen thing. Or was it? A part of him had responded to her out of selfish need. But another part had offered the kiss as—what? A healing gesture? With a shake of his head, Morgan cursed himself and slowly eased upward, hoping not to waken Laura. He stood over her a moment, watching her continue to sleep the sleep of angels. Because that was what she was—an angel in human form.

  He smiled tenderly at the thought, wishing he had some of her patience, her gentleness and diplomacy. They were diametric opposites, he was beginning to discover, and as he made his way over to his bed, Morgan felt like a lump of hard black coal next to Laura, who shone like a diamond of light in his dark, complex world.

  As he lay down and pulled up the covers, he saw the first gray streaks of dawn edging the top of the canyon. It must be around four or five o’clock. Closing his eyes, he centered hotly on the memory of Laura’s lips beneath his. He’d kissed her carefully, lightly, their mouths barely touching, but it had been enough—for now. With that thought, he slid into a sleep heated by dreams of Laura, of loving her until she cried out with the unadulterated pleasure that he somehow knew only he could give her.

  The smell of bacon frying, of coffee perking, slowly awakened Laura. At first she didn’t realize where she was, because the sounds of the creek were so different from those around their Virginia home. She sat up, her hair tumbling in disarray around her face. Pushing several strands out of her eyes, she looked around. Sunlight cascaded through the bedroom window. It took her a long moment to realize she was at the Donovan Ranch, in a log cabin, and—Morgan!