Morgan's Marriage

by Lindsay McKenna

  Today her hair was plaited into two braids, the ends tied with red threads from her needlepoint kit. How girlish she looked. He had to fight not to reach out and slide his fingers along the soft slope of her cheek. How badly he needed to touch her again, to bury his face in her thick, blond hair and inhale her special womanly fragrance which made him dizzy with need.

  He looked down at the trout, then reached into the creel. In one smooth motion he threw the fish back into the creek.

  “Morgan!” Laura cried out in surprise.

  He grinned mischievously. “You’re next!”

  Before she could protest, he swept her up into his arms. With a cry of utter surprise, she threw her arms around his neck. She was wildly aware of his strength. Of him. Laughing, she pressed her face against his neck and jaw as he carried her dangerously close to the churning water.

  “You save a trout’s life and you pay for it,” he told her roughly, grinning down at her. How good she felt against him! She was small and featherlight. That familiar fragrance of camellia struck him fully as he stopped near the edge of the bank.

  “Morgan! You wouldn’t dare throw me in!” Laura gasped. Her eyes grew round as she watched his own gray eyes sparkle with mischief, and she automatically tightened her arms around his massive neck and shoulders. It was the first time Morgan had done anything so spontaneous and she loved it. She loved him.

  “Wouldn’t I?” he taunted, threatening to swing her out over the stream.

  Laughing wildly, Laura gasped, “The old Morgan wouldn’t ever do something this dastardly! He saw himself as a white knight come to the rescue!”

  “Maybe the new Morgan would,” he threatened teasingly. She was so alive, so fresh and innocent in his arms. He absorbed the feel of her body crushed against him. Laura’s eyes danced with such joy that he felt his heart opening powerfully beneath her smile. He made a motion as if to toss her into the rushing water. Instantly she shrieked, grabbed him hard and clung to him, her face pressed against his. Morgan couldn’t help himself, nor did he want to.

  He closed the scant inches between them in an instant, his mouth covering her smiling lips. Instantly, he felt Laura stiffen in his arms with surprise, but just as quickly, she relaxed against him. Something goaded him to continue the kiss rather than draw away as he knew he should. No, he wanted her. Needed her. Relentlessly, he smothered her mouth with his own. Rocking her lips open, he felt how she surrendered to him. Her mouth tasted of sunlight and the honey she’d had on her toast earlier. He felt unmistakable heat and invitation in her returning kiss as her arms tightened around his neck. Her breasts pressed more fully against his chest, and he felt her moan when he ran his tongue across her full lower lip, then recaptured her mouth with even more intensity than before.

  His body hardened instantly as he deepened his exploration of her. His breath was coming in ragged gasps, but so was hers. As hungrily as he took her, she gave back equal pressure and heat. How badly he wanted to plunge himself into her molten depths! But something cautioned him not to go that far. Not yet. Instead, he sent his tongue searching her hot, moist mouth. If he’d ever suspected Laura was weak or shy, he’d been mistaken. Her tongue boldly touched and slid along his, and he found himself staggering beneath her equally fierce onslaught. Fire ignited and exploded through him as her tongue danced with his. Moments melted together, and he felt a fusion of their bodies—and their souls.

  Her lips were too luscious, and he couldn’t get enough of the feel of her soft, surrendering mouth, which continued to tease and beckon him. But gradually, to his dismay, his mind began to work and again take charge, leaving his body hard and aching with need as he reluctantly ended the kiss. Opening his eyes, he gazed stormily into her lustrous ones, half-open and studying him as the sounds of nature returned around them. Her lips glistened in the wake of his kiss, the lower one slightly swollen, and he was instantly sorry for his powerful, unexpected assault upon her.

  Morgan gently eased Laura to the ground, his arms still around her shoulders, holding her close. To his joy, she leaned fully against him, her arms encircling his waist. Her unabashed radiance humbled him as nothing else could. Giving her a shaky, apologetic smile, he lifted his hands to smooth back her hair. “I don’t know where the hell that came from….”

  “I don’t care,” she whispered, running her palms across his chest, holding his narrowed gray gaze. And she didn’t.

  “I was…” Morgan scowled and settled his hands back on her small shoulders. “I made a promise to myself not to touch you until I could remember, Laura.”

  She frowned. “I’m not sorry it happened, Morgan.”

  “But you remember your love for me.”

  “Yes….”

  Frustration ate at his euphoria. Morgan looked beyond her, his tone gruff. “I don’t think it’s fair to you—to us—if I kiss you or…whatever…and I don’t remember, Laura.”

  She placed her hands gently on his massive arms. “And what if you don’t ever remember us, Morgan?”

  His scowl deepened. “I…don’t know.”

  “That’s what scares me,” she whispered unsteadily, trying to smile but not succeeding. “I’ll take whatever you want to give me, Morgan. I’m not proud. I love you. I’ll always love you, no matter how many of your memories come back—or don’t.”

  He saw the tears glimmering in her eyes. “Don’t cry,” he rasped, then caught himself. Dr. Parsons had counseled him that crying was often the healthiest thing to do. “Forget I said that.”

  With a small, choking sound, Laura said, “The old Morgan hated to see me cry, too. Even if you don’t remember, you know, Morgan.”

  At the fervency of her voice, he caressed her shoulders tenderly. “I feel as if I’m cheating you—us—if I touch you like this…kiss you….”

  “Did you lift me up and kiss me just now because you felt you had to?” she asked wryly.

  He studied her in the silence. A teasing love shone in her eyes. “No,” he admitted unsteadily. “It just sort of happened—in the moment. I wasn’t thinking about it,” he added awkwardly.

  Her smile was tender. “One of the things you used to do—quite frequently, as a matter of fact—was steal me from whatever I was doing, lift me into your arms and take me to our secret garden out back.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “I did?”

  Laura touched his recently shaven cheek. “There’s a precocious little boy alive and well inside of you, Morgan Trayhern, and I’ve been privileged to play with him quite often. So lifting me up the way you did, and kissing me…” She smiled. “It was something I not only enjoyed, but could hardly wait to have happen.”

  “When I would steal you away like that—we’d do more than…kiss?” He caught her hand and pressed his lips to her palm, watching her eyes turn to the dusky blue that told him she was feeling pleasure at his touch.

  “Oh…” Laura sighed. “Yes, much more than kissing….”

  He had to stop or he was going to lay her down on the green, grassy bank and take her right here and now. Morgan allowed her to reclaim her hand and gave her a crooked smile. “Memories have a funny way of turning up, don’t they?”

  “Yes, they do.” Laura smoothed her skirt across her thighs. “I always loved your spontaneity, Morgan. I thought it was gone, but I was wrong.” Her voice grew husky with tears. “And I’m so glad it’s back, because it’s such a natural part of who you are and how you express yourself….”

  Laura snapped awake. What time was it? Slowly she sat up in bed, the covers falling away. Looking to the left, she realized Morgan was gone. She heard another noise. Her heart pounded hard in her chest as she threw her covers off and stood, the floor offering a cold greeting to her bare feet as she retrieved her chenille robe from the end of the bed. What was wrong? Laura groggily sensed something, though she was unable to put a name to it.

  Stumbling sleepily from the bedroom, she moved into the living room. A night-light illuminated the room enough for her to weav
e among the furniture and head for the kitchen, where she thought the sounds had emanated from. Pushing hair away from her face, she wondered why Morgan was up. The clock on the shelf read three o’clock.

  “Morgan?” she called, her voice thick with remnants of sleep. Halting in the doorway, she saw his shadowy form facing the kitchen sink. He was standing tensely, wearing only his pajama bottoms. His hands gripped the counter, and sweat gleamed on his naked back and shoulders.

  Biting her lower lip, Laura felt the charged tension in the kitchen and knew instantly it originated from Morgan. What had happened? A nightmare? He’d had so many over the years, but with time, they’d become less frequent and severe. As she slowly approached him from the side, making sure he could see her, she reached out.

  “Morgan?” she whispered, tentatively touching his shoulder. One of the dangers of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder was that, caught up in a flashback, a person might not be grounded in reality, unable to disconnect from the violence of the remembered moment. Laura knew from experience not to come up behind Morgan and throw her arms around him. She could be struck by a fist. Although it had never happened, she’d seen Morgan come close to striking her or whoever was near.

  She pressed her fingers more surely against his damp skin. He was trembling, his breathing raspy as he hung his head over the sink, leaning against it for support. “It’s all right, Morgan,” she said soothingly, allowing him to feel her hand more fully against his arm. “It’s me, Laura. You’re safe, Morgan. Safe. You’re here, in the cabin with me. Just listen to my voice, and I’ll bring you back home…. Listen to me, Morgan.”

  She moved inches closer, keeping her hand firmly around his upper arm. She knew from experience what would help Morgan when he was trapped by the virulence of his nightmarish past. She kept her voice husky and low, almost singsong, so that he could struggle internally to tear his attention away from whatever was playing out before his tightly shut eyes and transfer his panicked attention to her. In some ways, not much had changed, Laura thought sadly. It grieved her that Morgan was going to continue to have PTSD symptoms. The one blessing of his amnesia had seemed to be that he would mercifully be allowed to forget his Vietnam War days and the loss of his company—and the horror that had haunted him ever since.

  Little by little, as she continued speaking quietly to him, his bunched shoulders began to relax. His breathing evened out, and the sweat began to dry on his skin. Where he’d held the edge of the sink in a white-knuckled grip, his hands began to loosen their hold. Gradually, Laura placed her arm around his torso.

  “Come on,” she entreated gently. “Come and sit down, Morgan. I’ll make you some hot tea. Come on, darling….” She chastised herself for allowing the endearment slip from her lips. She’d tried to be so careful in not pressuring Morgan with her love, not wanting to frustrate him more or, worse, drive him away from her. What they had was still so tenuous.

  Lifting his head, Morgan turned and stared at Laura. He felt her thin but strong arm around his waist, gently tugging at him to move away from the counter. “I…” His voice came out roughened and hoarse. “Laura, I remember Ramirez…Peru…the whole damned thing….”

  A shaft of pain pierced Laura as she stood, holding his ravaged, darkened gaze. “All right,” she said unsteadily, “then let’s go to the living room, Morgan. You need to talk about it.” She guided him out of the kitchen and to the couch. While a part of her was thrilled that a huge chunk of his memory had returned, another part grieved for him because he was being forced to reenter a living hell. As Morgan sat tensely on the couch, his legs spread, his hands clasped between his thighs, she saw the devastation etched on his features.

  Biting back a cry, she sat down next to him, her hands resting lightly against his arm and thigh. Such agony showed in his eyes and the slash of his mouth that she wanted to let her own tears flow, but she knew it wouldn’t help him. Reaching up, she stroked the dampened hair now clinging to his head. “What happened, Morgan? Tell me what you saw….”

  Knotting his hands tightly, Morgan shut his eyes. Just the gentle touch of Laura’s hand on his hair broke what little defense was left between him and the memories smashing through him. “I went to sleep,” he rasped thickly, staring out across the semidarkened living room. “I was happy as I fell asleep.” He twisted his head and held her tender, lustrous gaze. “I was replaying that kiss we shared at the creek today. I felt more whole, stronger than I can remember….”

  “That’s probably why your mind allowed all these memories to surface,” she whispered. “You are getting stronger, Morgan, and Ann warned us that as we regained our emotional health, the traumas would probably be released in ways that we could deal with in a positive fashion.” She smiled gently and rested her brow momentarily against his shoulder. “It’s a good sign in one way.”

  “Good, hell,” he snarled. “I remember the whole damn sequence, Laura. I remember seeing those sons of bitches entering our bedroom and shooting us with dart-tranquilizer rifles. We were like trapped animals—no warning, no way to protect ourselves.”

  Her heart pounded briefly in her chest and she stared at his suffering profile. “D-do you remember…us?” Afraid of his answer, Laura felt her throat constrict.

  “I’m sorry,” he rasped, turning and studying her, “I do remember you in the bedroom with me when we got shot. But I don’t remember you or the kids in an emotional sense—yet.” He saw the pain in her expression and reached out to grip her hand tightly. “I’m sorry, Laura. All I saw after that was the prison, the torture—”

  “No,” she said unsteadily, “it’s enough, Morgan. More than enough. We shouldn’t be talking about that, anyway. Talk to me about what you do remember….”

  It was dawn by the time Morgan finished recounting his horrifying months in Ramirez’s fortress. He felt weakened emotionally from reliving those tortured days. At the same time he experienced a killing rage toward the man who had taken so much away from him. As he’d talked, he’d sat facing Laura, holding her small, warm hands while he grew chilled and tense. Something healing rose out of talking to Laura about his experience. As the pictures and feelings flowed out of him, Morgan saw the anguish in her eyes, in the way her lips parted—for him and what he’d endured.

  “I know there’s more,” he told her harshly at last. “I feel it here, in my gut.”

  Laura nodded and whispered unsteadily, “I’m sure there is, but your mind has given you plenty to assimilate and work through for now, Morgan. More than enough.”

  Staring down at her hands, he said, “You’re so small, yet so damned strong. You amaze me, Laura. You always have….” He had no idea where those words had come from. But he knew now that when things like that came out of him without forethought, it was the old, deep knowing surfacing. He saw her eyes grow warm, shining with unspoken love.

  “I wish,” he said huskily, “that of all the memories coming back, I’d remember you. Our love…”

  “I know,” she said quietly, “but in one sense, it will probably be the last thing you’ll remember, Morgan.”

  “Why?”

  “Because our love wasn’t traumatic to you. Ann has told me many times that your mind and body will work together to rid you first of what can hurt you or perhaps turn into a health problem. The love we had was the healthiest aspect in you and in me.” She shrugged painfully. “So we wait.”

  “It’s hurting you,” he muttered, watching as she avoided his sharpened gaze. “I see it in a hundred small ways every day, Laura.”

  She eased her hands from his. Her mouth curved into a bittersweet smile. “I know…but it’s all right, Morgan. Really, it is. It’s not your fault. I know you’re trying to remember.”

  Hanging his head, he pushed his fingers through his hair. “In some ways, I wonder if I’m not hurting you more by being here with you, Laura.”

  “No!” The word came out filled with anguish—and terror.

  Morgan stared at her, seeing her face go p
ale. “I didn’t mean I’d leave,” he said quickly, reading her gaze. “I’m not leaving, Laura.”

  Pressing her hand to her pounding heart, she hung her head. “We’re in a catch-22, Morgan. If you walked away and left me, I don’t know if I could make it. I hate admitting that to you—or to myself. I’ve always prided myself on being able to stand on my own two feet, to handle whatever life threw at me.” She closed her eyes tightly and her voice became scratchy. “But right now, I’m feeling horribly vulnerable and weak. I’m not as strong as you may think…and I hate myself for feeling that way. I’ve never had to lean on you….”

  Sliding his hand along her clean jawline, Morgan gently made her look at him. “It’s always been the other way around, hasn’t it, Laura? Because of my past, the PTSD, I’ve needed you, needed to lean on you and use the resources you’ve always given me without a thought?”

  It hurt Laura to look at the tender, burning light in his eyes. “Y-yes,” she whispered painfully. “I never minded, Morgan. Never. I love you, and that’s part of loving a person—being there to help them through whatever hell they’re going through.”

  “But it’s different this time, isn’t it? Something bad happened to both of us. I guess I’m used to leaning on you, using you, but this time it cuts both ways. We don’t have a past track record in our marriage for handling this, so I guess we’re both floundering a little within ourselves and with each other.”

  He was right, and for some reason, Laura felt ashamed of herself, of her inability to be as strong as she always had been before. “I’m sorry, Morgan—”

  With a shake of his head, he rasped, “Don’t ever be sorry, Laura.” His hand stilled against her cheek. “I may not remember my love for you, or all the times we’ve shared, but my heart tells me marriage is a two-way street. Aren’t there times when one partner leans and the other supports, and vice versa?”