Rory swayed slightly. She braced her hands
against his chest, could feel the tension coiled there and drew
back as though she had been scorched.
"You all right, miss?" The question was curt,
but the solicitude seemed genuine enough.
Rory nodded, struggling to catch her
breath.
“And where is he?'
"Huh?" she croaked, puzzled by the angry
question.
"The jackass," the man said, his restrained
rage breaking through. "The fool who dumped this thing on—Never
mind!"
Rory was still trying to make sense of his
words when he released her. The force of that bludgeoning stare
turned elsewhere. He strode away from her to where several other
gentleman were helping the Reverend Titus Allgood to free himself
from beneath the balloon. The little minister looked as if he were
about to kiss the ground and every one of his rescuers.
"Thank you, Lord, thank you," he said,
casting his eyes heavenward. His quavering gratitude disappeared
when he saw the tall, angry man bearing down upon him. Rory watched
in astonishment as the man seized the minister by his collar.
"You stupid bastard! If I find you have
injured anyone, I'm going to break your neck. I'll give you five
minutes to get that damned balloon of yours off this lawn."
Reverend Allgood was too terrified to get out
even a squeak of protest. Rory thought the minister looked about to
faint again and hurried to intervene. She winced at a sudden
shooting pain in her ankle, but she still managed to hobble
forward.
She tugged at the angry man's sleeve. "You're
making a mistake. He's only the minister who performed the wedding
ceremony."
The man's dark eyes flashed at her again, but
he did not release Mr. Allgood. "What?!"
"We had a wedding in the balloon." Rory
yanked on the man's arm until he let go of the minister.
"Congratulations," the man grated. "Then I
collect it's your new husband I want to kill."
At that unfortunate moment, Erne emerged from
beneath the balloon, pulling his bride after him. Glory Fatima
appeared in blushing splendor, her charms all but spilling free
from her spangled bodice, much to the admiring gasps of the men and
the shocked cries of the ladies.
Rory was relieved to see the rest of her
passengers unharmed, but the relief was short-lived as the furious
man prepared to descend upon them. What was the matter with this
fellow—charging down upon people like a raging bull without waiting
for explanations?
Rory limped into the man's path, nearly
colliding with the wall of his chest. "Erno is not my husband. That
is his wife and it's not their balloon either. Who the devil are
you anyway to go about threatening everybody?"
"I'm Zeke Morrison and this is my
property."
"Oh." So this was John Ezekiel Morrison, the
millionaire she had heard so much about. She might have guessed as
much, except that Morrison didn’t look mysterious or sinister,
merely bad tempered.
"Would you mind telling me who owns that
contraption?" he demanded.
Rory tipped up her chin. Any fear she felt
was lost in defiance. "It's mine!"
"Yours?" His gaze raked over her in
deprecating fashion. "Well, that explains everything."
"What do you mean by that?"
He bent down so that his face was only inches
from hers. "I mean, little girl, that the fellow who turned you
loose to play in that balloon should be shot."
Now Rory knew why Morrison's nose was a
little crooked. At some time in his life, someone must have broken
it. Rory felt her own fists tense with the temptation. "How dare
you! I am an aeronaut, sir, and let me tell you, this disaster is
as much your guests' fault as anyone else's."
My guests?"
"Yes!" Rory gestured toward the assembled
crowd, who were now staring more at her than the fallen balloon.
The ladies in particular, their flowered hats still askew, regarded
her as though she were a weed that had sprung up on this perfectly
manicured lawn.
"Instead of gawking," she shouted at them,
"you should have helped to grab the line I tossed down. Then I
could have landed the balloon safely."
She got no response except for raised
eyebrows and pursed lips. Only Zeke Morrison retorted. "No one
asked you to land on my lawn at all, lady. You could see I was
having a party here."
"Well, you shouldn't have been having a
garden party on a rotten day like this."
"You certainly took care of that, didn't you?
Just look at the damage you did!"
His lawn did appear as though a hurricane had
just swept through. Rory knew she was being unreasonable, but she
was bruised, she was shaken, she had twisted her ankle and Zeke
Morrison was a foul-tempered bully.
"The devil with your stupid party!" she said.
"What about the damage to the Katie Moira?"
"Oh, she looks just fine to me." Zeke gave a
sardonic nod of his head toward the buxom Miss Fatima.
"Katie Moira is the balloon, and very likely
this rough landing has torn holes in her."
"Pardon me! Next time I'll level the whole
house to clear you a smooth field, but for now, Miss-Miss-."
"Aurora Rose Kavanaugh," she said, drawing
herself up proudly.
"For now, Miss Kavanaugh, I am about this
short of tossing you and your balloon out into the street!"
"Come ahead and try it then." Her Irish now
thoroughly up, Rory raised her fists, assuming a fighter's stance
she remembered from when her Da had sneaked her in to see the great
John L. Sullivan spar a few rounds.
Morrison took a menacing step toward her.
Rory braced herself. But as he glared down at her, the line of his
implacable jaw began to quiver. His lips twitched, his mouth curved
into a wide grin and he began to laugh. He stole a glance from her
to the indignant faces of his disheveled guests, then flung back
his head and positively roared.
Rory wanted to punch him more than ever.
"What's so blasted funny?' she started to ask, but at that instant
a rumble sounded from the skies as though to match Morrison's own
booming voice. The storm seemed to have followed Rory down the
Hudson. With another loud clap, the clouds burst, sending rain
pelting down.
All about her, Morrison's guests began to
squeal and dart for shelter. Only Zeke Morrison remained
unaffected. Still laughing, he tipped his head back, the rain
beading on his swarthy countenance and dark windswept hair, the
lightning itself seemingly caught in his mirth-filled eyes. With
his hands on his hips, he defied the elements as though he indeed
was the god of thunder whose mere laughter could command the
skies.
He exuded a kind of masculine beauty, very
raw, very primitive, and as she watched him, Rory’s fists relaxed,
and her arms dropped to her sides without her being fully aware of
it.
Morrison finally made an effort to regain
control, swiping the back of his hand across his eyes. Still
chuckling, he barked an order to the squealing ladies to stop
carrying on like a flock of biddy hens and get themselves into the
house.
"Wellington," he shouted to a tall manservant
who was attempting to rescue the fallen linen across the lawn.
"Don't worry about that blasted tablecloth. Help those boys from
the orchestra move their instruments."
Butler, footmen, maids and guests scurried to
obey his commands except Rory. The others jostled past her,
including her own passengers, as they all bolted through the double
French glass doors that led into the mansion.
Although she was getting drenched, the
raindrops trickling down the back of her neck causing her to
shiver, Rory didn't budge. She was annoyed with herself for ogling
Morrison as though he were some sort of matinee idol and even more
annoyed with him. The amused look he cast her way did nothing to
soothe her temper.
"Head for the house, Miss Kavanaugh."
She'd be darned if she would, not after the
way he had insulted her and then laughed at her to boot. "I thought
you were going to throw me into the street."
"I wouldn't throw a stray cat out in this
weather. Get moving."
"How gracious of you," she muttered. Turning
her back on him, she limped over to the Katie Moira. She stiffened
as she heard Morrison coming after her.
"What's the matter with your ankle?"
"Nothing!" She nearly slipped on the wet
grass and gasped at the fresh pain that spiked up her bruised limb.
Morrison seized her arm to steady her.
"Come on, little girl. Get inside."
"I have experienced quite enough of your
hospitality, Mr. Morrison." But her dignified speech was ruined by
the way her teeth chattered. Her gown clung to her, now thoroughly
soaked, making her miserable.
Morrison appeared in little better shape. His
fancy shirt¬waist was likely to be ruined, his wet hair was
plastered to his brow, but he only laughed. He slid his arm about
her waist, the other swooping behind her knees to lift her off her
feet.
"Hey!" Rory cried. The gesture was not in the
least romantic. He hefted her as though she were just another chair
to be moved into the house at his convenience.
"Put me down!"
He paid her no heed. He was too busy shouting
more orders to some straggling servants. She drew back her fist and
thumped him hard on the chest. It was like pounding on a brick
wall.
As he toted her toward the house, he looked
down at her and grinned. "If it weren't for the lightning, I'd stay
out here. I forgot how much fun it is to romp about in the rain. My
mother used to give me pure holy hell for it."
"So did mine—," Rory began, then recollected
herself. "You put me down right now!"
"What! Right here in this puddle?"
She saw the disconcerting twinkle in his eye
and knew the infernal man was fully capable of doing such a thing.
Although she despised herself, she wrapped her arms about his neck
in alarm. With gritted teeth, she endured being carried into the
house.
She caught a glimpse of the bedraggled guests
crowding into a large parlor. Someone was striking a match to the
gas jet in the fireplace grating. But Zeke Morrison carried her in
the opposite direction.
"Too crowded in there. We'll find some quiet
spot to dry you out and then have a look at your ankle."
"Dry me out? I am not a wet dishcloth! And
you are not looking at my ankle!"
He ignored her protest, even when she
squirmed in his arms. Far from being furious now, Morrison seemed
to find everything she said damned amusing. But as he carried her
into the front hall, Rory's struggles abruptly ceased.
As she stared about her, she was awed in
spite of herself. The scrolled ceiling that towered over her head
was as impressive as the rotunda at City Hall. The crystal
chandelier glittered even on such a gloomy day, and the marble
staircase seemed to wind upward into eternity.
At the foot of those stairs, barring Zeke
Morrison's path, stood the most elegant woman Rory had ever seen.
She had masses of icy white-blond hair and frigid blue eyes. Unlike
the other guests, she appeared untouched by the storm breaking
outside.
Mrs. Morrison? Rory wondered. Although
beautiful, the woman looked too old to be Zeke's wife.
Yet there was something very proprietary in
the way she demanded, "What are you doing with that girl,
John?"
Morrison should have been embarrassed enough
to set her down at once. Goodness knows, Rory felt her own cheeks
burn as though she had been caught doing something wrong.
"Please," she hissed. "Put me down. I swear I
can walk."
Although he continued to smile, the
belligerent tilt of his jaw became prominent again. Yet he seemed
to sense Rory's embarrassment at being seen cradled in his arms. He
lowered her reluctantly to her feet, explaining to the woman, "Miss
Kavanaugh had sustained some injury to her ankle."
"That is hardly your concern," came the cool
reply. "I imagine the police will provide her with whatever medical
attention she needs. I have taken the liberty of summoning
them."
"Police?" Rory gasped at the same time Zeke
demanded, "What the hell did you do that for?"
The woman's fine brows arched upward. "These
circus people vandalized your lawn."
"On the contrary," Zeke retorted. "I have it
on the best authority that my lawn vandalized Miss Kavanaugh's
balloon."
"I doubt Captain Devery will share your
levity, John. There are still, thank God, laws that protect people
from the wanton destruction of their property."
"But it was an accident,” Rory faltered, a
sick feeling clutching her stomach. She had never expected this
misadventure to end with her being thrown into jail.
Morrison squeezed her hand, the warm pressure
comforting. "Don't worry, little girl, I'll deal with the police."
His reassuring smile vanished as he turned back to the woman
blocking the stairs. "Sometimes I wish you would not be so
confoundedly busy on my behalf."
"Do you indeed? That could be arranged."
"Look, I've got no time for a quarrel now.
Could you step out of the way until I see that Miss Kavanaugh is
looked after? Then you can snap at me as much as you please."
A trace of pink stole into that icy white
complexion. The woman's gaze rested for a moment on Rory; then,
with a chilling dignity, she moved away from the stairs and stalked
off down the hall
Rory shivered. No living being's eyes should
have been that cold. Rory felt as though the woman could have
destroyed her as easily as brushing aside a speck of lint from her
gown. An odd thought to have about such a refined-looking lady.
Rory turned to Zeke, who was following the
woman's retreat, a frown on his face.
"I am sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to
cause trouble between you and your. . . wife?"
"Mrs. Van Hallsburg is not my wife!" As Zeke
glanced back at Rory, his expression lightened. "I am quite a free
man, Miss Kavanaugh. And you- you are quite wet."