Looking for a Hero (10 page)

She sighed, feeling a moment of guilt for not having asked Morgan more about the ring he'd lost. If he brought it up again, she'd try to find out if this one really belonged to him. Until then, she might as well hang onto it for safekeeping.

She dropped the ring back into the box and closed it away in the desk drawer.

Taking one more look at the picture of Black Heart the pirate, she shook her head. She didn't want to believe he could be the same man who'd mysteriously appeared in her life any more than she wanted to believe the emerald ring belonged to him, but the coincidences were startling—and too darn confounding.

Quietly closing the door to Joe's office behind her, she walked down the hall, taking a moment to peek over the landing to see Aunt Evalena playing contentedly with the day care children she
herself should have been watching yesterday and today. What would she do without that woman? Evie was always there when Kate needed her. Of course, she'd been dishing out a fair amount of guidance about the “man upstairs.”

“What more could you possibly ask for, Katharine? He's a rather delightful looking man, he's helpless at the moment, and if you just bat your eyes a few times, I'm sure he'll fall right into your arms.”

That was the last thing she wanted. Although, for the first time since Joe's death, she hadn't felt lonely.

She laughed to herself. Morgan Farrell had long hair, rings in his ears, a scar on his face, and those horrendous scars on his back. He wasn't the kind of man she could be interested in—if she
ever
wanted to be interested in a man.

Down the hall she heard Casey's giggles. She'd told her to stay downstairs, told her in no uncertain terms that she was not to go anywhere near Morgan Farrell unless an adult was around, but her words had apparently fallen on deaf ears.

Kate stopped outside the bedroom, and listened to Casey and her pirate.

“Do you have telephones where you come from?” Casey asked.

“'Tis not a word I'm familiar with.”

“Well, this is a telephone,” Casey said, and Kate could easily picture Casey showing Mr. Farrell the phone that sat on the nightstand, lifting the receiver
and punching the buttons. “Here, I'll call Aunt Evie.”

“The woman is downstairs. Would it not be simpler to go into the hallway and call down to her?”

“Well, yeah, but I'm not really calling her. I'm calling her phone. In her house across the street.”

“And what is the reason for doing that?”

Kate could hear the exasperation in Casey's voice. “So you can hear what a ringing phone sounds like.”

There was silence then, and a moment later, Casey said, “Here, listen.”

Kate peeked around the door and watched Mr. Farrell's brow furrow into a frown as Casey held the phone to his ear. “If your aunt was in her home across the street, she would pick up an object like this and talk into it?”

“Uh huh.”

“And you could speak with her?”

“Yeah, I do it all the time.”

“'Tis a marvelous machine, Casey.”

“Definitely better than the toilet I showed you. Yuck!” Casey wrinkled her nose and picked up the picture book of
Treasure Island
that Joe had given her on her fourth birthday.

“Can I tell you some more of the story now?”

“Aye.”

Before Casey began, she plumped the pillow behind Mr. Farrell's head; then, climbing to the foot of the bed, she sat down cross-legged and began to mesmerize her listener.

“The old sea-dog was an awful man who did nothing but sit around the Admiral Benbow Inn drinking rum. Poor Jim Hawkins. It was his job to serve the captain his food, to help him up and down the stairs when he was too drunk to walk on his own. Most of the time, though, the old sea-dog just sat at the table telling stories, and running his finger up and down the big ugly cut on the side of his face.” Casey leaned forward and studied her pirate's face. “Robert Louis Stevenson didn't say what the cut looked like, but I figure it was just like yours.”

“Many a pirate had scars,” he told her, lightly drawing a finger over the curving one on his cheek. “Some were visible to everyone, but most were hidden deep inside,” he said, putting a hand over his heart.

“Do you have scars there?” Casey asked. Kate saw the deep sadness on his face, the same look of sorrow she'd seen when he'd mentioned his sister Melody.

“Aye,” he said softly, allowing a smile to return to his face. “But let us not talk of wounds that can't be healed. Tell me more of this Treasure Island.”

“Well,” Casey said, flipping to a page in the book she knew by heart, and continuing the story in her own words. “The old sea-dog wasn't a pretty sight, and he was awfully mean. People were scared of him because he yelled all the time, and because he talked about pirates and treasure, and about one-legged men who would run you
through without blinking an eye. But Jim Hawkins wasn't scared.”

Kate had been so intent on watching Casey while she'd told her tale that she hadn't noticed Mr. Farrell's eyes closing, until Casey crawled toward him and prodded his arm with tiny fingers. “Are you awake, Mr. Farrell?”

His eyes opened. “Aye.”

He smiled warmly, and that odd gentleness that didn't seem to match his outward appearance melted a little more of the animosity Kate felt toward him.

“You look like an old sea-dog,” Casey said, “but I'm not afraid of you.”

“I thank you, Mistress Casey,” he said, gently running a hand over her curls before it dropped weakly to his side.

“My Mommy's afraid of you. My Aunt Evie says that Mommy's scared of all men.”

“And why is that?”

“Because she's afraid of falling in love again. Aunt Evie says that's absolute nonsense. Do you think it's nonsense?”

Morgan Farrell tilted his head, looking directly at Kate, as if he'd known she'd been standing there all along. He didn't smile. He didn't frown. He just stared, and his gaze burned through her, warming her insides, making her tingle like an intoxicating drink of hot mulled wine.

He grasped the cross resting on his chest, and faced Casey again. “I do not believe it's nonsense. 'Tis painful to lose someone you love, far worse
than having your face carved with a knife.”

Casey leaned forward and innocently ran her finger lightly down his scar. “Did it hurt a lot?”

“Aye, Casey,” he said, and Kate knew he was thinking of his sister, not the injury to his face.

“'Twas the greatest pain I've ever known.”

K
ate sipped hot cocoa at the kitchen table, wishing she had someone to keep her company, but Evalena had spirited Casey off for an evening of fun and one of her midsummer slumber parties. Kate remembered them well—the food, the music, the dancing and games.

When she was lonely, she often remembered her first night with Evie, that summer in 1980 when, at the tender age of eight, the social worker had dropped her off at Evalena's door. She'd already lived in five other foster homes, and the moment she saw the fat old lady in fuzzy slippers and a brightly colored muumuu, she decided
there'd be at least one or two more. There was no way she was going to get stuck with a grandma type.

That afternoon they'd had a staring contest, Kate on one side of the drawing room, Evalena on the other. By evening Kate had relegated herself to one half of the crazy-looking loveseat, where she counted cupids while Evalena talked incessantly about her many husbands, her matchmaking abilities, and the absolutely luscious wedding cakes she made for all the people whose marriages she'd arranged.

At midnight, Evalena put a Perry Como record on the turntable, dragged a kicking kid into her roly-poly arms, and danced her around the room, hugging her tightly as she hummed with the music.

In the morning Evalena taught Kate how to make Mickey Mouse pancakes. By ten they were finger-painting on the kitchen floor. At noon they were making royal frosting roses to go on a four-tiered wedding cake, and by two Kate had decided Aunt Evie was worth her weight in gold, and that had to amount to close to a billion dollars.

Her worth had increased tenfold since then. She'd been Kate's mother, her sister, and her friend, and Casey's doting grandmother, and since Joe had died, Evie had easily recognized those moments when Kate needed time alone.

But she'd goofed tonight. Kate didn't want to be alone—not with Casey's pirate.

Directly above the kitchen, in the room where Morgan Farrell slept, the floorboards creaked and Kate heard the distinct sound of someone moving slowly across the floor. A moment later she heard water running down the pipes in the walls. It flowed for a good minute, then stopped. Again it rushed through the old copper tubing. And stopped.

After that, the toilet flushed. Not once, not twice, but three times.

She could hear the tub filling with water, the slippery sound of feet climbing into the ancient cast iron clawfoot, and the slosh of water.

Mentally she made a note to put more insulation in the walls and between the floors, then scratched it off her list. She couldn't afford the extravagance. The house needed a fresh coat of paint more than she needed the quiet.

Taking another sip of cocoa, she listened to the sound of a slick body rubbing against the tub, and couldn't help but imagine Morgan's wet, thoroughly naked physique filling the clawfoot. She saw his muscular chest and shoulders rising above the water like the mighty god Poseidon, rivulets of bath water dripping from his hair, over his pecs, over his small, hard nipples, and into the water, sending ripples across the surface.

Through the miniscule waves she could see his belly, firm and flat, the gathering of dark hair at his groin, and…she imagined other things that she dared not think of. Things she'd tried not to
look at when she'd removed his clothes, like the scar on his left hip, and—

“Good evening, madam.”

Kate jumped, startled by the sound of Morgan's voice. Cocoa sloshed out of her cup and onto the table, and she twisted around to see him standing in the doorway, his body naked except for the white towel clinging to his hips. His long hair was wet and little streams of water trickled down his chest—just as she'd envisioned, only the real thing was so much better.

She swallowed hard, drawing her cup close to her face to hide her sudden embarrassment.

“Pardon me, madam, but I seem to have misplaced my clothes.”

“I…I washed and ironed them,” she stammered, feeling like a schoolgirl who'd never seen a half-naked man. She took a deep breath, trying to regain her composure, and went to the room just off the kitchen to retrieve the stack of folded laundry.

“You look like you're feeling better,” she said nonchalantly, placing the clothes in his outstretched hands. “I imagine you're hungry. It's been days since you've had any real food.”

“Aye. It has been long since I had a woman for company, too.” He smiled, and the dimples at each side of his lips deepened. “You
will
keep me company, won't you, Kate?”

Absently her gaze traveled the length of his body, resting much too long on the damp towel. She nodded, slowly turning her attention to his
sparkling eyes. “Casey's at Evalena's for the night. I wouldn't mind someone to talk to.” Again her gaze drifted momentarily to the towel. “You'll get dressed first, won't you?”

“Aye.” He grinned, and without another word, strolled from the kitchen.

Kate leaned against the doorjamb, watching the play of muscles across his back, the tightness of every inch of his body, and for just one moment, she wished the towel would slip away. But it stayed in place, and all too soon he disappeared up the stairs.

Grabbing a damp rag from the sink, she wiped up the chocolate she'd spilled on the table and thought about spending the evening with Morgan Farrell. It had been two and a half years since she'd spent any time at all with a man. What would they talk about? What would they do?

She laughed to herself. They definitely wouldn't leave the house—not with him dressed as a pirate.

Pulling a plate of cold roast beef and a head of lettuce from the refrigerator, she stood at the kitchen counter fixing a thick sandwich. Her stomach growled, but at the moment she was too nervous to think about eating.

Nervous! Like a girl getting ready for her very first date, instead of a woman who'd been married and had a six-year-old daughter. Evalena would chuckle if she knew all the things going through her mind right now, like would he try to kiss her? Would he want more from her than polite conversation? Would he.…

Damn! This wasn't a date.

She tossed the rag into the sink and wiped her hands on her cutoffs. Ripped cutoffs! Ones with a nearly threadbare bottom. And her white cotton blouse had a splotch of spaghetti sauce on it, a definite reminder of a toddler's pudgy hand pressed close to her breast.

She couldn't spend the evening like this.

Racing from the kitchen to her bedroom, she tossed clothes everywhere as she rapidly looked for something to wear in her meager wardrobe. At the back of the closet she found a green silk shift. It was plain and simple. A little too short, maybe, and possibly a little too low in the front. But it was summertime in Florida. It was hot, humid, and…hell! She didn't need to make excuses.

She slid it over her head, shoved her feet into a pair of sandals, and hoped she could get back to the kitchen before Morgan did.

Throwing open her bedroom door, she rushed into the hall and collided with Casey's pirate.

Strong fingers wrapped around her upper arms, and she tilted her head to meet his smile.

“You look lovely, Kate.”

A flash of heat rushed to her cheeks. “Thank you.”

He leisurely took in the length of her body, from her eyes to her pink polished toenails, all the way back to her face, and she couldn't help but do the same to him.

His billowing white shirt laced only partially up
his chest with the ruby cross and bright gold chain shining against a backdrop of curly dark hair. Freshly washed and pressed gray trousers hugged his hips and thighs. Boots that glistened from several coats of black leather wax she'd applied embraced his legs and knees.

His face was cleanly shaven, his thick dark brown hair had been tied back at the nape of his neck, and his lips curved into a smile that filled her insides with sensations she knew she shouldn't be feeling—not with a near stranger.

A stranger who was the most handsome man she'd ever seen—and nothing at all like any man she'd ever desired.

She backed away from his hold and drew in a deep breath before nervously brushing past him. She had to get far away from her bedroom and back to the kitchen, which seemed a better place to hold a conversation with Morgan Farrell. He was too masculine for her own good.

“I made you a sandwich,” she said. “And my aunt brought over an apple pie.”

Again she felt his powerful hand seize her arm, and the squeeze of gentle fingers pulled her to a stop before she was halfway down the stairs. “Have I frightened you?” he asked, his voice, his touch, commanding her to turn around and look at him.

“No,” she said softly. “I'm just not used to having a man around—sick
or
healthy.”

“Your husband has been gone for some time, then?”

“Too long,” Kate admitted. “I've almost forgotten what to say or do when I keep a man company.”

“Be yourself, Kate. 'Tis your ability to say and do the first thing that comes into your head that I admire about you.”

She laughed. “I've always been a little impulsive. You could ask my aunt, even my sister-in-law, Nikki, and they'll tell you I have a tendency to rush into things.”

“'Tis my good fortune, men. I imagine if you'd given my situation any thought, I wouldn't be here now.”

“Probably not.” She smiled and continued down the stairs.

He followed her to the kitchen, ignoring the chair she pulled out for him. Instead, he lifted the sandwich from the plate and took a bite while walking around the room running his fingers over the glistening white refrigerator, the burners on the stove, and the blue tile countertop, as if he'd never seen such things before.

He turned the water on and off in the sink, and watched it slowly swirl down the drain. “There are many wondrous inventions in this home of yours,” he said. “I was particularly intrigued by the chamberpot that you call a toilet, and the levers on the walls that make light appear and disappear.”

“You aren't going to tell me you don't know about indoor plumbing or light fixtures, are you?”

“In my day we burned oil for light. Privies were
usually outside, or in a small closet in the bedroom. I much prefer this toilet of yours.”

She turned away, quickly taking a glass from a cupboard so he couldn't see her grin. Did he really believe he was from 1702?

“You must tell me more about the marvels of your century. I must know about the carriages that roll along the roads without horses to pull them, and the ships with wings I have seen flying through the sky.”

Flying ships? Carriages without horses? How long would he keep up this charade?

“What about TV?” she asked, setting down the empty glass. “I imagine that's new to you, too.” She flipped on the small television that sat on the counter, then watched the way Morgan frowned, totally intrigued by the flickering screen and the way it brightened when two people appeared before him.

“Bloody hell!”

Setting his unfinished sandwich on the counter, he crossed the kitchen in two long strides and touched the glass on the front of the TV, jerking his hand away when static snapped at his fingers. Cautiously he again reached for the glass, tracing a finger over the image of the female newscaster on the screen.

“Miniature people,” he whispered, moving so close that his nose nearly touched the television. He swept a hand over the top of the TV, around the sides. He peeked at the back, running his fingers along the cords that trailed from the set to
the antenna and electrical outlets on the wall.

How easy it would be to believe he'd never seen a television before, or a stove, or refrigerator, or running water.

Impossible
, she told herself.
Absolutely impossible
.

Again he stood in front of the television, then he turned to Kate, his blue eyes filled with confusion. “Can they see me?”

“No. They're miles away from here.”

“Then how do I see them? How do they get inside the box?”

“It's a television,” she said, pushing the channel selector, watching the bewilderment in his face as the picture continually changed. “You must have seen one before.”

“We did not have such a thing in my time,” he said flatly. He nudged her hand aside, putting his finger where hers had been. “What is this?”

She laughed. “A button. That one changes the channels. The ones beside it raise and lower the volume.”

He tested them all, jerking back when the sudden loudness nearly blasted them both from the room. His expression changed from a smile to a grin, and to amazement as the pictures changed from bathing beauties running on the beach to a couple kissing passionately to a high-speed car chase up and down the hills of San Francisco.

“Explain this television to me.”

“It's quite simple,” she lied. “A cameraman takes pictures of the actors, and then
poof!
They disintegrate into a zillion pieces that float through
the sky and suddenly appear on the TV screen.”

His smile disappeared. She could see the flex of muscle in his jaw as he gritted his teeth in annoyance. “I am not a child, Kate. I am a grown man who is quite capable of understanding the concepts of your time were I to be given a civil answer. Do you think I would ridicule you if you'd been sent to the past and found yourself confused by all you saw?”

She wasn't ridiculing him. Well, maybe a little, but how could he expect her to believe he'd never seen a television before? As for her going back in time, she didn't see where that would be a problem.

“There'd be nothing odd if I went to the past,” she answered. “I'd know how everything works.”

“Would you know how to turn tallow into candles to light the rooms of your home?”

“No.”

“Of course you wouldn't, because you have been spoiled by the inventions of your time. In the past you would not have had the luxury of hot bath water just by turning a knob. And, my dearest Kate, the chamberpot would not clean itself. If you did not have servants, you would have to carry it outside at least once a day. You could not light the rooms of your home simply by flipping a switch, and if you were far away from your loved ones, you could not speak with them on this marvelous telephone Casey has shown me.”