CHAPTER TWO

 

The breeze tossed sable strands of hair across the man’s forehead, but it did nothing to soften his harsh expression. Rory took brief note of his inflexible jaw, his slightly crooked nose, his heavy black brows drawn together, but it was his eyes that caught and held her. Dark eyes, magnetic eyes, roiling-with-fury eyes. The mere contact of his gaze made Rory feel as though she had crashed all over again.

He reminded her of a thunder god she had once read about in school—that is until Sister Mary Margaret had caught Rory and rapped her knuckles for studying myths instead of her catechism.

When the man bent down and reached for her, Rory shrank back instinctively. His hands caught her about the waist and hauled her to her feet, not ungently but in a manner that brooked no resistance.

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."

He studied her as though he were having his first good look, and Rory realized with dismay that he probably was. Her damp gown outlined to perfection her breasts and the curve of her hips.

"Come on," he said. "You'd better get out of those clothes."

The statement sounded harmless enough, merely a civil suggestion. Why then did she have this feeling that Zeke Morrison should have his face slapped? He wasn't doing anything, only looking.

Rory crossed her arms protectively in front of herself. "I don't want to cause you any more bother. I am sure my assistants will track me here from the fairgrounds. We'll move the balloon and try to set your lawn to rights. Of course I will pay-"

Even as she started to promise, Rory wondered how she was ever going to do so. She bit down on her lip. The cost of the damages would likely bankrupt her.

"Don't worry about that," Zeke said. "I am sure we can work something out."

His voice softened with the barest hint of suggestion, and Rory drew back in alarm. Just what did he have in mind?

Before she could protest any further, they were interrupted.

"Mr. Morrison," the butler announced. "The police have arrived."

Rory felt her heart skip and Morrison swore.

"They didn't get here so fast last fall when I caught that burglar breaking into my safe." He gave a sigh of pure annoyance. "Never mind, Wellington. I'll meet with them in my study. You look after Miss Kavanaugh."

"But what about my passengers and my balloon?" Rory protested. "1 really can't just-"

"I'll see to everything. You just run along like a good girl and do what you're told," Morrison said, striding away. He paused long enough to instruct his butler. "Send one of the maids to help Miss Kavanaugh out of her clothes. I'll be right back."

"Mr. Morrison!" Rory cried.

But having given these peremptory commands, Morrison was gone. She wanted to charge after him, inform him that she didn't take orders as readily as his servants did. Yet it didn’t seem prudent to antagonize a man who had gone to confront the police on her behalf.

Rory raked her fingers through her damp hair in frustration. She sensed Morrison's butler staring at her and whipped about to face him. If the man had been wearing a smirk, he was quick to stow it behind a deferential mask.

"If you would he pleased to follow me, miss."

Rory wasn't pleased, but she didn’t see what else she could do. She had no doubt that Tony was tracking the course of the balloon, probably half out of his mind with worry. But it might be hours before he found her, what with having to bring the wagon back across on the ferry, and make his way through the uptown traffic.

In the meantime, she could not just stand here, dripping water onto Morrison's carpet.

"Lead on," she said to the butler with a gesture of weary assent.

As she hobbled up the stairs after him, Rory had to grit her teeth. The endless rise of marble did her ankle no good at all. She was almost sorry she had refused to let Morrison carry her.

She sighed with relief when they reached the upper landing. The butler opened one of the imposing doors that lined the hall and bowed her inside.

Rory stepped cautiously across the threshold, schooling her jaw not to drop open at the sight of the mauve and gilt bedchamber sprawled before her. An array of paintings, which would have looked more at home in an art gallery, hung on the walls. At the room's center stood a massive four-poster bed raised up on a dais. It could have been the state chamber of a king.

"Listen," Rory said. "Isn't there any place in this house a little less overwhelming? Maybe I could go down and sit by the fire in the kitchen."

But she discovered she was talking to herself. Wellington had already disappeared, discreetly closing the door behind him. Rory could only shake her head over the behavior of Zeke Morrison. One minute the fellow had been threatening to throw her into the street, and the next he was having her ushered into a chamber like this as though she were an honored guest. Well, she had always heard that millionaires were eccentric.

Before Rory had an opportunity to take further stock of her surroundings, the door opened again to admit two maids in starched aprons. Rory assumed they had come merely to light the fire in the grate for her, but she quickly realized the young women had other plans.

One bobbed into a brief curtsey and then moved to deal with the hooks on the back of Rory's gown. "Let me help you out of your wet things, madam. Maisie will draw your bath."

Madam? Her bath?

"Wait a minute," Rory ducked away from the girl. "I didn't exactly bring a change of clothing with me."

"We will provide madam with a robe while your gown is dried and mended."

"But I'm not one of the guests here-." Rory's protest died as she caught her first glimpse of the bathroom. The girl called Maisie was laying out thick towels while a cloud of steam rose from the largest clawfoot tub Rory had ever seen. Two people could have stretched out in it, side by side. And the water poured forth from a golden tap.

It was a far cry from her own chipped enamel basin, where she sat with her knees practically tucked up to her chin. Rory fretted her lower lip.

No, she couldn't. She should only be thinking of packing up her balloon and getting out of here. After the way she had wreaked havoc on Morrison's lawn and then quarreled with him, it wasn’t right to be accepting any favors from him.

Yet what could a bath matter to him? He was clearly as rich as Diamond Jim Brady. He probably had tubs like this in every room. And who knew when Tony would get here? They could not the balloon anyway until the storm passed.

Rory inched nearer the tub, trailing her fingers in the water. The steaming hot liquid felt as seductive as a caress. Every one of her aching muscles seemed to cry out to her, urging her on.

"Oh, what the hell," she muttered.

She permitted the maid to help her undress without further argument. The two girls gathered up her discarded clothing and left. But Rory hardly noticed their brisk departure as she eased herself down into the bathtub, closing her eyes in pure ecstasy.

"Ahhh!" Rory leaned her head back, resting it against the porcelain rim. She stretched out for a time, enjoying a blissful soak. Even her ankle began to feel better. With great reluctance, she forced her eyes open and reached for the bar of soap.

As she lathered her legs, she still marveled at the size of the tub. Her toes couldn't even touch the other side. Morrison probably had everything in the house designed to fit his own towering proportions.

She had no difficulty picturing him sprawled in the depths of a tub like this one, the way the dark damp hair would curl on the expanse of his broad chest, the water lapping against the tautly honed muscles of his belly and lower-

Rory checked her wayward imagination with a hot blush. What was the matter with her? She didn't usually go about conjuring up images of naked men. She began to scrub herself more vigorously, attempting to blot all idea of Zeke Morrison from her mind. But once she had allowed him to invade her thoughts, she couldn't seem to be rid of the man.

What a strange fellow he was. He didn't fit her notions of a millionaire, the kind Angelo was always reading about to her from the newspaper, who had a house on Fifth Avenue, racing yachts at Newport, a box at the Opera. With his quick temper, his hearty laugh and his burly shoulders, Zeke reminded her more of a stevedore or a wagon driver, rubbing down his horses, hanging about Tony Pascal's music hall, getting into fights of a Saturday night.

From his snapping dark eyes to that rock-hard jaw, the man bore an intensity about him that had made all those sedate guests of his seem as faded as last summer's flowers. And what was his connection to that Van Hallsburg woman, an icicle if Rory had ever seen one?

Obviously some sort of intimacy existed between them. Could she possibly be his mistress? Rory found the thought disturbing, even more than that—repulsive.

But the woman must be well acquainted with Zeke to attempt handing out orders in his house. Mrs. Van Hallsburg might be belowstairs even now arguing that Rory should be turned over to the police. Perhaps Zeke might listen. No. Quick-tempered Morrison might be, but somehow Rory could tell there was nothing mean-spirited Or vindictive about him. On the other hand, that Mrs. Van Hallsburg-.

A shudder coursed through Rory and her bath no longer seemed quite so soothing. The water had grown tepid. Clambering out of the tub, she toweled herself dry. Gingerly she tested her ankle, putting her full weight on it. It was still sore, but at least somewhat better.

She reached for the satiny robe the maid had provided and shrugged herself into it, belting the sash about her waist. The garment, with its batwing sleeves, was in pristine condition, likely never worn and purchased solely for the intention of entertaining the casual overnight guest.

Imagine anyone being that rich they could hand out spare robes like bonbons. For a moment, Rory felt a twinge of wistfulness. Not that she envied Morrison the splendors of his mansion or even that fantastic bathtub. But she bet what he had spent furnishing this one room alone would have been enough to save her company.

Morrison could probably finance a dozen balloon companies if he wanted to. Pity she had made such a terrible first impression on him. She could well imagine what his reaction would be if she attempted to sound him out as a possible investor in the Transcontinental Balloon Company.

Now that you have seen exactly what balloons can do, Mr. Morrison

He would either laugh in her face or toss her into the street for sure. With a rueful grin, Rory banished the absurd notion from her mind.

Making certain the robe was secured, she crept out into the bedchamber. Neither of the maids had returned, but it was unreasonable to expect them to have dried out her gown so soon.

Still, as the minutes ticked by, Rory came to regret her decision to part with her clothes. Being decked out in only the robe kept her a virtual prisoner in the bedchamber. The waiting began to seem interminable, and she grew anxious, noting the deep hues of twilight gathering outside the window, the way the rain still pelted against the glass.

What if Tony couldn't find her? No, she was being silly. Tony always managed to track the course of the balloon.

To occupy her time, Rory paced about studying the room's pictures, furnishings and especially that mammoth bed beneath its canopy. Lord almighty, how did anyone ever sleep on such a thing? It would be like cuddling up for a nap inside of a museum. Rory stole a half-guilty glance about her. Although she felt like an urchin sneaking about in a palace, she couldn't resist.

She boosted herself up onto the bed and sat down, testing the springs with a small bounce. The mattress was firm, much more so than her own bed, worn so comfortably to the contours of her body.

Rory stretched herself out flat, arms at her sides, the brocade coverlet stiff beneath her. She stared up at the canopy looming over her head. This bed would definitely not be conducive to a good night's rest.

But having assured herself that it was a thoroughly wretched place to sleep, Rory was reluctant to move.

She hadn't realized until this moment just how tired she was. What a horror the day had been. She would be lucky if Dutton still paid her for that disastrous balloon flight. She would be lucky if she could mend the Katie Moira. She would be lucky if she didn't lose her balloon company after all.

Well, then, if luck was what it would take, so be it. If she believed hard enough, she would always find a way. The eternal optimism of the Kavanaughs. It was the one legacy Da had left her that would endure forever.

Smiling at the thought, Rory felt her eyes drifting closed and jerked them open. She really should stay awake. She would be embarrassed to death if anyone found her testing out the mattress. What if it should be Wellington or worse yet Morrison himself?

Here she would be curled up in bed, clad in nothing but this clinging robe. The thought disturbed her enough that she struggled into a sitting position. She remembered that that unexpected warmth in Morrison's eyes when he had gazed at her earlier.

What if he had planned this whole thing, to get her upstairs and in bed undressed? What did she know about the man really? No more than the rest of the world. Even the newspapers had dubbed him a man of mystery.

But she knew plenty about Rory Kavanaugh. For one thing, she couldn't imagine herself the object of any man's lust, especially not as she must have appeared to Morrison, about as desirable as a wet mongrel fished from the gutter. And for another, she knew she could handle any masher. Sometimes the lads who hung about her warehouse got a little fresh and she was quick to put them in their place.

Dismissing her fears as ridiculous, Rory yawned and lay back down. The thought did surface that Zeke Morrison might not be so easy to handle as the dockside boys, but Rory gave it only brief and drowsy consideration. Besides, it didn’t matter. Morrison wasn't going to catch her in bed. No one was. In another few minutes, she was going to move. In another few minutes, she would thrust her head out into the hall and shout for the maid. In another few minutes. . .

In less time than that, Rory was fast asleep.