She had been thrown clear of the gondola. But what of her passengers? Miss Glory? Erno? Reverend Allgood? Rory raised her head, attemping to call out their names, but her voice came out in a wheeze. God, how it hurt to talk, even to breathe. When she tried to move, everything hurt. She must have broken every bone in her body this time.
Rory blinked, shaking her head to clear it. She managed to get some air into her lungs in a few pain-wracked gulps and then raised herself up onto her elbows. She was alarmed to find herself draped by heavy yards of blue silk, but only for a moment. She had crept about beneath the balloon's envelope to attach rigging enough times that she did not feel unduly worried at the prospect of being smothered by the Katie Moira's collapsed weight.
She crawled forward, trying to find her fellow travelers. Perhaps she hadn't broken any bones after all. The chief hindrance to her movement was the damn dress, its folds tangling about her legs. It seemed to take forever to reach the edge of the balloon cover. She did not know whether to feel encouraged or alarmed when she did not encounter the forms of any of her passengers.
Beyond her, she became aware of muffled voices, the thud of running feet. Brushing aside the edge of the silk, she poked her head out and felt the welcome rush of cool air against her cheeks. As she struggled to rise, her hand came down upon the toe of a man's shoe. Her nose all but collided with a pair of legs encased in elegant gray trousers.
Hunkering back on her heels, she tipped her head up. There seemed no end to those long legs, but she did come eventually to large fists propped against flat hips, a silk waistcoat straining across a hard stomach and broad chest, a pin-striped coat set over powerful, squared shoulders.
Rory had a hazy memory of having glimpsed those shoulders, that tall frame before. Of course, he was the one who had tried to help by attempting to grab onto the balloon's tow line. But as Rory stared upward into the stranger's face, he did not look so helpful now. In fact he looked very much as if he were ready to murder her.
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 n
ow 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.