Page 5 of Daredevil Lady and the Mysterious Millionaire (The Hidden Hearts Collection #3)

Two

T he breeze tossed dark 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 gentlemen 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, Erno 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 shirtwaist 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!”