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 sheremembered 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.”
