“You are not going to talk about my…my…” She winced slightly. “That is, you’re not going to?—”
“Talk about your biology? No. I’m not going to talk about that.” Jane’s relief was so palpable that Morgan did not point out that he had not promised to never talk about it. He did not believe he had offended her with his plain speaking, but it was clear that he had embarrassed her. He regretted that. He remembered the first time Zetta Lee Welling had explained the goings-on to him. He’d been embarrassed then, too, and Zetta Lee had seen it. She called him an ignorant no-account orphan son of a whore and slapped him so hard that all these years later he could still feel the heat of her palm. The only word that had stung was “ignorant.” He reckoned he couldn’t do anything about the others.
“Morgan?”
He came out of his reverie to find Jane searching his face.
“Are you blushing?”
He wasn’t, but he understood why she thought that. It was the scalding imprint of Zetta Lee’s heavy hand against his cheek that she was seeing. “I guess I am,” he said. “A man can be embarrassed by his rough edges.” She did a surprising thing then, and Morgan was so unprepared for it that he almost reared back. He did not though. He held himself very still while she laid her cool palm against his cheek and kept it there.
At first he suffered her touch. It was painful before it was healing, like alcohol in an open wound. He withstood it and it passed. She held his eyes. He never thought for a moment that it was the other way around. Curling his fingers around her wrist, he drew her hand to his mouth. He kissed the heart of her palm. He heard her take a sweet sip of air.
She asked, “Shall we go to bed, Mr. Longstreet?”
Morgan folded her hand in both of his and lowered it to his lap. “I think we should, Mrs. Longstreet. I really think we should.”
Jane’s eyes widened ever so slightly. “That’s your biology,” she said.
He grinned, released her hand, and stood. “It certainly is.” Giving her no chance to rise herself, Morgan cupped her elbows, drew her to her feet, and swung her into his arms.
She threw her arms around his neck. “What are you doing?”
“Testing the ribs.” He gave her a little bounce to prove he was better. Her squeak of surprise covered up his deeper groan. With her face buried against his shoulder, she also missed his grimace. He thought he might have pulled something, but he would be damned before he let her know. Better, he was realizing, was not the same as good as new. “See?”
Jane lifted her head. “Put me down.”
“I never carried you over the threshold. I should have done that.”
“We’re not going outside, are we?”
“No. The threshold to our bedroom will do.”
“Oh, thank goodness.” She made herself as small in his arms as possible so he could get her through the doorway without banging either one of them against the frame. “I am not so insubstantial as you thought,” she said as he carried her into the room. “Admit it.”
“I admit nothing.”
“That so?” She gave a little yelp as he pitched her on the bed. It was not a graceful landing. Jane scrambled to untwist her robe and push the hem of her nightgown over her bare knees.
“Take your time, Jane. I’m going to turn back the lamp in the front room, make sure there’s enough coal in the firebox to keep the chill out tonight, and wash up in the kitchen. That’ll give you enough time to work up a worry or two.”
“Perhaps I will just read,” she said primly.
“You could do that.” He started to leave, stopped, and turned to face her again. He cocked an eyebrow at her, gave her a considering look. “Or you could think about where I’m going to kiss you first. And here’s a hint: It’s not going to be on your mouth.” He grinned and ducked out of the room. He had already turned the corner when one of the bed pillows sailed through the doorway.
Once he was out of Jane’s sight, Morgan pressed his right forearm against his ribs and breathed in slowly. His bones crackled. He swore under his breath and then waited, half expecting Jane to have heard him. When no scold came, Morgan proceeded with the tasks he had named in the order that he had named them. He was washing at the kitchen sink, shirt open, suspenders hanging at his sides, thinking about where he was going to kiss Jane first, when the backdoor swung open.
Morgan’s fingers squeezed the bar of soap so tightly that it jumped out of his hand and into the sink. “No,” he said. Just that. No.
Jessop pulled the door closed and turned down the collar on his wool coat. “Warm in here. Feels good.”
Morgan’s eyes narrowed a fraction and he wondered if Jessop could feel that heat.
“Jem’s not back,” said Jessop. “You said to give him an hour and let you know if he wasn’t back. It’s been an hour and he isn’t.”
Morgan wrung out the washcloth and laid it over the lip of the sink. He pulled up his suspenders. “Who wants to go with me?”
“With you? Jake and me figured we would go together.”
