Brett reached behind Serena’s head to elevate it and touched the rim of the glass to her cold lips, urging her to drink. Serena coughed, recoiled, and finally managed two sips before she choked in a raspy voice. "God that stuff is awful, Harriet."
Sagging against the doorframe, Harriet swiped back her drenched hair and snorted.
"Morse doesn’t seem to have a problem with it." To confirm this, she peered around the corner into the living room, and snickered at the sight.
Dark eyes blinked several times and then grew more luminous as they anxiously sought out Brett. "Morse?" Serena mouthed.
"Like it or not, honey, he saved our lives."
"Why?" She struggled to sit up, but Brett’s fingers gentled her back against him.
"It’s a story we’ll share later when you’re up to it." His voice was rough. "But maybe the guy isn’t so bad after all."
Serena dragged her hand out of its confines so she could touch Brett’s chest.
Solid. Real.
A strobe-like image of him immersed beneath a wave made her shudder. Questions assaulted her with the same relentless precision as the rolling ocean.
Harriet slipped from the room, but her brash voice could be heard mingling with the low timbre of Morse’s as they debated the scope of the nor’easter.
"Brett?"
Oh God, the pain she detected in his eyes. She wanted to hold him. To reassure him.
Her arms dislodged from the blankets to encircle his neck, feeling the cool flesh grow warm beneath her touch.
Forget the blankets, she thought. This was what would thaw them. She hugged Brett even tighter, feeling his arms encircle her and his head dip into the crook of her shoulder.
"Oh, baby." His voice was husky. "I thought I was going to lose you. I didn’t know where you were, or if I’d get to you in time," he growled into her neck. "When I went back to the kitchen and you were gone—I should have gone back there sooner. I wanted to. I wanted to say I was sorry—"
Cool lips touched Brett’s. He responded more harshly than intended, but the need to feel Serena alive overwhelmed him. He took her mouth and infused it with heat, tasting the sea and the sultry tang of brandy. Gentling to a soft kiss, he drew back and brushed his lips against Serena’s furrowed brow.
"Sorry?" she whispered. "For what?"
His forehead touched hers. He closed his eyes. "Sorry about the comment about you getting pregnant. I didn’t mean to hurt you, I was being selfish. I don’t know—" he hesitated, "somehow I thought—if that were the case, you’d stay with me."
He opened his eyes again and saw the moisture pooling in Serena’s. Her hands reached up to cup his face as she pulled back to look at him in that wholly encompassing way that made him feel exposed to the core.
Then she smiled.
"How are you two doing? Oh, sorry." Cheeks flushed, Harriet bustled over to the nightstand and poured more brandy into the near empty glass.
"Please Harriet, no more." Serena pleaded with a laugh.
Glancing over Harriet’s shoulder, Serena frowned and dug her fingers into Brett’s arm. With a muffled gasp she acknowledged the brooding figure whose shoulder rested against the doorjamb.
Morse tipped his head. "Feeling better?"
Serena slanted a quick look at Brett and found assurance there. So much so, that she didn’t want to leave his face. She wanted to trace the stark jaw, the shadow of his stubble…to bask in the warm eyes that made the winter recede. She wanted to touch his hair—the damp, dark ends that curled up above his ears.
Instead, she addressed Morse. "Yes. I—I understand I owe you my life. I-I don’t know how to thank you for that."
Morse hefted off the doorframe and snorted, dismissing the gratitude with a wave of his hand. "Hey, I just drove the boat. This guy did all the dirty work. I thought you were both a goner personally, but he somehow managed to disarm Simon—"
Serena’s gasp echoed in the tiny room. Recollection flooded as swift and devastating as the sea.
"Oh my God—Simon!"
It still staggered her−the look of hatred in the eyes of a man she had known for years. He was going to kill her. He had killed Alan. And the gun, it was aimed at Brett, only Brett and Simon both went overboard—
"W-what happened?" Disjointed images had her scrambling to touch Brett and ensure that he was alive.
No more ghosts.
"I saw you both go under," she choked.
"Morse dragged me out of the ocean. He had a handful because I wanted to go back in to find you." Brett cleared his throat. "I couldn’t see you. You went under and I was scared to death, and then I saw your hand and I had a hold of your shirt—"
"Simon?" she trembled.
"We circled around, but never found him."
For some reason, she felt an overwhelming sense of loss. Simon had murdered her husband and attempted the same with Brett and yet she still mourned him.
Perhaps it was just like Alan, mourning the young man she once knew, and not the creature he had become.
Nodding in mortal acceptance, Serena smiled at the tall figure looming in the doorway. "Stop by O’Flanagans, Morse. The next drink is on me."
"I’ll be sure to take you up on that." Morse tipped his head and retreated to the living room.
"You okay, Rena?" The gravity of the night settled on Harriet’s face, making the deep laugh lines all the more prevalent.
"Yes. I’m feeling much better." As she said it, Serena truly believed the testimony. Her head rested against Brett’s shoulder as his arm tightened around her.
"Umm, Ms. Morgan," Brett spoke, stirring Serena’s hair, "I owe you some gratitude—I mean besides the obvious."
Harriet’s gray eyebrow arched.
"The five dollar fish bait you sold me," he explained, "it came in real handy."
Perplexed, but caught up in his confident grin, Harriet cleared her throat. "That’s good." She started to retreat from the room, but halted just outside the doorway.
"Oh, Murphy," she paused. "Call me Harriet."
Silence.
Listening to the groan of heaving boats against the pier it seemed the ferocity of the storm had died down. Serena rested against Brett’s bare shoulder, tugging the blanket about him. She touched her lips to his throat and felt his pulse beat.
"When I was underwater," she whispered against that steady rhythm, "I heard a child crying."
A concerned protest sounded on his lips, but she reached up and hushed it with her fingertips. "I realized something, and it’s something I’m going to need your help with."
"Anything." His voice was hoarse.
"I want a baby, Brett." Serena lifted her head to meet his eyes. "I want your baby."
Aware of a flash of pain in his eyes, she watched his meditative nod.
"I think I can try and help you with that," he said.
Just the thought warmed her from the inside out. Brett’s baby. Brett helping her to make the baby. Love welled up so much inside her, it bubbled onto her cheeks in thick drops.
Quiet again; content to simply hold him, Serena stroked her fingers across his chest. There was such fascinating diversity between the muscular hills and well sculpted valleys. Brett was as rugged and strong as Victory Cove’s mighty cliffs. But unlike those soaring precipices, he gave more than he took.
Glancing at her hand, a sad smile tugged on Serena’s mouth. "I must have lost my ring out there."
Brett reached for her fingers, dusting his lips over the knuckles. He took a deep breath and whispered, "I’ll get you another one."
Maybe it was not how he had wanted to phrase it, but feeling Serena’s body stiffen, Brett cursed his tactless proposal.
"Doesn’t it bother you?" Serena looked up at him. "For the past ten years I’ve been married to your brother. Doesn’t that upset you?"
Brett adjusted the mound of blankets so that Serena was securely sheltered. In doing so, he shifted from her side and sat hunched forward with his elbows on his knee
s, his head clutched in his hands.
Did it bother him?
Sure it did. He’d be inhuman if he admitted otherwise. But knowing Alan as he did enabled Brett to understand what Serena had been going through for all those years. It gave him insight into her character, and offered a glimpse of what might have been if he had run away with her on that autumn day ten years ago. Yes, he would have loved her. But could he have possibly respected her as much as he did at this moment?
"I’m not going to tell you I want to make a habit of flipping through your wedding album." Sitting up, turning towards the elfin figure gathered in a cloak of cotton, Brett grinned.
"But," he sobered. "I’m not going to deny that I’m in love with you, Serena. Whatever the past was—it was the past."
Tremulous fingers grazed along his temple. They brushed phantomlike over the injury concealed beneath his hair. "I love you, Brett."
He looked at her a long time before he asked, "Is that enough? You sound so sad when you say it."
"It is sad how we came together."
When he tried to interrupt, Serena’s finger swept down to his lips, silencing him.
"But it won’t always be," she vowed. "And I know that I’m not going to bear my grief alone. I know that I have a shoulder to cry on, and I hope for the privilege to offer you that same compassion. So yes, maybe I was sad in the past, but—" she smiled with confidence, "all that matters to me is this moment, and all the millions of moments after it."
Brett’s hand linked with Serena’s as he brought it to his lips, closing his eyes to the poignant emotions she evoked.
He leaned forward and kissed the corner of her mouth. "Well, let’s start with this moment," he murmured, "and make it memorable."
His lips returned for a slow sweep, tasting the smooth trace of brandy on her smile. He cupped Serena’s face in both hands and angled in for a deeper sip. He kissed her like he wanted to the first night he met her, and he kissed her with a hunger to make up for the decade they had missed. And only when he felt his name expelled from her lips did he draw back.
Somehow, when he listened to Serena say his name with reverence and love in that brief oath, the rest of the world vanished.
"I love you so damn much," his voice was rough.
Her eyes welled with tears. "What one miraculous thing did I do to deserve you?"
Brett pulled back. Silent for a moment, he finally declared, "You smiled."
Serena’s lips curled up. "Plenty of women smile at you."
Dipping down to touch his mouth to hers, he whispered, "None of them could ever paralyze me with their eyes."
"Your opinion sounds biased, but I like it."
Again his mouth took Serena’s, and again he raised from that kiss enough to declare, "None of them ever tasted like you."
"Do you know what you did to make me fall in love with you?" she asked quietly.
"No. Not in the least."
Earnest in what she wanted to convey, Serena’s fingers bit into his forearm. "You chased my ghosts away."
"No, honey," A wrench in his chest made him wince. "You did that yourself."
The glow of unshed tears sparkled in Serena’s eyes. "Okay," she yielded, "you washed dishes."
Brett laughed.
Serena’s smile fell. When she spoke, it was so quiet he had to strain to hear her.
"You kissed me." There was no levity to her tone.
"That night when I heard the baby laughing. When I thought I had finally gone completely mad—" Serena hesitated. "You kissed me. And you didn’t stop. You thought I didn’t know what was happening. You thought I couldn’t feel that." She shook her head. "You kissed me until there were no ghosts—" a tear started to slip onto her cheek, "—just you."
Brett drew her tighter into his embrace, and dipped his head into her hair, smelling the sea.
"Serena," he choked. "Oh God, what you’ve been through."
Serena rested her cheek against the warm skin at the curve of his throat. She felt safe. The steady beat of his heart was stabilizing−a constant rhythm that communicated his love for her. Her fingers curled beneath the blanket to touch the sustaining cadence.
"Kiss me again, Brett," she whispered.
She tipped her head back to look up at Brett and met those steady gray eyes.
Once she had thought she saw storm clouds churning there.
Now, when Brett smiled, Serena saw the sun rise.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Maureen A. Miller is the author of several romantic suspense novels, JUNGLE OF DECEIT, ENDLESS NIGHT and WIDOW’S TALE.
WIDOW'S TALE was nominated by the Romance Writers of America for a Golden Heart Award in the Romantic Suspense category.
Working in the software industry for fifteen years, in a job that required extensive travel. Instead of reading during all those lengthy airport layovers, Maureen chose to write. Escapism at its best. Six novels were produced in those years of travel.
Currently, Maureen is hard at work on, another romantic thriller set in Maine.
For more information on Maureen A. Miller, please visit www.maureenamiller.com
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