Morgan's Marriage

by Lindsay McKenna

  “Do you hear me, Morgan? Can you nod your head yes?” She watched for a reaction, but saw none. Concerned, Laura felt a sudden stab of terror. Gently, she ran her fingers up his hand and across his arm. “Morgan? Can you feel me touching you?”

  There was no response, only that unsettling, unwavering gaze.

  Worriedly, Laura captured one of his hands between hers. “Morgan, I know you’re just coming out of the coma. Ann said you might not hear or see everything just yet, that you might drift in and out of consciousness. But, darling, if you hear my voice, please squeeze my hand.” Her heart rate soared powerfully as she waited precious moments, aching to feel his fingers move against hers. Morgan’s stare never changed. His gray eyes appeared so cloudy. Oh, please, dear God, let him hear me!

  Just as a scream threatened to unknot in her tightened throat, Laura felt Morgan’s fingers curve ever so slightly against hers. With a sob of relief, she clutched his hand to her breast. “Oh, thank God,” she whispered brokenly. Bowing her head, she pressed small kisses against his injured hand. “I love you, Morgan. I love you so much. I just want you to get well. That’s all. I’d sell my soul to the devil himself to see you get up, walk and talk again, darling.” Hot tears trickled down her cheeks, dampening not only her fingers, but Morgan’s as well.

  Gently, Laura pressed his hand against her cheek as she gazed at him through tear-filled eyes. “I love you with my life, Morgan. The children miss you so much. Your family…your friends. Everyone wants you to be well. Please, darling, keep fighting to come back to us. So many people love you….”

  Laura saw his eyes change. It wasn’t anything obvious, yet because she was not only sensitive, but intuitive to his emotions after seven years of marriage, she felt the subtle shift. For a split second, it seemed as if the cloudiness in his eyes cleared and he was truly with her. Kissing his fingers, she smiled down at him and pressed his hand back against his blanketed chest. “What?” she whispered, leaning down as he began working his mouth as if to speak. “What is it, Morgan? Tell me. I’ll hear you….”

  Morgan struggled, his lips seeming to have a life of their own as he tried to shape the words ringing through the nearly empty halls of his mind.

  Her smile brightened, and Laura grazed his cheek with her hand. “I’m here, darling. Don’t fight so hard. Save your strength. You’re getting well. You’re back with us. I love you so very, very much….” Her hand stilled on his cheek. Morgan struggled more, and she saw it now, clearly, in eyes. They had sharpened in their focus on her, the pupils larger and black—containing some of their old hawklike intensity.

  “What?” she whispered, leaning very close to his lips as sounds began to issue forth.

  “…Who…”

  “Yes?” Laura prompted, excitement in her voice. She’d actually heard the word! “Who?”

  Morgan’s breath came raggedly as he tried to capture the fragmented sensations and tie them to the correct words. He felt the warmth of her hands on his, felt the warm silk of her hair against his jaw. He had to speak! Beads of perspiration formed on his brow as he struggled to corral the words that danced just out of his gyrating mind’s reach. Her laughter was spontaneous. When he saw her lift her head, her clear blue eyes shining with happiness, Morgan absorbed her like sunshine.

  “Who…” he managed to say at last, his voice rasping hoarsely, “are you?”

  Chapter 3

  Morgan watched the blond woman’s face, glad he’d finally managed to force out the words. His mind was spongy and shorting out. It had taken every last ounce of his diminishing strength to speak. He had so many questions, but was too weak to ask them.

  Collapsing against the bed, his head sinking deeply into the pillow after his efforts, he struggled to stay awake, noting the tears that had come to the woman’s huge blue eyes. Why? She was beautiful, with a proud quality to the way she held her shoulders and lifted her small chin. Tiny. She was tiny—like a bird.

  His lashes drifted shut and he felt himself spiraling back into the darkness. Felt the return of panic. He didn’t want to go back to that nightmarish collage of blood, tortured screams and pain. He couldn’t stand it anymore. Fighting to remain awake, he felt a warm, trembling touch on his hand. It was her. Momentarily, his world stopped spinning as he used every vestige of his dissolving consciousness to home in on her tentative but tender touch. The touch of a healer. A nurse. Maybe she was a nurse, though she wore no uniform.

  Nothing made sense. He opened his mouth to protest against his exhaustion and pain. He wanted so desperately to stay awake—to find out who he was, and where he was! In the end, Morgan couldn’t win the battle, and sleep claimed him.

  The next time he awoke, it was dark outside. He was relieved to again escape the terror that plagued him. His tortured sleep had left him sweaty, and he could feel rivulets making their way down his temples. Weakly he lifted his hand to wipe them away—and realized he was trussed up with tubes and wires like a Christmas turkey. Awkwardly, he lifted his hand to wipe at the sweat. The gesture caused him immediate pain. Confused, he looked at his hand to see why such a small gesture would cause such agony, and was astounded to see that his fingernails were gone, the flesh darkened and ravaged looking as it healed over to create new nails.

  What the hell had happened to him? With minute awareness, he began to assess the rest of his body. No matter where he focused, he was either sore and aching or became so if he moved slightly. Had he been in some kind of accident? Opening his eyes wide, he began to absorb his surroundings. A light blue room with stainless steel furniture met his bleary gaze, the venetian blinds open on a night sky.

  Sounds began to impinge upon his limited consciousness—muffled voices outside his room. He was in a hospital; he could see that. His brow furrowed. Where was the blond woman? He pictured her thick, golden hair and how it curved to frame her small, pretty features. Then he recalled the hurt in her expression when he’d asked who she was.

  His mouth felt cottony, and he longed for a glass of icy cold water. What time was it? Where was he? The questions nagged him as he lay there, needing to talk to someone. The door quietly opened, and his heart gave a powerful leap. The blond woman! A thrill raced through him. Morgan was stymied by his intense response to this stranger. This time, she wore a soft pink, cowl-necked angora sweater and black slacks. The pale shade of the sweater highlighted her wan features, and Morgan saw the telltale purple circles beneath her glorious eyes. He sensed an incredible sadness around the woman as she closed the door behind her.

  When she turned and saw that he was awake, she became rooted to the spot. He felt the intensity of her gaze, saw hope flare in those wonderful eyes of hers that couldn’t hide her feelings. Morgan felt like an intruder as he clung to that gaze. She wore her vulnerability on her sleeve, and he could not only see her emotions register but feel them, too. It was a startling discovery, almost as if he were a mind reader privy to this woman’s inner world. Momentarily embarrassed, he tore his gaze from hers.

  “Water…” he rasped.

  “What?”

  Morgan made the effort to look at her again. She moved almost robotically toward him, anxiety plain on her fine features. Working to make his lips move again, he whispered, “Water…please…”

  She moved jerkily. “Water. Yes…hold on a moment.” She reached for the plastic container and poured him a glass.

  Morgan didn’t know which he wanted more—her touch or the water. He remembered her tender caress from before. How long ago had that been? Time was meaningless to him. He tried to sit up, but his efforts were short-lived. As she came to his bedside, she leaned over him, and he inhaled deeply, savoring the fragrance of camellia. When she slid her arm beneath his sweaty neck, Morgan groaned. It was a groan of pleasure, but she must not have realized it, because she stopped and stiffened.

  “It’s…okay….” he assured her gruffly, struggling to rise enough to drink.

  “Take it easy,” she urged a little breathlessly, co
ntinuing to slide her arm around his neck and lift him enough to press the rim of the glass to his lips.

  The water was heavenly. He slurped it down like a man too long in the desert. Wildly aware of her soft, strong body supporting his, Morgan was content to rest his head against her. This woman was soft, yet strong. She gave him three glasses of water before his thirst was sated. As she eased him back down on the bed and nervously fluffed the pillow around his head, he studied her from barely opened eyes.

  “You…smell good…. Better than this damned hospital….”

  She stopped fluffing his pillow and stared down at him. “It’s camellia. Your favorite perfume.”

  Morgan frowned. “Mine?” His voice was rough from disuse, and words wouldn’t flow together like he wanted them to. He saw pain in her eyes, and her soft lips compressed.

  “Do you know who I am?” she asked, her voice shaking with emotion.

  Morgan watched her steel herself against his answer. Her fingers rested tentatively against the edge of his bed, and she held herself almost rigid, waiting for him to speak. “I…no, I don’t know you. I…remember you from another time when you were in here, though. A-are you a nurse?”

  “No, I’m not part of the hospital staff,” she quavered. “Do you know who you are?”

  Morgan scowled and closed his eyes. Who was he? Opening his lashes, he stared up at her. “You called me Morgan. I guess I’m Morgan.”

  “D-do you know your last name?”

  He rolled his head slowly from side to side. “I’m sorry…I don’t. And I don’t know where I am. Or how I got here.” He studied her. “Where am I? And who are you?”

  “I’m Laura Trayhern. You’re Morgan Trayhern. You’re at BethesdaNavalHospital, in Maryland.”

  The information was coming too fast. He tried to digest it but didn’t succeed. The obvious hurt in Laura’s voice tore at him. He saw tears form in her eyes—saw her battling to keep them from spilling down her pale cheeks. Her beautiful mouth was pulled into a tight line of suffering that touched some deep, unknown chord within him.

  His name was Morgan Trayhern. She was Laura Trayhern. He studied her in the tense silence. “Are you my sister?”

  “I—no, I’m not, Morgan. I’m your wife….”

  He stared at her, shocked. He saw such anguish in her eyes, and he longed to ease that pain. But how? Nervously, she clasped her hands in front of her and bowed her head. Why couldn’t he remember such an important thing? Stunned by the information and feeling her pain, he muttered, “How long have we been—married?”

  Laura lifted her head, fighting the urge to shriek out her grief. She saw the genuine confusion in Morgan’s features. “Seven years, Morgan.” She watched the information strike him as surely as if she’d hit him with her fist. It was shock, not joy, that registered in his eyes. A sob lodged in her throat, and she swallowed hard. Right now, Morgan didn’t need her tears. He needed answers. Maybe Dr. Parsons was right: they should give Morgan the information as he asked for it. Perhaps it would stimulate memories—if any were left undestroyed by the drugs. Oh, what if Morgan never remembered who she was or what they’d shared?

  Laura felt such a gutting pain surge through her that for a moment she couldn’t breathe. Three days ago, Morgan had awakened from his coma and haltingly asked who she was. Now he was fully conscious and able to speak coherently, and she should be grateful—but she was living in a nightmare where her carefully knit strands of hope were unraveling before her eyes. He didn’t know her. He didn’t remember their love. Or their marriage.

  Through a sheer effort of will, she forced herself to put her own suffering aside and focus on Morgan. He was extremely pale, but his strength had improved noticeably, and his gray eyes, once so cloudy, held more of their old sharpness. Laura knew he was still emerging from the drugged state, but at least he was functioning, and for that she had to be grateful. She ached to reach over, caress his shaven features, kiss him and tell him of her great love for him. But she could tell by his stymied expression that he wouldn’t accept her gesture. He was staring at her with bewilderment—as if she were a total stranger.

  “How did I get here?” he demanded, his voice stronger.

  Laura brought over a chair and sat down. Ann had told her to answer whatever questions Morgan had—thoroughly, but slowly, so that the information could be absorbed. “You own Perseus, Morgan. It’s a company that hires mercenaries to undertake jobs around the world. Many times you’ve worked with our government—or with another country’s government—to help people who are being held prisoner or in some other kind of danger.”

  Laura saw his black eyebrows knit as he digested the information, and prayed that something—anything—she told him would spark a latent memory within him. She needed a sign that some remnant of his former life—of her and their children—remained. Her palms were damp as she continued. “You’ve owned the company for seven years. Three months ago, you and I, and our son, Jason, were kidnapped by a drug lord named Ramirez.” Her voice faltered and became strained. “Jake Randolph, one of your employees, took up the reins of Perseus in your absence. With the help of the government, he located us, one by one. I was the first to be rescued, then Jason, and now you.”

  Morgan stared disbelievingly at her. “A-are you making this up?”

  Laura sat very still. Anger lapped at the taut edge of her patience. “How could I be?” Her voice echoed around the room—strident, pain-filled and off-key. Nervously, she touched her brow. “I-I’m sorry, Morgan. No, I’m not making any of this up. I just want you to remember so badly…but you don’t…and—”

  “It sounds like a James Bond movie,” he muttered. Looking away, he stared at the dark void of the window. His conscience pricked him. He heard the hurt in Laura’s voice, felt her pain as if it was his own, but dammit, he was hurting too much himself. It took every ounce of his strength to concentrate on her words—and the strange ideas she presented—instead of giving in to the aches of his physical body.

  Laura reached out, her fingers curving around his arm. At least he remembered James Bond. That was good. But at what age had he seen those movies? Had his memory been wiped out back to that time? Or was this a meaningless fragment? Instantly, she felt Morgan react, his muscles tightening beneath her fingertips. She released him, and he rolled his head toward her, his eyes dark and angry. Stung by his reaction, she swallowed against the lump in her throat that refused to go away. “You’ve suffered so much, Morgan,” she began in an unsteady voice. “We all have.”

  “I don’t remember anything,” he rasped. “I wish I did, but I don’t. Hell, if you hadn’t told me my name, I wouldn’t even know that much.”

  Standing up despite her weakened knees, Laura whispered, “I know…and it’s all right, Morgan. Dr. Parsons said your memory would be influenced by the drugs you were given.”

  “What drugs?”

  Laura took in a deep breath and said in a low voice, “Ramirez wanted to get even with you for damaging his Peruvian cocaine empire. Over the years, you sent many missions to stem the flow of cocaine traffic to the eastern United States. It worked—too well. Ramirez kidnapped the three of us to stop you. To…get even, I guess.” Wearily, she touched her brow, a headache lapping at her temples. It was nearly three in the morning, and something had awakened her out of badly needed sleep down in the nurses’ quarters, where she’d been spending the nights since Morgan had become conscious and failed to recognize her.

  She’d quickly abandoned the idea of bringing a bed into his room. What was the use? He didn’t know her from Adam. Laura couldn’t stand the thought of him looking at her the way he was now—as if she were some bug under a microscope rather than his devoted wife.

  Morgan watched Laura in the stilted silence. Suddenly, he was very tired. And he felt old. Very old. No question, Laura was hurting. She was his wife—of seven years. So why the hell couldn’t he remember? He focused on his heart, searching for emotion, but he found no lingering tendrils
of love. Frustration ate at him, and his mind whirled with the strange information she’d imparted. He had no reason to disbelieve her. Her face was that of an innocent angel. She seemed incapable of lying.

  “Listen,” Laura whispered as she came back to his bedside, careful not to touch him this time, “you need to sleep, Morgan. You’re still recovering, and it’s three in the morning. Dr. Parsons will be here at eight o’clock to see you. You’ve known her a long time.” She managed a partial smile. “I’m glad you’re out of the coma. I’m glad you’re back with us.”

  Closing his eyes, Morgan felt bitterness leaking through him. Who was “us”? He had a family. He had a son named Jason. Why the hell couldn’t he recall that information—or at least feel some emotion? He felt her tug gently at the blanket and sheets, tucking them more snugly around him. Then she left, as quietly as she’d come.

  Morgan was not only wide awake at eight, he could hardly wait for this Dr. Parsons to come through the door. He had a lot more questions to ask, and he wanted answers. Despite all the tubes, he’d managed to drag himself into a semi-upright position. Finally the door opened, and a tall dark-haired woman in her thirties entered. Morgan waited to recognize her, but sensed nothing familiar. A name badge on her white coat read Parsons. She carried a clipboard, a stethoscope hung around her neck and a smile of genuine welcome lit up her face.

  “Morgan. It’s good to see you awake and so alert.”

  He scowled. The doctor laid the clipboard on the table and reached out her hand. Weakly, he raised his. Her grip was warm and firm.

  “Hmm, you’re stronger than I thought you might be,” she murmured, her voice pleased as she looked intently into his eyes. Releasing his hand, she smiled. “How are you feeling?”

  “I’m thirsty as hell, Doctor, and I need to get all these damned tubes out of me.”

  Laughing, Ann placed the stethoscope in her ears and listened to his heart and lungs. “You’re an amazing man, Morgan. But you always were.”