Cachet (8 page)

"Please, just leave me alone!" The last shred of her composure snapped. She stepped back a few feet and burst into tears. Now her humiliation was complete. She'd given him yet another weakness with which to taunt her.

"Blast me!" he swore softly. "That rotten comment about your husband. I never dreamt I'd hit on the truth." He gently took her face between his palms and tipped it up so her eyes met his. "I was thoughtless and you're overtired. Put in a full day at the office, then this fool's errand tonight. Need to get you home beside a nice roaring fire."

She managed a tremulous smile. "Sounds wonderful, but your hearth doesn't permit a fire to exactly roar. The best I get is a weak sputter. I'd take even that now, along with some coffee to wash away all that insipid tea. It worked, though. You've sobered a bit."

"Thanks to my insolent little clerk." He pulled her close against his side and set out for the cottage. "There's a secret to coping with the firebox. You'll have a roaring flame tonight." He unlocked the front door and immediately set to building a crackling blaze. Then he eased beside Rachel on the settee. "The hearth's always been temperamental in this house. Not unlike its resident."

"You mean its owner."

"I apologize, Rachel. You're quite good at fencing with words. Sometimes I forget that still and all, you
are
widowed. A man must make allowances. It's only natural you'd find discussion of your husband's demise painful."

Rachel stared at the dancing firelight. For some reason, she thought Morgan might understand what no one else had. "It's all painful. My husband's name was Cletus. He drank and gambled and left me his debt. If it hadn't been for him, I wouldn't even
be
here now. He always had the worst luck. Then he died and it seems that awful luck has come to roost with me. Cletus was crude and selfish and I only hope he's burning in hell."

Strong fingers closed over hers, and when Morgan spoke, it was in a soft tone he'd never used with her before. "I know more than a man should about grief, Rachel. You're resentful. I felt the same when my father died; worse yet when my sister followed soon afterward. It's not how the person lived, but that he or she had the temerity to up and
die
. To utterly change the lives of those around them by doing something so final and irreparable. The pain will lessen in time."

Her eyes were huge as she turned to look at him. "I can't believe it! A soft heart beats within you, after all."

"Shall I tell you something, Colonial?" He released her hand and moved back to the grate. He prodded at the burning logs with the iron poker. "I bark and rant and act impossible because I never wanted you to make that discovery." The smoldering gaze he turned on her was astonishing in its intensity. "Now that one secret's out, mayhap I should show you something else." He fished a folded square from a pocket of his coat and handed it to her. "Your list." There was only one name on it.

"I don't underst—"

"Aye, you do. I've purposely kept myself at odds with you because you're in mourning and you work for me. You're my tenant. To think we could be—" He stopped and lowered his voice. "I've been over this a dozen times in my mind, but it doesn't stop me from prowling my rooms at night, unable to sleep for thinking of you. I've stood across the street and fought the urge to pound on your door."

"One night I thought there was someone hiding in the shadows. It frightened me, until I recognized you. Or thought I did. I woke up thinking it must have been a dream."

He snatched the paper from her hands and threw it on the flames. "Perhaps it was. Forget I said anything, Rachel. Too much ale this afternoon, then your tears. Never expected them from you, even as you never expected sentiment from me. Well." He cleared his throat. "Now that I've made a complete fool of myself, I beg your forbearance and take my leave."

"I don't think you're a fool." She'd followed him to the entry. Now she placed her fingertips on his sleeve.

"Christ, don't tell me what you
do
think. My sole interest is in myself and trade. I'm arrogant, incapable of compassion or genuine feeling. I've heard it before from the local wenches. I don't need to hear it from you."

"I'm not a local girl, remember?" she asked softly. "You're capable of compassion. You just proved that. I know there's more to you than handsome looks. Though certainly no woman could complain on that score." She couldn't resist grinning at having turned his own words back on him. "You wouldn't be the first man I've known to hide a soft heart under a gruff exterior. My father's like that at times." She remembered Jeremiah's fist banging down on the table as he insisted she must stay with Violet. "I understand about trade being so important. You're not a fool, Morgan."

His mustache curved up as his arms slid around her waist. "Finally, my Christian name."

"It seems appropriate tonight."

He pulled her close against his chest. "Tell me to go, Rachel. Right this second. If you don't, I'm going to kiss you." His face lowered by inches until his lips brushed hers. "Toss me out."

"No," she murmured, sliding her arms up around his neck. She melted against him, parting moist and pliant lips to admit his tongue. Her tongue met his and they shared a deep, prolonged kiss.

"Christ, but you've got my head swimming," he whispered. "I can't tell you how desperately I've wanted to do that. But you shouldn't have allowed it, Rachel."

"Maybe not, but I've wondered what your lips would taste like...
Ale
," she teased. She lowered her face and snuggled against his chest. "I wondered how your arms would feel." She glanced back up. "Safe."

"That's not the usual adjective," he remarked, cocking an eyebrow. She only smiled. "Don't smile at me like that, or I'll suspect you enjoy kissing me." Her lips curved even wider. "Are you deliberately trying to provoke me, madam?"

She felt his arousal pressed too intimately against her through her skirts. "No sir. I'm glad you got the signet back. Thank you for a pleasant evening." She slipped from his arms and moved to the door, waiting, once again the prim and proper office clerk. The smile she gave him now was polite, but gone was the playful side she'd revealed just seconds before.

Morgan stared at her. "This alters things, Rachel." He stepped closer and let his lips brush hers again. "I won't just stand in the shadows next time. I'll use my key."

She firmly shook her head. "I'd be forced to toss you out then. I'm still your clerk, and you're still Pamela's beau."

"Piss on Pamela. I'm finished with her. It's you haunting my nights, Colonial." His voice was strained as he stared into her eyes. "When do you give up the black?"

She hesitated in answering. "I...haven't decided yet."

"You haven't decided?"

There was a long silence as neither of them spoke. Then Morgan's features hardened. "I presume you know when that alcoholic husband of yours died?" She grudgingly nodded.

He jerked the door open and stepped past her. "I'm too old for parlor games. See you at the office,
widow
."

Chapter 7

It was a bone-chilling night in early November. Leaves swirled in the deep gloom and the promise of frost hung in the evening air. Rachel ignored the jostling of the carriage as they bounced along the rutted road north of the village. Chrissandra and Boyd spoke in hushed tones, gloved hands clasped above the lap robe. Rachel stared out her window into the darkness, lost in thought. She'd returned only yesterday from London. She was dressed in a gown of deep crimson velvet trimmed with ecru lace at the throat and sleeves. Half her afternoon had been spent wrapping her hair into a tight chignon, which she'd covered with a snood of gold netting. So much preparation for a night of sheer folly.

Going to this Harvest Dance was probably a mistake. She should be at the cottage now, safely toasting her feet beside the hearth. But some wicked part of her wanted Morgan to see her in a fancy gown. The reflection in her mirror tonight was no impoverished farmer's widow. The woman gazing back at her was Jeremiah Hardwick's daughter—a girl raised in plenty, one who might grace a sparkling London ballroom, one who'd attended some of Philadelphia's most exclusive parties before moving West. She wanted Morgan to see that person. Just once.

The carriage drew to a halt. Its three occupants were promptly swallowed up in the throng outside the Plummer residence. Rachel was swept into the warmth of an immense farmhouse with a huge open room the size of a modest barn. Ladies milled about in gowns of every autumnal hue, peacock blue and mossy green to burnished russets and gold. The men wore embroidered vests, their finest frock coats and crisp shirts. Tables stood laden with bowls of mulled cider and eggnog, platters groaned beneath roasted whole chickens and legs of mutton or beef. Steam rose from large bowls of boiled greens, potatoes, squash, and carrots. Rachel couldn't remember when she'd last seen so much food in one place. A huge table of desserts offered apple tarts and scones alongside mince and pumpkin pies, temptingly displayed in tiers beside bowls of berries in cream.

"I don't believe I've had the pleasure," came a deep baritone rumble that made Rachel shiver. Morgan had been away from the office most of the past two weeks. She'd wondered if his absence was connected to the incident with the signet ring and what had followed.

She turned to find him standing nearby, dashing as ever in tan breeches with a coat of dark teal. "Then again, apparently I have," he corrected. His gaze dropped to her lips. "And a pleasure it was. One I hope to enjoy again."

Rachel suspected her face must be as rose-hued as the baked apples. "You're looking dapper this evening, sir."

"And you're looking positively spectacular, madam. It appears the term 'widow' no longer applies. Dare I hope this remarkable change is the result of my influence the other evening?"

"Please, Mr. Tremayne. I'd rather we didn't discuss that." She scanned the room to see if others noticed them talking together.

Morgan made no attempt to hide his amusement. "They probably don't know you, Rachel. I didn't at first glance. Your hair up like that, the velvet gown." A hand slid to the small of her back. "We need to find someplace to be alone."

Though inwardly she thrilled at the evident heat in his gaze as his eyes raked over her once more, she was too flustered to be alone with him just then. And too aware of their surroundings.

"I don't think that's a wise idea," she demurred. "The villagers know I'm your clerk. I'm not anxious to be at the center of the next batch of rumors." She was grateful for the intervention of a local farmer, who accosted Morgan about granary storage for his spring crops. She used the distraction to cross the room, positioning herself well away from her landlord.

A farmer she'd met during one of her audits at the inn struck up a conversation, then persuaded her to dance. She found herself in his arms, whirling to the fiddles and voices lifted in song. When the dance ended, she was approached by the young male clerk from the tobacco shoppe. He had a timid young maid on his arm, whom he introduced as his future intended.

Though she didn't recognize many of the faces at the large gathering, Rachel found she knew several of the villagers well enough to receive a smiling greeting or polite nod. The villagers might not fully accept her after having her amongst them for several months, but she no longer felt hostile or curious stares. The stares now came from several of the unattached men, who seemed to have quickly noted the lack of widow's weeds.

"May I have the next number?"

Dismayed, Rachel discovered Somersdale at her side. "Oh! I'm sorry," she gulped, coughing now for effect, "Mr. Somersdale,but...I—"

"She's promised the remainder of her dances to me, Arnold," Morgan stiffly informed him. "I told you to leave this particular young lady alone."

Rachel watched Arnold depart. "Would you like to go outside for some air?" Morgan inquired. Her eyes swept the crowded room, gauging the whereabouts of the nearest exit. She spied Pamela, who was glaring hotly at her and Morgan.

"No, I'm fine. What I'd like is for you to dance with me." She caught his forearm and dragged him into the center of the room. "Please, sir."

He swept her into his arms and they began to waltz. His fingers tightened on hers as he flashed her a knowing grin. "I assume your sudden passion is for her benefit." He inclined his head toward the furious blonde at the edge of the dance floor.

Rachel tilted her chin up. "I owe her a debt I haven't repaid."

"Do you always repay your debts?"

Yes, mine and those thrust upon me
, her mind answered.
Even when it costs me everything
. "Definitely. Don't you?"

"Apart from one. A certain young lady did me a service not long ago, but has stubbornly refused to let me compensate her for it. I'm still indebted and wondering how to resolve the matter."

"The lady performed that service as a personal favor to you. She'd like to be considered your friend, as well as your employee. You're not indebted, sir."

Morgan abruptly froze, his eyes wide. "Christ, but I'm an idiot!"

"For once I agree with you, sir," she replied, a false smile on her face. "Perhaps we might dance again later." She nudged him with her knee. It seemed he'd forgotten they were standing in the midst of whirling dancers. He stared down into her face and made no attempt to move. It was everything she'd longed for, all that terrified her—a moment when time stopped, when no one existed but Morgan Tremayne and
Richelle
. She had to do something to break the spell.