Lady Fugitive (18 page)

He caught her arm in fingers that had
lost some of their iron. "Rachel, I didn't mean what I said about you
going back to churning butter without me. I don't want that. You said you
didn't regret marrying me...But…do you now?"

She smiled kindly. "I know you
didn't mean it. We both said things we didn't mean. Let's get you cleaned
up." 

His voice was hoarse but insistent.
"I haven't been so sick in years. I'm sorry you had to see me like that
and play nursemaid."

"Stop apologizing. You're still not
yourself. The Morgan Tremayne I know doles out apologies once every six months
or so. I'll be right back." She pressed a kiss on his forehead and swept
out of the cabin before he could protest.

He was dozing when she returned. She
closed the bed curtains and inched the metal tub from beneath the bunk as
quietly as she could. She gathered clean clothes from his larger trunk and set
his straight razor on the table. Fresh water was a precious commodity. She
undressed, planning to bathe first herself, then awaken him. 

A gruff voice at the door announced the
hot water was ready. She pulled on her robe and threw back the bolt. The door
swung open and she took an involuntary step backward.

"Mistress High and Mighty! Heard
yer man's got the stomach knots."

She blanched at Thompson's malicious
glower. Another seaman followed him inside. Beyond them the open deck was
deserted. Rachel knew most of the men were below in their quarters, prostrate
as Morgan was. Thompson chuckled aloud. "Russell, lad! I've been admirin'
her ladyship's robe, but wouldn't you like seein' her without it?"

Russell turned and bolted the door. The
first wave of panic swept over Rachel.

Thompson was staring, his eyes slightly
glazed. She recognized that look. Remembered too well what it presaged. Maybe
their voices would awaken Morgan. He'd know men shouldn't be inside the cabin
for more than a moment. Know there was trouble.

She'd drop something or make sounds to
alert him. Then her spirits sank. What good would it do?  Morgan was too weak
to even stand, let alone fight off a pair of wiry men.

Morgan was ailing. But the two intent on
raping her looked robust indeed.

"My husband's a very light sleeper.
If he finds you in here, Thompson, he'll kill you." Rachel deliberately
spoke clearly, stressing the man's name.

"What's he gonna do, spew his
innards all over me?" Both men laughed. Thompson spotted Morgan's razor on
the tabletop. Rachel took a step forward. Too late. Thompson mimicked her at
their previous meeting, holding the blade aloft. "Lady wants a bath, Russ.
I say we give her one."

Rachel's eyes swept the cabin. Morgan's
liquor was locked away. Not a single bottle sat out in the open. She debated
trying a dash to the bunk for the gun case, but knew she'd never pull it out
and get to a pistol before the men stopped her. Trying it risked giving their
enemies arms to turn against her and Morgan.

Thompson held the only available weapon.
The only thing she had left was reason. "Look Thompson, I know you want an
apology—"

"Did. Now I want ya beggin' for
mercy. Fill the tub, Russ, and don't be splashin' all over the place. Can't
disturb his lordship," he snickered.

Russell concentrated on his pails.
Thompson glared at Rachel. "Keep yer mouth shut and show me a good time,
yer man lives. Open it, I'll give him a new smile. Nice big one from ear to
ear. Take that off," he commanded, waving to indicate her robe. "Give
me a look at what her fancy bastard's been hoardin'."

Rachel untied the sash and let her robe
gap open. Russell swallowed hard and rose from his knees. "Don't be shy,
Boy!" Thompson smirked. Russell reached out to clasp Rachel's breasts in
callused palms. A fury built inside her, its tempest of rage sweeping all fear
from her mind. No man but Morgan should touch her. 

In that instant, her decision was made.
Even if it cost her life, these men were not going to succeed in their ultimate
humiliation of her.

Her cheeks had gone bright red, but she
refused to drop her gaze from Thompson's face. He gave the orders. He was the
one she had to watch. All she needed was a second's distraction. A momentary
shift in Thompson's attention. She tensed her muscles and got ready for action.
She ignored the man kneading her flesh. Her concentration was on Thompson. She
tried a minor diversion.

"Morgan keeps a loaded pistol
inside the bunk," she warned low. She felt rather than saw Russell's
frustration. His attentions to her nipples brought no reaction. The points
didn't tighten any further than they had from the cool cabin air. He wasted his
motions; her body wouldn't respond. Not like it did for Morgan. Her eyes darted
to the closed bed curtains.

"Pistol, eh?" Thompson echoed.
"Russ, take this." He passed the razor to his partner. "You
watch the bitch, I'll see about yon pistol."

He crossed to the bunk. Before his
fingers could touch the curtains, a bronze forearm shot out to seize him by the
throat. "Russell!" he choked. The curtains parted slightly, revealing
the black muzzle of a gun pressed against Thompson's temple.

Russell turned, but seemed too confused
to react. Rachel wasn't. She dashed to the door. Her fingers closed over the
bolt and threw it back. A fingernail snapped back and tore. She paid no heed to
her throbbing fingertip and the blood welling there, but stumbled onto the
deck. Russell cursed close behind her. Something struck her on the shoulder.
She screamed and sprawled face first on the decks. The world went black.

* * *

"Ow, that
hurts
!"
Rachel surfaced to searing pain in her right shoulder. Strong arms tightened
around her upper body. 

"Stay still, Rachel." She knew
that voice. The pain was white hot. She cracked her eyelids, but couldn't see
for the tears blurring her vision. Too much pain to stop them.

"Morgan? You're all right?"
The words were sobs of fear mingled with relief.

"Aye, love. We're both all right.
Bastard cut you with my razor, though. Sailmaker's stitching your shoulder. May
be painful, but the cut's not deep."

"God, I'm so sorry! I never thought
it could be him at the door. Thompson swore he'd kill you if I said
anything."

"Shh, stay here. I'll be right
back." She discovered she was nude on her stomach in the bunk, the
bedclothes pulled up to her waist. Morgan closed the curtains and bolted the
door after the sailmaker finished. "Lucky your sewing kit was out, or he'd
have used his sailmaking gut."

"God, the sewing kit! My scissors!
I never noticed it. I was looking for a weapon of some kind. Thompson grabbed
the razor before I could."

"Jesus, Rachel! You and your
ill-conceived notions of wielding weapons against these curs. Smartest thing
you could have done was get out and try to summon help." He sat down on
the edge of the bunk and wrapped her in his arms, mindful of her sore shoulder.

"Captain's chained the pair in the
hold. You should have shouted for me when you sensed danger. Regardless of
their threats to harm me. I'm along to assure your safety, not the other way
'round. Christ, a moment's weakness, and you're bleeding from a razor
cut!"

"I truly
am
foolhardy,"
she sniffed.

"Nay, just a heartier pioneer than
I thought. Don't know another female who would have kept her head facing such
danger." His features hardened. "But you are never again to risk your
life in defense of mine. Do you understand me?"

She nodded, blinking back tears.
"You never got your bath."

"I sent for more hot water."
He supervised the refilling of the tub and slipped out of the pants he'd
hastily donned after the fracas. "Come in with me. Hot water's the best
thing for jangled nerves."

"Yes, and I need to wash the stink
from my skin."

He flushed at her comment. "I'd
forgotten one foul cretin actually put his hands on your flesh."

She dipped a toe into the water and let
him guide her down to perch atop his folded thighs in the narrow oval tub.
Morgan wrapped an arm around her middle as though they were once more on
Phantom's back.

Rachel's voice was hard with emotion.
"I hated him touching me."

"Don't think about it. It's not
going to happen ever again." His hand slid up to cup her breast and she
relaxed as his damp fingers smoothed over her skin in a light caress. It wasn't
overtly sensual, yet she marveled again at how her nipple puckered immediately
at his merest touch. How she felt so utterly at ease being totally naked in his
embrace.

"Rachel," Morgan murmured,
"It distresses me that you think I would beat you. No matter how angry I
might become, I'd never raise my arm to you. We argue, aye. We always have. Was
furious with you more than once back in Crowshaven, but I never hurt you. You
believe I had more regard for a clerk than I would my wedded wife?"

"You had no right to physically
punish me when I was your clerk."

"Cletus beat you, didn't he? More
than once."

"I don't want to talk about
him."

"And you didn't choose to wed him.
You tried to dissuade your father, but he wouldn't listen. Your instincts were
correct then." His voice softened. "But you're letting old fears
cloud your judgment now. You weren't afraid of me before we took vows, even at
my arrogant worst. Don't fear me now." He began gently lathering her skin.

"Do you think I have good
instincts?" 

"You should have been more cautious
at the door this afternoon, but on the whole, aye, I do."

She thought about Cletus. "But who
listens to the instincts of a young girl? I was barely sixteen. I didn't want
to marry so young." She flinched as he moved close to the stitched area.
"I thought when I was older, I'd marry my steady beau, Jonas Nelson. But
Cletus approached my father at the factory and impressed him with big talk of a
grand future for us on the frontier."

Morgan absently scrubbed at his exposed
kneecap. "I see."

"I don't think you do. Cletus never
cared for me; he wanted free land. The government gave land away to men who
agreed to settle in Oregon and farm it. A man who took a wife by the end of
1851 received a double parcel. I suppose he sought me out because I was the
boss' daughter."

"The hell you say!" Morgan
dropped the soap. "Your father gave you to a man with no genuine affection
for you? Wasted a lovely young virgin on a shiftless bounder?"

Rachel didn't like the way he made her
father sound. "I'd like to finish my bath alone." She stood up to let
him climb out.

He wrapped a towel around his hips and
sat at the table to shave. Then he dressed and announced he had to speak to
Haversham, but would return to take her to the dining room for supper.
"You must be starving," Rachel replied, seizing a towel. She followed
him to the door, bolting it securely behind him.

She was drying her hair when he knocked.
She let him in and turned her attention to choosing a skirt and blouse.
"Are you always so slow, woman?"

She was ready with a rebuke, but the
words died on her lips when she saw fresh blood on his knuckles. "Morgan,
you didn't! You went down to the holds and beat those two men? Men in
chains?"

"Aye, I beat them. What should I
have done,
thanked
them? They meant to rape you under my very nose. You
were terrified. The pair earned what they got and worse. If other crewmen have
similar notions about laying their hands on you, let them ponder the same
fate."

She didn't speak during the meal. Morgan
was disinclined to eat much, and suggested they leave the dining room for a
walk on deck. She gazed up at him as they stood alone by the rail. She kept her
voice soft. "Morgan, who's Annaliese? I never met anyone by that name in
the village. Is she one of the girls from your travels?" Her gaze didn't
waiver as she asked the question she feared most. "Do you still have
feelings for her?"

His head immediately jerked around.
"Who told you about her?"

"You did," she answered.
"You had a nightmare while you were ill. You spoke to Annaliese and said
you loved her."

"Anna was my sister."

Rachel thought about the day they'd gone
riding. He said he'd been eighteen when he took over the inn, shortly after his
sister's death. Anna had been gone a long time, yet the mere mention of her
name visibly upset him.

He led her back to the cabin and took
out another liquor bottle. The chair was still by the stove where Rachel had
left it. "Come and sit with me, wife." He took the chair and pulled
her onto his lap. "Boyd's the only one who knows about Anna. He'd never
tell you."

"You don't have to, either."

"Anna was three years my senior.
When our father took ill and died, she seemed to take it as a personal failure,
mayhap because she'd nursed him. I wasn't home much, out working every day even
then. I wasn't home when my father drew his last breath and gave Anna the signet
to pass on to me. Wasn't there when she needed someone to talk with, someone to
share her grief."