Lady Fugitive (21 page)

"You're all right," he
reassured her. "Let go long enough for me to put this damned candle out
before we set fire to the bed curtains." The cabin was plunged into
darkness.

Rachel took a deep breath and laid her
head on his bare chest as they settled back against the pillows. She realized
Morgan's heart was pounding. "I startled you out of a sound sleep, didn't
I?"

He pressed a kiss to her lips.
"Everyone has a frightening dream occasionally." She was wrapped
tightly in his arms, warm and safe. "Good night, Madam Tremayne."

Rachel knew it was his signal that all
was well. They'd been making love every night during the past weeks. Morgan
spoke boldly while they engaged in exploration and love play, calling her wench
or hussy. He growled out 'Colonial' when their activity reached its highest
intensity and he spilled his seed. But once they lay peacefully sated, drowsing
toward sleep, he invariably said good night formally.

Rachel had asked him why he felt the
need to be so proper.

"You'd slipped your tongue halfway
down my throat," he teased her the first time, "then called me 'Mr.
Tremayne' as you showed me the door. It was bloody marvelous the way you did
that. Sort of gave me the notion that it wouldn't be such a bad thing to perpetuate."

Now his words in the darkness had become
a tender ritual between them. Every night the whispered formal good night from
him brought a sigh of contentment from Rachel. She snuggled close and drifted
back to sleep in his arms.

But things weren't as they should be,
Morgan reflected glumly. She'd called out to her old beau, the man she'd hoped
to wed before Cletus ruined her life. Called out for him to help her; she was
trapped; had made a terrible mistake.
After all we've become, she called
another man's name and begged him to take her from me!
He edged out from
beneath her and left the bunk to uncork a fresh bottle.

He gulped at the brandy, greedily
inviting the fire into his belly. He'd never considered that she might have
left more than family in America. Maybe she'd planned to sail home to Jonas.
But
you showed up at the London docks and spoiled her plans.

His hands closed into fists.
It was
only a dream.
You have them yourself
. He knew he should just forget
it. But he'd heard her clearly—each and every word—for he hadn't been sleeping.

He'd been going over his plan again in
his mind, making certain he thought out every detail. Soon they'd reach
American waters. He expected the ship would be boarded, and he knew something
Rachel didn't—precisely what lay below in the hold. He'd calculated the risks
back in London, but that was before he'd found himself with two new enemies
aboard. Enemies who'd surely betray Rachel's presence to marauders intent on
plunder.

Dark thoughts still plagued him next
morning. He and Rachel shared a tray of bread and tea in their cabin, but
Morgan's stomach was in a knot so tight he couldn't eat. "Is your father
really the man you're going home for, Rachel, or will I be cast aside when
Jonas greets you at the harbor?"

She choked on a swallow of tea.
"Morgan! Jonas is just a friend. I don't even know where he is now. He and
his family went to Oregon in early '52. We were neighbors there, but Jonas left
when I did. He went with me—" She saw he wasn't listening. He stared out
the cabin window and suddenly went rigid, cursing beneath his breath.

"What is it?"

"A vessel approaching. I doubt
they've come for tea. Do exactly as I say, Rachel. There's no time. Leave the
tray and pull your things out of your trunk."

She nodded quickly and set to work, more
frightened than she'd ever been in her life. "No hairbrush, no ribbons,
nothing feminine can be left in sight," Morgan commanded, emptying his own
trunk. "Thank God you're not one for perfume. Hand me those clothes."
He repacked the trunks with her garments hidden beneath a few of his and a
jumble of papers in the largest trunk. The rest of his things were stored in
her empty trunk. He pointed to the narrow space behind the bathtub.

"Hide under the bunk there. I'm
going to cover you with the quilt."

She scrambled onto the floor and
wriggled into the tight space. It was just wide enough for her body. Morgan
snatched the quilt from the bunk and stuffed it over her. "With luck,
they'll accept what they see and won't insist on a full search. But they'll go
right to the holds and get an earful from our two friends, and come banging at
our door soon enough."

"Morgan, I have horrible luck. If
they know I'm aboard—"

"Just keep quiet and don't move
until I say it's safe. Trust me one more time. We're about to learn how good
your Bargainer truly is. But whatever happens, I won't let them harm you,
Rachel. That I vow."

Shouts and thumps reached her ears. She
detected the pungent reek of spilled alcohol. Morgan gave a low warning seconds
before a fierce pounding came at the door. "Open up, Englishman! Mandatory
inspection!"

Morgan unbolted it and the cabin door
was nearly ripped from its hinges. A large man with bright red hair stood at
the forefront of a throng of sailing men. "You Tremayne?"

Morgan's tone was surly. "Who wants
to know? Ne'er a moment's peace on this frigging tub." 

"Name's Farley. Been hired by the
Confederacy to check incoming vessels for war supplies. Heard from two bilge
rats down below you got yourself a right purty little wife. Like to meet
her."

Morgan chuckled and seated himself on
the trunk nearest the table. He took a swallow from his open bottle, spilling a
little brandy on his shirt collar. "So would I! If I'd a woman in here,
you suppose the place would be such a stinkin' mess?"

"It's that, all right." Farley
stepped over the tray of half-eaten food on the floor. A rumpled shirt had been
flung over the chair and the tabletop was awash in papers. "What's that
you're drinking?" he demanded. "Some nice rye whiskey? Wouldn't have
another bottle of that lyin' about the place, would you?"

Morgan guffawed. "Buffoons! A
wench!
Brandy
!" He waved his bottle in the air. Rachel was awed by
the slurring of Morgan's speech. If she didn't know better, she'd believe the
man was a drunken ass. "Must think I've been croonin' to a lass when I
sing its praises.
Brandy
, the bloody fools!"

Farley's tone was sharp. "What's in
that trunk you're sitting on? Something you don't want us to find, eh? Get
up."

"Aw come on, man," Morgan
cajoled. "Wouldn't deprive a fellow of his sole pleasure in life, would
you? I'm no arms dealer."

"I said get up." Scuffling
sounds were followed by a thump. "Well, look here, boys! Our English
friend has a damned trunk loaded with brandy." He clucked his tongue.
"Spirits are classified as contraband. Sorry, Tremayne. Have to relieve
you of that."

"At least leave me the open bottle,"
Morgan whined. Then his tone became a menacing growl. "And tell your man I
doubt my coat's been classified as a threat to anyone. Damn well better stop
going through my pockets!"

"Marcus, put his coat down."

Morgan wove unsteadily as their vessel
bumped the prow of the marauding vessel. "See here! I'm an innkeeper and
merchant from Yorkshire. Got no quarrel with any of you Colonials, North or
South. But I carry pistols for protection when I travel." He nodded at the
gun case he'd placed near the door, well away from the bunk. " Suppose
you'll relieve me of them, too."

"Right. Have to take them, but I'll
let you keep your open bottle. Brandy!" Farley snorted. "Men below
have been at sea too long. Captain said they broke in here and tried to rob
you."

"Bloody imbeciles," Morgan
slurred, belching loudly. "Got a taste of my fists for their
trouble."

"One of them swore he'd had his
hands on a woman in here," Marcus stated.

Morgan snorted in disgust and made a
symbolic lewd gesture with his hands. "More likely on his shipmate.
Trunkful of liquor wouldn't make a pair of hoary buttocks look good to me, but
you know some blokes—knothole in any plank."

Farley grunted and turned to leave.
"Appreciate your cooperation, Englishman." Rachel heard the cabin
door bang shut. She didn't move, though her muscles were cramping and she could
barely breathe. 

Morgan's voice came in a hiss.
"Hang on. They're pulling crates from the holds. Once they shove off,
we're safe."

It seemed she waited an eternity. The
quilt was jerked away and Morgan pulled her out of hiding. "You need some
fresh air." He cracked the cabin window to admit the sea breeze. Once the
American ship was safely in the distance, he brought Rachel out on deck.

Haversham rushed up. "Got to hand
it to you, lad. Hell of a scheme! Forked over some minor incidentals, like you
said, but our main cargo's intact. See your little beauty's fine." He
winked at Rachel. "Damned good man you married!" 

Rachel smiled at Haversham. "Any
man here would say so."

The captain muttered something and
hurried off. Rachel turned to Morgan, her eyes flashing. "Damned good man,
eh? You brought an entire
trunkload
of brandy?" Morgan gave a
rueful shrug. "And you offered them your pistols! They never would have
found them if you'd just left them under the mattress."

Morgan's tone was offhand. "They
never found you."

"Because you tossed other treats their
way! You did it on purpose, didn't you? And you paid for the crew's
cooperation. I heard what that pirate said. Haversham and his men lied to
protect me. They could have distracted the pirates away from the hold, but they
didn't."

"And lost a few insured
crates."

Her fists went to her hips. "Now I
understand why you had to sell the granary. You paid for more than a cabin,
didn't you? You had this planned all along, even before we sailed. You were
busy planning a number of deceptions back in London." Her eyes narrowed.
"You're really very clever, sir."

He caught her fingers in his, grinning.
"I assume you mean that as a compliment. The goal was to get you safely
across the Atlantic. Apart from the wound to your shoulder, I've accomplished
that."

"One more thing." She watched
his eyes closely now. "You're very good at playing the sot. I don't think
you were drunk at all the night we went to the pub looking for your ring. You
came back to the office late and pretended you were inebriated, just like today."

"Madam," he drawled as he led
her back to the cabin, "It's rather early in this marriage for you to take
that cross wifely tone with me." He bolted the door behind them and Rachel
immediately went on the offensive again.

"Well? You tricked me that night,
too, didn't you? Tricked me into supper with you."

He began unfastening his breeches.
"I may have overplayed my state a bit, but not by much. I'd lost a
contract that day I'd spent months working on. I honestly did misplace my ring.
But I don't see why you'd be disagreeable about that evening. It's perhaps the
fondest memory I have, other than the day I stood beside an angel in a silver
gown and threw my bachelorhood to the winds."

Now he was devoid of clothing. She
continued to frown up at him as he unbuttoned her blouse and nudged her toward
the empty bunk. "I think a rather ardent display of gratitude's in order,
Madam Tremayne. I
did
just save you from pirates, you know." He
stretched out on the mattress.

She shed everything but her chemise and stared
at his lips as she ran her tongue lightly over her own. "How do you
suggest I adequately thank you?"

His manhood stiffened and stood against
his belly even as she watched. His eyes closed and he released a deep sigh.
"You could start by kissing me." She moved closer. "I'd like a
nice wet kiss first."

"You would? Good idea." She
bent over him.

"Rachel!" He bumped his head
against the frame as he nearly leapt off the mattress. Her palms went to his
shoulders. She calmly pressed him flat on his back once more.

"You anticipated everything else,
Morgan. Didn't you know sooner or later I'd kiss you where
you
least
expect it?"

She rang twice before the heavy front
door swung open and Elaine greeted her. "Richelle! You're finally
here." 

Richelle nodded. "Can you pay the
hackney driver, Elaine? I've only got English currency." The cabby set
Richelle's trunk on the porch and bobbed back upright, eager palm open as he
grinned at the older woman.

"Take care of him, Cam."

Elaine threaded her stepdaughter's arm
through hers. She drew Richelle inside the spacious foyer. Cameron Nash, older
brother of Cletus, came down the curving staircase and went out to pay the cab
fare.

Richelle fought a momentary panic and
instantaneous loathing. She'd fervently prayed that she'd never have to set
eyes on that man again when she'd left Oregon. Wished he'd have caught the lung
sickness like his brother and followed him straight to hell. Instead, it seemed
he'd come back to his old haunts.