Lady Fugitive (3 page)

"I get the impression Mr.
Tremayne's the favorite son around here."

Chrissandra led her toward the square.
"I've been in love with Boyd ever since I can remember. He and Morgan are
best friends. Morgan's almost like a brother to me. He's gorgeous, and unlike
most of the local men, yet he gets on with all of them. Well, you'll see."

They made a day of shopping and filling
Rachel's larder. When the flour and sugar sacks were tucked inside the pantry,
Rachel thanked Chrissy for her help.

"You're a refreshing change,
Rachel. We've never had an American here for any length of time. A few have
passed through, but you're the first to stay. Don't be put off by Pamela. For
all the show, she's just another farmer's daughter. You'll make a wonderful
clerk."

* * *

Rachel succeeded well enough at her new
post, until it came time to audit the inn. Boyd had introduced her to Thomas
and Emily Poole, the middle-aged couple who managed the place for Morgan. Boyd
patiently explained how they were to complete the new tally sheet. Rachel would
go by on Thursdays to collect the sheet and post the information into Morgan's
ledger. But Rachel arrived to find the sheet blank.

"There were no sales last
week?" she asked Thomas. "No purchases? No activity of any
kind?"

He shrugged, running a hand through
spiky gray hair. "Aye, sales aplenty, all right. Don't know how many
rounds the men went through over Barker's birth announcement. His sixth. You'd
think the effects would've worn off by now. Bless 'em again, Lord," he
prayed, eyes lifted to the ceiling. "It's good for business!"

"Mr. Atkinson explained this,"
Rachel sighed. "I need to know what you sell each day and what you order
every week. An empty sheet is useless."

Emily sniffed as she bustled past.
"Don't have all day to go marking up papers. Got beef and cabbages to
boil. Roasts don't make themselves, you know."

"I realize that, but it only takes
a moment once a day to mark the tally. Surely you could spare that."

Emily bristled. "Never known such
folderol in my life! Why can't I just tell you what's what when you come in
each week? Always done it that way before Boyd hatched his notions about
tallies."

"If you're too busy, perhaps Thomas
can do it," Rachel suggested.

"He agrees it's nonsense, don't
you, Thomas?" Emily shot her husband a pointed look. He muttered something
and ducked behind the polished oak bar. A patron with a full tankard in his
hand leaned over the bar. The craven barkeep rose to give a nodding answer,
then ducked out of sight again. The customer straightened and turned to pin
Rachel with his gaze.

She caught her breath. The man was
dressed like any other farmer, with muddy boots and a rumpled shirt beneath an
open vest. Black breeches clung to trim, well-muscled thighs. The sun had
tanned his skin a deep bronze. Dark, shoulder-length hair was tied back at the
nape of his neck and formed a thick mustache that obscured the upper lip of a
sensual mouth.

But the man's eyes were what transfixed
her. They were unexpectedly light. A pale pewter, totally arresting against
such dark coloring. Rachel found it hard to ignore the strong physical reaction
she had to his gaze. He made her feel as though she were standing there naked.

He crossed to where she and Emily stood.
"Young lady has a point, Emily. If Atkinson's going to send her over each
week, the least you can do is have the numbers ready. I know you ken what she
needs."

Rachel was studying the floor in an
attempt to avoid his eyes. She almost succeeded in appearing indifferent until
he spoke. His voice seduced her in a deep, rich timbre. Her gaze lifted to
catch his wink at the inn's matron. "Whether she knows how to properly
utilize the figures is something else again. Let's have a look." He
reached for the ledger in Rachel's arms.

Rachel found her tongue and stepped back
to evade his grasp. "Excuse me, but we're capable of resolving this, sir.
If the information is provided to me, I'll make the proper calculations."

Emily glanced up at the man now,
uncertainty on her face. Her tone became more petulant. She wiped chapped hands
down her apron front. "Will you please explain what it's like running this
place, sir? She's no idea. Spends her day resting on her bottom over at the
office."

Amused gray eyes swept over Rachel in a
shameless appraisal, lingering on her backside. "Hasn't done her bottom
any harm, Emily. Perhaps you should sit more."

Rachel was flabbergasted. Emily offered
no objection to the randy comment, but Rachel wasn't feeling so charitable. She
was plainly dressed in mourning attire. The presumptuous cad was asking to have
his face slapped. She was about to say so when he turned back to Emily.
"Excuse us." He pressed strong fingers against the small of Rachel's
back. "Let's step outside."

Rachel found herself on the broad porch
before she could protest. Seconds later she did, and quite clearly. "Your
behavior is distressing, to put it mildly, sir. I'm recently widowed and don't
appreciate your leering attentions. Don't you have anything better to do than
pester women?"

He gave her an insolent grin and seized
the ledger from her arms. God, but he was irritating! And striking as a gypsy.
Still, he was just another farmer with a lot of audacity and mud on his boots.
She couldn't let his exceptional good looks affect her. "Sir, return that
book or I'll be forced to send for Mr. Atkinson."

"Slippin', boy!" came a
jocular voice from behind them. "Bosom like that and you're oglin' your books?
Must be some profit this week!"

Rachel's eyes widened in horror. It
couldn't
be!

"Archie, the lady's a widow,"
came the teasing protest, uttered as a meaty hand clapped down on the younger
man's broad shoulder. "Watch your tongue!"

"I should have a partner like young
Atkinson. Hired you a little jewel, didn't he?"

"Aye. Not one mistake in her
addition." Glancing at Rachel, the handsome one nodded, perfect teeth
showing below his dark mustache. "I'm suitably impressed." He handed
over the ledger. "Plainly there's more to our young widow than meets the
eye, though no man would complain on that score."

Rachel waited until they were alone on
the porch. "You might have introduced yourself, Mr. Tremayne! I
thought...I assumed you were a farmer."

"Farmer?" Glancing down at his
boots, he released a hearty laugh. "For a few hours today, that would have
been accurate." His deep laughter had the same alluring quality as his
speaking voice.

She edged away. "Could you speak to
Emily again about the tally sheet? I'm only trying to be of help, sir."

"Are you headed home now,
Widow?"

"Yes, but I have to drop off the
ledger at the office first."

"I'll save you the stop. I'll see
you home and take the ledger back to the office. I generally make a point of
checking on my new tenants, but I've been away the past week or so."

Oh, dear. Rachel stammered, "There's
really no need to…ah, visit the cottage personally, sir. Mr. Atkinson and Miss
James helped me settle in, and Miss Prine has called on your behalf."

"So you've met her." He didn't
sound surprised. They crossed the cobblestoned square, Morgan nodding to folks
they passed along the street. He waved to a wizened stranger in a rickety
wagon, then boldly strode up Rachel's front walk. She stared as he fished a ring
of keys out of a pants pocket. This particular man having a key readily at his
disposal made her nervous, but she held her tongue. He
was
the landlord.
A thought that made her even more discomfited.

"Do you have a name, Clerk?"
The question came as the keys dropped back out of sight and the cottage door
swung open.

"Rachel Cordell," she answered
as she preceded him into the parlor. "As you can see, the house is
satisfactory. There are some minor points we might discuss, though, since
you're here."

"Such as?"

"The floors need polishing. If you
can't send someone to do it, perhaps I might have a rug. And I'd like to
replace the kitchen curtains. If you'll reimburse me for the fabric, I'll sew a
new set myself."

Morgan glanced around, noting a womanly
touch in minor changes here and there. He'd had female tenants before. Married
women intent on pleasing their husbands. This was a widow, who'd done these
things solely to please herself. A throw pillow on the settee, vase of flowers
on the kitchen table, scent of lemon oil in the parlor. Subtle touches he
doubted anyone else would notice. But Morgan knew this house well, and found
himself oddly gratified by the changes.

He cleared his throat. "I'll send
Thomas to polish the floors. I've no objections to new curtains, assuming your
sewing is as good as your ciphering."

"Thank you, sir. And thank you for
seeing me home, but—"

"I'd take a cup of tea." He
took a seat in the parlor, watching her reaction. Any local female would have
already offered tea and excuses for him to tarry. This little vixen had
practically dismissed him from his own bloody residence!

Morgan wondered what sort of man she'd
been wed to: strapping lumberjack, or some simpering bank teller? Archie had
been right about the fine bosom. That thought led Morgan to wonder if her trim
waist led to equally slim legs. It was impossible to tell beneath the
voluminous dark skirts. Aye, dark skirts befitting a widow in mourning. There
was nothing the least bit provocative in her dress or demeanor. Odd then that
he found himself very aware of her.

The somber fabric only served to
highlight her tawny coloring. She had luminous brown eyes and gleaming auburn
hair. Damned attractive morsel. He imagined brushing her dark hair and inhaling
the scent of it, wrapping his hands in her tresses. He'd tilt her head back and
explore that sweet mouth...
What the devil's come over you, Morgan? The
woman's husband just died!

He realized she was speaking to him.
Something about being out of tea. Out of tea? Perhaps it was the manure on his
boots. His reliable effect on the ladies was having none on this one. But she
wasn't supposed to entertain strange men in her parlor, was she? The whole
point of the black was to keep men like him at bay. He knew that. He also knew
she was one of the most intriguing women he'd yet to encounter. This little
American was different.

She planted herself by the door.
"I'm glad we finally met, Mr. Tremayne. I'm quite comfortable here. I like
the house. Thank you again for checking the premises. Perhaps I'll see you
tomorrow at the office." She handed him back the heavy ledger.

"Good day, Widow," he nodded.

Rachel kept a smile on her face until
she'd closed the door behind him. It had been all she could do to resist
slamming it off its hinges. Letting her stand there like a ninny while he
reviewed his books! He must have known she had no idea she'd been talking to
her employer. Then he'd insisted on walking her home as an excuse to snoop
around. She should have guessed the rogue's identity from his looks and manner.
Emily's behavior should have warned her.

"You idiot," Rachel muttered,
trudging upstairs to her bedchamber. She unfastened the collar of her dress and
froze.

The accursed man was standing across the
street, looking right up at her! She realized he could make out her silhouette
through the lace curtains. She backed away and aligned herself with the nearest
bedpost. Eventually he turned and walked off, but not before offering a stiff
bow. He'd known she'd been watching him, as well.

Rachel arrived at the office the next
day and heard masculine voices in a heated debate in Boyd's private back room.
The door was closed, but she plainly overheard Morgan express strong
displeasure over Boyd's decision to employ her. The argument ended. The door
flew open. Rachel fumbled with her shawl as though she'd just walked in. She
turned to offer Morgan a smile of greeting, but he didn't meet her gaze.

He said nothing as he took a seat behind
the empty desk directly across from hers. She silently cursed her luck again.
First yesterday afternoon's embarrassment at the inn. Now she found herself
only a few feet from him. Every time she looked up, he'd be right in front of
her! The situation couldn't be worse.

Evidently when she hadn't swooned at his
feet, the local rake had no further use for her. She should have been more
obliging or demure. Eager to please. Inwardly she wanted to give a rueful
laugh. She'd been taken by surprise yesterday.

Looking at him now, it was hard to
believe she'd ever mistaken him for a common farmer. He wore a crisp linen
shirt and a coat of deep blue over fawn-colored breeches. His dark hair was
neatly tied back and a trace of cologne wafted to her desk. As Chrissy had
foretold, he wasn't like the other village men here. None of them had his looks
or general aura of confidence. They were plow horses; this one was a
thoroughbred.

She watched him peruse several documents
before placing his signature at the bottom. Then he reached for sealing wax and
placed his cachet beneath his name. Though she'd heard of the practice, she had
never witnessed it firsthand. She'd thought only noblemen still resorted to
such pompous ceremony, and then only for affairs of state. She only partially stifled
a laugh.