Lady Fugitive (35 page)

"I'm right here," she
whispered, moving to share her body heat.

"Put your arm over me. Aye."
His words were beginning to slur, Richelle noted. The laudanum taking effect.
She adjusted her position so her arm lay draped across his chest and he
released a deep sigh that almost could have passed for one of contentment. "Better...Good
night, Madam T..."

Richelle closed off the worry from her
mind. Morgan wasn't feverish. He'd be all right. He'd already drifted back into
a deep slumber. Dr. Rowe had promised to return and have another look at Morgan
tomorrow afternoon. The damaged leg would heal. Their child would be born soon,
healthy and strong. Morgan would be all right, too. He had to be.

"I'll not abide this, Richelle. I
can't stay in this damned bed!" Morgan fumed while Richelle patiently
outlined the doctor's instructions. Her husband had convinced himself Dr. Rowe
would examine him and grant permission for a to return to limited activity.
Instead, Morgan had been told to stay off the broken leg.

"I'll go insane staring at these
same four walls. I don't need laudanum now. The pain's abated; I'm doing
better. There's no reason I can't go to the office for a few hours. I'm not
going to stay here in this bed for days on end!"

"I did, back in Philadelphia,"
she replied coolly. "I didn't particularly enjoy it, but I reminded myself
I had a duty to you and our child. You'll do what the doctor says is best, just
as I did. You can't put weight on your injured leg. The doctor said he'd send a
crutch for you. Then you can begin moving about the house, but you won't be allowed
to leave it. Anyway, I need you here at home. Have you forgotten we've got a
baby coming?"

"Not at all. Come here a
moment." He patted the mattress beside him.

Richelle gave him a wary look. His gruff
manner had evaporated too easily. He was giving her a different gaze now. One
she recognized as his prelude to lovemaking. He meant to manipulate her, and
stood a good chance of succeeding. They both knew it.

Though they couldn't engage in full
coitus, Morgan had taught her about many forms of sensual pleasure. Richelle
knew some were not forbidden to them—had her husband not been recovering from a
serious injury. She had to keep that in mind, though it wasn't easy. Her body
was heavy with their child; her blood was thick with womanly need. Her sexual
desire had been strong throughout this pregnancy.

And Morgan looked altogether too
handsome at that moment, with his bare torso resting against the headboard, his
dark mane unbound around his shoulders, those misty eyes of his beckoning. His
mustache curved into a wolfish grin. Damn him, he knew the nature of her
thoughts.

Since Malcolm had installed the new
stove, their bedchamber was much warmer than before. Morgan had reverted to his
brothel habit of wearing nothing most of the time. He was naked beneath the bed
sheet.

She shook her head. "Oh no. You're
not going to kiss me and make me forget how stubborn and impossible you are. I
know you feel a bit stronger, but you're going to do what the doctor orders.
I'm not going to let you kiss me so you can win this argument."

"I don't want to kiss you."

"Then there's no incentive for me
to waddle over there. I can hear you perfectly well from here."

"Christ," he growled.
"All right, I
do
mean to kiss you! What's wrong with a man kissing
his own damned wife? My
lips
still work. If you don't come here to me
this instant, madam, I'll go there to you." He shoved at the bedclothes
and pretended he was about to get up.

She crossed to sit on the edge of the
bed. He reached an arm around her shoulder and drew her closer. She leaned to
kiss him slowly, sighing as he explored the recesses of her mouth. The kiss
deepened until he groaned and placed her fingers over the rumpled sheet. She
could feel his stiffening member. "You're about to whelp and I've a smashed
leg. Wonderful time for the devil to jump up. At least it proves the wagon
didn't affect my most vital part." 

She tried to pull her hand away.
"You're supposed to be resting, not straining vital parts."

"But I've a painful ache in my
lower body, sweet nurse. I'm sure you can relieve the pressure without making
me exert myself." His grin became thoroughly wicked as his hand encouraged
her fingers to stroke him intimately.

A knock at the door made Richelle jump
up. Her face was a deep red as she cracked the door open and mumbled something
before quickly closing it again.

"Your partner's come calling.
You're not going to receive a visitor in the altogether," she scolded. She
pulled a clean shirt from the closet and brought it to him. He thrust one arm through
the sleeve and leaned forward so she could draw the shirt across his back.
"Stop that," she giggled as his lips once again brushed hers. 

"Tell Boyd to come back in half an
hour," he suggested in a husky whisper.

Her eyes dropped to his groin. "I won't.
And for God's sake, cover up or he'll know exactly what sort of attentions
you've received from your nurse."

His pewter eyes sparkled. "I don't
keep secrets from Boyd. He knows what a lusty beggar I am, and exactly the
effect a certain Colonial has on me."

"Hush!" she chastised, tossing
the quilt over his lower body before opening the chamber door. Boyd nodded in
greeting as he came in and took a seat in the chair Richelle used during her
vigils over her recuperating husband. 

"Boyd, use a strong arm if you
must, but keep Morgan quiet in that bed. He'll be allowed to move around once
the doctor gets him a crutch. For now, he's to keep weight off the leg."
She left the men to discuss business.

But by midday Boyd hadn't come back
downstairs, and Richelle began to fret. Morgan was in no condition for extended
visits. He'd overtax himself. It was only a few days since the accident, and he
was weaker than he would admit. She took hold of the banister and started up
the stairs, but had to pause after only four risers. She was winded all ready,
sucking in a deep breath. Two more risers, then a third. She was almost at the
top when Morgan's baritone reached her ears.

"Squire Martin recommends going in
with this fellow, eh? Might be worth looking into. How much of an investment do
they need from us?"

Richelle strained her ears, but couldn't
make out Boyd's reply. Then Morgan spoke up again.

"You know I'll have substantial
capital available soon. Look forward to repaying you at long last. Then I'll
see how much I can invest in this new venture."

Richelle knocked sharply and entered
before she got a response. Boyd said his farewell and left the house. Richelle
watched his departure down the street from the bedroom windows, twisting the
fabric of her dress between agitated fingers. "You're getting too far
ahead of yourself, Morgan. Boyd should know better than to pressure you."

"Worrywart, he's not pressuring me.
He's handling things quite effectively. He wanted to discuss a few matters,
that's all. There are decisions to be made. I'm not tired, Colonial. Honestly.
Stop fussing over me."

"You look it," she argued. She
emptied the chamber pot and bent to pick up a dirty towel from the floor.

"Madam, I don't pay Lorella so my
pregnant wife can exhaust herself doing household chores."

Richelle kept her face averted. "I
heard you mention Squire Martin and some new venture requiring a sizable
investment. Don't patronize me about how you're recovering so quickly. You were
fortunate not to lose that leg. You're not investing in anything just now,
Morgan. Not until—well, you're just
not
!"

"What the devil is going on
here?" he demanded. "My partner doesn't make my business decisions
for me, and neither do you. Since when is it your place to speak for me
regarding my business interests? You've never presumed to order me about like
this before. You're nagging at me, fussing as though I'm some helpless
invalid..."

He stared in horror at the heavy wooden
splints secured to his bad leg. "The doctor told you something you haven't
yet admitted, didn't he?
That's
why you're so adamant that I not get out
of bed. You're taking over my life...what am I, Richelle? A bloody
cripple?"

She'd been struck speechless, unable to
respond to his appalling conclusion.

"Is
this
what I'm reduced
to, then? Lying here bedridden, while my wife conducts my business affairs? Or
can I at least look forward to eventually hobbling about my office once or
twice a week? Perhaps then I wouldn't have the entire village pitying me behind
my back! Whispering how my partner has to carry me, how I've become naught but
a pathetic, useless burden."

"Morgan, you—"

"Damn that Rowe to hell!" he
snarled in fury. "
'
The leg will mend,' he said. Couldn't look me in
the eye and swear I'd walk normally, though.
That's
what you're
withholding this time, isn't it? Go ahead, summon whatever's left of that
pioneer courage of yours, and admit you haven't the stomach for life married to
a lame wretch!"

"You're not going to be lame. You
just need to heal, and—"

His voice was cold, implacable.
"You deserve better than a drunkard followed by a cripple, and we both
know it."

"I didn't marry a
leg
, I
married a
man
! And whatever the future brings, I fully intend that we
face it together. But no one said—oh, why do I bother? I'm not going to argue
with you." She turned and took a step toward the door.

He seized her skirts, wincing.
"Richelle, I can't even walk! All this mothering and attention has only
convinced me that it's worse than anyone will admit. If I'm wrong, I'll—"

"Let me go, Tremayne," she
ground out, jerking free.

He instantly released her. "That's
what
she
said." His voice was hoarse. "Bloody
exact same
words
. My mother's last words." A single tear trickled down his cheek
and became lost in the dark mustache.

"It must have been very painful,
hearing your mother's dying words to your father."

"She didn't
die
, Richelle.
She left him! It was a night like any other, but they had cross words. She told
my father she'd always hated this niggardly village and every single human
being in it. Then she packed a valise and left. When she didn't come back, he
made up a tale that she'd visited sick relations, caught smallpox and died
somewhere in Cornwall."

Richelle's jaw dropped. "Morgan,
no! She didn't mean you and Annaliese. She couldn't have meant her own
children."

"She swore she'd send for us. But I
never saw her again. Except at night. I still see her at night. In those damned
dreams, with that bag in her hand. And those words on her lips. Same as on
yours now."

There was a long silence as the horrible
truth sunk in.

Richelle never understood what he'd
meant by saying she frightened him, why he'd judged her so harshly. Why he'd
avoided the cottage. Why he got upset so easily at times.

His rasping whisper nudged her from her
reverie. "Richelle, if you don't come here and catch me, I'm going to fall
flat on my face."

She hadn't noticed that he'd climbed off
the mattress and tried to stand, tried to get to where she was rooted in
stunned shock. He was reaching for her, pleading with his eyes. Pewter eyes
awash in anguish and sorrow.

She crossed to him, wrapped her arms
around his waist and held on tightly, not speaking. He needed her to listen now.
"That's why I can't sleep without my arm around you or yours over me. I
have to be sure you're still there when my eyes are closed. Can't watch you
while I'm sleeping."

"I'm always there," she
replied softly, tears spilling down her own cheeks. "Right there beside
you, Morgan. Every night. I ran away before because of the maelstrom around me,
not because of you. It wasn't anything you'd said or done. And that was
Rachel
who left before, not Richelle."

"Every day I try to push away the
dark thoughts. Pray it won't end today
.
I detest when you debate with me,
for any disagreement might be our last. Any moment I might find I've become
Andrew Tremayne all over again. The horrors will come back again. Anna couldn't
face me. She believed me worse than he was."

"No, Morgan, you're not," she
soothed. "You're the most wonderful man I've ever known."

His words spilled out now in a torrent
between harsh gasps. "I tried not to let any wench matter. Never wanted to
care so deeply about anyone, but I couldn't help myself. I'm the son of Andrew
Tremayne. Andrew Tremayne would never beg. Swore he'd never show weakness to a
female, and he never did. Watched her go without a word. Maybe it
is
weakness, Richelle—" came his choking sob, "but I'm not as strong as
he was. Please don't leave me, Richelle, even if I'm crippled.
Please don't.
"

She clutched him fiercely to her as he
released the tears he'd kept inside for so many years. She cried with him.
Cried for the lost boy he'd been, the adolescent who'd broken his back trying
to measure up, trying to prove himself worthy of love and respect.