Lady Fugitive (8 page)

"Why wait?" she snapped back.
"Men drink when they win a fortune at cards or dice; drink when they lose
one. Drink in foul weather or because it's balmy and warm. Drink because the
moon is round or the sea is blue. There's always some occasion to drink."

He leaned back in his chair, pinning her
with his gaze. "Was your husband perchance an alcoholic, widow?"

"Indeed Mr. Tremayne, and it
ultimately cost his life." She jerked her shawl higher on her shoulders.
"Thank you for supper, sir. You got your ring back. I can see myself
home."

She left the crowded pub, ignoring the
randy comments behind her back, and stepped into the welcoming darkness. She
never should have started on him, she told herself. He hated to be contradicted
and she had no right to chastise him for drinking. It was none of her concern
what he did.

A long arm snaked around her waist and
she found herself looking up into troubled gray eyes. "Rachel, please hold
a moment. You helped me retrieve a family heirloom this evening. I should like
to pay you something. That's only fair. I apologize for my rudeness."

"I didn't come here for
money."

"You didn't have to come at
all," he observed. "That's my point. This was beyond your regular
duties, though I do appreciate your concern. I must compensate you somehow.
Perhaps the lamp you saw in Newcastle?"

"You paid for supper. That's
enough. Good night, sir." She tried to pull away, but his arm only
tightened.

"I'll walk you to the
cottage."

"No, I don't—er, I'm sure it's
perfectly safe out here. I—"

"It's not safe anywhere for a young
woman alone past dusk. I said I'll see you home."

"Please, just leave me alone!"
The last shred of her composure snapped. She stepped back a few feet even as
she burst into tears. Now her humiliation was complete.

"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 that 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. Not just the end of the marriage. My husband's name was
Cletus. He drank and gambled. 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 the 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. She laid 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 stuffy and somber to play parlor games. See you at the
office,
Widow
."

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 shop. He had a timid young maid on his arm, whom he introduced as his
future intended.