Patricia Rice (10 page)

“There is naught to tell,” she responded curtly. “My
grandparents disowned my parents when they accepted the Wesleyan way of
life. I have never met them, and their names were never mentioned in my
presence. My father’s name was George Henry Montague and my mother’s
Leticia Carlisle Montague. Other than knowing that they came from good
families and were well-educated, I know nothing.”

If Montague was truly from the nobility, it would be
a simple matter to discover him. Returning the long-lost child to the
fold might be another matter entirely. Judging by the glimpses of temper
she had shown him, her family might not find her particularly obliging
in casting aside her father’s beliefs.

“That will give me somewhere to start.” It was more
pleasant to pacify her with promises than to delve into his criminal
activities.

“It would be better could you find me a position,”
Faith responded defiantly. “I have no desire to be anyone’s poor
relation. I can earn my own way.”

“That’s a damned foolish thing to say,” Morgan
answered irritably, forgetting his desire for peace. “You are much
better off in the protection of your family than working for strangers.
You know nothing of the world out there.”

Faith threw down the knife and glared at him. “I
know never to trust what a person says he is. I’d thank you to mind your
own business in the future.”

Faith stalked out of the house, leaving the man to
pare his own potatoes. She didn’t know why she ached so at the thought
of being forced to leave this isolated cottage to join a family she had
never known, but it cut more cruelly than any knife.

She had no home, she told herself, but when she
reached the hay-scented warmth of the barn, grief sucked her in. Never
would she see the ginger cat again, or pet the mare, or feed the mighty
stallion, should she go away to London. She did not know if she could
bear to be torn away.

They dined in stony silence that night and went to
bed without the quiet exchange of the day’s events that they had come to
share. Faith climbed into her loft with her back taut and pretended she
did not hear Morgan reaching for the bottle above the cupboard. Let him
drown his evil tempers. It was none of her affair.

Only later, when she had drifted into a restless
half-sleep, did she hear the quiet sounds of someone creeping about the
room below. She willed herself to sleep, but the shuffling footsteps
pried on her nerves. Morgan never crept or shuffled. Even in pain, he
stomped and swaggered. Something was not quite right. The hour was much
later than she had thought, judging by the cold enveloping her. The fire
was long since banked.

Her hand slid beneath her pillow to the pistol she
had not touched since Morgan returned. The hated metal burned her palm,
and she almost dropped it, but a muffled sound from below forced her
fingers to close around the butt.

Quietly she slid to the loft hatch and peered down.
At first she could see nothing, but as her eyes adjusted to familiar
shadows, she stifled a gasp.

A hulking silhouette that could not be Morgan filled
the center of the room. A flicker of moonlight through the windows
caught the point of silver in a massive hand. Even as Faith watched, she
could see Morgan staggering from the bed, reaching for the scabbard
left dangling from a nail in the wall.

Her hand clutched convulsively around the pistol as Morgan’s bad leg gave out beneath him.

A club bigger than Morgan’s head swung downward. Stifling a scream, Faith tightened her fingers on the weapon in her hand.

Faith did not even remember pulling the trigger. She
certainly did not remember aiming the gun. She only remembered complete
terror as the deadly club swung at Morgan’s head.

The explosion sent both men rocking backward and
stunned her as well. Morgan grabbed his sword. The intruder crumpled to
his knees and fell sideways.

Suddenly it was no longer a puppet show in
make-believe. Faith felt the horror creep upon her as the pistol
scorched her hand. She dropped it, and the noise of it bouncing in the
silence below seemed almost sacrilege. Her stomach cramped, and she
wanted to retch, but she could not bring herself to go down the ladder
to find the bowl.

Morgan glanced upward. At the sight of the white
face framed in the loft entrance, he ignored the body on the floor and
started up the ladder. The bastard wouldn’t be going anywhere soon, and
the child in the loft was a thousand times more important. The wrenching
pain in his leg went unnoticed as he grabbed Faith and lifted her
frozen form against his chest.

Awkwardly he lowered her to the ground, thanking the
heavens that he didn’t topple them both. Faith shivered uncontrollably
in his arms and buried her face in the curve of his shoulder.

She felt more frail than a newborn filly, and he
gentled her as he would any injured animal. Somewhere inside, a fire
stirred, but his tenderness was only for a terrified child.

He carried her to the bed and pulled a blanket
around her, and uncurling her fingers from the hairs on his chest, left
her huddled in the protection of the massive cupboard where he had been
sleeping.

It took only a moment’s work to verify what he had
already guessed. Morgan had killed before and knew the gut-wrenching
horror of seeing life disappear in a puff of smoke. He had grown
hardened to death, however, and felt no sympathy for the blackguard who
would have taken his life had he been given but a minute more.

From the shape and size of the body, he knew it to
be Tucker. The man had evidently come to steal and kill as he had done
before. Perhaps news of Morgan’s injury had made him brave. Whatever the
reason, the villain had died more quickly than he deserved.

He had to remove Tucker’s corpse. Then, somehow, he had to erase Faith’s memory.

Normally, removing a body would have been little
problem, but his injured leg could not bear the extra weight. He would
have to drag it out.

He donned his shirt and boots, but did not dare look
in on Faith. She was a murderer now, like the rest of them in the
forest. If brought before the law, she might cry self-defense, but she
would die inside before she ever reached a courtroom.

Morgan had seen the insides of enough prisons to
know a gentle female could not survive. It little mattered if she were a
child. Half the occupants of Newgate were children.

Reflecting bitterly on the British system of
justice, Morgan managed to haul Tucker over his smallest mare and lead
it out of the clearing. No one would mourn the dead man’s passing. Even
had he wife and children somewhere, they would certainly be grateful to
see the end of his abuse. Faith had merely saved the law the necessity
of erecting still another gallows. But Morgan rather thought this
rationality would not impress a child who was terrified of guns and had
never killed before.

When he returned, Faith was still sitting wrapped in
the blanket where he had left her. At least this time she had not
fainted, although oblivion might be preferable to the horror etching
those wide gray eyes. He sat down beside her, easing his aching leg full
length to keep from disturbing the knot of pain.

There was nothing he could say. He took her in his
arms, and when she did not protest, he leaned back against the wide
mattress, carrying her with him. His feet were still on the floor. His
intentions were of the purest. There was none to know how they spent
this night. He nestled her against his side, stroked her hair, and
prayed to a God he had long since deserted.

It was dawn before she finally whispered, “I killed him, didn’t I?”

Morgan considered denying it. Perhaps it was callousness that made him tell the truth.

“It was Tucker, lass. He meant to murder me in my
bed. It would not have gone well for you had he succeeded. You did the
only thing you could have done.”

“I did not mean to do it,” she wailed softly. “I did not mean to shoot at all. It just happened. How could it happen like that?”

Morgan cradled her head against his shoulder and pressed a kiss to her unruly hair. “I do not know, my
cailin,
but I am glad for it. He would have coshed my head and carved my heart
and thought no more of it. I was a fool to think myself so safe that I
need not keep my firearm at my side. I’ll not let it happen again.”

Morgan’s voice was as thick and soothing as warm
honey, and his strong arms made Faith feel safe and protected. As long
as she did not have to open her eyes, she could pretend it never
happened. She wanted to stay here forever. She wanted to feel more of
his kisses.

That startled Faith into looking up. She could see
the harsh jutting angles of Morgan’s profile, and the gentle curve of
his lips. He was such a contradiction, even in his features, that she
never knew what to expect of him. But she knew she could not stay here
forever.

Morgan let her go without any sign of reluctance, but his dark-lashed hazel eyes watched her.

“I will have to go away now,” Faith announced
matter-of-factly. “They will come looking for me. I cannot shame my
father’s name.”

A grin spread across the highwayman’s face. “You
have a high opinion of English justice, lass. Even should Tucker be
missed, which is doubtful, do you think it is written on the air that
one Faith Montague perpetrated the crime? Nay, lass, I think it best you
stay with me awhile. When you leave here, it shall be as Lord
Montague’s granddaughter, and no one will dare accuse you of anything
other than foolishness.”

“Foolishness!” Faith glared down at his blasted laughing eyes. “Of what foolishness do I stand accused?”

“Of trusting an Irish papist highwayman, my lass.
But how’s a child to know a rogue from a knight? I’ll ransom you in
return for my good name, or keep you here in domestic bliss forever, or
until my neck is stretched, whichever comes first. Do you think we might
have a morsel to eat?”

Fury flared through her, a white-hot fury Faith had
never dared to free in all her life. A man had died this night—at her
hand—and he made jests! He talked of hanging and asked for food! Was he
insane?

She struck his arm, knowing she hurt her hand more
than the iron-clad muscle she abused. “There is a dead man out there,
with family somewhere. They could be left to starve. I could hang for
protecting your worthless life. We should be praying for our immortal
souls. And all you think of is your stomach! How could you?”

She leapt from the comforting shelter of his arms
and fled toward the door. Morgan could not follow so easily. His leg had
grown stiff, and the pain in just sitting up was excruciating. He
cursed himself, he cursed Tucker, and he cursed the little imp from
Satan who made him feel the biggest fool alive.

He had spent nearly a decade denying his conscience,
hardening himself to the kind of life he must lead to win back what had
been taken from him. This little imp would smite him with feelings he
didn’t want or need.

He found his stick and dragged himself to the hearth to start the morning fire.

By the time Faith returned to the cottage, he had
set the fire roaring, burned a pan of bacon, and filled the air with the
aroma of overcooked coffee. He was contentedly scorching toast in the
bacon grease when she entered.

He looked up but said nothing at the sight of her
bedraggled chemise-clad figure. Her braid had come partially undone and
fell across the overlarge folds of her bodice. Her bare legs bore the
scratches of her flight. He noted their length and shapeliness but
politely turned his eyes back to the fire.

He really did need to find out how old she was. She
buried herself in linen and wool, so that it was impossible to gauge her
age. But this glimpse of her in the morning light revealed a perfectly
proportioned filly of small stature, not the gawky child he had
imagined. Perhaps she was not amply endowed, but that did not mean those
weren’t a woman’s curves beneath her threadbare shift.

When she came down, she was properly clothed in her
old brown dress. There was nothing bony about her rounded arms, and
Morgan once more averted his eyes to the fire. He could pamper a child
and send her on her way. A young virgin was quite another kettle of
fish.

Morgan turned his crisp toast with his knife. “Will you have a bite to eat?”

She politely took her seat at the table. “Just some toast, if you do not mind.”

Setting his jaw, Morgan pried a piece of toast loose and dropped it on the table before her.

Faith quivered at the return of the taciturn stranger, but she bravely took her toast.

Swallowing a lump in her throat that had little to
do with the wretched toast, Faith spoke. “The weather is more favorable
now. If your leg does not bother you too much, I had best be on my way.
By the time you are well enough to travel, it will be warm enough to let
the horses loose.”

He shook his head and sipped his coffee. “You’ll not
be leaving until I can go to London and find your family. You would not
even make it safely through the forest on your own.”

Knowing now the kind of men who lived here, Faith
acknowledged the truth of his words, but still, she watched him warily.
He did not meet her eyes. Did he mean to hold her for ransom, after all?

“I have no wish to be a burden to you. I have made
it across the breadth of England without your help. Surely London cannot
be much farther.”

Morgan glared at her. “You will stay and I will hear no more argument. Have the horses been watered?”

Faith blinked, felt a lightness in her chest, and nodded.

She might be three kinds of a fool, but she didn’t
want to leave. Gratefully she offered, “Shall I fry some eggs for you?
You could see to your leg while they’re cooking. The water should be
warm by now.”