Patricia Rice (14 page)

Morgan removed his hat from beneath his arm and
adjusted it to his head. “That’s a pity. Then I suppose I shall have to
visit a solicitor. Perhaps you would recommend one?”

The gentleman sucked in his breath and glared, then
took Morgan’s elbow and started down the steps to the street with him,
discreetly closing the door after them. “I don’t know what you want,” he
ground out, “but this is a house of mourning. The marquess’s health is
failing. He can withstand no further shocks. A solicitor will avail you
nothing and would only hasten the marquess’s departure. Unless that is
your intent, I would advise leaving the matter alone.”

So, the heir did not deny George’s existence.
Interesting. Morgan caught his horse’s reins and pitched a penny to the
lad holding them. He gave his companion’s nervous features a shrewd
look. “What is it worth to you?”

“The price of your silence will be your health and
that of anyone who would make false claims against the estate. George
Montague never existed, for all the world knows.”

Morgan smiled mirthlessly at this confirmation. he
world would no doubt suddenly remember the twenty-year-old scandal of
George Montague were its memory jogged. What it would cost Faith was
another matter entirely.

He mounted his horse and met the heir’s gaze
steadily. “You can be certain that no one of George Montague’s
intelligence would wish to claim any part of this family, but against
the vagaries of health and fortune, I would suggest a little insurance. A
trust fund sufficient to provide a reasonable income for life would be
my recommendation, drawn up in the name of... let us say, Faith
Henrietta Montague? It’s a small enough sum to protect against the ill
fortunes the future might bring. Registered at the Bank of England, it
should be safe enough, and should no one ever claim it, it can always
revert to the estate. What could be more fair?”

Without a moment’s regret, Morgan watched the
gentleman flinch and slowly turn red. He wagered the marquess kept his
heir on short purse strings. He waited to see if the young cad would
offer to take the tale to his father.

Instead, the lordling merely glared and bluffed. “Anyone claiming such a fund would have to have damned good proof.”

“I’ll grant you that.” Morgan shrugged and took up
the reins. “Tie it up nice and neat. It might take two months to work
out the details. I’ll have my man check with the bank then. I give you
good day.” Morgan made a pretense at tipping his hat and spurred his
stallion down the street.

Not until he reached the outskirts of the city did
Morgan let his temper roil and burst into rising. Damn the bloody damn
arrogant Sassenachs anyway! Who the
hell
did
they think they were? He had half a mind to dress Faith in silk and lace
and parade her beneath their noses on his arm. He’d hire solicitors and
sue the arrogant bastard for half of everything. He could tie the
estate up for years until the marquess was choked into offering name and
fortune to the woman he had cheated out of her rightful home.

The only flaw in that pattern was Faith. Meek, pious
Faith would never claim what was not hers, nor shame her family by
behaving in anything other than a ladylike manner. To fight and claw and
bribe and flaunt was not her way. Morgan was glad she was not like the
rest of the world, but it seemed a damned shame the meek could inherit
the earth only after it was stripped bare by greedy leeches.

Perhaps it was all for the best. She didn’t belong
in that world any more than she belonged in his. Perhaps she belonged
with the saints in heaven. Remembering her leaning out of the loft,
holding a smoking pistol, and later, offering passionate kisses, Morgan
thought perhaps she wasn’t quite ready for that world either.

That thought brought a wicked gleaming smile to his
lips. Such a simple solution to so complex a problem! Why had he not
thought of it before? The granddaughter of one of the premier lords of
the land, the claimant to wealth beyond imagination, and the best damned
cook and housekeeper he had ever known. He’d have to be a fool to let
her get away, and the good Lord only knew, Morgan de Lacy was no fool.

The descendants of two great Norman families among
the British nobility belonged together. She would warm his nights and
ease his days, and when the time was right, they would take London by
storm.

Morgan had never taken the time to imagine what kind
of wife he would like, and he probably never would have imagined one
like Faith, but she would suit him admirably. Though she was small and
quiet, with a stubborn streak that was something of a nuisance, she was
lovely in her own way.

He would have no difficulty bedding her and getting
her with child. That would drive the marquess into shock of a certainty.
Once they were wedded and had found their place in society, they would
undoubtedly go their own ways as everyone else did, but he could always
rely on Faith’s discretion. She would never turn jealous shrew or
threaten him with his past. In fact, he rather thought she might be
content just to have his children and adorn his home.

He would dress her in silks and lace and give her a
lovely house to decorate as she wished. He could even imagine being
content with just that for any number of years—that, and the full
enjoyment of the ultimate revenge.

The trick was to persuade Faith into marriage. She
was no silly miss who would marry the first man who asked. Morgan’s
credentials were of the worst. What woman in her right mind would marry a
highwayman?

But he had the advantage of knowing her response to
his kiss. She was too innocent to know where such kisses led. Once he
had taken her to his bed, her overactive conscience and religious
upbringing would force her to accept his proposal. It would be the best
thing for both of them.

Then it would just be a matter of scraping together
enough wealth to set themselves up in society. If he could force the
issue, the trust fund was a good idea, but that would be Faith’s
security alone.

He might use her name and position, but he would
bring his own wealth to this marriage. His robbery had earned him a
steady income since the ill-fated Jacobite uprising had destroyed his
hopes and his home. The amount he had in the funds wouldn’t buy him more
land as yet, but with a little work he could double his savings over
the summer.

By fall, Faith should be with child, and he should
be ready to turn London on its ear. Morgan hoped the marquess was still
around when they arrived. Perhaps even Faith would enjoy seeing her
father’s arrogant family forced to acknowledge an Irish papist on the
family tree.

Whistling to himself as he approached home, Morgan
stopped at the Raging Bull to recover Faith’s clothes and upbraid
Whitehead for attempting to ruin children. Leaving the innkeeper
shivering in his greasy boots, he rode on to the next village, where he
had left an order with a local seamstress. It was one thing to seduce
Faith’s love of beauty with silk, but her practicality would be
persuaded better with serviceable wool.

While he was there, he ordered gowns of dimity and
lawn for when the weather changed. He added a new sewing kit and a bolt
of linen to his order.

Content that his purchases would put his courtship
off to a good start, Morgan started on the long ride home. He might have
to curtail his activities for a while to assure his little Methodist
that he was a changed man. Besides, he would need the extra time to
seduce her. He didn’t want to do this crudely. She was a gentle girl who
knew nothing of passion—yet.

A woman of his own. Morgan liked the thought. The
lands that were to have been his had first belonged to his father, then
his brother, and finally to an Englishman. The women he had possessed
over his checkered career had never been his. The clothes on his back
had often been rags or uniforms paid for by a mercenary army. When he
had finally possessed coins enough to buy his own clothes, he had made
certain that they were of the finest quality. He would be a fool to do
less with a wife.

Faith heard the thundering hoofbeats of Morgan’s
arrival but refused to run to the window. All day she had denied the
hopes that Morgan’s journey to London raised. It would be impossible to
find her family in a city that large. They would not live in London.
They would all be dead or have lost their money and traveled to other
shores.

Worst of all, they might all be alive and well and want nothing to do with her.

She stirred the stew and checked the bread and
carefully arranged the plates on the table while Morgan took his horse
to the barn. Even if he had the most exciting news of the century for
her, he would brush down his horse first. Perhaps his care for his
animals was one of the reasons that she trusted the highwayman.

So she prayed as she heard Morgan’s boots coming up
the path. She would never grow used to the sight of him as he flung open
the door and entered in a rush of fresh air and masculine energy, the
lace at his throat and wrist catching in the breeze, the firelight
illuminating the blue-black gleam of his clubbed hair. By day’s end his
jaw was shadowed, giving his broad cheekbones a pirate’s cast, but his
white smile could charm the devil himself. Faith fell for it every time.

“I don’t know which is more heavenly, the sight of
you or the smell of bread baking.” Morgan strode in, peeling off his
black coat in the room’s warmth. In shirtsleeves and waistcoat he seemed
some demigod ill-suited to his crude surroundings.

Faith smiled as the room filled with the sight and
sound of him. “I rather suspect the bread,” she said with a hint of
humor. “When did you last eat?”

Morgan grinned and flung his satchel over the chair.
Then in a stride he crossed to where she set down his pot of coffee and
lifted her clear of the floor to plant a swift kiss on her.

The suddenness left Faith off-balance. He set her back on her feet before she could protest.

Morgan was already searching for his coffee mug, but
she could still feel the overpowering strength of his arms and chest
surrounding her, and the surprising fierceness of his lips on hers. She
touched a wondering finger to her mouth before hurriedly wiping her
hands on her apron and returning to the stew. He was just happy about
something and meant nothing by his exuberance.

His happiness made her hopes soar despite her best
efforts. She finished setting the table and tried to ignore the bulging
satchel as Morgan poured his coffee. When he started unpacking it, Faith
tried to don an expression of disapproval. Surely he had not gone
thieving in broad daylight—but his purchases were bought with ill-gotten
coins too, she reminded herself.

“If you are to work for me, you must have some serviceable clothing,” Morgan announced authoritatively.

Faith’s hopes plummeted. She managed an obedient nod before removing the bread from the iron oven.

He had not been able to locate her family and hoped
to soften the blow by buying her more clothing. She didn’t wish to
dampen his jovial mood or seem ungrateful for his generosity, but she
missed her parents dreadfully. It had seemed a small wish that there
might be family somewhere that she could claim.

Morgan tore open the dressmaker’s package and
produced a soft silver wool. “This is not very fancy, but it will keep
your knees warm when you walk to the barn.”

Faith had to giggle at such a description and turned
to admire the gown he held out. As usual, it was better than any she
had ever possessed, and far too grand for watering animals. The soft
fabric drew a reluctant smile. “You spoil me, Morgan. My other gowns are
quite warm enough. Now, sit, and let me fill your plate.”

Doggedly Morgan ignored her offer and produced a
smoky blue gown of identical make but with the addition of a touch of
lace to sleeve and modesty piece. “I couldn’t decide which color would
look best with your eyes, so I had the seamstress make up both.”

Faith stared incredulously at the gowns. “Make it
up? These are never new! Oh, Morgan, that is criminal waste! You should
not have. I can do very well with the needle. I made the green gown fit,
didn’t I? You must not be spending your coins on me. There are too many
things you need here. You could have bought seed for a garden, or a
cow, or new plates and cups. Why would you do such a thing?”

Morgan drew Faith into his arms and tried to comfort
her. “I’ll buy you a cow and seeds if that is what you wish, but do not
begrudge the few coins I spend to please myself. It is not often I have
a lovely woman to come home to. I would see her dressed to suit me. You
are too lovely to be hidden by old sacks and other people’s castoffs. I
did not mean to make you unhappy.”

Faith curled her fingers into the luxurious satin of
Morgan’s waistcoat and let the strength and comfort of his hold seep
through her. She was so lonely, and he held her so securely, she could
not resist this moment as she ought. Leave it to Morgan to paint a
selfish face on his actions.

Perhaps he had done it for himself, but he could
just as easily have bought his horse new tack. But the horse wouldn’t
care, and she did.

“The gowns are too lovely for the likes of me,” she
whispered before separating herself from this tempting embrace. “I know I
must work for a living now. Only a lady of leisure deserves such
finery.”

Morgan caught her arm and didn’t let go. His gaze
was fierce as it held hers. “I’ll buy you more should these be ruined
with your perennial tasks. I can’t offer you much, Faith, but you’ll
find me generous with what I have to give. I don’t wish to lose you.”

Faith’s heart fluttered in her chest at the
sincerity in his deep voice and the possessiveness in his hold. She
glanced up to catch the intensity of his green gaze, then forced herself
to ask, “You found nothing of my family today?”