Patricia Rice (15 page)

***

Morgan had hoped to seduce her with gowns, but she
was too wise for that. But in this lie…she made it so very easy for him.
Better to leave her this small hope than dash it with the bitter truth.

He traced the delicate line of her cheekbones with
his finger. “I could find no Lord Montague, lass. Did you not bring away
your parents’ marriage lines, or some official document of your birth?
You will need those in any case to prove your parentage.”

And to claim that trust fund the deuced heir was
going to cough up, if he had any say in the matter. And then when that
was secured, they could flaunt those papers in the face of London
society, and they would have to accept Faith for what she was.

Faith’s eyes lit. “I left my father’s books and
papers behind with a neighbor. All the information will be in there, I
am certain.” Her smile faltered a little. “It could take weeks to return
to Cornwall. I left in such a hurry...”

Morgan pushed her into the chair. “Don’t fret over
it now. Have a bite before it all gets cold. We will plan something.
Perhaps we can write to your neighbor and have her put the papers on the
coach.”

Faith obediently filled her plate. “She cannot read.
She would have to take the letter to the vicar or squire, and they
hated my father. I would not have them learn of my father’s papers. He
was writing a book, and that manuscript is all I have left of him.”

This was a new facet of her life he did not know.
She seemed to find it perfectly acceptable to be despised by such
pillars of village society as the vicar and squire. No wonder she had
adapted so well to his life as society’s outcast.

“Let me ask around and see if I cannot find someone
who knows the area or will be willing to go there. Could none of your
Methodist friends read?”

“Wesleyans. They are called Wesleyans. I suppose if a
new teacher has been sent to the area, he would be able to read, but I
would not know to whom to address it. My neighbor might take a letter to
a new Wesleyan teacher if there were one. Do you really think it might
help if you have those papers?”

Morgan savored his mouthful of stew before
answering. If nothing else, those papers would secure that trust fund
for her future. He swallowed the stew and nodded. “There may be names
and places on those papers that I could use to search for your family.
Write the letter, and I will find someone to send with instructions on
who’s to read it.”

Faith threw him the grateful look he had expected earlier. “Thank you, Morgan de Lacy. You are a good man when you wish to be.”

He snorted and returned to his food. She knew
nothing about men or she would not say that. By the end of this week he
meant to have her beneath him in his bed. Good had nothing to do with
him. “Clever” and “determined” would have been better words.

While Morgan left to tend his horses after their
meal, Faith dried the last fork and tucked it away before examining the
rest of his purchases.

The bolt of linen brought a smile to her lips. She
had a dozen uses for the cloth, and her fingers itched to begin
measuring and cutting. If she only had lace, she could make Morgan a
shirt unmatched by any of the tailored ones he owned. But without lace
she could make more serviceable garments. Her chemises were too small
and beyond repair. She could make new stomachers for her old gowns.

Lifting the cloth to better size it, Faith
discovered a tapestried case beneath. She set the linen aside and gently
touched the fabric. It resembled her sewing kit, only much larger. The
possibilities such a case could conceal were limitless. Her fingers
trailed along the edge of the case to the fastening.

She really shouldn’t pry. It could be a gentleman’s
shaving kit, perhaps. He hadn’t offered it to her. But curiosity was
more than she could bear. What would it hurt to just peer inside? He
hadn’t hidden it, after all. Surely he knew she would tidy away whatever
he left on the table.

Reassured, Faith pried open the fastening. Inside, a
glitter of silver made her catch her breath. The firelight caught and
reflected the polished gleam of long-nosed scissors, an assortment of
fine needles, and a thimble engraved with the delicate lines of a rose.
The other side of the case held several spools of thread in different
colors.

Tears puddled Faith’s eye. Never had she owned such
luxury. And beyond the shadow of any doubt, she knew the impossible man
meant it for her use. Morgan de Lacy had never put thread to needle in
his life.

Clutching the marvelous gift, Faith lifted her head
at the sound of his contented whistle in the yard. That she had
disappointed him with her reaction to his generous gift of the gowns,
she knew. But she had been devastated by the dashing of all her dreams,
and the gowns weren’t adequate compensation. But this... She glanced
down at the gleaming silver, and her hopes soared again. With tools like
these, she could do anything.

Without giving a second thought to what she did, Faith lifted her skirts and flew out of the house.

The meager warmth of the March sun had faded with
evening, but the chill could not compare to the ice of the winter.
Well-fed and cosseted during these months in the highwayman’s home,
Faith felt no cold now. Warm blood flowed through her veins, stirred by
the spring air and an indefinable something that emanated from the man
lathering down his horse in the yard.

Morgan looked up in surprise as Faith raced toward
him, her skirts flying about her legs, her curls escaping the braid’s
confinement, her cheeks rosy, and her lips parted with some secret joy.
The image lingered, printed on his brain for many days after. She was
laughing, and the happiness reached her eyes for the first time since
they had met. His heart turned over in his chest, and without thinking,
Morgan dropped his brush and held out his arms to take her up.

She flew into them without hesitation, her arms
wrapping around his neck in exuberance. “It’s lovely! Why did you not
tell me you bought it? May I use it? Please? I’ll sew you the finest
shirt you’ve ever owned. I promise Morgan, tell me I may use it.”

Had she not held the object of her affection in her
hand, Morgan would have been hard pressed to place the source of her
joy. As it was, he grinned and held her a little more closely than was
necessary.

“I merely sought to replace your old ones, my
cailin
. ’Twas the least I could do in return for your talented fingers.”

Breathless now that she was trapped against his hard
body, Faith turned her gaze to Morgan’s rugged features. A shock of
ebony hair fell across his high brow. The hard lines at the corners of
his mouth softened, and his eyes crinkled with amusement. That smile
sent a sudden jolt through her chest, and she knew she had behaved with
unfitting abandon. That smile told her so, but she could not move away.

Fascinated, her gaze lingered on his lips, then daringly met Morgan’s eyes, and then there was no stopping him.

Faith’s lids fluttered closed as Morgan’s mouth
touched hers. She tasted him, the flavors of beef and coffee mixing with
the seductive brush of his lips. There was only the strength of his
arms around her and the need to be closer. Faith sank her hands into his
queue, reveling in the coarseness of his thick hair. Her lips parted
beneath the pressure of his tongue, and all was lost.

As his tongue tenderly taught her the meaning of
possession, Faith clung to Morgan’s shoulders. Her whole world spun, and
this man was her axis. Her surrender was complete, and had he gone
further, she would not have protested.

As if he sensed the direction of her emotions,
Morgan regretfully pulled back. He continued to caress her face with
light kisses, lingering at the corners of her eyes, brushing against the
wisps of curl along her brow, giving them both time to come to terms
with the desires overtaking them.

“Bean sidhe,
” he murmured against her hair, “you take my breath away.”

Reluctantly Faith attempted to disengage herself.
Heat rose to her cheeks at the realization of how wildly she had
abandoned herself. “Faerie woman? I’m scarce even a woman, and certainly
not a faerie.”

Morgan grinned and kept a grip on her long braid so
she wouldn’t go far. “You’re definitely a woman, lass, or you would not
have kissed me like that. And you must have a faerie’s magic, or I would
not have kissed you back. You’re dangerous to a man’s sleep. I’ll hear
your wailin’ all the night long now.”

Faith noted the laughter in his eyes with suspicion. “Why would I wail all night long? That sounds absurdly foolish.”

He chuckled, tilted her chin with his finger, and
placed a kiss on her nose. “I’ll explain someday. Would you like to see a
bit o’ city on the morrow? I’m thinking you stay on the mare well
enough now.”

She knew to distrust his brogue. He turned it off
and on with the same charm as his elusive smile. Morgan de Lacy was a
dangerous man. But the thought of seeing something other than the four
walls of the cottage damned suspicion.

“London?” she asked in amazement. “Can we really reach London? Is it as large as they say?”

“It is, so you’d best be up early to see it all.
Write that letter to your neighbor and we’ll send it off while we’re
there. And kiss me one more time to keep me warm until I come in.”

Faith favored him with an uncertain glance, but
Morgan gave her little time for indecision. With a swiftness that left
her gasping, he bent and took what he wanted. The heated caress of his
lips was swift and searing.

Faith turned and fled to the house the instant he
released her. By the time she reached the protection of the door, her
heart was pounding painfully in her chest, and it wasn’t from the
exertion of the run.

Faith didn’t like this place Morgan had brought her
to. She squirmed nervously under the scrutiny of a wizened old man
behind the counter. The stench of the docks crept in through every nook
and cranny, and there were more than enough of those. Her gaze drifted
to the bare cobweb-coated rafters, and she shivered, imagining a giant
wharf rat staring back at her. The filthy windows high above the floor
gave no light. Only the ancient lantern behind the clerk provided any
illumination at all. Faith decided it was better that way.

The man’s shrewd eyes followed her as she stopped
behind Morgan, lifting her petticoats from the filth of the floor. She
wished Morgan would hurry with his business.

From the odd assortment of items lining the shelves
and walls of the warehouse, Faith greatly suspected this was where
Morgan brought his ill-gotten goods to sell. That meant the old man was
as much a thief as Morgan. She had difficulty remembering that her
employer was a man with a price on his head, that he had in all
probability murdered in his efforts to enrich himself. She ought to be
looking for a way out, planning her escape, but instead, she moved
closer to his protection.

His business completed, Morgan took Faith’s arm and
led her out into the spring sunshine. The unexpected warmth promised
rain later in the day. Faith turned her face eagerly to the sunshine.

“Now that your letter is safely off, where would you
like to begin, milady? The shops in Bond Street, perhaps? We could buy
you a frilly cap and some ribbons for your hair. Or find you some of
those high- heeled shoes the ladies are so fond of wearing. What is your
choice?”

Faith bit her bottom lip and threw Morgan a hesitant
glance. She had only wanted to see the city. She hadn’t meant for him
to spend money on her. If she reprimanded him for spending his stolen
coin, he would be insulted and it would ruin their outing. But if he
insisted on spending his money... Her glance grew thoughtful as she
regarded his impatient expression.

“Is there a market where I might buy a few herbs? And seeds, for a garden. And if they had some new onions...”

Morgan stared at her as if she had gone berserk;
then, shrugging his shoulders, he hoisted her back on the mare. “Let us
stable these nags,then we’ll walk through Covent Garden. Perhaps you’ll
find something a little less prosaic than onions there.”

Before they reached Covent Garden, Faith’s eyes were
wide from staring up at towering limestone buildings and magnificent
Gothic cathedrals. All thoughts of onions fled when the sun caught on
the stained glass of St. Paul’s. The towering dome drew her gaze to the
heavens, and she felt as if God were looking directly on her.

Staring upward, she almost missed the ragged urchin
darting beneath her horse’s nose. The peddler who chased after him
screamed a curse as she came between him and his prey.

The mare whinnied in protest and threw her head
nervously, nearly unsettling Faith’s precarious hold. Morgan was
immediately at her side, soothing the animal and sending the peddler on
his way with a stream of invectives that singed Faith’s ears. She didn’t
know whether to offer him gratitude for his help or scold him for his
language. He was always doing this to her, leaving her bewildered and
confused.

He took a more protective position, and she threw
him an anxious look. He made no attempt to disguise himself, but rode
the streets with his black hair neatly queued beneath his silver-
trimmed cockaded hat. Instead of his black cloak, he wore a long black
frock coat with the split seam in back for riding. The hilt of his sword
gleamed through another slit, but otherwise he could be a gentleman in
heavy mourning. The expensive lace at his throat and wrist had been
discarded for a plain cravat and just a ruffle of linen at the cuff. No
one would suspect such a superior-looking gentleman of being other than
what he appeared.

Faith glanced down at her own attire and sighed. The
elegant blue wool fitted neatly to her waist, but there was little
enough for the lovely satin stomacher to conceal. Her long skirts spread
out like a lady’s, but she had no hoops or panniers to give them grace.
Her unpowdered hair was pinned as neatly as she could make it beneath
her frilly cap, but she had no illusion that she appeared a lady.
Restlessly she watched the other inhabitants of the city for a sight of
real elegance.