Patricia Rice (25 page)

Faith lay twisted on the bedcovers, her face pale
and drawn with pain as whimpers escaped her compressed lips. Beneath
her, the bright splash of red grew, soaking her silver gown and the
sheets and growing before Morgan’s horrified eyes.

He had spent half a score of years living on his
own, learning the atrocity of war, watching men die in rivers of blood,
binding the wounds of those who lived. He knew how to kill. He knew how
to survive. He didn’t know how to save Faith and his child. His
ignorance brought a moan to his lips and a prayer to God as he fell on
his knees beside her.

She was scarcely conscious of his presence when he
knelt beside her. He had to do something, but he was afraid to move her
and afraid not to. He couldn’t leave her, but he didn’t know how to
handle this alone.

Sweat breaking out on his brow, Morgan discarded his
coat and murmured soothing noises as he tested her forehead for fever.
He couldn’t find one, but he was burning all over himself, and chilled
cold as ice inside, so he was a poor judge.

Faith’s eyelashes flickered at his touch, and her
hand pushed at her ruined skirts. Morgan took this as a sign and began
unfastening the intricacies of her clothing that would free her from the
heat and blood.

His fingers fumbled and knotted laces and he finally
pulled out his knife and began cutting her free. The fine fabric
shredded beneath his strength, giving him some satisfaction, some sense
of accomplishment. Faith shivered and cried, and he drew on the
resources that made him cold and calm on the battlefield. Action, not
emotion, was required. His faerie needed him, and he wouldn’t let her
down.

By the time Morgan stripped Faith and the bed and
removed the bloody remains to the yard, he knew the worst was over. He
rummaged until he found the strips of cloth she had used to bind herself
during the winter and packed them as neatly as he could to stem the
slight but steady flow. Then he found her a clean chemise and awkwardly
managed to slide it over her head and arms so she could rest decently.

Faith seemed in some state between consciousness and
unconsciousness as Morgan worked. She lifted her arm when ordered, but
closed her eyes again when he had the garment adjusted. Her hands roved
restlessly, catching at his, picking at the sheets, straying to her
belly. Pain occasionally puckered her brow, but the terror had subsided,
and she no longer made those sounds that had Morgan shaking in his
boots.

He pulled the covers around her, and a frail hand
reached to hold his. He knelt beside her, stroking her brow, wishing he
could find the words that usually came so easily to his tongue.

“Was it...?” She licked her dry lips. “...a baby?”

This last was said so soft that Morgan could barely
hear her. His broad hand crushed her fingers, and he suddenly realized
his face was wet. He hadn’t cried in years. It had to be sweat. It was
bloody damn hot in here. He wiped the salty beads from his cheeks and
tried to speak.

“There’ll be others someday, my
cailin alainn.
We’ll have beautiful babies together.” He choked on the words, holding
back the lump in his throat. “This one just wasn’t ready to be born.
He’s better off in heaven, lass. We’ll see him by and by,” he whispered
in anguish, praying for the truth of the words.

Morgan could see the tears roll in great drops from
beneath the dark fringe of Faith’s lashes, and he finally sobbed and
turned his head away.

Now that there was no further action he could take,
guilt welled up in him. She had given herself freely. The outcome would
have been the same had they married or not. But the last thing in the
world he wanted to do was hurt his generous little faerie-woman. But he
had hurt her far beyond his ability to repair. He had not been there
when she needed him, as he had not been there for the others. The ugly
truth of that invaded his soul, blackening and shriveling what remained
of it.

Faith woke to Morgan’s lean silhouette bent over a
pot at the fire, tasting whatever vile brew fouled the air. She watched
him move as she would watch the shadows on the wall. He did not seem
quite real somehow. His white shirt picked up the gleams of firelight,
but the rest of him blended in with the darkness like some insubstantial
ghost. She could not relate this shadow to the man who had taken her to
his bed and got her with his child.

The hollowness inside her held new meaning. Her hand
went to her flat abdomen, and she felt the ache where their child had
grown. Their
child
. It seemed very strange to think of it that way after all these months of not knowing. She and Morgan had created a child.

And lost it. The coldness crept up on her, making
her long for Morgan’s comforting arms. But he would not want her now.
Not after what he had seen.

The loneliness that lived inside her grew like an evil thing, and Faith clenched her eyes closed and turned away.

Morgan poured some of the meat broth into a cup and
let it sit to cool a while. Meat broth had been more valuable than gold
after a battle. Surely the same principle applied here. Faith had lost
more blood than he had ever seen a body lose and still survive. Or it
seemed that way.

He had buried the clothes and the meager remains of
what should have been his child. The sight would haunt him for the rest
of his life.

The guilt wouldn’t leave him. He could tell himself
he wasn’t responsible for Sean’s death. His brother had been the one
unable to leave the outlawed priests alone. It hadn’t been Morgan’s
fault that he was still in France when the redcoats uncovered the Mass
and arrested Sean and hanged him along with the priests. Perhaps he
should have come home sooner, but it wouldn’t have changed the outcome.

The guilt was there a little stronger for the
others. His father had always been a heavy drinker. No one had told
Morgan it had grown worse in his absence, but he should have known. He
should have gone home instead of nourishing hatred like a viper in his
bosom, leaving his father to drink himself to death.

And had he gone home, he would have saved Aislin
from starving in the hedgerows. Clenching his fists, Morgan bowed his
head and tried desperately to drive away the memories.

He had nothing and no one and had lived like this
these last few years. Why hadn’t he left well enough alone? He knew why,
and the guilt seeped through Morgan once again as he looked toward the
bed. He had seen Aislin in Faith’s fair face. He had seen a second
chance, and he had taken it. And he had destroyed still another life.

Morgan helped Faith drink the mug of broth. He made
none of his earlier promises. When she finally slept, he made up a
pallet on the floor and sprawled out on it, hands behind head as he
stared at the ceiling.

He had spent ten long years despising the Sassenach
bastards and devising ways to get back at them. He had finally almost
succeeded in one step toward that goal. Did he give it all up and settle
for the life of a dirt-grubbing farmer for Faith’s sake?

He wrestled with the problem throughout the night,
but there could only be one conclusion. Faith deserved better than the
life of a poor farmer’s wife, and he could not surrender his goals
without a fight. He didn’t know what would become of them, but he would
wait to see Faith well before deciding.

***

“Add a little salt, Morgan, and not so much water.”

Morgan turned from the fire to cock an eyebrow at her. “Who’s cooking this, me or you?”

“Me, if you would just help me up from here. I
cannot lie about forever.” Faith struggled with the covers, pushing
herself to a sitting position.

Morgan waved a wooden spoon at her. “One foot out of
that bed and I’ll paddle you, young lady. You have to recover your
strength. Besides, I’m enjoying learning how to cook.”

That was a blatant lie and Faith sent him a fond
smile as she closed her eyes and leaned back against the pillow. In a
little while she would try to rise again.

When Morgan entered a little while later, carrying a stack of wood, he stopped short. “What the devil do ye think ye’re doin’!”

Faith looked up guiltily from where she stirred a
touch of sugar into the beans boiling over the fire. She had pulled the
sheet over her shoulders for a robe, and her feet were bare, but the
July warmth and the fire kept her from feeling any draft. “I thought to
help, Morgan. You cannot do everything.”

“I did everything before ye came, and I’ve not grown old since then. Now, get back to that bed!”

Faith returned obediently, but his words ignited the
fears that stayed with her night and day now. Morgan no longer needed
her. He had not returned to their bed since she had lost the baby well
over a week ago. He had coddled her, fed her, looked after her most
intimate functions as she once had for him, but there he had drawn some
invisible line.

He no longer kissed her or held her in his arms. He
no longer spoke of his horses or his dreams. There were no endearments,
no charming smiles to send gooseflesh up her arms. Now it seemed he did
not even need her to cook and clean.

He no longer wanted or needed her. Faith could
understand that. If she looked half so miserable as she felt, she must
seem a hag. She knew she had lost weight and her breasts had shrunk and
her hair hung in dull knots about her shoulders. Morgan could never want
her now, but did that mean she would have to leave when she got better?

She didn’t think she could do it. She had lost her
father and mother and now her baby. If she lost Morgan too, life would
not be worth living. She would be content just to have him near, but
that was a fool’s paradise. The first time she realized he had been with
another woman, she would die just as surely as if he had put her out.
And if he didn’t want her anymore, he would find another woman. Morgan
wasn’t meant to be a monk.

That meant she had to leave. So each day Faith
pushed the barriers Morgan set for her a little further. She insisted on
sitting at the table to eat. Then she insisted on sitting up awhile
longer, helping him to wash and dry the dishes. Then she demanded a bath
and refused his assistance.

It was hard, like learning to walk all over again,
but she couldn’t be the docile, obedient child any longer. If she had to
make her way in this world alone, she had to make her wants known.

Morgan noticed the change and wondered at it. His
docile Faith had suddenly developed a stubborn streak a mile wide. Her
refusal to take care of herself angered him, but he couldn’t chain her
to the bed.

For once, his lust was quiescent. His concern for
her overrode his body’s needs, although the unexpected sight of a breast
bared for washing or an ankle exposed by a lifted chemise stirred
banked embers. Still, he knew she was not ready for him, nor would be
for some time. But if she didn’t take care of herself, she would never
be ready.

Toby arrived one day, his thin face drawn and
anxious as he found Morgan outside examining the mare in foal. His
glance drifted toward the house, but he trotted over to the paddock and
tugged his forelock as Morgan rose to greet him.

“What brings ye here, lad? Did I not tell Whitehead clear enough that Faith won’t be returnin’?”

“How is she? Is she better?” Toby couldn’t hide his eagerness for firsthand information.

“She’s well enough to drive me out of me own home,
as ye can see,” Morgan admitted, glancing toward the window in hopes of
some glimpse of Faith. “Is there aught I can do for ye, lad?” Failing to
see Faith, Morgan returned a quizzical look to his visitor.

Toby shifted from foot to foot. “Well, there’s one
thing. There’s been a bloke askin’ after Faith, not by her other name,
but as ‘Faith.’ He looks a thief-taker to me, and he seems to have an
interest in you too.”

“And what do they say about us in reply?” Morgan un-
snapped the mare’s bridle and sent her back into the paddock, then
reached for his shirt. Instead of donning it, he began wiping himself
down. The August warmth had raised a sheen of perspiration across his
skin, and he dried himself off as Toby spoke.

“Don’t none of ’em know Faith by any name but Alice,
so they answer honestly enough. Never heard of her, they say. The man
can’t describe her but to say she’s gentry, and they laugh at that.”

Nodding, Morgan encouraged Toby to go on. “And myself?”

Toby grinned. “Everyone has a different tale. ’Tis
enough to drive the man mad. One says ye were caught in last winter’s
storm and froze. Another said as you were hanged somewhere up north.
Another said a bullet pierced your bloody heart, and none too soon.
They’ll have ye drawn and quartered if the bloke asks much more.”

Morgan threw his shirt over his shoulder and started
for the cottage. “Buy the house a round for me, Toby, lad, and come in
and have a sip before ye go. It’s good to have friends like yourself.”

Faith looked up with a smile from where she was
drawing mugs of ale, obviously awaiting their entrance. Her smile
faltered at the sight of Morgan’s bare chest, but she handed him his
drink and turned to their visitor. “It’s good to see you, Toby. Have you
heard any more from your brother?”

Toby nodded nervously, then threw a look to Morgan, who had taken the chair and sat with legs sprawled away from the fire.

“There’s come a letter. I’ll not be botherin’ ye with it now.”

“Nonsense. Let me have it. It’s too hot to make much
of a meal, and I have bread and cheese if you’d have a bite to eat.
Mor...” Remembering herself, Faith hastily inserted the name Morgan was
known by to the rest of the world. “Jack, would you care for a bite to
eat now? There’s a green-apple tart I baked last night for your sweet.”

“Sit down and read the lad his letter. I can slice bread and cheese as well as you.”