Patricia Rice (27 page)

Toby looked surprised, but he obliged. “A fortune in
emeralds, they say. The heir to the Montague fortune is to be
betrothed, and they’re his gift to his future bride. The fools think
they’re going to smuggle them right beneath our noses, but every thief
in London knows about them by now.”

The damned arrogant, presumptuous Sassenach thought
to marry and continue the line, did he? Morgan sat back in his seat and
let his thoughts wander while he absorbed the details Toby spouted for
all to hear.

The man had more money than was good for him, and he
would deny Faith both family and fortune to keep it all for himself.
That was typical Sassenach behavior, the kind of behavior that caused
them to take all of Ireland for themselves and leave the other
ninety-five percent of the population to starve. It was no comfort to
know that they treated their own the same. The only comfort was in
knowing that with Faith, he possessed the wedge to pry into that noble
five percent. A bitter smile edged Morgan’s lips.

The Lord had provided this opportunity. It was the
same as saying, “Here, my son. Take this wealth that belongs to your
bride and make her happy with it.”

Perhaps it was sacrilege to put words in the mouth
of the Lord, but Morgan was content with it. Just this one haul, and he
could set Faith up in a terrace house in London, lavish her with gowns
and servants, and persuade her to be his bride. He didn’t know which he
wanted more: Faith in his bed or the shock on Montague’s face when he
arrived with Faith on his arm.

But first, the emeralds. With a shrug of his broad
shoulders, Morgan shoved himself from the table. “I don’t know about you
lads, but the job looks a setup to me. If all the thieves in London
know if it, someone has told them. And the one who’s told them has to
come from the house itself. I wager the jewels are already gone, and
someone wants us to take the blame. Give Molly my regards if you see
her. I’m off now.”

He strode out, leaving a disappointed Toby behind.
From up the stairs, Morgan caught the wail of a babe, and he hesitated
for just a moment. He’d heard Molly had popped hers. It wouldn’t do to
have Faith find out. The reminder would be too cruel.

Later that evening, Faith watched in trepidation as
Morgan donned his frilled shirt and black coat and polished his boots to
a gleam. Unable to watch without trying to stop him, she squared her
shoulders and approached as he rose from the chair.

“Morgan.”

He turned as she rested her hand against his waistcoat. He said nothing.

Faith hid her grimace at his silence. A silent
Morgan was dangerous. She slid her hand beneath the embroidered
waistcoat to the fine lawn of the shirt beneath. “I don’t want you to go
to London tonight, Morgan. Stay with me?”

She had never gone to him like this, not even when he had taken her to his bed nightly. She prayed she could sway him.

Morgan caught her chin and pressed a swift kiss to her lips. “Don’t,
cailin,
or we’ll both regret it. I’ll be back. Tempt me then.”

He caught his cloak and swung out of the house. The
crash of something breakable followed him out, but Morgan didn’t turn
back. His Faith was alive and well, and he grinned at the night. Soon he
would make her a princess.

He had verified the story with his sources. He had
checked for a trap. He hadn’t believed even the Montagues could be such
fools as to carry a fortune in jewels by carriage without outriders. He
was right. But it was easy enough to buy off the guards and have them
far behind when the carriage reached the darkest turn in the road.

The driver and footman were armed, but Black Jack
hadn’t earned his reputation by shooting innocent victims. He waited in
the shadows of the trees, the well-trained stallion standing motionless
as he wrapped the satin cloak to hide the gleam of his shirt. As the
rumble of the approaching coach came closer, he raised the thin wire
across the road. One for his faerie, he murmured as the coach came
racing down the highway.

The driver screamed as the wire caught him full
across the chest and he tumbled forward, loosing the reins. The guard at
his side lost the blunderbuss he was carrying as the wire caught his
arm and wrist. He grabbed for the weapon as he started falling, but the
flash of silver and the wicked laugh from atop a great black beast
bearing down on him made him flinch from his goal.

And then it was too late, the reins appropriated by
the laughing highwayman, weapons gone, and the coach halted and
vulnerable for whatever depredations awaited.

Cloak blowing in the breeze, the highwayman ordered
his victim from the carriage. He hid his surprise behind his mask as a
bulky figure garbed in gentleman’s clothes and wig awkwardly lowered
himself from the vehicle. He had hoped for the dark-haired devil, but
this broad giant made an interesting spectacle.

Black Jack grinned at the man studying him. “You
aren’t afraid like the others. Are you waiting for some showmanship to
convince you to release that pouch you’re carrying?”

The giant shrugged. “My life is worth more than
gold. Have it your way if you will, but do not think you’ll get away
with it. I’ll have you behind bars before day is done. I give you this
warning in all fairness.”

The highwayman laughed, a deep laugh that echoed on
the darkness. “A fair Sassenach, by all that’s holy! I thank you for
your warning, and if it’s not entertainment you want, hand over the
pouch and I’ll be disturbin’ you no more.”

The pouch was released and disappeared into the
enveloping cloak. Before anyone could raise an alarm or move in any way,
the black horse and rider reared and swung into the woods, blending
into the surrounding nighttime like a wisp of smoke. Only the parting
scream of the stallion from a distance gave away the fact that they had
been robbed by more than a phantom.

Faith paced the cottage floor, rubbing her arms and
occasionally glancing toward the open window. This nervousness was just a
reaction to Morgan’s unaccustomed absence, nothing more. She had grown
used to his rising before her, lighting the fire, carrying in the water.
He had been underfoot constantly these past weeks. It felt very strange
not to look up and see those green eyes watching her, that dent beside
his mouth forming as he laughed at some of her ways.

He had been quieter than usual since she lost the
child, and his laughter didn’t come as easily. She rather missed the
laughing, charming rogue, but this other Morgan had stolen what remained
of her heart. She wanted to comfort him when the dark shadow passed
over his face. She wanted to fling herself into his arms and weep on his
shoulder and let him find the comfort they both needed. She wanted to
hear his moan of pleasure again. She wanted to hear him laugh with joy.
She wanted him.

Faith slapped her hands against her arms and strode
determinedly outside to see to the horses. She loved him, with all her
heart and soul, she loved him. But he thought only of his bloody revenge
and the wealth he would accumulate by robbing the rich. She knew that
and accepted it. Why romanticize what could never be? Morgan was an
unhappy man despite his laughing charm. She wasn’t the cause or the cure
for his unhappiness. She was beginning to believe only the gallows
would end his memory of the past. But she couldn’t leave him.

She had to be there to see that he returned. He had
to return to see that she was still here. They could grow to hate each
other this way, but neither would know how to part.

But now that he had returned to his profession,
Faith could see no reason why she shouldn’t return to hers. That thought
struck blindly as she watched the foal romping in the paddock with his
mother. She wasn’t confined to these yards by fences and stalls. Morgan
could be gone for days. He hadn’t obeyed her wishes when he left. Why
should she obey his?

Taking a deep breath of determination, Faith
finished her tasks and went to pin up her hair. She would see if
Whitehead would take her back. There might come a time when she needed
to earn honest coins. She refused to think that the time might already
have come.

Once at the inn, Faith glanced around the lobby and
read the signs of disrepair with distaste. Whitehead had not hired help
in her place; that much was obvious. When he hurried out at her call,
she merely nodded and asked for her apron. He looked terrified, and she
didn’t need to ask why. Morgan had been here, but he would soon learn
that she had a life of her own. She had been the obedient little girl
for too long.

The proprietor dubiously allowed Faith to return to
her old tasks. The first day, he kept a nervous eye on the doorway,
expecting Morgan to show up at any minute, breathing fire and waving his
blade. But when Faith left alone at her appointed hour, he welcomed her
return on the following day.

After that first day, however, Faith had doubts
about returning. The cries of Molly’s infant had wrung her heart the
first time she heard him. She had avoided the third-floor attic where
Molly slept, but when the cries continued and she knew Molly to be
flirting with the butcher in the kitchen, Faith had climbed the stairs
to rescue the little fellow. Her heart had crumbled into a million
pieces at the sight of him.

He was so tiny and helpless, so perfect in every
way. Faith changed his wet cloth and wrapped him in the blanket beside
the bed and lifted him from the box where he slept. He quieted
instantly, and his big brown eyes tried to focus on her as if to ask who
she was and what she was doing there.

Faith smiled, and his mouth formed a funny little
grimace that tore her heart from her chest. She hugged him, and he
babbled contentedly. Tears flooded her eyes, and an emptiness yawned in
her center, big enough to swallow her whole.

It wouldn’t do. She couldn’t become attached to
Molly’s babe. Faith carried the infant downstairs to hand to his mother
for feeding. Then she returned to sweeping in the upstairs chambers. She
wasn’t married. It wasn’t proper to have babies without a home and
father and security. God had told her that when he took away Morgan’s
child.

But it was impossible to stop thinking of the child
they had lost when she listened to Molly’s babe crying and fretting or
laughing and cooing. The sounds ate at Faith during the day, as their
absence destroyed her at night.

Or perhaps it was just Morgan’s absence that
destroyed her nerves. She couldn’t believe he would leave her alone this
long. She knew now that London was only a few hours away. She also knew
that London was just a euphemism he used when he meant to ride out, but
she didn’t think Morgan would go far just yet. Not this soon. He would
worry about her. She knew he would.

The emptiness of the cottage brought tears to Faith’s eyes every time she returned to it. If it weren’t for the horses and the  babe, she’d be tempted to stay at the inn.

The nights were growing chillier, and the bed seemed colder than it had all last winter. Why didn’t Morgan return?

Her thoughts were like nightmares chasing around inside her head. She couldn’t get rid of them. Why didn’t he return?

When Toby rode in a panic to the inn door one afternoon as she was leaving, Faith felt the nightmare solidify.

“They took Black Jack,” he shouted. “They’ve locked him away!”

She heard his words in a daze that didn’t allow
words. Terror flooded her. They couldn’t take him away. Not Morgan. He
was too vital, too alive.

Images replaced feelings: images of Morgan riding
his stallion, his black hair blowing back from his face, streaming in
the breeze as he laughed and reared the horse upward; images of Morgan
lighting the fire and turning to her with open arms and need in the
shadows of his eyes; images of Morgan holding a newborn foal, cooing
words of love while the blood still dripped from his bare hands; images
of Morgan with his heart in his eyes as he stripped away the sheets
carrying his child.

Faith broke down, the sobs ripping from her soul as
Toby’s arms closed around her. She couldn’t seem to stop. The tears that
had never come since the day she lost the child now welled and spilled
out in a waterfall that had no end. Not Morgan. She couldn’t lose
Morgan. Morgan was her soul. He was what she could never be. They
couldn’t take away his freedom, for it would mean his life. Caged eagles
never lived.

* * *

Later that evening, Faith stood on the doorstep of a
narrow house in the moneylenders’ section of London with Toby at her
side. She pounded on the door, uncaring that her fragile dimity was the
worse for wear after hours at the inn and their mad ride. Beside her,
Toby kept a nervous eye on their surroundings, not understanding why she
had brought him here.

A young girl answered the door, and a large man
studied Faith and Toby from the shadows. But at the mention of Miles
Golden, he ushered them in and left them in a front room. A moment later
a lanky man in sober frock coat and clubbed hair came down the stairs,
looked them over, and led them into a book-lined study inundated with
papers and strewn books.

As he cleared off a chair, Miles studied the
exhausted, tearstained face of the young girl, then watched the tight,
set features of her companion, coming to instant conclusions without
their having said a word. The lad had bitten off more than he could chew
and was about to destroy his already shabby hat by twisting it in his
fingers. He was out of his orbit here, terrified by what the books
represented, unused to the room’s confinement, but determined to look
after his companion.

The girl was an enigma, and Miles deliberately
dallied over his straightening to watch her. She was distraught,
hovering on some emotional precipice. Her hands were callused and rough,
but the delicate angles of high-boned cheeks and huge eyes spoke of
centuries of aristocratic breeding.