Patricia Rice (46 page)

Edward shrugged. “There are men out there who would
weep at a chance to have you for wife. Or I can serve in the place of
the boy’s father. I would be delighted for the opportunity. You see, I
cannot have children of my own.”

There was pain in his admission, and at any other
time Faith might have felt sorrow for him, but she was suffering
herself, and his problems were his own. “Go away. Leave me alone.
Haven’t you ruined enough for one day?”

Tears broke her voice. Awkwardly Edward took her in
his arms and hugged her against his shoulder. “He isn’t worth your
tears, my dear. Cry, if you like, but then forget him and think of your
son. It will come out all right in the end.”

It would never be right again. Faith wept, and when
she was done, she listened to his persuasive arguments and silently
returned upstairs to pack her meager wardrobe. What difference did it
make where she lived if Morgan didn’t want her?

Faith half-hoped, half-feared that Morgan would come
to her when night fell, but he didn’t. He had said his farewells,
carried out his obligation, and was probably now making his plans for
his triumphant return to Ireland. He had sold her for a piece of land.
She knew there were other factors involved, but that was what it boiled
down to. Morgan didn’t love her enough to stand up to her bully of an
uncle and tell him they didn’t want what he had to offer, that they had
everything they needed right here, together. She and their son weren’t
enough for him.

She had thought the pain terrible enough when she
first had to make the decision to leave. How could it be even worse this
time? What kind of a fool would open herself to such punishment twice?

A fool who wanted to be loved. Sadly Faith folded up
the lovely gown Morgan had given to her all those months ago and
returned it to the trunk that had once carried hope and promise. She
would never wear another gown for Morgan. She had a family in England, a
selfish, thoughtless family, perhaps, but one prepared to take her
back. She and George would have a family of sorts. That should be enough
for anyone.

She tucked the last article into her trunk of meager
belongings. Her entire life could be packed into one box. She closed
the lid and rose to check on the sleeping babe. He had recently begun to
sleep through the night, but she wished he would wake up to keep her
company. She needed a warm body in her arms right now, some proof that
she was loved, if just for a little while.

Stroking George’s dark hair, remembering a time when
she had run her hands through Morgan’s thick locks, she sighed and
turned away. The lonely bed offered no comfort, but she would have to
sleep if they were to leave on the morrow.

The image of Morgan’s dark head on that pillow made
her heart grind with pain. It would be the simplest solution if she
never had to think again. Her uncle would be more than happy to think
for her. He could take the place of her father, telling her what to do
and when. She could mindlessly obey, and everything would be taken care
of for her. It should be rather like living in a box of cotton. As it
was, one more blow and she might shatter completely.

By the time dawn came, Faith felt brittle enough to
shatter without need of a blow. Stiffly she made her bed one last time. A
boy came to the door to carry down her trunk, and she watched it go
with a silent protest. She glanced around the little room that had been
her home for less than a year. Her son had been born here. Morgan had
made love to her here. It wasn’t the same as the cottage, but it had
been a home for a while. Perhaps she wasn’t meant to have a home of her
own.

Morgan’s defection had broken something inside of
her. She knew she could make a life of her own here, but it didn’t seem
important anymore. If it made her family happy for her to return, let
someone enjoy a little happiness. There was little enough in this world
as it was.

Faith allowed Bess to hug her and kiss the
wide-awake infant, but the cotton was already wrapping around her,
numbing the pain. Lord Stepney waited to take her arm, but she preferred
to carry George and walk alone. It was too early for anyone to be
about, but then, farewells were senseless. She had come into their lives
for a few brief months and would disappear the same way she had come.

Faith glanced up as she was helped into the wagon
and found Miles Golden uncomfortably sitting a swaybacked pony. At least
she would have one friend with her. He looked solemn and didn’t return
her smile, but that was his way.

Her uncle climbed up on the wagon seat, tilting the
bed ominously, but the ancient oak held, and the driver gave a sigh of
relief. He clucked his team into motion.

Faith fought back images of Morgan wildly racing
after them, swearing his love and refusing to let her go. For whatever
reason, he had decided she was better off with her family than with him.
It made no sense to her, but men had an odd view of the world.

He wouldn’t change his mind. She could change her mind, however. She could refuse to leave. What would Morgan do then?

She played with the thought. If she stayed, would
he? Was that what he was waiting for her to do? Was it his damnable
pride that let her go with her uncle? Could she really have been so
wrong about his love? He had said he loved her. Would he lie about a
thing like that?

The horses traveled inexorably onward. Before long,
it would be too late. She had to decide quickly, pull off the cotton
batting, accept the pain if Morgan deserted her, deny the family who had
denied her.

She could stay here, work at the inn, take her
chance at bringing up her son without knowing family or father.If it
were only herself, she would stay. If the money were in her control, she
might do some good for the Wesleyan cause, but she didn’t fool herself
into believing her family would allow that. But George... What right did
she have to deny her son his heritage?

Faith glanced at her forbidding uncle. He was
frowning at the horizon and seemed to visibly push the wagon forward
with his own energy. He was an enigmatic man. She wanted to care for
him, but it was much too soon. She wanted Morgan to say it was all
right.

Remembering another problem, Faith forced her tongue to work. “Cousin Thomas? Is he all right? Will he be returning with us?”

Edward’s wide brow cleared and a trace of a smile
turned his lips. “I have persuaded him that it would be beneficial to
his health and to his pocketbook to remain outside of England for some
time to come.”

***

The object of Faith’s curiosity cursed and wriggled
in the straw bed where he had spent the night. His hands were
practically numb from the rope, but fury overrode his physical
well-being. He had heard the first guard leave not long ago. He didn’t
know yet if another had replaced him, but he’d be damned if he would let
the ship sail without him.

Thomas pounded his shoulder against the heavy stall
door. The splintery wood gave slightly against the leather latches, but
not sufficient to free him. He cursed and slammed against the wood
again.

“Eh, Bill, what you keeping in here, a wild ’un?” a voice asked with amusement not far from the stall door.

The question sparked hope. This one didn’t know who
he was. Thomas pounded the door once more for good measure, then yelled,
“Help! They’ve stolen my wife! Help me, hurry!”

The top latch slid open and the half-door swung out,
revealing two young men in leather jerkins and homespun shirts. Thomas
decided they only lacked the hayseed between their teeth, but beggars
couldn’t be choosers. His own once-immaculate coat was covered in straw
dust, and bits of straw clung to his wig, which sat askew over his ear.
Managing a desperate look didn’t require much acting.

“Help me out of here! They have my wife and son and
they’re heading for the harbor. They’ll kill them! For the love of God,
help me out of here!”

Compelled by his panic, one of the two swung open
the bottom door and cut at Thomas’ bindings. Both young men waited for
orders as the rope fell to the ground.

Fearing the return of his guard at any moment,
Thomas brushed off his coat to return feeling to his hands. He glanced
about for some means of transportation. Two saddled horses in the yard
caught his attention.

“Have you guns? Give me a horse and a gun. I don’t know how much of a head start they’ve got.”

The lads took him at his word. One of them led an
unsaddled horse out of a stall while the other raced to the mounts in
the paddock. He pulled a long-barreled rifle from the saddle strap and
threw it in Thomas’ direction, then checked the loading of a second gun
in his bag. Thomas grabbed the second horse, caught the rifle, and
before anyone could stop him, led his newly acquired friends on a gallop
out of town.

Arms pillowing his head on the table, Morgan groaned
and closed his eyes against the light sifting in through the shuttered
window. With all the beds in town taken, and denied the comfort of
Faith’s, he had taken the easy way out. This morning his choice didn’t
seem quite as intelligent as it had last night.

Pain shot through his head as he raised it. What in
hell had he done last night, drunk the barrel dry? Flashes of memory
pierced his brain, and he shuddered. He lowered his head again to the
relative security of his arms and wished himself back to sleep, but
urgency gnawed at his innards.

He rubbed his fingers over blurry eyes and tried to
focus his wandering thoughts. He had spent years honing his instincts to
acknowledge mindless shrieks. He had never regretted it before, but he
was regretting it now. At the moment, he would rather die than raise his
head.

The shrieks worsened, however, and Morgan forced his
head up again. The darkened tavern was not a pleasant sight to see or
smell. The gorge rose in his throat, and he staggered to his feet in
search of a basin. He hadn’t disgraced himself since he was a lad first
in service.

Morgan staggered toward the door. The shrieks of
warning were satisfied with this direction, so he caught the jamb and
swung into the brightly sunlit street on unsteady feet. The fresh air
nearly bowled him over, and he leaned back against the building, gasping
at this new assault. Water. He needed water.

Every tavern yard had a pump somewhere. He gingerly
carried himself down the alley to the pump and pail, and applied the
cold water to his disheveled hair and unshaven face. The splash
liberated his eyes, and he gasped as he doused the remainder of the pail
over his head. This would teach him to indulge in excess again. By all
the saints, how had his father stood himself the next day?

That question dislodged the panic that had driven
him out here. Father. Faith. His son. He was going back to Ireland.
Without Faith.

He was letting the one woman he had ever loved walk
out of his life. For what? For a demolished castle on barren, bog-filled
lands? For the people who had once lived in those lands? They were
there no longer.His family was dead. His friends and neighbors no longer
knew him or cared. He had worked all these years for what? To rescue a
memory?

But Faith deserved the wealth, respect, and family
he could not provide. Why did that thought sound so hollow in the
morning light?

If he loved her, he should be willing to sacrifice
himself for her sake. That thought jarred Morgan’s logic off its
pedestal. He had left Ireland to make things better for his family. He
had left behind all he had known and loved, and they had died because of
it, because he hadn’t been there to protect them, to help them, to love
them. Had he not learned his lesson?

Cursing, Morgan strode toward the street. Faith had a
grandfather who had disowned her father and a grandmother who had taken
twenty years to find her. What in hell kind of protection would they
be? And what kind of love would she find there?

Morgan groaned aloud. How could any one man be such a fool? She
loved
him. Possibly the first person in all the world to do so. Why, then, did he do all in his power to destroy her love?

Because he was an arrogant, proud fool. Morgan’s ran in the direction of the stables housing his stallion.

The cry of his restless stallion loosed an equal cry
inside his soul as he reached the stable. Without bothering to saddle
the beast, he slid the bit into the horse’s mouth and threw himself onto
its back. Morgan reared the horse backward and then gave him his head.

The black beast stormed out of the stable as if the
devil were on its tail. Toby stepped backward just in time to avoid
being trampled. He gazed in astonishment at the disheveled highwayman
clinging to the animal’s back.

Jack never rode out without cloak and ruffled linen,
the picture of immaculate elegance. This stranger sported the shadow of
a beard, wild black hair escaping the ribbon on his queue, shirt opened
to reveal an equally barbaric wedge of curls, coat and waistcoat gone,
and shirt sleeves billowing with the force of the wind. But the eyes
were the worst. They gleamed like emerald lanterns, fiery mad in a dark
face of fury.

Faced with a visage like that on a dark night, Toby
would have surrendered his valuables too. But in the broad light of day,
he kept his courage. Without hesitation, he dashed into the stable to
help himself to the most likely-looking nag available.

***

“Lord Stepney—”

“Edward. Call me Edward. We’re family, you’ll remember.”

Faith couldn’t bring herself to call this imposing
man anything so familiar, so she nodded and continued before her courage
failed her. “I don’t think I can go through with this. It is very kind
of you to come all this way to find me, and I truly wish to meet my
family, but it would be better if you just conveyed my appreciation for
now and left me here. Please ask the driver to let me down. I can find
my own way back.”