The Journey (9 page)

I began to wonder if he had taken instruction from Mr. Darcy, for both men had the gift of provoking my unease with their prolonged stares. With Morgan, however, I would not give in.

Why should I speak first? I was there at his pleasure. If he wished for nothing more than my presence while he dined, then fine, that was all he would receive.

I kept my eyes upon the fire, longing for such a blaze in the room I shared with Mr. Darcy, when at last my dinner companion spoke. “Would you care for more wine?”

“I thank you, no, but I would welcome the opportunity to fetch a glass for my husband.”

“Ah, that blasted Darcy. Must his name intrude upon our meal?”

“I cannot see how his name will make much intrusion when his person is confined to that small room. I do not understand why he is not allowed to join us.”

“Because I’ve no desire to look upon his face . . . while I’m delighted by yours.”

I hated myself for blushing, but I could feel the heat rise in my cheeks. I turned away and surveyed the room. It was rudely furnished and in great need of a thorough cleaning. The prominent adornment, other than dust, consisted of rifles and various other weapons stacked against the walls. These men possessed a veritable arsenal.

He rose and stood before me. “And does it give you such displeasure to gaze upon my face? Perchance my scar offends your delicate sensibilities. Is that it?”

He leaned against the table and inclined his face so close that I could have reached up and touched his cheek.

“Who did that to you?”

“The first man I ever killed.” He chuckled lightly.

I drew back and turned my face away, unable to keep from recoiling at the thought. Reaching out, he took my chin in his hand, forcing me to face him.

“’Tis an ugly sight, I’m sure, but it could be worse. He could have cut off me pretty curls!” He winked and laughed.

“What would you say to that, Mrs. Darcy? Would I not have lost me true beauty then? Is that not what drives the ladies wild? I’ve had many a lass wish to twirl her fingers through such richness. Would you be one of them?”

Again I made no answer, for I refused to even acknowledge his taking such liberties with his improper suggestions.

“Mrs. Darcy? Shall you not respond to my question?”

“I do not appreciate your impertinence. If you wish to speak of more suitable topics, I shall do so, but I refuse to engage in flirtatious banter.”

He puffed on his pipe for several minutes and steadily surveyed my person. Oh, how I hated being regarded in such a manner, as though I were nothing more than his entertainment!

“So you will not flirt.” His tone was mocking. “Then what shall you do to amuse me? Do you sing perchance?”

What?
I remained silent, staring at him as though he had lost his mind.

“Mrs. Darcy, I asked you a question. Do you sing?”

“A little . . . a very little.”

He clapped his hands together. “Then let us have a song!”

“You have no instrument, sir. How can I sing?”

“Without one!” he announced. “And sing something lively, for I feel like dancing.”

My eyes widened in unbelief. “You jest, sir, at my expense.”

“Indeed, I do not. You shall sing, and we shall dance.”

To my amazement, he tossed his pipe aside, and taking my hand, he bade me rise and follow him to the middle of the room.

“Now sing!” he commanded.

I could not believe he would humiliate me in this manner, but when he bowed before me as though we were beginning the dance, I knew that he was serious. Frantically, I cast about in my memory for any melody I might recall to which one could dance.

Hesitantly, I began to sing:

“Did . . . did you not hear my lady
Go down the garden singing
Blackbird and thrush were silent
To hear the alleys ringing.”

Back and forth we moved to the music, touching hands at times, turning, swaying, and skipping to the notes. Suddenly, while continuing to dance, he joined me in song, his voice a rich, deep baritone.

“Though I am nothing to her
Though she must rarely look at me
And though I could never woo her
I’ll love her ‘til I die.

“Surely you heard my lady
Go down the garden singing
Silencing all the songbirds
And setting the alleys ringing.”

All of a sudden, he stopped the dance, although he continued to sing. I stood there silent, while he finished the song still holding my hands in his.

“But surely you see my lady
Out in the garden there
Rivalling the wondrous moonlight
With the glory of raven hair.”
1

1
Silent Worship
from
Ptolemy
by G. F. Handel, arrangement and words by
Arthur Somervell

Wait!
Why had he changed the last lines from “glittering sunshine” to “wondrous moonlight,” and “golden hair” to “raven?” Perhaps it was done unconsciously; perchance he had forgotten the words. Yes, it comforted me to consider that as the sole reason.

With the final notes, he bowed before me and laughed aloud. “Well done, Mrs. Darcy. You’re quite the songbird.”

“And you as well,” I admitted, grudgingly.

Retaining my hand in his, he escorted me back to the table, but before I could sit down, he pressed my fingers to his lips and peered up at me with a knowing look in his eyes, an expression that unsettled me even further. I attempted to withdraw my hand, but he held onto it. At last I could bear it no longer.

“Mr. Morgan, I acknowledge that I am your prisoner, but I appeal to your higher nature to treat me like a lady . . . a married lady.”

“My higher nature? As opposed to what? The base criminal you and your kind consider me?”

“You
are
a criminal. You have robbed my husband and me. You have abducted us and now demand extortion from our kinsman. How can you deny the charge of criminal?”

He shrugged. “I have no wish to deny it. I am what I am. You, madam, accuse me of possessing a higher nature.”

“It is not an accusation but rather a hope based on my observations.”

“Indeed? And just what observation might give rise to this hope? Is it me fine dancing or perhaps you fancy me lovely baritone.” He smiled as he lapsed back into the dialect of his fellow highwaymen.

I wondered why he did not speak like Sneyd and the others all the time. What kind of life had he lived before taking to the roads to rob and kill?

Dropping my hand, he walked to the fireplace before I answered his question.

“You have come to my defence more than once,” I said softly, “and you have shown kindness in providing necessities for my husband and me.”

He turned and walked back to the table, placed both hands thereon and leaned toward me. “Any kindness I’ve shown was for you alone, Elizabeth. I’d just as soon shoot your husband.”

I drew in my breath at his cruelty, the hair rising on the back of my neck. I clasped my hands together below the table to keep them from trembling and prayed that he could not see the fear reflected in my eyes.

“If you have any regard for me, I pray you will not harm Mr. Darcy. And — and besides, would that not defeat your plan? My lord, the earl, will surely refuse any ransom if we are not both returned to him in good health.”

When he made no reply other than to hold my gaze with an unblinking stare, I continued, hoping that I made sense, fearful that my speech came forth as senseless babble.

“Will you not tell me? How will you cause the transaction to come about? Has my husband’s note been delivered to his uncle?”

“Ah, you’d like to have your questions answered, wouldn’t you?”

He quickly rounded the table to stand by me. Before I knew what happened, he took my hands in his once again and pulled me to my feet, placing both of us much too close to each other.

“And what’ll you give me in return if I tell you what you wish to know? A kiss, perhaps?”

He leaned his face close to mine, and I was conscious of his golden curls falling over his forehead.

“Mr. Morgan, you forget yourself. I am married!”

“But are you happily married? I think not.”

“Why ever would you say such a thing?”

“Your marriage is no love match, Elizabeth. Anyone can see that.”

I wrenched my hands loose and turned away, afraid to face him, fearful that my expression might confirm his statement. He would not have it, though, and, grabbing my shoulders, he turned me around and clasped me tightly. Tangling his fingers in my long hair, he pulled my head back and stared into my eyes.

“I speak the truth, don’t I? The gentleman may love you . . . but you don’t return his affection.”

“Release me!” I hissed, my mouth so close to his that I could feel his warm breath.

I willed myself not to tremble, and in truth, I was so angry at his manhandling my person that I became emboldened with unusual courage. He hesitated long enough that I could feel his heart beat furiously against my breast. I realized then that the man was truly attracted to me, perhaps even enamoured.

Slowly and deliberately, he removed his hands from my arms, flexing his fingers wide. When he spoke again, his voice emerged deep and hoarse.

“What I wouldn’t give to have met you a’fore Darcy did. If I’d wooed you, not even his riches would’ve proved tempting, for you would’ve known what ’tis to be truly loved.”

I could make no answer. It took all of my effort to quell my gasping for breath. I had never seen such intensity in a man’s eyes, such passion, and never had I been the object of so ardent a declaration. Oh, when Mr. Collins had proposed, he had used some silly, meaningless phrases, but I was convinced he knew as much of love as he did of laying eggs! The man was incapable of that depth of feeling, but Morgan — I believed what he said.

He gave every appearance of a man in love, but how could he? We barely knew each other, and what we did know hardly lent itself to love. Well, certainly not on my part. I could never care for a highwayman, a thief, and a kidnapper. And I felt certain it was only desire that stirred his heart, no matter the strength of his avowal.

Slowly I began to back away from him until I had reached the end of the table. When he advanced toward me and reached my side, I put up my hands as though to shield myself.

“I pray you sir, return me to Mr. Darcy.”

“Come on,” he growled, “I won’t hurt you.” Taking my arm, he pulled me down the hallway, unlocked the door, and pushed me into the room into the arms of my supposed husband.

“I hope you know, Darcy, what a lucky bugger you are . . . and Elizabeth, just so you understand, the man who gave me this scar was the
last
man I killed.”

With one lingering, final look into my eyes, Morgan slammed the door and locked it.

Chapter Five

Completely unbidden, I began to weep uncontrollably. I buried my face in my hands while my shoulders shook with relief. It was some moments before I ceased long enough to realize that I now stood within Mr. Darcy’s arms, and it was
his
voice I heard whispering comforting words in my ear. I realized that his hand was upon my head, and I did not struggle when he gently pressed my cheek against his chest. There he stroked my hair over and over, and once my sobbing lessened slightly, I was surprised to hear the ferocity with which
his
heart now beat in my ear.

“Elizabeth,” he whispered, slipping his handkerchief into my hand, “Elizabeth, do not cry so. I cannot bear it.”

I became aware of what felt like a kiss upon my hair, and then his lips touched my forehead in the softest of caresses. Was it my imagination?

Slowly, I raised my face to his and watched his darkened eyes travel down to my mouth and then back to meet my gaze. Our lips were so close that the slightest movement would have caused them to meet. We stood frozen, our breath quickening in unison, and my heart beating faster and faster until . . . I stepped back.

What sort of fanciful spell had been cast upon us?

I could not take it in and began to turn away, but Mr. Darcy would not release my hand. Instead, he led me to the table and pulled out a chair, indicating I should sit. He nudged his chair close to mine and sat before me, continuing to hold my hand while he poured a glass of water.

“Here,” he said, entreating me to take it.

I took a sip and at last allowed my eyes to rise from my lap and meet his. We gazed at each other as though there was nowhere else to look. Was he as conscious as I of the gravity of what had just occurred? Surely I had not imagined the tenderness with which he had held me, the touch of his lips upon my head, and the unspoken strength of emotion manifest between us.