Patricia Rice (11 page)

She didn’t want her to leave just yet. There would be time enough later, when the weather grew warm.

***

“What do you mean, there is no trace of her? Is the
country so large that a child can disappear into it? Do we harbor red
Indians who will carry her off to their camps? Have the Gypsies declared
her queen and spirited her back to their homeland? Do not give me your
faradiddle, Watson! I’ll have her whereabouts or your head.”

The rotund man with wisps of hair around his
gleaming bald pate struggled with his unaccustomed cravat as the tall
lord paced the library like a hungry tiger. He should have worn a wig,
Watson decided. A wig would have made him a gentleman, and his lordship
would not speak to a gentleman thus.

Mountjoy swung around and glared at the silent Runner. “Well? Have you nothing to say for yourself?”

Watson drew in his stomach and tried for a
portentous voice. “There are many things that might befall a child on
such a journey. This has been a harsh winter. It is possible we might
find her bones in the hedgerows at some future date. We can continue
searching for as long as you require, my lord.”

Mountjoy’s color turned choleric, and he lifted his
arm as if to bodily fling this purveyor of bad news from the room. “Get
out! Get out before I have you thrown out, you damned excuse for a man.
I’ll box your ears if you linger! I’ll report your impudence to
Fielding. I’ll see you drawn and quartered should you show your face in
my presence again.”

Paling, seeing all hopes of promotion fly out the
window, Watson scurried out. Far be it from him to report that a girl
resembling the subject in question had been seen at a wayside inn known
to harbor some of the countryside’s worst criminals. That remark would
undoubtedly cost him his head. Let someone else tell his high-and-mighty
lordship that his granddaughter may have fallen among thieves and
harlots.

In the library, Mountjoy paced the jewel-like colors
of his newly acquired Persian rug. He condemned all the incompetent
idiots of the world. He vilified his son and the Wesleyans. He cursed
Lettice and her tear-filled pleas. Then he rang the bell and summoned a
servant to bring his elder—and now only—son to him.

If something weren’t done soon, his title would die
with the foppish macaroni he called heir, and who would never produce a
child.

A granddaughter, indeed! Damn George, he couldn’t even manage to produce a grandson.

Faith stared in disbelief as Morgan settled his
tricorne on his thick hair, threw back his cloak to check the fastening
of his scabbard, and strode toward the door with a still-noticeable
limp.

“You are mad! You cannot go out like this. Your leg is not yet healed. The ride will tear it open again.”

Morgan turned impatiently. “It is mending. That’s all that is necessary. See to the horses and I’ll return in a day or two.”

It had been nearly a month since he had ridden out.
Faith had hoped that might mean an end to his marauding. She could see
now that she had been a fool to think so, but even shattered hopes were
hard to give up.

“Please, Morgan, don’t go. We have enough provisions
to last for months. I can start a garden. With Melisandra in foal, you
could make a tidy sum at the fair. You needn’t go out.”

One black brow went up. “Melisandra?”

Faith had the grace to blush, but didn’t lower her gaze. “She needs a name. That’s what I call her.”

“Call her what you will. She’ll be sold come fall. I’m going now.” He strode out without giving chance for further protest.

Faith stared at the closed door and fought back
tears. She had tried to divert him from his villainous ways. She had
hoped to atone for her crime by returning Morgan to the Christian life.
If he could not see the path of righteousness, she could not lead him to
it. It was time she took steps toward her own salvation.

She did not dare borrow Morgan’s horses without
permission. So in the morning, after she had set the house to rights and
seen the animals fed and watered, she set out on foot. If nothing else,
she knew there was an inn nearby. Inns had need of cooks and house
maids. She was quite accomplished at such chores.

Actually, she acknowledged with a wry grin, she could fill the position of ostler, if required.

It was well after noon before Faith found the inn.
It looked shabbier in the daylight than she remembered. The faded sign
of a rampaging bull dangled from only one link. The ancient leaded glass
in the tavern window was so filthy as to make it useless for letting in
light. The mud and wattle between the half-timbered siding was chinked
and moldy and hadn’t seen whitewash in a century, if ever.

Refusing to be discouraged, Faith stepped inside the
dusky interior. The brisk March wind had done nothing to air the reek
of ale and cooked cabbage. The odors of unwashed chamber pots mixed with
other noisome stenches that she had not noticed the night she had
arrived on Morgan’s arm. Morgan had a way of waving his hand and making
the unpleasant disappear.

Drawing her frayed cloak tighter, Faith searched for the proprietor.

When he finally waddled out, the innkeeper was taken
aback by her soft-spoken request for employment. Ladies did not work in
public houses, and certainly not ones like this. When she pulled back
her cloak to reveal her youth, a head of russet hair capped in a scrap
of lace, and innocent wide eyes, he nearly choked—until he remembered
her in his taproom some months ago.

She had been with Black Jack. He swept his gaze down
her slender figure, but the cloak concealed any sign of a swelling
belly. Well, if Black Jack had tired of her, then his patrons would
enjoy a new face.

Nodding his head and wiping his sweaty hands on his
apron, the innkeeper agreed. “Ye can begin with the linens. T’night,
I’ll set ye to the taproom.” Her smile of pleasure quelled any further
doubts. Wait until the boys saw the surprise he had for them!

***

Faith frowned at the tightness of the bodice stays
Mrs. Whitehead had insisted that she wear. She knew maids were expected
to wear uniforms, but she had scarcely expected one so indiscreet. Her
small breasts were pushed up until they resembled overripe melons. How
was she supposed to work in such binding?

She had no mirror. She wished for a brooch to keep
her kerchief securely fastened over her bosom, but she had to be
satisfied with tucking the ends inside her bodice and praying they would
not work loose.

The skirt and petticoat were too long, thank
goodness. The last maid must have been of taller stature. They would be a
nuisance, but better than revealing any more than the gown already did.

Changing the linens and emptying slop jars was
tedious, but Faith was experienced and efficient and accomplished it
with little instruction. Proudly, she discovered she had time to scrub
the jars.

She was offered a tankard of ale, a bowl of stew,
and a chunk of stale bread for her supper. Sitting in the kitchen, Faith
eyed the grease-coated hearth and utensils with doubt and an itch to
scrub them, but no one had mentioned a need for a kitchen maid.

She wondered what Morgan would do if he came home
tonight and found a cold hearth and an empty table. She had hoped to
find a position to occupy only her daylight hours, but surely he would
understand if she must work the evenings too.

She had finally found work and was well on her way to independence. Let him put that in his hat and lump it.

She wasn’t feeling quite so confident a little while
later when she stood behind the bar washing tankards. It was early yet,
and the room was nearly empty, but the smoke and the dimness and the
male laughter made her edgy.

Molly had already made it clear that the tables were
her territory, and Faith gratefully agreed to that. She tried to keep
her back to the room as she washed and dried, but the occasional shout
from behind her made her jump often enough.

The cheap, high table that served as bar between
kegs and customers was never intended for more than overflow from the
tables, so Faith held back uncertainly when two of the customers strode
up and demanded refills. That was Molly’s job, and she sent the other
girl a questioning look. But Molly was squirming on the lap of one of
the gentlemen in the corner and took no heed of her plight.

Shrugging her shoulders, Faith took their tankards
and filled them at the keg. Instead of returning to their table, they
lingered, their gazes following her, their whispered words not so quiet
that they kept her ears from burning.

Faith had no illusions about her looks. She was
small. She had the height of a child—and nearly the figure of one, when
compared to Molly. Her eyes were too large for her face, her nose too
small. Brown matted leaves had the same charm as her unruly curls. She
had braided and wrapped them around her head, but wisps were escaping
and sticking to her brow from the heat of the steamy water and the huge
log in the hearth.

It could only be the blamed bodice that they were seeing.

A familiar voice rang out behind her, and Faith
swung in surprise and greeting. The red-haired youth Morgan had
introduced to her was working his way toward the bar, and from the grin
on his angular jaw, he remembered her. It was good to see a friendly
face.

The two customers at the bar watched Toby’s approach with disfavor.

“Why, an’ it’s little Faith I be seein’!” he
exclaimed with a grin at his own poor jest. “Did Jack decide he might
share ye with us lesser mortals?”

Faith drew him a tankard and placed it on the bar. “Jack has no say over me. How have you been keeping, Toby?”

He raised a puzzled eyebrow and cast a glance
askance at the two blackguards slavering over her, then raised his
tankard. “To independence, then, lass.”

The tavern began to fill. Faith hastily returned to
washing tankards while a crowd swarmed the bar. Molly gave her filthy
looks, but Mr. Whitehead beamed approvingly as Faith filled cup after
cup.

She just wished the men weren’t so blatant in their personal comments. Perhaps she ought to teach them that wasn’t polite.

“She’s a shy ’un, Matt. Maybe we ought to break ’er into the traces.”

Faith recognized the voice as one belonging to a
black- bearded individual who had been particularly loud in his
admiration all evening. She ignored him as she scrubbed at the latest
lot of tankards Molly had dumped into the basin. The water was no longer
warm, but that didn’t seem to bother anyone.

“’Ere, girl, bring us another,” a man named Matt shouted.

Faith dried her hands on the soaked towel and
reached for two clean mugs. They seemed to find that remarkably funny,
but it seemed a filthy habit to refill a dirty mug.

Their hot gazes raked her exaggerated bosom as she
brought them their drinks and accepted their money, but she was
unprepared for the heavy hand reaching over the bar to grab her arm as
she took the coins.

“There’s some in that for you, girl. Just give us a kiss now.” The black-bearded man leaned over the bar and jerked her forward.

Faith screamed and instinctively swung the heavy
tankard. The pewter caught Black-beard on the jaw, and he yelped. His
companion roared with laughter and reached to join the game.

“Let’s give her a welcome, boys. She’s a feisty one,
but I take my turn first.” With a burly arm, the man called Matt
grabbed Faith’s waist and lifted her bodily from the floor.

Faith struggled, but the bar between them kept her
from kicking, and the tight binding of her laces didn’t allow much
movement. A heavy hand squeezed her breast, and she screamed in outrage
as Matt’s breath fouled her face.

“Leave ’er alone, mate. She belongs to Jack and
’e’ll ’ave your skull if you touch ’er.” Toby spoke sensibly, although
his change of accent warned of a change in mood, and his right hand
rested on the hilt of his knife.

Matt scoffed and dragged Faith onto the bar. Her
skirts wrapped around her legs as she tried to kick free, and her hands
beat futilely against impervious shoulders. The kerchief covering her
breasts came loose with the mauling, and she nearly expired with fear as
the man’s nasty mouth closed over hers.

Other hands grabbed at her skirts and legs, and her screams filled the air, drowning out Toby’s warnings.

***

Morgan patted his winded stallion as they cantered
down the last stretch of road before they reached the cottage. The night
was brisk, but there was just a touch of spring in the air. He inhaled
it deeply. He had no right to this feeling of well-being. The haul he
had taken had been small, the fence had been particularly niggardly in
his payment, and his leg ached like hell.

But he imagined the fire awaiting him, Faith’s
serene hands full of her perpetual sewing, and a steaming hot supper in
the kettle, and his other concerns vanished. He remembered the newly
sewn cambric shirt he had found in his trunk, and his smile grew even
broader. He had found a treasure, better than any fey faerie, even if
she had a temper beneath that docile demeanor.

When he rode into the clearing and discovered the
darkened cottage, Morgan frowned. Perhaps it was later than he thought.
Quietly he led the stallion into the barn, fed, watered, and rubbed him
down.

Even if Faith had gone on to bed, he knew there
would be something keeping hot over the coals, and his sheets would be
warmed with heated bricks. The cottage would be cozy and his coffee
would be fixed just right. Never had he lived in such luxury, even when
he had thought himself heir to a thousand acres.

Remembering the surprise he had brought for her,
Morgan rummaged in his bag and tucked a package under his arm before
returning to the house. He would have to wake himself up early in the
morning to catch her eagerness. Faith loved surprises, he had learned,
and it was so very easy to please her.