Patricia Rice (12 page)

When he opened the door on icy darkness, Morgan’s
insides clenched, and his hand went to his sword. No lantern burned on
the table. The fire had died completely. No smells of cooking perfumed
the air. And the room was empty of Faith’s presence.

That sent him hurriedly across the floor to the loft ladder. She had to be here. There was nowhere else for her to go.

An icy knife stabbed Morgan’s heart  at sight of her empty pallet.

She had left him. She had put on that ratty cloak and walked out. He should have expected that.

He slowly climbed down the ladder and lit the
lantern. He had no stomach for his own cooking. Perhaps there was some
cheese in the cupboard.

He wondered if he ought to go after her. She
couldn’t get far on foot. He’d likely find her sleeping in the hedgerows
again. That threadbare cloak of hers wasn’t enough to keep out the
cold. She would be prey to every thief and panderer in the shire. She
would never make it to London on her own.

As the lantern light spread across the hearth and
table, it caught on a glimmer of silver on the shelf by the fireplace.
That was where Faith always left her precious sewing kit. He ought to
have bought her a new one. Her scissors were old and dull and her one
needle must be blunt by now.

Morgan wandered over to examine the source of the
light. He exclaimed at the discovery of the little leather case lying
open, waiting for its owner’s return. Faith would never have left that
behind. Grabbing the lantern, he returned to the loft.

Her few meager possessions lay neatly stacked by the
pallet on the floor. Only the green gown and petticoat he had bought
for her were gone. She hadn’t left him.

She had gone out and not returned. That she had
meant to return was a fact that Morgan had difficulty grasping, but once
he did, he knew she must be in trouble.

Cursing, Morgan ran for the door. There was only one
place he knew of to start searching. In this darkness, he might not see
her if she were lying huddled in some ditch, but if anyone had seen her
this day, it would be the villainous patrons of the Raging Bull. He
might have to knock a few heads together to get any information, but
he’d skewer them all if necessary.

He didn’t take the time to saddle a horse, but took
the nearest to hand, and grabbing the mare’s mane, kicked her into a
gallop. She sprang forward eagerly, and the wind swirled around them as
they raced down the lane.

The path to the inn took a thousand hours and years
off his life. There was no London coach this night, Morgan could see at
first glance. That meant the worst scoundrels in the shire would be
carousing and raising hell.

The roar from the taproom was louder than usual as
Morgan entered. Swearing at the bad luck of arriving during a brawl, he
strode in with his hand already at his sword.

A woman’s screams caused Morgan to freeze. He had
been ignoring the crowd at the bar in the favor of finding a few sober
heads at the tables, but the screams drew his attention to the riot in
progress.

Toby’s furious cries of protest barely overrode
drunken laughter. A shifting of the crowd offered a glimpse of a long
white limb kicking furiously from beneath an unfamiliar mustard-yellow
skirt; then the crowd closed again, cutting off his view.

With a roar, Morgan jerked his sword from the
scabbard and leapt to a table. The first arc of the steel severed the
shirt from one man’s back. The next swing sent an upraised tankard
flying through the air and induced a scream of pain.

The crowd began to fall back, but Morgan had no
patience for their terrified expressions. Sword swirling, he sent men
staggering into retreat. In their drunkenness, they fell over their
companions who did not retreat fast enough. The whine of steel and flash
of silver drove the remaining vultures from their prey as surely as if a
whirlwind had descended in their midst.

Only Toby remained, and he was helping the terrified
barmaid to her feet as she gathered her torn bodice together and
straightened her skirt.

Morgan held his sword pointed at the crowd, while he
dragged Faith to him. She grasped his coat and buried her face against
his side as he sheltered her. He wanted to wring her neck, but first, he
would kill every man jack in the place.

Reining his temper, Morgan pointed his sword and his
wrath at the innkeeper huddled in a far corner. “I’ll have your heart
out for this, Whitehead! And if you ever let another of these filthy
scoundrels touch her, I’ll remove those parts you prize more dearly than
your stone-cold heart.”

“For the devil’s sake, Jack, get her out of here!” Toby fingered his pistol nervously.

Gritting his teeth at the wisdom of the lad’s
warning, Morgan swung his cloak around Faith’s torn garments, then
gathered her in his arms and strode for the door. “Come along, Toby.
Leave the vermin to their amusements. I’ll not be back to pull your hide
from the fire later.”

That was as close to an expression of gratitude as
Jack would offer. Toby was young and small and did not pack the muscular
strength of many of the men back there, but he had stood up to the
blackguards with the cockiness of youth. Jack wouldn’t leave him to
suffer the penalty of that foolishness.

Faith wept against his shoulder, but all Morgan
could think of was her lovely breasts revealed for all to see. Rage ate
at his insides, and he stalked wordlessly toward his horse.

Daringly Toby planted himself in front of the
dancing mare as Jack seated Faith atop the horse. “She’s had enough
trouble, Jack. You take care of her.”

Without a word Jack whipped his mount around and started down the road.

Morgan maintained his silence all the way back to
the cottage. Faith dried her tears, and, thoroughly wretched, clung to
the highwayman’s closeness without thought or pride. His black cloak
engulfed them both with the rise and fall of his mount.

Her humiliation ravaged every ounce of courage it
had taken her to walk out into the world this day. She wanted nothing
more than to curl into the safety of Morgan’s large body, never leave
again, to be part of his midnight booty.

The fact that he was so furious he couldn’t speak
didn’t terrify her, oddly enough. He was a brutal man, one who could
wield sword and pistol without a qualm. But his arm was the only shelter
she knew, and his silence comforted better than words.

He rode the mare into the barn and dropped Faith to
the hay in the nearest stall. When she hastened to fetch brush and
water, Morgan caught her arm roughly.

“Get back to the house. I’ll take care of that.”

Her eyes widened at his harsh tone, but Faith
hurried to do as told. She would never be disobedient again. She would
scrub his floors and polish his boots. But right now she had need of
warm water to scrub away the feel of filthy hands, decent clothes to
cover herself, and a dark hole to hide in.

She had not missed the gleam in Morgan’s eye when his gaze fell on her breasts beneath the torn bodice.

The fire was dead and the water cold, but Faith
carried a pail to her loft and hurriedly ripped off the hated mustard
gown. She mourned the loss of her beloved green wool, but she would
never go back to claim it. She would never leave Morgan’s home again. If
he let her stay.

The fear of being turned out made her ignore bruises
and pride as she hastily scrubbed and donned her old drab gown. She
would make it up to Morgan. Surely this one transgression would not
convince him to throw her out.

His silence took on new and ominous meaning as her
fingers trembled over the lacing. Not bothering to secure the cloth ties
that completed the bodice, Faith hastened back down the ladder to start
the fire, her mind worriedly cataloging the contents of the cupboard
for an easy meal. She must at least make his coffee ready.

When Morgan entered, Faith had the coffee almost
boiling, but he reached for the rum. Cursing at finding the bottle
empty, he drew some ale and drank deeply.

His
guest
gave no sign that
she saw him, but concentrated on the smoked meat she was slicing. He
studied the trembling of her fingers, then raised his gaze to study the
rise and fall of her breasts beneath the bulky gown.

She was slender, but the creamy curve of her throat
dipped to feminine hills and valleys beneath the unfastened ties of her
gown. In his mind’s eye Morgan could see the firm mounds of young
breasts lifted for all to see and grab, and his anger frothed inside his
chest. Gad, he had been a bloody idiot.

“Go on to bed. You needn’t do that for my sake.”

Faith dropped the knife. She scrambled for it on the floor until he dragged her up.

He held her body pressed against him. Hazel eyes
became a smoky green in this half-light, and, she watched his face as if
her life depended on him.

“How old are you, Faith Montague? And don’t be giving me any of your witty answers. I want the truth.”

Nervously she licked her lips. He tightened his
grip, and she hastily gave him the answer he sought. “Eighteen this
month, if it’s March now.”

“It is.” Morgan stared down at her, held in the grip
of fascination. Eighteen. Not a child. His gaze returned to the glimpse
of skin at her throat. “Eighteen, and no more sense than to enter a
taproom after dark.” He threw scorn as a shield between them. He watched
her flinch but didn’t let go.

“I couldn’t refuse employment when it’s offered,” she protested. “I cannot live off charity forever.”

“Charity, is it now?” Morgan tried to focus on the
fear in her face, but he saw only the luminescence of those long-lashed
eyes and rose-hued lips.

If he lowered his gaze from those temptations, he
mentally stripped that ghastly wool from skin the texture of cream
satin. His imagination could easily carry him farther, and he used his
tongue to act as barrier to his thoughts. “It’s not charity I offer. You
work for me and I’ll pay you in coin. The kind of service you offered
tonight pays well. I’ll meet whatever price Whitehead offered, and
double it to keep you exclusively mine.”

He didn’t know if she understood his implication.
The insult in his tone spelled it out quite clearly. She struck his
cheek with her free hand.

Morgan jerked his head back at the blow, but he
grinned. Violence put them on a level that he understood. With a tug, he
pulled her up against him, pressing Faith’s struggling frame where he
wanted her. Without consulting her wishes, he bent to taste the lips
that had been beckoning him for longer than he could remember.

Faith gasped at the shock of Morgan’s hard mouth
slanting across hers. She could smell the fumes of ale on his breath,
but other, more arousing odors confused her senses. He always smelled of
horses. Tonight she could smell the masculine perspiration from his
long ride. The lacy jabot tickling at her throat still had the faint
odor of clean linen.

But beyond all that there was a strong scent that
was all Morgan’s own, a musky manly smell that overpowered her, just as
the touch of his body in so many places overwhelmed her ability to
think. She didn’t even try to fight him. His mouth belonged on hers, he
seemed to say, though he said nothing, but merely tasted of her mouth.

She had never been kissed before. The intimacy was
so shocking it took a moment before she realized she was expected to
respond. Some tiny fraction of intelligence warned that she ought to
struggle, but she longed for this physical pleasure after the harrowing
events of earlier. Morgan wasn’t hurting her; he offered a tenderness
she craved.

When her lips finally returned his pressure, the
fierce flame of desire scorched Morgan. Usually he sought out London’s
whores or Molly’s favors when he grew bored and restless and needed
release. Such interludes did not offer the thrill of the chase or
anticipation of the future. What Faith offered with her childish kisses
was so much more that Morgan could scarcely rein in his desire.

Morgan felt her body soften and relax as she grew
accustomed to his kisses. He pressed for more, until Faith’s lips parted
with pleasure. She stiffened when he used his tongue to sip her nectar,
and Morgan slowly withdrew, nuzzling tiny kisses along her lips and
across the smoothness of her cheek to nibble delicately at her ear.

Her blood seemed to flow with fine wine, and her
head spun as Faith clung to Morgan’s broad shoulders and allowed him
these freedoms she had never before dreamed of. She knew she should stop
him, but she could not see the harm in kissing.

But at the same time, she was terrified at the depth
of the sensations he induced. When his tongue touched hers, a shock of
pure electricity shot through her, and she tried feebly to break away.
His caresses reassured, and she bent her head to his shoulder as his
kisses grazed through her hair.

“Ahhh, Faith, ye’re like a long draft of cool water after a summer’s day. It will be a pleasure to know you,” Morgan murmured.

Whether it was the sensuous vibrations of his husky
voice or the phrasing of his words that warned her, Faith couldn’t say,
but she stiffened. He was seducing her, just as her father had warned
that a boy would do should she be alone with one. And Morgan was far
more than a boy. He was a man, with a man’s strength and desire. She
wouldn’t stand a chance against him now that he knew she was not a
child.

Faith jerked free of his hold and hastily caught the
collar ties of her bodice and overlapped them, glaring at him furiously
as she did so. “I’m not your harlot, Morgan de Lacy. I’ll be your cook
and housemaid and groom, if you wish, but I’ll not live in sin with the
likes of you.”

Amusement wrinkled his eyes. “You would live in sin
with the likes of someone else? What are your preferences, Faith, my
sweet faerie? A gentleman? An honest farmer? A merchant? I’ll be
whatsoever you wish. You need only wave your magic wand.”