Patricia Rice (17 page)

One kiss. It was a lifetime of kisses, yet it was
the briefest of pleasures. Their lips met and clung, then parted
greedily for more. Morgan cupped Faith’s face and held her still while
his mouth plundered. The length and breadth of his hand covered half her
face, strong enough to tear her head from her shoulders, but gentle
enough to tear her heart from her breast. Tears formed in Faith’s eyes
at the tenderness of Morgan’s passion and the need his touch opened.

Drunken laughter at the alley’s mouth brought a
curse to the lips that had caressed her so sweetly. Faith shrank back
against the wall as Morgan returned her to her feet, but his arm wrapped
about her securely as he turned to face the intruders.

“Here’s one, Thornton. She’s a mite occupied, but
perhaps she can be persuaded away. How much did you pay for her, man?
I’ll double your price. My friend’s in the direst need, and that skirt
looks suitable for what ails him.”

One black brow raised haughtily, Morgan gave the
dandy in his blue satin coat and lace frills a quelling glare. “You’re
well in your cups or I’d demand satisfaction for your insult to my wife.
Stand aside, and do not try my patience further.” Hand on the hilt of
his sword, he stepped forward, until the light provided by the lamp boy
threw his profile in full relief.

The dandy glanced at the gleaming hilt of the sword loosened from its scabbard, gulped, and stepped backward.

“Begging your pardon, sir. We did not realize... It is a trifle irregular, you know.”

Morgan pushed past him and his equally drunken
companion, keeping Faith securely on his far side. “Not for newlyweds, I
think. Come, my dear, we’d best be home before I needs must fend off
your admirers.”

Morgan cursed the interruption that had cost him an
evening’s work. How would he ever return Faith to the mood of moments
earlier? Her innocent passion still burned on his lips, and he had yet
to so much as breach the barriers of her clothing. Could he have but a
few more minutes...

His breath caught at the possibilities she offered. A
woman of his own, a lady. Not a trollop, but a true innocent. Morgan’s
fevered imagination played the scenes well in his head. She would know
nothing of men; he alone would teach her. And she would cry gratefully
for his release each time he came to her. The thought excited him more
than the challenge of a well-rewarded theft.

He would win her. He wanted her willing eagerness.
He wanted to know she had chosen him, an Irish highwayman, over all
others. He would not have her say he forced her. He would have her
willingly given, or their marriage would be a mockery.

Excitement carried Morgan through the dark streets
and back to the inn. There was time yet. Faith followed him trustingly,
her fingers clinging to his coat sleeve. The taste of her passionate
kiss still lingered in his mouth.

Faith worried over Morgan’s silence as they hurried
up the narrow steps to the room Morgan had taken. She knew it would be
foolish to ride across the city and its desolate outskirts to their
cottage at this hour, but she wished for the security of her private
loft right now.

They had shared a roof for over four months now. She
should have no fear of Morgan’s intentions, but something in his
behavior warned that things had changed. She knew little about the
behavior between men and women, but if her own feelings were any rule to
judge by, she was in desperate trouble.

Once inside the simple chamber, Morgan lit candles.
Though the night was damp, no fire burned in the grate, and he set about
correcting that situation. Why should she doubt him now, when he was
only seeing to her care as he had done these past months? She should be
grateful for his concern, not suspicious of his intentions.

When Morgan rose to stand before her, Faith resisted
the inclination to step backward. In the flickering light of the
candles, he seemed somehow taller and more primitive. His hair gleamed
with a deep black sheen against his carved features, and the light in
his eyes was almost possessive.

“This is a clean inn. You need not fear the linens. Have some respect for my taste, if you will.”

Faith managed a small smile at this practical statement. “I have never stayed at an inn. I will trust your judgment.”

Tilting her chin upward with his finger, he placed a
light kiss on her parted lips. “I will have someone bring you warm
water to wash while I wait below. Perhaps then we could continue what we
left off when we were interrupted.”

He did not give her time to refuse. Faith held her
tongue as he strode out, so strong and proud. How could she tell him his
kisses terrified her? That they left her weak and incapable of thought?

Perhaps it was just the wine. Her head still spun,
and she was grateful when the maid brought her water. She would feel
better for having washed, and then perhaps she could think again. Surely
the look she had seen in the highwayman’s eyes could not mean what it
seemed.

Below, Morgan steadfastly drank the tankard of ale
that he didn’t taste. He wanted to pace nervously up and down and check
the room every five minutes like an expectant bridegroom, but he refused
to relegate himself to that role. He’d had any number of wenches in his
bed. This one was just another. Why, then, did he feel the veriest
green stripling as he waited to go to her?

He hadn’t felt this nervous with his first roll in
the hay. That particular lass had merely meant to say a solemn farewell
to him before he left the green shores of Eire. Things had gone a little
out of hand, and before either knew it, her skirts were up above her
head and he was between her thighs. They were warm, welcoming thighs, to
be sure, but she had known what she was doing and he had known a little
more when he was done. There had been many such occasions in the years
since. Why, then, did he feel so nervous now?

It was foolish, and he was not a fool. Tossing a
coin down on the table, Morgan rose and walked unhurriedly toward the
stairs. There had been time enough for Faith to undress and wash and
crawl between the sheets. If she did not know what to expect next, he
would teach her. It was as simple as that.

But when he opened the door on their room, he
realized nothing was as simple as that with Faith. The firelight
flickered across russet curls twisted neatly in a single braid on the
pillow—on the hearth. Morgan sucked in his breath and grimaced as he
regarded the cocoon of covers the little imp had created by the fire.
From the even rise and fall of her shoulders, he judged her to be
already asleep.

Snarling wrathfully to himself, Morgan sat and jerked off his boots.

***

The holiday mood disappeared with their return trip
to the cottage. Faith tried to blame it on the fact that Morgan had
discovered a stone in his stallion’s hoof that the stable-boy should
have found, but in reality, his stormy mood had begun well before his
visit to the stable.

Although she was uncertain of her fault, Faith felt
certain she was the cause of Morgan’s irascible humor. She had risen
before him to stir the fire so he could rise to warmth. She had dressed
in the cold and summoned a maid to bring him the coffee he preferred.
But when he woke to a warm room and a steaming pot of coffee and Faith
dressed and waiting obediently to return home, he had scowled as
fiercely as if she had created some major transgression.

Perhaps he’d drunk too much wine. Her own head still
felt fuzzy this morning. Or perhaps he had found someone to drink with
in the tavern and had consumed too much gin or whatever it was men drank
in those places. She had heard of a concoction of ale and eggs and
herbs that eased the headache after such a night. She would prepare it
when they returned home.

She sent his stormy features another anxious look.
She couldn’t afford to offend him. Morgan offered the best employment
she had been able to find. Now that she had seen the immensity of London
and the poverty that stalked the streets, she was most uncertain of her
ability to make her own way. Besides, Morgan had sent off the message
that would bring her father’s papers. She needed to be here when they
arrived. Surely he wouldn’t put her out before they came.

Surely he wouldn’t put her out at all. Her eyes
widened in fear at the thought. It was no longer cold, but her
experiences at the taproom had made it quite clear that Morgan was right
when he said she had no idea of what awaited her in London. She didn’t
know what future there was in staying in the forest, but at least it
felt safe. Or Morgan made her feel safe.

Morgan suffered the brunt of her anxious glances,
but they were almost back at the cottage before he worked off his evil
temper enough to place the blame where it belonged. Faith was
unaccustomed to the exertion and long hours of travel. Top that off with
the wine he had given her, and it was no wonder she had fallen asleep.
He shouldn’t have been surprised had she passed out. Only her incredible
desire to please him had kept her on her feet as long as it had.

That reassured him a little. He might have been as
nervous as a bridegroom, but she had not known she was about to become a
bride. He felt a trifle foolish at his irritation and hoped having a
wife wouldn’t make foolishness a habit, because he remained unswerved
from his course. Sooner or later, they must marry. He just needed to
make Faith aware of it.

So when they reached the cottage, Morgan swung her
down from the saddle with a jaunty smile and brushed a kiss against the
sun-warmed copper of her hair. “I’m a brute, lass. Don’t pay mind to my
black ways. I always come around.”

“I shall fix you a sweet to sweeten your humor.”
Faith answered with more bravery than was her habit. “Do you have a
preference?”

“Lass, I deserve a good thrashin’ and not a reward.
Now, go put away your spoils of war and let me see to the animals. It’s
time I think of breeding the roan mare. She should be almost ready.”

If nothing else, the stallion was ready, and Morgan
sympathized with the animal’s plight. Perhaps at least one of them could
have some relief. Perhaps he ought to visit Molly tonight.

But the slender curves standing trustingly in his
arms were more provocative than Molly’s full-blown charms. Faith would
be special; he knew it instinctively. He would bide his time a while
longer.

Faith hid her blush at this casual mention of the
crudities of farm life. She must get used to it, but her own feelings
were too near the surface to withstand close examination. Morgan’s hands
burned a hole to her waist, and her lips waited for that exquisite
torment she knew he could exact.

She didn’t know what “breeding” entailed, but she
had enough instinct to know her feelings had some relation to the animal
act. She would rather not imagine the act, if she could.

Unfortunately, by the following day she was not only imagining it but also witnessing it.

Carrying the mug of ale she had thought Morgan might
be ready for after a hard morning’s work, Faith stopped short before
she was halfway to the paddock, stunned by the scene before her.

Morgan stood, naked to the waist, holding the halter
of the roan mare she had named Annette. He was sweating as profusely as
the terrified horse, and Faith knew she should turn away, but a strange
fascination held her gaze fastened.

Morgan’s magnificent black stallion was raised on
his hind legs, his forelegs straddling the mare in a dance older than
mankind. The mare squealed and rocked and protested as Morgan held her
still, but she never pulled away from the instrument of her impalement.
Faith gasped and her hands rose to her heated cheeks as the stallion
emitted a cry of triumph that split the spring air. The ale in the mug
splashed down her apron, but she scarce noticed. Never had she seen a
more primitive sight, and the burning in her cheeks seemed to take root
in her belly.

Across the grassy field, Morgan’s gaze found hers,
and the burning in Faith’s breast became something much more fiery. She
had never really seen Morgan half- dressed before. He had always kept at
least a shirt over his torso. He was as magnificent as the stallion,
his well-muscled shoulders gleaming in the sunlight, the pattern of dark
hair across his chest emphasizing his breadth before narrowing to his
taut abdomen. Faith gulped as she tried not to think of where that fine
line of hair led beneath the band of his breeches. She had no right
thinking such thoughts, but Morgan’s fierce gaze said otherwise. She
could almost feel his thoughts enter hers with that look, and she felt a
sudden sympathy for the mare.

With that realization, Faith fled into the house.

“Milord, there’s an... er... personage here to see
you.” The staid butler refrained from rolling his eyes, but his tone had
the same effect.

Edward Montague, Lord Stepney, rolled the stem of
his wineglass between his thick fingers and kept his smile of
satisfaction to himself. The runner could wait. He was more fascinated
by the spectacle of his cousin, Thomas, ingratiating himself for a
change. He really didn’t care to know what was at the bottom of this
change of heart, but it was amusing to watch.

“How much did you say?” he asked with bored unconcern, dismissing the butler with a nod.

The handsome Thomas, the Montague who should have
been the lord if one were to judge by appearances, swung around from his
position by the window. His pretty features gave away nothing of his
feelings for the heir to all this fortune. He merely sipped his wine and
behaved as if this were a business discussion.

“Ten thousand pounds should be sufficient. Invested
wisely, it ought to produce enough income to keep a body alive. The sum
may seem enormous, but we have more to gain from spending it than not.”

“Ten thousand pounds.” Edward admired his cousin’s
audacity. “Had we the sum between us, we would be rich men. I doubt that
the old man has given us that much in our lifetimes.”