Patricia Rice (18 page)

“Bahh. had he given us half so much, I’d not be here
today. It’s damnable folly to keep us on such short shrift.” Thomas
crossed to the decanter and refilled his glass. “Now he has this bee in
his bonnet about finding George’s lost brat, and he’s likely to leave
all that belongs to us to her.”

“So it seems.” Edward wondered where this topic
would lead. Admittedly, old age and guilt had driven the marquess a
little off the beam over the missing child, but Edward had his title and
the entailment to look forward to, and he was not overly concerned
about the loss of an additional fortune. Only the puzzle kept him
interested—and Thomas’s frustration. He truly did enjoy watching Thomas
chafing at the bit.

Thomas glared. “It does not seem to concern you that
the fortune we have waited for all these years is likely to end up in
Bedlam or the hands of some Methodist nobody. Do you share some secret
that I don’t?”

Edward shrugged his heavy shoulders and set his
glass aside. “I cannot imagine what worrying about it will accomplish,
no more than I can imagine where ten thousand pounds will come from or
what it will do. Perhaps you should enlighten me.”

“I don’t know where it will come from. Perhaps we
can have some of the family jewels replaced with paste. I doubt that
there’s ten thousand pounds in artwork in all the family holdings, but
there might be a valuable oil or two here and there to supplement the
jewels. Certainly no one will miss them. As for its purpose, I’ve tried
to tell you. We need to manufacture an heiress.”

“Manufacture an heiress? How droll.” Edward brushed
an invisible speck of dust from his cuff. Now that he knew the game, he
was bored again. Thomas was so very predictable. All hustle and bustle
and no brains.’Twas a pity. Like the ant, all he would have was crumbs
for his work.

“Have you a better idea? We can find some poor waif
from the country, offer her an income for life, and pass her off to the
marquess as George’s daughter. Once the old man is dead, we send her
packing, and her share is split between us. The old man will be happy,
the girl will be happy, and we’ll be rich men.”

There were enough holes in that plan for someone as
large as Edward to fall through, as Thomas undoubtedly intended. Large
body, small brain, the general populace believed. Why disillusion the
rabble?

Smiling benevolently, Edward lifted a heavy hand in
languid acquiescence. “Jewels, you say? Never gave them a thought. Might
manage that. Give me a little time.” He furrowed his brow as if in deep
thought. “Just might manage that. Come back later and we’ll see.”

Looking both impatient and relieved, Thomas nodded
and set his empty glass aside. “I’ll scout around for the right sort of
girl. Send me word when you’re ready.”

It was all Edward could do to hide his smile as his
cousin walked out one door and the runner was introduced through the
next. Poor Thomas. Had he ever applied all that ambition to honest work,
he’d be a wealthy fellow today. Fortunately, Edward had never been
bothered by ambition himself. An inquiring mind was his downfall.
Sometimes a fellow just had to know the answer to pressing questions.

As the rotund runner sidled uncertainly into
Edward’s lavish chamber, the heir to a marquessate permitted himself a
small smile. He had already discovered the obsequious but diligent
thief-taker to be a man after his own tastes. He poured a glass of wine
and held it out to his visitor.

“Welcome, Watson. What is it you have for me today?”

Eyeing the wine approvingly, Watson relaxed. “Aye,
and it’s not more than I warned you of before, milord. It will take a
bit of time to ferret the wolf from his den. He’s a clever one, and
they’re feared of him. And there’s no guarantee she’s the lass you
seek.”

“But she’s still alive after all this time?” Edward prompted.

“Oh, right enough, she is that. The man they call
Black Jack nearly took the lids off several of Whitehead’s patrons when
they tried to have some fun with the girl. Of course, you realize she’s
the man’s doxy by now.” The runner added this with a bit of wariness.
The marquess would have pitched that plaster statue at him for that
remark.

Edward waved his hand languidly. “It goes to be
said, of course. Quite enterprising of the wench, I must say. A
highwayman’s doxy. How fascinating. I doubt that she’s the right one,
after all. No offspring of pious George would ever trade her fair body
for sustenance. She’s undoubtedly dead in some ditch, as you suggested
earlier. But just as a matter of interest, try to trace her, Watson. And
follow my cousin too. He’s onto something, and I’d rather know what it
is.”

Watson tugged his forelock and grinned. “Right
enough, guv’nor. He’s known to us already. Don’t mind being paid a
little to do what needs to be done. You’ll have my report regular.”

Edward leaned back against the pillows with an air
of supreme indifference. “That will be all, Watson. By the way, I’ll
have that next report in writing. It wouldn’t do to have Thomas see you
here again.”

Watson grimaced, but taking the hint, he bowed out.

Edward beamed at the ceiling. The possibilities were
fascinating. The missing heiress, a highwayman’s doxy. She could
already be breeding. His father wanted an heir. What if...? His grin
grew even more fatuous.

***

The crickets were singing a lonesome melody, and
somewhere a toad galumphed his love call to an unresponsive sweetheart.
The birds had finally settled their differences after the day’s rivalry
of warbling and settled down to their newly found mates. Stirring the
fudge she’d made for Morgan’s sweet tooth, Faith stared out the
blackened windowpanes to the night beyond.

Never had she realized the riotous sounds and scents
of spring were mating rituals. The earth practically throbbed with life
tonight, as it had all the day. Even the newly tilled sod of the garden
Morgan had dug for her burgeoned with new life. Earthworms swarmed to
the surface and seedlings of every plant imaginable sprang up overnight.
Everything she touched or saw or heard reminded her of the heady birth
of the season.

And the restless stirrings inside her had the same
source. She could attribute them to no other cause. She tried not to see
Morgan in his half-naked state with her mind’s eye, but the pictures
became clearer instead of fading. He had never mentioned the incident.
When he came back to the house that day, he had been wearing his shirt,
but now that Faith was aware of the man beneath it, it didn’t matter.
Beneath the untied opening of the linen, she could see the curl of crisp
dark hair on his chest, and her imagination led her to contemplate
touching the rugged planes that they covered. The urge to do so had
almost become an obsession these past days, and Morgan hadn’t made it
any easier.

He had not ridden out once. He was there every
minute of the day and night, tweaking her hair, teasing her with his
damned Irish endearments, taking her riding across the countryside. If
only he would treat her as a housekeeper and ignore her, she would be
fine, she was certain. But as it was, his presence was a constant
reminder of the turmoil inside her.

Tonight Morgan had carried water to heat over the
fire so she might bathe and wash her hair. In the past, she had always
tried to wait until he was gone to perform those ablutions, but he
hadn’t left her side in days, and she could not endure the wait any
longer. Her intentions had been to keep the highwayman from his calling,
not encourage him to go back to the road again. She couldn’t wish him
away, but if she waited one more day, her smell would drive him off.

But the idea of Morgan knowing full well what she
was doing drove Faith crazy. She draped a sheet over the window, but it
wasn’t enough to keep him out of her thoughts. When she stripped to her
chemise, she felt as if he were right there beside her, grinning.

The shame of it was that she wanted him there.
Lifting the cloth from the large basin, Faith buried her burning cheeks
in it. For some reason, the wet cloth only brought back the memories of
Morgan’s heated kiss, and the steam seemed to curl down inside of her
and smolder. She was going to hell of a certainty.

With practiced maneuvers she managed to soak her
hair in the basin and scrub until it hurt. She would just have to keep
him from kissing her again. That’s all it was, an act of nature like the
birds singing in the spring.

But when she finally had to strip off her chemise to
finish washing, her body told another story. Her breasts would never be
large, but they were filling out. Perhaps that was the reason they
prickled and grew sharp points when the cloth caressed them. The
stirring in her belly grew to an ache as she cleansed lower, and Faith
flushed at the thought of Morgan just outside the door. What was he
doing to her that she could not even bathe in peace?

She hastily finished washing and grabbed clean
garments. The dirty water would need to be carried out. She would much
prefer to scurry up to the loft and hide, but she knew her place. The
water had to go out, and she had to get dressed to do it.

Not bothering with stockings or shoes, Faith slipped
her clean blue gown on, hastily tucked a white kerchief around her
shoulders, and opened the door before lifting the heavy basin. As she
had suspected, Morgan was not far away, but instead of facing the
cottage, he was staring up at the heavens. From the way his hair lay
plastered against his neck, he had gone bathing in the stream behind the
barn. At the sound of the door opening, he turned and gestured at her.

“Come see,
cailin.
The heavens are raining fire this night.”

She was a candidate for Bedlam to go near him.
Morgan’s shoulders strained at the seams of his old shirt, and Faith
could tell that he wore no neckcloth and had not bothered to fasten the
shirt ties. The old leather breeches he wore when working with the
horses clung to his narrow hips and strong thighs like a soft glove, and
like her, he had left off his stockings and shoes. He was as pagan as
the night, and she could not resist the smiling gleam he sent her way.

As if pulled two ways by the forces of moon and
tide, Faith reluctantly stepped out onto the cool grass and set down her
basin. The day had been unusually warm, and some of the sun’s heat
lingered on the blades between her toes. Knowing she shouldn’t, unable
to stop, she approached Morgan reluctantly, her gaze fastened on the
man-god in the clearing and not on the heavens above.

Revealing no sign that he noticed or understood her
slowness, Morgan pointed to the arc of the sky where the meteor shower
continued unabated. “Think you ’tis a sign of import?” he murmured.

With incredible magic, the fiery lights sped and
disappeared across the black bowl of the heavens. Faith’s eyes finally
turned in their direction, and she gasped at the majesty of the night
sky. It had never occurred to her to watch the moon and stars, even had
she been allowed outside in the dark to do so. The magnificence was so
inspiring that she scarcely noticed when Morgan placed his hands on her
shoulders.

“’Tis so beautiful,” she whispered, watching the play of light.

“’Tis the only thing that keeps my faith that God
exists. Perhaps he has gone elsewhere and forgotten our poor miserable
world, but only a god could have created such a spectacle.”

“I think it is man who has forgotten God.” Faith
shivered, not from cold, but from a strange sensation engendered by
Morgan’s deep voice, or perhaps by his presence. His hands tightened on
her shoulders, and she leaned closer to his welcoming warmth. Against
the immensity of the sky, they seemed very small, and his touch offered
security.

“Perhaps so,” His voice was sad as he stared upward.
“I’d like to think there is a heaven up there, and that those we loved
look down upon occasion to see how we fare. They deserve a heaven after
their hell on earth.”

The pain in his voice struck a chord in her heart,
and Faith leaned against him, letting his hands slide down her arms to
circle her waist, not knowing how else to offer comfort. She knew the
anguish of death as well as anybody, but time had numbed some of the
sharpness of the loss.

It did not reassure her to think her father watched
over her. She felt quite certain he would not approve. Perhaps Morgan’s
family was different, and they would be glad he was alive and well and
fighting the people who had stolen his home.

“There has to be a heaven.” She spoke softly,
uncertain how to phrase her feelings. “The sky is proof enough. Those
are angels out there watching over us. If we could only lead the lives
they expect, they need not cry over us anymore.”

Morgan sent a surprised look to Faith’s upturned
gaze, but she was watching the stars with a dreamy expression and no
thought to him. He studied the lovely oval of her face, admiring the
thick fringe of lashes and the sculptured lines of her nose and cheeks. A
few short hairs had begun to dry and curl about her brow, and they
glowed with almost a copper hue in the starlight.

Morgan tried not to focus on her parted lips, but he
knew how they would melt beneath his own, and his loins responded to
the image. It had been a long time since he’d had a woman, and this slip
of a girl was getting under his skin. Perhaps the falling stars had an
import, after all. Perhaps tonight was the night.

She smelled of the jasmine-scented soap he had
bought for her. He had never seen a jasmine in bloom, but it could not
be more beautiful than the innocent in his arms. Wanting just a taste of
that innocence to fill the gaping hole in his soul, Morgan turned his
faerie-woman around and pressed his lips upon hers.

This time, Faith felt no surprise at Morgan’s kiss.
It was as if the time had come and the curtain had risen and the
characters were on the stage where they belonged. Only the touch of his
mouth was needed to dim the theater lights and set the actors in motion.