Lady Fugitive

by Shannah Biondine

  "I don't underst—"

  "Aye, you do. I've purposely kept myself at odds with you because you're in mourning and you work for me. You're my tenant. To think we could be—" He stopped and lowered his voice. "I've been over this a dozen times in my mind, but it doesn't stop me from prowling my rooms at night, unable to sleep for thinking of you. I've stood across the street and fought the urge to pound on your door."

  "One night I thought there was someone hiding in the shadows. It frightened me, until I recognized you. Or thought I did. I woke up thinking it must have been a dream."

  He snatched the paper from her hands and threw it on the flames. "Perhaps it was. Forget I said anything, Rachel. Too much ale this afternoon, then your tears. Never expected them from you, even as you never expected sentiment from me. Well." He cleared his throat. "Now that I've made a complete fool of myself, I beg your forbearance and take my leave."

  "I don't think you're a fool." She'd followed him to the entry. She laid her fingertips on his sleeve.

  "Christ, don't tell me what you do think! My sole interest is in myself and trade. I'm arrogant, incapable of compassion or genuine feeling. I've heard it before from the local wenches. I don't need to hear it from you."

  "I'm not a local girl, remember?" she asked softly. "You're capable of compassion. You just proved that. I know there's more to you than handsome looks. Though certainly no woman could complain on that score." She couldn't resist grinning at having turned his own words back on him. "You wouldn't be the first man I've known to hide a soft heart under a gruff exterior. My father's like that at times." She remembered Jeremiah's fist banging down on the table as he insisted she must stay with Violet. "I understand about trade being so important. You're not a fool, Morgan."

  His mustache curved up as his arms slid around her waist. "Finally, my Christian name."

  "It seems appropriate tonight."

  He pulled her close against his chest. "Tell me to go, Rachel. Right this second. If you don't, I'm going to kiss you." His face lowered by inches until his lips brushed hers. "Toss me out."

  "No," she murmured, sliding her arms up around his neck. She melted against him, parting moist and pliant lips to admit his tongue. Her tongue met his and they shared a deep, prolonged kiss.

  "Christ, but you've got my head swimming," he whispered. "I can't tell you how desperately I've wanted to do that. But you shouldn't have allowed it, Rachel."

  "Maybe not, but I've wondered what your lips would taste like...Ale," she teased. She lowered her face and snuggled against his chest. "I wondered how your arms would feel." She glanced back up. "Safe."

  "That's not the usual adjective," he remarked, cocking an eyebrow. She only smiled. "Don't smile at me like that, or I'll suspect you enjoy kissing me." Her lips curved even wider. "Are you deliberately trying to provoke me, madam?"

  She felt his arousal pressed too intimately against her through her skirts. "No sir. I'm glad you got the signet back. Thank you for a pleasant evening." She slipped from his arms and moved to the door, waiting, once again the prim and proper office clerk. The smile she gave him now was polite, but gone was the playful side she'd revealed just seconds before.

  Morgan stared at her. "This alters things, Rachel." He stepped closer and let his lips brush hers again. "I won't just stand in the shadows next time. I'll use my key."

  She firmly shook her head. "I'd be forced to toss you out then. I'm still your clerk, and you're still Pamela's beau."

  "Piss on Pamela. I'm finished with her. It's you haunting my nights, Colonial." His voice was strained as he stared into her eyes. "When do you give up the black?"

  She hesitated in answering. "I...haven't decided yet."

  "You haven't decided?"

  There was a long silence as neither of them spoke. Then Morgan's features hardened. "I presume you know when that alcoholic husband of yours died?" She grudgingly nodded.

  He jerked the door open and stepped past her. "I'm too stuffy and somber to play parlor games. See you at the office, Widow."

  Chapter 7

  It was a bone-chilling night in early November. Leaves swirled in the deep gloom and the promise of frost hung in the evening air. Rachel ignored the jostling of the carriage as they bounced along the rutted road north of the village. Chrissandra and Boyd spoke in hushed tones, gloved hands clasped above the lap robe. Rachel stared out her window into the darkness, lost in thought. She'd returned only yesterday from London. She was dressed in a gown of deep crimson velvet trimmed with ecru lace at the throat and sleeves. Half her afternoon had been spent wrapping her hair into a tight chignon, which she'd covered with a snood of gold netting. So much preparation for a night of sheer folly.

  Going to this Harvest Dance was probably a mistake. She should be at the cottage now, safely toasting her feet beside the hearth. But some wicked part of her wanted Morgan to see her in a fancy gown. The reflection in her mirror tonight was no impoverished farmer's widow. The woman gazing back at her was Jeremiah Hardwick's daughter—a girl raised in plenty, one who might grace a sparkling London ballroom, one who'd attended some of Philadelphia's most exclusive parties before moving West. She wanted Morgan to see that person. Just once.

  The carriage drew to a halt. Its three occupants were promptly swallowed up in the throng outside the Plummer residence. Rachel was swept into the warmth of an immense farmhouse with a huge open room the size of a modest barn. Ladies milled about in gowns of every autumnal hue, peacock blue and mossy green to burnished russets and gold. The men wore embroidered vests, their finest frock coats and crisp shirts. Tables stood laden with bowls of mulled cider and eggnog, platters groaned beneath roasted whole chickens and legs of mutton or beef. Steam rose from large bowls of boiled greens, potatoes, squash, and carrots. Rachel couldn't remember when she'd last seen so much food in one place. A huge table of desserts offered apple tarts and scones alongside mince and pumpkin pies, temptingly displayed in tiers beside bowls of berries in cream.

  "I don't believe I've had the pleasure," came a deep baritone rumble that made Rachel shiver. Morgan had been away from the office most of the past two weeks. She'd wondered if his absence was connected to the incident with the signet ring and what had followed.

  She turned to find him standing nearby, dashing as ever in tan breeches with a coat of dark teal. "Then again, apparently I have," he corrected. His gaze dropped to her lips. "And a pleasure it was. One I hope to enjoy again."

  Rachel suspected her face must be as rose-hued as the baked apples. "You're looking dapper this evening, sir."

  "And you're looking positively spectacular, madam. It appears the term 'widow' no longer applies. Dare I hope this remarkable change is the result of my influence the other evening?"

  "Please, Mr. Tremayne. I'd rather we didn't discuss that." She scanned the room to see if others noticed them talking together.

  Morgan made no attempt to hide his amusement. "They probably don't know you, Rachel. I didn't at first glance. Your hair up like that, the velvet gown." A hand slid to the small of her back. "We need to find someplace to be alone."

  Though inwardly she thrilled at the evident heat in his gaze as his eyes raked over her once more, she was too flustered to be alone with him just then. And too aware of their surroundings.

  "I don't think that's a wise idea," she demurred. "The villagers know I'm your clerk. I'm not anxious to be at the center of the next batch of rumors." She was grateful for the intervention of a local farmer, who accosted Morgan about granary storage for his spring crops. She used the distraction to cross the room, positioning herself well away from her landlord.

  A farmer she'd met during one of her audits at the inn struck up a conversation, then persuaded her to dance. She found herself in his arms, whirling to the fiddles and voices lifted in song. When the dance ended, she was approached by the young male clerk from the tobacco shop. He had a timid young maid on his arm, whom he introduced as his future intended.

  Though she didn't re
cognize many of the faces at the large gathering, Rachel found she knew several of the villagers well enough to receive a smiling greeting or polite nod. The villagers might not fully accept her after having her amongst them for several months, but she no longer felt hostile or curious stares. The stares now came from several of the unattached men, who seemed to have quickly noted the lack of widow's weeds.

  "May I have the next number?"

  Dismayed, Rachel discovered Somersdale at her side. "Oh! I'm sorry," she gulped, coughing now for effect, "Mr. Somersdale, but...I—"

  "She's promised the remainder of her dances to me, Arnold," Morgan stiffly informed him. "I told you to leave this particular lady alone."

  Rachel watched Arnold depart. "Would you like to go outside for some air?" Morgan inquired. Her eyes swept the crowded room, gauging the whereabouts of the nearest exit. She spied Pamela, who was glaring hotly at her and Morgan.

  "No, I'm fine. What I'd like is for you to dance with me." She caught his forearm and dragged him into the center of the room. "Please, sir."

  He swept her into his arms and they began to waltz. His fingers tightened on hers as he flashed her a knowing grin. "I assume your sudden passion is for her benefit." He inclined his head toward the furious blonde at the edge of the dance floor.

  Rachel tilted her chin up. "I owe her a debt I haven't repaid."

  "Do you always repay your debts?"

  Yes, mine and those thrust upon me, her mind answered. Even when it costs me everything. "Definitely. Don't you?"

  "Apart from one. A certain young lady did me a service not long ago, but has stubbornly refused to let me compensate her for it. I'm still indebted and wondering how to resolve the matter."

  "The lady performed that service as a personal favor to you. She'd like to be considered your friend, as well as your employee. You're not indebted, sir."

  Morgan abruptly froze, his eyes wide. "Christ, but I'm an idiot!"

  "For once I agree with you, sir," she replied, a false smile on her face. "Perhaps we might dance again later." She nudged him with her knee. It seemed he'd forgotten they were standing in the midst of whirling dancers. He stared down into her face and made no attempt to move. It was everything she'd longed for, all that terrified her—a moment when time stopped, when no one existed but Morgan Tremayne and Richelle. She had to do something to break the spell.

  She closed her fingers around his hand and tugged hard, threading her way between the spinning couples. Morgan numbly followed, but Pamela wasn't going to let them escape her wrath.

  "So, you decided to take your clerk to the festivities this year, Morgan. Boyd's altruism seems to be rubbing off on you."

  "Not as much as you might wish," Morgan replied, stiffening. "I've been meaning to speak to your father about the back payments on his loan. If either of you thought I'd disregard his overdue debt, you're destined for disappointment."

  Pamela's eyes went from hot to ice cold. Rachel had no desire to eavesdrop on this particular conversation. She mumbled an excuse and started to pull away, but Morgan wouldn't release her fingers. "I'll only be a moment, Rachel. I still want to talk to you."

  He turned back to Pamela. "Is George here?"

  "What, it's not enough I'm humiliated by this Colonial throwing herself at you, now you insist upon embarrassing my father at a social gathering?"

  "Excuse me, Miss Prine," Rachel said. "I didn't throw myself at Mr. Tremayne. He'd already asked me to dance. This would be throwing myself at him." She rose on tiptoe to plant a searing kiss on Morgan's lips.

  "You disgusting tramp!" Pamela shrieked. The fiddlers and all conversation stilled instantly. "I knew you were a harlot all along. Pretending you disliked him. Poppycock and lies! You should wear a trashy red frock, you fat-chested Colonial cow!"

  Rachel's voice rang out. "Thank you for the compliment, Miss Prine. If anyone in town wondered why you couldn't keep a beau, I think you've answered their question this evening."

  "You have—"

  "Enough, Pamela," Morgan barked. "Get your wrap, Madam Cordell. I'll see you home." He glowered at the blonde. "And I'll speak to George next week. Tell him to expect me at the farm Thursday or Friday afternoon."

  Rachel was fastening her cloak when Somersdale nudged her with an elbow. "Our little widow shows her true colors. I suspected Tremayne was taken with you himself when he came to see me, claiming someone had forged those missives you sent me."

  "I wouldn't invite you into my bed if you were the last man alive."

  "Tsk, Rachel. Another man might take offense."

  "Another man would recognize a dismissal when he hears it and leave me alone."

  "There are more than a few ladies who could tell you tales of Tremayne's romantic escapades. Half the women in this farmhouse tonight. He's notorious for losing interest once he's had his fill...His talent for persuasion is known to charm the pantalets off the lasses. Be forewarned, Mistress Cordell. Once he gets yours pulled down, you'll find yourself with neither post nor domicile. He'll toss your bottom into the street and be on to the next fair damsel."

  "Her bottom is none of your damned business, Somersdale." Morgan seized Arnold by the shoulder. "Bother her again, and I'll make sure you get tossed into the street."

  Morgan said nothing until they were back at the cottage. He lit a fire on the hearth and gave a rueful sigh as she brought him a cup of tea. "Well, Crowshaven's citizens put on a party with a distinctive flair, don't we? Public floggings and beheadings are next month, in case you're interested."

  "Mine's the head they want to see roll."

  "That's not true," he disagreed as he set his cup on the end table. "I noticed you dancing with some of your new friends in the village." There was an edge to his voice as he said 'friends,' but his eyes betrayed nothing. He wiped a lingering drop of tea from his mustache. "Speaking of friendship, we never finished our conversation concerning my signet."

  Rachel moved to the fireplace. "For the last time, I don't want anything for helping you reclaim that ring of yours. I'm sorry I went with you."

  "Are you?" he demanded. "I'm not. Why did you leave the pub so abruptly? Were you upset over your late husband, or did I misunderstand something?"

  She closed her eyes and turned away. "Do you still bear feelings for him?" Morgan crossed the room and caught her upper arms, forcing her to face him. She couldn't help thinking how handsome he was, wondering what he'd look like if he let his hair fall loose around those broad shoulders.

  Then regretted those thoughts. They could only lead to heartache. She had no future with him. No future here. "Somersdale may be right about your conquests," she said softly. "I don't want to make a mistake I'll later regret."

  Now he folded his arms across his chest. "I was hoping I wouldn't have to tell you this, Rachel, but I bed all my tenants and then toss them out." The sarcasm left his voice and it softened once more. "Don't tell me you actually believe that rot? You're afraid I'd do something so heinous?"

  She gave a tiny shake of her head. "I'm afraid of forgetting who I am...Of becoming caught up in the moment and getting confused."

  "Because you care for me."

  "You and Mr. Atkinson have given me everything. You protected me when Pamela tried to have me dismissed. You're a shrewd businessman and everyone in town likes you. I can learn a great deal from you."

  "Just as I could learn to make coffee from you, but that's not what I mean. Why did you kiss me tonight?"

  Rachel knew why he was asking, and sidestepped his trap. "I thought it was obvious." She gave a wicked laugh. "To make Pamela crazy."

  He turned and headed for the door. He'd already lifted the latch when her soft words stopped him. "But I wasn't supposed to say that's the reason, was I? Even though it's partly true. There was another reason. You want me to say I kissed you because—"

  "You're in love with me?"

  "I can't say that," she whispered. "I can't think such insane things. I don't want to love anyone just now. I don'
t want anyone in love with me. Please don't be angry. You didn't finish your tea."

  Morgan knew he should just leave, but when he glanced back at her and saw her eyes huge in the firelight, pleading with him, he was lost. She was so beautiful in that gown of crimson. He wanted so much...but he couldn't caress her as he wanted. Not just yet. Having her beside him in his own parlor while he drank his tea was a good start. He couldn't be greedy. He had to slow down, force himself to wait.

  He returned to the settee and took up his teacup. As he suspected, she eased beside him and sat watching as he took another sip. She stared at his right hand a moment, then her fingertip traced around the oval of gold on his finger. "I'm so glad you got this signet back. It's very dramatic and personal." Her eyes moved to his face. "I know how much it means. It's all you have left of your family."

  "That...my inn, and this house." Rachel heard a hollow sadness in his voice. For a second, it touched his eyes. Then it was gone.

  Rachel found a lump forming, tightening her throat. She knew only too well how it felt to be homesick. "Don't you miss this house, Morgan? I couldn't put strangers in my family home and spend nights in a hotel. I'd hate that. I don't know how you stand it."

  "Are you suggesting I spend my nights here?"

  "You know I didn't mean it that way. I won't become your mistress. You're an influential man in this district and you might be very generous, but—"

  "I would be," he corrected.

  She shook her head. "I'd rather clerk for a decade and buy this house from you than allow you keep me in it."

  He set the empty cup on the table and stretched his arm across the back of the sofa. "You've every reason to take pride in earning your own wages. You understand figures and trade as well as most men. Are you also perchance a horsewoman, Colonial?"