She'd forgotten about their brash young visiting mason until he'd spoken just now. But thoughts of where Lorella's flirtations might lead were interrupted by their mutual concern over Morgan's whereabouts. Richelle recalled Boyd's summons when she and Morgan had been in Philadelphia. Tales of past deliveries gone terribly wrong.
She tossed a worried glance at Boyd. "Dear God, you don't suppose Morgan could have encountered highwaymen? You had freight robberies and problems like that before."
"Now hold on," Lorella interjected. "Mr. Tremayne took Patrick with him. You know that dog doesn't trust strangers, particularly menfolk. I'll wager a month's pay Patrick would never let anything happen to the master. He'd lay down his life for Mr. Tremayne."
"Yes, that's true," Richelle agreed. But she couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't right.
She walked out onto the front porch and peered down the lane. A vague shape approached from a distance. Gray, low to the ground. She knew even before she heard the distinctive bark that it was Patrick, running at full speed toward her and the cottage. Alone. Her shriek brought Lorella and the others out.
Richelle spotted the dark red on the animal's fur. "There's blood on him!"
Dr. Rowe bent to examine the hound. "Not his own, I'm sorry to say. Come on, men. We'll take my rig."
"I'm coming, too," Richelle insisted. She seized Patrick's head between her palms. "Pat, show me where Morgan is. Take us to him, boy."
They flew out of the village, leaving a trail of dust and a tearful maid wringing her hands in their wake. Richelle scrambled out of the doctor's rig before it came to a full stop behind the stalled delivery wagon partially blocking the road. She gasped as she dropped to her knees beside the still form on the ground. "Morgan! Dear God, his leg! Hurry, Dr. Rowe!"
Morgan's eyelids fluttered opened as she lifted his head and gently laid it on her knee. "Richelle...Sent the dog," Morgan mumbled. "Mess. Should have listened...stayed home."
"It doesn't matter. You're alive, Morgan, that's all that matters. Dr. Rowe's with us. He'll patch you up."
Boyd and Malcolm lifted the wagon so the doctor could slide Morgan out. "Get him into the bed of that bloody wagon," Rowe barked. "He's losing a lot of blood. Got to sew the torn leg now. No time to move him to my surgery."
Richelle cradled Morgan's head as the doctor prepared to suture the lacerated flesh. As his breeches tore with a harsh rending sound, Morgan clutched at Richelle's hand with icy fingers. "Don't let them take my leg, Richelle!" he croaked. "Child needs me whole. You do!"
"Dr. Rowe has to sew your leg, that's all. Like my shoulder, remember? Try not to think about the pain." Her voice was low and soothing. "Sweetheart, it won't be long and we'll have you home by the fire. Here, let me warm you." She removed her shawl and wrapped it around his upper body, kissing his forehead. She held him securely in her arms and nodded to the doctor to proceed.
"Foolhardy...like you," came Morgan's ragged whisper. He tried to smile, managed only a grimace of fresh pain.
Tears streamed down Richelle's cheeks. "Not foolhardy. Determined. There's a difference."
* * *
Morgan awakened to vague images of Richelle weeping copiously over some tragic event he'd dreamt about. Or thought he'd merely dreamt about, until a throbbing in his right leg made him aware the something horrible must have been very real. He opened his eyes. He was in a dark room. His own, he realized, recognizing the canopy overhead.
"Richelle?" He heard the mounting terror in his own voice and tried to swallow his fear.
Then came a sleepy murmur and he realized her warmth was there, close beside him. She flung an arm over his chest. "I'm here."
"What happened? Feels like my leg's in a vise. Jesus, do I still have a leg?"
"You have your leg, and I need to check it," she muttered. She rose and lit both bedside lamps. "You were trying to change a wheel and the wagon slipped. If the pain gets too bad, Dr. Rowe said I can give you more laudanum."
"Aye, it's bad." She spooned some of the liquid into his mouth. He swallowed and winced. "Feels like someone ran over my leg with a loaded wagon. Right—I did that, didn't I?"
She gingerly sat on the edge of the mattress, trying not to jostle him. "Now you're jesting? You might have been killed, Morgan! I would have been left to raise our child alone."
He stretched to lay a hand over her swollen belly. "Everything's all right?" She ignored his question, peering at the bandage over the stitching. It was clean and dry. The flesh around it was swollen and pink, but not hot to her touch. She glanced up at her husband's face. Morgan's eyes were clear, not glazed.
"The doctor says you were fortunate it was so cold out there on the road. Lessened your chance of infection. Of course, that wouldn't have been much consolation had you frozen to death out there under that rig." She shook herself and stood up. "Can I get you something to eat? You haven't eaten since breakfast."
"Thirsty. Need some tea." She started for the door. "No! Have Lorella fetch it. Stay here with me."
"I'll only be a moment. She's asleep, Morgan. It's the middle of the night."
"It's all right, Mrs. Tremayne," came a muffled voice. "I heard him cry out and thought you might need help. I'll fetch the tea."
Richelle turned back to Morgan. "Where did you get the cradle you had in the wagon when we found you? It's beautiful."
He tried to sit up. Richelle helped prop him against the headboard. He seemed a bit stronger after the hot tea and a few bites of Lorella's soft biscuits with butter. He was at least able to offer a weak smile as she lowered the teacup. "Wench makes fine biscuits. Young Malcolm shall grow fat."
She had no idea how Morgan had learned of the budding romance between their maid and the mason, but it was clear from the kindly look in his eye that he approved. "The cradle," she reminded. "It was supposed to be a surprise for me, wasn't it?"
"Aye. David's been saving it for my firstborn. I didn't listen to your female intuition about riding to the outskirts of the village. Remind me next time I'm being stubborn of how you won this argument. Trust you won't resort to having a wagon strike me for your future victories."
"This is certainly not my idea of a victory," she protested. "You're injured. You need to rest. Let's go back to sleep." She helped him slide back down under the covers.
She put out the lamps and settled next to his left side. His whisper was hoarse in the darkness. "I can't sleep like this, Richelle. It's bad enough lying on my back. I much prefer resting on my side, curled around you. I need to feel you."
"I'm right here," she whispered, moving to share her body heat.
"Put your arm over me. Aye." His words were beginning to slur, Richelle noted. The laudanum taking effect. She adjusted her position so her arm lay draped across his chest and he released a deep sigh that almost could have passed for one of contentment. "Better...Good night, Madam T..."
Richelle closed off the worry from her mind. Morgan wasn't feverish. He'd be all right. He'd already drifted back into a deep slumber. Dr. Rowe had promised to return and have another look at Morgan tomorrow afternoon. The damaged leg would heal. Their child would be born soon, healthy and strong. Morgan would be all right, too. He had to be.
Chapter 29
"I'll not abide this, Richelle. I can't stay in this damned bed!" Morgan fumed while Richelle patiently outlined the doctor's instructions. Her husband had convinced himself Dr. Rowe would examine him and grant permission for a to return to limited activity. Instead, Morgan had been told to stay off the broken leg.
"I'll go insane staring at these same four walls. I don't need laudanum now. The pain's abated; I'm doing better. There's no reason I can't go to the office for a few hours. I'm not going to stay here in this bed for days on end!"
"I did, back in Philadelphia," she replied coolly. "I didn't particularly enjoy it, but I reminded myself I had a duty to you and our child. You'll do what the doctor says is best, just as I did. You can't put weight on your injured leg.
The doctor said he'd send a crutch for you. Then you can begin moving about the house, but you won't be allowed to leave it. Anyway, I need you here at home. Have you forgotten we've got a baby coming?"
"Not at all. Come here a moment." He patted the mattress beside him.
Richelle gave him a wary look. His gruff manner had evaporated too easily. He was giving her a different gaze now. One she recognized as his prelude to lovemaking. He meant to manipulate her, and stood a good chance of succeeding. They both knew it.
Though they couldn't engage in full coitus, Morgan had taught her about many forms of sensual pleasure. Richelle knew some were not forbidden to them—had her husband not been recovering from a serious injury. She had to keep that in mind, though it wasn't easy. Her body was heavy with their child; her blood was thick with womanly need. Her sexual desire had been strong throughout this pregnancy.
And Morgan looked altogether too handsome at that moment, with his bare torso resting against the headboard, his dark mane unbound around his shoulders, those misty eyes of his beckoning. His mustache curved into a wolfish grin. Damn him, he knew the nature of her thoughts.
Since Malcolm had installed the new stove, their bedchamber was much warmer than before. Morgan had reverted to his brothel habit of wearing nothing most of the time. He was naked beneath the bed sheet.
She shook her head. "Oh no. You're not going to kiss me and make me forget how stubborn and impossible you are. I know you feel a bit stronger, but you're going to do what the doctor orders. I'm not going to let you kiss me so you can win this argument."
"I don't want to kiss you."
"Then there's no incentive for me to waddle over there. I can hear you perfectly well from here."
"Christ," he growled. "All right, I do mean to kiss you! What's wrong with a man kissing his own damned wife? My lips still work. If you don't come here to me this instant, madam, I'll go there to you." He shoved at the bedclothes and pretended he was about to get up.
She crossed to sit on the edge of the bed. He reached an arm around her shoulder and drew her closer. She leaned to kiss him slowly, sighing as he explored the recesses of her mouth. The kiss deepened until he groaned and placed her fingers over the rumpled sheet. She could feel his stiffening member. "You're about to whelp and I've a smashed leg. Wonderful time for the devil to jump up. At least it proves the wagon didn't affect my most vital part."
She tried to pull her hand away. "You're supposed to be resting, not straining vital parts."
"But I've a painful ache in my lower body, sweet nurse. I'm sure you can relieve the pressure without making me exert myself." His grin became thoroughly wicked as his hand encouraged her fingers to stroke him intimately.
A knock at the door made Richelle jump up. Her face was a deep red as she cracked the door open and mumbled something before quickly closing it again.
"Your partner's come calling. You're not going to receive a visitor in the altogether," she scolded. She pulled a clean shirt from the closet and brought it to him. He thrust one arm through the sleeve and leaned forward so she could draw the shirt across his back. "Stop that," she giggled as his lips once again brushed hers.
"Tell Boyd to come back in half an hour," he suggested in a husky whisper.
Her eyes dropped to his groin. "I won't. And for God's sake, cover up or he'll know exactly what sort of attentions you've received from your nurse."
His pewter eyes sparkled. "I don't keep secrets from Boyd. He knows what a lusty beggar I am, and exactly the effect a certain Colonial has on me."
"Hush!" she chastised, tossing the quilt over his lower body before opening the chamber door. Boyd nodded in greeting as he came in and took a seat in the chair Richelle used during her vigils over her recuperating husband.
"Boyd, use a strong arm if you must, but keep Morgan quiet in that bed. He'll be allowed to move around once the doctor gets him a crutch. For now, he's to keep weight off the leg." She left the men to discuss business.
But by midday Boyd hadn't come back downstairs, and Richelle began to fret. Morgan was in no condition for extended visits. He'd overtax himself. It was only a few days since the accident, and he was weaker than he would admit. She took hold of the banister and started up the stairs, but had to pause after only four risers. She was winded all ready, sucking in a deep breath. Two more risers, then a third. She was almost at the top when Morgan's baritone reached her ears.
"Squire Martin recommends going in with this fellow, eh? Might be worth looking into. How much of an investment do they need from us?"
Richelle strained her ears, but couldn't make out Boyd's reply. Then Morgan spoke up again.
"You know I'll have substantial capital available soon. Look forward to repaying you at long last. Then I'll see how much I can invest in this new venture."
Richelle knocked sharply and entered before she got a response. Boyd said his farewell and left the house. Richelle watched his departure down the street from the bedroom windows, twisting the fabric of her dress between agitated fingers. "You're getting too far ahead of yourself, Morgan. Boyd should know better than to pressure you."
"Worrywart, he's not pressuring me. He's handling things quite effectively. He wanted to discuss a few matters, that's all. There are decisions to be made. I'm not tired, Colonial. Honestly. Stop fussing over me."
"You look it," she argued. She emptied the chamber pot and bent to pick up a dirty towel from the floor.
"Madam, I don't pay Lorella so my pregnant wife can exhaust herself doing household chores."
Richelle kept her face averted. "I heard you mention Squire Martin and some new venture requiring a sizable investment. Don't patronize me about how you're recovering so quickly. You were fortunate not to lose that leg. You're not investing in anything just now, Morgan. Not until—well, you're just not!"
"What the devil is going on here?" he demanded. "My partner doesn't make my business decisions for me, and neither do you. Since when is it your place to speak for me regarding my business interests? You've never presumed to order me about like this before. You're nagging at me, fussing as though I'm some helpless invalid..."
He stared in horror at the heavy wooden splints secured to his bad leg. "The doctor told you something you haven't yet admitted, didn't he? That's why you're so adamant that I not get out of bed. You're taking over my life...what am I, Richelle? A bloody cripple?"
She'd been struck speechless, unable to respond to his appalling conclusion.
"Is this what I'm reduced to, then? Lying here bedridden, while my wife conducts my business affairs? Or can I at least look forward to eventually hobbling about my office once or twice a week? Perhaps then I wouldn't have the entire village pitying me behind my back! Whispering how my partner has to carry me, how I've become naught but a pathetic, useless burden."
"Morgan, you—"
"Damn that Rowe to hell!" he snarled in fury. "'The leg will mend,' he said. Couldn't look me in the eye and swear I'd walk normally, though. That's what you're withholding this time, isn't it? Go ahead, summon whatever's left of that pioneer courage of yours, and admit you haven't the stomach for life married to a lame wretch!"
"You're not going to be lame. You just need to heal, and—"
His voice was cold, implacable. "You deserve better than a drunkard followed by a cripple, and we both know it."
"I didn't marry a leg, I married a man! And whatever the future brings, I fully intend that we face it together. But no one said—oh, why do I bother? I'm not going to argue with you." She turned and took a step toward the door.
He seized her skirts, wincing. "Richelle, I can't even walk! All this mothering and attention has only convinced me that it's worse than anyone will admit. If I'm wrong, I'll—"
"Let me go, Tremayne," she ground out, jerking free.
He instantly released her. "That's what she said." His voice was hoarse. "Bloody exact same words. My mother's last words." A single tear trickled down his cheek and became lost in the
dark mustache.
"It must have been very painful, hearing your mother's dying words to your father."
"She didn't die, Richelle. She left him! It was a night like any other, but they had cross words. She told my father she'd always hated this niggardly village and every single human being in it. Then she packed a valise and left. When she didn't come back, he made up a tale that she'd visited sick relations, caught smallpox and died somewhere in Cornwall."
Richelle's jaw dropped. "Morgan, no! She didn't mean you and Annaliese. She couldn't have meant her own children."
"She swore she'd send for us. But I never saw her again. Except at night. I still see her at night. In those damned dreams, with that bag in her hand. And those words on her lips. Same as on yours now."
There was a long silence as the horrible truth sunk in.
Richelle never understood what he'd meant by saying she frightened him, why he'd judged her so harshly. Why he'd avoided the cottage. Why he got upset so easily at times.
His rasping whisper nudged her from her reverie. "Richelle, if you don't come here and catch me, I'm going to fall flat on my face."
She hadn't noticed that he'd climbed off the mattress and tried to stand, tried to get to where she was rooted in stunned shock. He was reaching for her, pleading with his eyes. Pewter eyes awash in anguish and sorrow.
She crossed to him, wrapped her arms around his waist and held on tightly, not speaking. He needed her to listen now. "That's why I can't sleep without my arm around you or yours over me. I have to be sure you're still there when my eyes are closed. Can't watch you while I'm sleeping."
"I'm always there," she replied softly, tears spilling down her own cheeks. "Right there beside you, Morgan. Every night. I ran away before because of the maelstrom around me, not because of you. It wasn't anything you'd said or done. And that was Rachel who left before, not Richelle."
Lady Fugitive Page 24
