Before he could wonder what to do next, Faith jerked, grabbed his arm, and wailed “No!” in a cry that set Jack’s hackles on edge. It was useless to hold her down. Instead, he scooped her into his arms and let her struggle against his chest, where she could not hurt herself.
“Hush, lass,” he crooned softly. “I’ll not harm ye. Be still now. It’s all right.” He felt her violent shudders against his chest.
Had his sister suffered these nightmares before she died? Had her world become such a torment that she shut it out rather than face it? Remembering the small child he had last seen when she was but four, he could very well imagine it.
What chance had a girl-child against the world with no man to protect her? He had not been there to save Aislin. Had he been given Faith as a second chance?
She wept into his shoulder, her slight frame shaking with the force of her sobs. In these months since she had been here, she had never once cried, although her unhappiness had always been just below the surface. Perhaps it was a good sign that she let it out now.
He crossed his legs and held her in his lap and let her cry. It was rather like holding a soft kitten, and he smoothed her hair down her back as he would stroke a pet.
When the sobs broke down to hiccups, Jack lifted her chin so he could see into her tearstained face. “I think it’s time you tell me your story, lass. I’ll not be made to feel such a bully again.” He lifted a corner of her kerchief and carefully swabbed at her eyes.
“It leaves such an awful hole,” she gulped incoherently. “I cannot do it. I cannot.”
Not one to look at words metaphorically, Jack didn’t try to translate. He shifted her to a more comfortable position, and to his startlement, his palm brushed against a curve where he had expected none. She was still too lost to sobs to notice, and he carefully avoided repeating the gesture. Molesting children was not one of the crimes he intended to indulge in.
“What leaves a hole?” he questioned gently. “What do you fear, my cailin?”
“They shot him,” she whispered in horror. “Shot him! He did nothing but speak, and they shot him! How can they do that?”
The image her horrified words painted was an unsettling one. Jack wrestled with his conscience and reluctantly pried some more. “Your father? Someone shot your father?”
A quick hard nod was his reply, before those wide gray eyes turned up to his, and he could read the terror in her soul that she had kept trapped there all these months. “They said there had been a riot, that some of the ruffians got out of hand. But rioters don’t hold pistols, do they? He was only speaking. He had nothing. Why would they want to shoot him?”
He didn’t know. He didn’t know why one man lifted his fist in hatred to another. He only knew it had been going on since time began and was not likely to end anytime in his future. Not if he could help it. Sighing, Jack stroked her braid.
“Perhaps it was an accident. Men are like that sometimes. They get all boiled up with anger and don’t think what they’re doing. I’ve seen it happen too many times, Faith. I’m sure your father was a good man. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
He didn’t want to imagine what she had seen if she had seen her father’s body. A pistol hole at close range was one of the ugliest sights he had ever seen, and he had seen many. Jack held her a little tighter, squeezing out the memories.
“Is there ever a right place and a right time?” she murmured. Pressing a hand against his broad shoulder, she indicated her wish for freedom.
Those words were too adult for a child. Before he could run his hands over her to test his suspicions, Jack let his hold fall slack so she could slide out of his lap. He watched as she settled cross-legged in front of him like a child, but her modest gown and kerchief revealed little of what was beneath. He knew she wore no corset. Beyond that, he couldn’t say. Child or woman?
“I suppose, if we recognize it, there must be a right time for everything. But like everything else, it’s difficult to know opportunity until too late. Hindsight is a marvelous thing.”
Faith nodded her head in understanding but refused to look at him. “I can’t use a weapon,” she whispered. “I would rather die than know I killed. I’m sorry, Jack. I’m a coward. I couldn’t do it.”
If his suspicions were correct, instant death would be the least of her worries. How in hell had he got caught up in this? Irritated, Jack climbed to his feet. “You must have relatives somewhere you can go to. Give me their names and let me take you to them.”
Hope flared in her expression as she tilted her head back to look up to him. Then she shook her head. “My parents’ families disowned them when they joined the Wesleyans. I have never met them or heard from them, though I know my father must have informed them when my mother died. There is no one. If you wish me to leave, I shall need to take a position somewhere. Perhaps you could write a reference for me.”
Jack wanted to laugh at the thought of scrawling “Lord Morgan de Lacy III” across the bottom of a proper reference. It would have all the good folks scrambling for their genealogies of the aristocracy.
“Give me the names of your parents. It won’t hurt to try.”
Faith cast his dark features a quick look. “And will you tell me your name too? Must I always know you as Jack?”
She was quick. He would grant her that. Making a formal bow though she sat at his feet, he introduced himself. “James Morgan O’Neill de Lacy, milady. I’ll answer by any and all of the above. May I have the pleasure?”
She smiled at this game and scrambled to her feet to offer a proper curtsy. “Faith Henrietta Montague, sir. Shall I call you Morgan? I like that much better than all the rest. I fear my name is bigger than myself, but yours fits very well.”
Jack chuckled, and the room shifted back to normal. “Yours is a mouthful, but no more so than my own. Morgan is the name I was known by most often. Your father was French?”
“A descendant of the early Normans. He once said his father’s title traced back to William the Conqueror.”
Title. That discovery would be almost laughable if not so close to heartbreaking. He had already figured her father to be the younger son of gentry, but he had not imagined a title into the picture. So here they both were, the blue-blooded descendants of the world’s most civilized countries, living in a hovel with only his sword and pistol to provide for them. God had a wicked black sense of humor.
“A Lord Montague should not be hard to find. When the weather clears, I shall look into it. You may have grandparents looking frantically for you.” And if they found her here, they would have him hanged. How damned blind could any man be? He was imagining his twelve-year-old sister instead of recognizing an aristocratic female of uncertain but quite possibly marriageable age. They would emasculate him before they hanged him.
She looked disbelieving, as very well she might. If her relatives were truly noble, he could find them easily enough, but she had no reason to know that. She did have every reason to believe that he might hold her for ransom once he discovered them. An excellent idea that was, too, if he were certain he could keep her safe. With the return of Tucker, he couldn’t guarantee any such thing.
“Until then,” he announced firmly, “you will need to learn to protect yourself. This house is not so well hid that none know of it.”
The terror returned to her wide eyes. “I’d rather die,” she replied almost as firmly as he.
Exasperated, Jack glared down at her obstinate features. “Just how old are you, Miss Faith Henrietta Montague?”
Her bottom lip went out stubbornly as she placed her hands on her hips. “That’s for me to know, Mr. Jack Morgan de Lacy. Do I ask you such personal questions?”
He almost laughed at this typically female response from his normally docile housekeeper, but the matter was too serious to encourage her rebellion. “If you’re old enough to be taught what being a woman means, you’re old enough to know that it is not your death a villain will seek. You mi
ght only wish you were dead when he is done with you, but you will have to live with the black memory of that humiliation for the rest of your life. And so would I.” This last he added more softly as he watched first the puzzlement, then the horror, cross her face.
“Nothing is as final as death,” she insisted, although she looked pale enough to have comprehended his meaning. “I could just pretend the gun was loaded, couldn’t I?”
“No!” The word exploded out of him in fury. “If you point a gun, you had better intend to use it, or you’ll be worse off than if you had not.”
At her look of pain, Morgan ran his fingers through his uncombed hair and tried one more argument. “If you cannot do it for yourself, lass, think of me. I would not have your harm on my conscience. There is enough there as it is.”
Jack watched her disbelief, understood her doubt that a hardhearted highwayman would even have a conscience.
And then to his shock, she touched his arm and gave in.
“I will try to learn, for your sake. But you must remember, if it were not for you, I would not be alive today. Whatever may happen in the future, you have given me more time than I would have had otherwise.”
That was true, and Morgan tried to comfort himself with that, but somehow it was no longer enough.
Strange, to develop a conscience at this late date. He shrugged and showed her how to load the pistol.
***
“The girl escaped, you say?” The gentleman leaned back against the rough tavern wall and sipped at his tankard of ale. Sated by the hours in the wench’s bed upstairs and having just finished a full meal, he was inclined to be genial. “Didn’t know there was a girl. Old bastard never tells us anything.”
The rough-looking character seated across from him shrugged and buried his unshaven face in his own tankard, drinking deeply of the dark brew. Coming up for air, he wiped his mouth on the back of his tattered sleeve. “Women don’t count for much. Ain’t likely she’ll get far in this weather.”
“Quite true. But her father’s dead, you say? You’re certain of that? I’ll not be having another obstacle placed in my way when the time comes.”
“Aye, he’s dead, right enough. Bloody great hole where his heart should be. Shoulda heard the likes of what he was preachin’. Bloke deserved to be killed, if you ask me. Weren’t no trouble at all.”
“Ahh, well, he always was a puffed-up bastard. There’s a certain justice in ridding the world of troublesome creatures, don’t you agree?”
His rogue companion nodded agreement and signaled for another round. He let the subject drop and eyed the approaching ale with hunger.
Despite his relaxed attitude, the gentleman considered the complication of a female Montague. If she had friends, she might show up in London at any time. Despite his companion’s opinion, there was some difficulty in having a female claim to this family.
He wondered how old she was. A mere child was easily dealt with. A young woman—that was another matter entirely.
He would need more information. Turning his cool gaze back to the drunkard across the table, he let his thoughts play over the possibilities.
A young girl of marriageable age could very well suit his plans nicely. And if not, he could always have her killed.
***
The unusually bad winter kept Morgan in more often than usual, or so he told himself. But by the beginning of February it was time to try one of his more audacious plans. It could easily take a fortnight to carry out, and he had need to carry it off while Faith was still here to look after his horses. She had some rudimentary knowledge of guns now. He could not protect her more than that. When he came back, he would have to start his search for her kin. It would not do to keep her here much longer.
He ignored his reasoning for that as he strapped on his scabbard and watched the pale gleam of round bare arms as Faith scrubbed at the ancient kettle. The bit of chemise ruffle at her elbow was worn and patched, but she somehow managed to keep it white and starched, as she did his shirts. Miraculously, she had cured the holes and frayed edges of all his linen, saving him the necessity of returning to the tailor anytime soon. He would miss her housewifely attentions, but it was dangerous to both of them to have her linger.
She looked dismayed, then resigned when he explained the length of his absence. Ever obedient, she offered no word of complaint or protest. Morgan almost wished she would, so he could feel irritation or anger at her nagging presence. Instead, he felt a cloud upon his soul with his departure.
He left her with more than enough fuel and provisions for a fortnight, but fire and food could not feed her soul. Faith pressed her face against the window and watched Morgan go, his cape billowing around him in the breeze as the stallion galloped into the night. His absence was like an emptiness inside her, and she did not know why it should be so. He was only her employer, whatever he might say.
The days passed in a monotony of tasks. The cottage was still Faith’s pride and joy, and she kept it scrubbed and glistening. The animals were her companions, and she secretly named them all, spending hours grooming and exercising and talking to them. The nights were longest, when it was too dark to do more than sit by the fire and wish for Morgan’s vibrant presence. Even when he was silently mending his tack, the room was always full of him. He would look up and give her a wink, or grin and call for a piece of her cake, and she would feel good all over. When he wasn’t here, she was empty.
Faith washed and mended their limited wardrobes and the sheets upon their beds. With a length of fine cambric Morgan had brought her, she cut out a new shirt for him, knowing it would never be as fine as the ones he had, but hoping he could wear it around the cottage. Carefully she gathered a ruffle from the scraps of the same material and hoped that would look gentlemanly enough.
For she had decided that James Morgan O’Neill de Lacy had to be a gentleman, despite his occupation. Even though he wore no wig or red-heeled shoes, he had the manners and speech of a gentleman when he chose to use them. Perhaps he had not needed these polite niceties for a number of years and was out of practice in their use.
But with his dark, rugged looks, he was a danger to any female when he chose to turn on the charm. She wasn’t immune.
Faith banked the fire and climbed into the loft to undress. Her old chemise was beginning to pull too tight across the bosom. She cupped her hands beneath the growing curves of her breasts and wondered if she would ever be half so lovely as her mother had been. More food than she’d had in a lifetime and the constant exercise of the horses and her other manual tasks had added some flesh in the right places, finally, but not enough. She would certainly never have the bounty of the curvaceous Molly.
Remembering how Morgan had eyed the tavern maid’s ample bosom, Faith sighed. He would never look at her like that. She should be thankful for small favors, she scolded herself, but still, it was a serious blow to her pride. She was tired of being a child.
She put herself to sleep trying to imagine what it would be like to find her grandparents. Visions of silk gowns and enormous mansions filled her dreams easier than smiling faces and welcoming hugs. All of them faded before the picture of Morgan in frock coat and cocked hat, helping her down from a grand carriage.
Faith woke with a start to a sound in the room below. Remembering all Morgan’s dire warnings, she felt her heart pound noisily. Surely any intruder would hear it and know her presence. Pressing a hand to her chest in hopes of muffling the sound, she groped around for the pistol Morgan had insisted that she keep with her.
A chair scraped, and a muffled curse or groan drifted through the open loft door. Fear instantly became panic, and Faith threw herself face-downward over the opening to see the intruder.
The banked fire gave no light, but she could see his silhouette framed against the window as he reached for the hidden bottle of rum atop the cupboard. Morgan!
Without thought to her state of undress, Faith hastily placed her bare foot on the top rung of the ladder an
d climbed down.
Chapter 6
A ghostly white figure fly down from the ceiling, and for a moment, Morgan almost believed in angels again. Then he staggered against the cupboard, felt the pain rip through his thigh, and reality returned.
“Morgan!” The feminine cry pained his soul as he lurched unsteadily for the chair.
What could he say? Feeling a fool, he lowered himself to the chair and closed his eyes. He didn’t know why in hell he had insisted on riding all the way back here. There was a brothel in London where the whores would have nursed him in the most pleasant of ways. He could be there now with all that voluptuous beauty hovering over his fevered head and cooing in his ear.
Instead, he had a hysterical child in patched cotton chemise wringing her hands and gazing at him with damned wide gray eyes and tears.
“Heat some water and tear up that cloth I brought home the other night. Then go back to bed. I can look after myself.”
Ever obedient, Faith stoked the embers and added kindling beneath the pot of water in the fireplace. Silently she climbed back up to the loft and returned carrying a scrap of cloth from her small store of possessions.
Knife in hand, Morgan attempted to saw through the thick buckskin of his breeches. The crude bandage he had tied about his thigh earlier lay in a filthy ruin upon the floor, and the blood was beginning to flow again. He cursed as his head spun and his hand slipped. He should have kept a closer eye to that guard. He was getting careless.
Soft fingers curled about his, and he gladly surrendered his weapon. She smelled of the fragrant soap he had brought home to please her. He leaned back his head and closed his eyes as the pain throbbed through his leg. He was aware of her gentle hands holding his thigh while the cold knife blade cut along his breeches, but he was beyond absorbing anything other than that he was home.
It was an odd feeling, this warm sensation of belonging somewhere. He was home, and in the morning everything would be all right.
Faith’s fingers trembled as she cut through the last of the breeches leg. She could see the long, bloody gash across the outside of his thigh, but she was not at all certain whether the gash or the tree-strong limb made her more nervous. She had never, ever touched a man’s leg before. The hair-roughened skin covered rippling lengths of muscle that dwarfed her own meager limbs. Desperately she applied warm compresses to the wound and tried not to think of what lay concealed at the top of his bare thigh beneath the remains of his breeches.
Devil's Lady Page 6
