Devil's Lady

by Patricia Rice

  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.

  Chapter 14

  “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.”

  “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 final
ly 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.