Coming in so late that the April night had left the cottage damp and cold, Morgan swung his satchel to the floor and glanced eagerly toward his bed. His journey had been successful, but he had spent the entire time imagining his return. He had hoped to arrive early enough that his little faerie would be waiting for him, but he could not complain if she were already warming his bed. A man needed a little softness in his life, and Faith offered that and more.
He shed his outer garments and shirt and washed in the water she always left on the hearth. It was only lukewarm, but he didn’t feel the chill. He hadn’t had enough of his little Methodist, and this time he would sample her gaits more thoroughly, now that she’d had time to heal from their first ride. Perhaps tonight he would teach her to gallop.
He wanted to see her surprise when he came to her. He found a candle and held it to the dying embers of the fire until it kindled. Wearing only his breeches, Morgan approached the bed, eager to see the spill of russet curls across his pillow and to admire the sleeping innocence of Faith’s delicate face.
The shock at finding the bed empty was like taking a blow to the stomach. Morgan stared at it incredulously, not believing his eyes. She had promised! His thoughtful, obedient, and honest Faith had promised to wait. She had to be here.
Morgan swung toward the loft. Holding the candle high, he realized what he should have seen earlier—the ladder was missing.
Rather than feel pain, Morgan allowed anger to boil up. She was his. They both knew it. It was childish and spiteful to deny it this way. Grabbing his sword from the nail where he had hung it, he banged the metal against the frame opening to the loft and roared, “Faith Henrietta Montague, remove yourself down here now!”
The noises he had been making had jarred Faith from sleep, but she had been terrified to betray her wakefulness. She had prayed he would go to bed and think no more about her. Morgan’s outraged roar now quaked her small reserves of courage.
“Let’s see the ladder, lass, or I’m coming up there after you!”
He was quite capable of doing that. His six-foot height put him near enough to the ceiling. It was just a matter of pulling up a chair or an athletic tug to bring him up here. Knowing defiance would never work against his rage, Faith leaned over the opening to look down to Morgan’s irate features, her braid tumbling through the opening and practically into his hands with the motion.
“Is there aught wrong?” she asked sleepily.
In the candlelight, she was beautiful. She was more than beautiful. Soft shadows played along the hollows of her delicate cheekbones, and her dark lashes made wide ribbons of color against her creamy skin. He ought to be ashamed of his rage and for waking her, but he was not.
“Get down here, lass. I didn’t ride all this way tonight to sleep in an empty bed. You’ve had your rest. Now I need your services.”
The sleep disappeared from her eyes and angry color accented her cheeks. “Morgan de Lacy, that’s disgusting! What do you think I am, some whore to come at your beck and call?”
“I think you’re my woman and you belong in my bed! Or is your bloody Sassenach breeding too blue for the likes o’ me?”
“I’m not your woman, I’m your housekeeper, and I don’t belong in your bed unless I want to go there. And I don’t know what a Sassenach is, but a bloody pig would be too good for the likes of you!”
The combination of the fury and the curse coming from the prim lips of his little Methodist jolted Morgan back to humor. He stared up at her with a growing grin and watched the blush creep across her fair skin.
“A pig is it, now? Then if you’ll be my sow, I’ll be your boar, and we can rut together. Now, come down from there before I come up to get you.” Setting candle and sword aside, Morgan held up his hands to catch her.
“I’ll not.” Stubbornly Faith started to retreat.
Catching her braid, Morgan tugged. “You will, if only to warm my sheets.”
That would be the best compromise he would offer, she knew. Faith didn’t trust him to keep his word, but if he had to come up here after her, there wouldn’t even be that much conciliation on his part. He didn’t need to rape her, and he knew it. That’s why he was so damned smilingly confident down there now. All it took was his touch.
Resignedly she gave in. “Let me fetch the ladder.”
“Leave the damned ladder up there. I’ll not come home to find you there again. Just swing your legs down and I’ll catch you.”
Swing her legs down! My dear Lord, but the man was a reprobate of the worst kind. He would be able to see all the way up her chemise. Blessedly, it was too dark to see much.
Morgan saw quite enough as long slender limbs appeared in the entrance. His fingers wrapped around one enticing ankle, and his lips quirked at the muffled shriek from above. He had stayed away too long, and she had forgotten everything he’d taught her. He’d rectify that situation soon enough.
Faith eased herself down, and he caught her hips, and then she was in his arms again, where she belonged. Morgan crushed her slender body next to his and welcomed her arms sliding over his shoulders. Now he was home.
His bare chest pressed against Faith’s breasts until she felt the crisp hairs through her thin chemise. That sensation alone was enough to light fires, but the exploration of Morgan’s mouth and tongue wiped away any remaining resistance. Faith gave herself up to his demands and scarcely knew it when he laid her down upon the bed.
There was a brief instance of coldness while Morgan stopped to remove his breeches, but then he was beside her, stripping off her last shred of clothing, and she was naked in his arms and without shame.
“This is where you belong, lass. You’ll get used to the idea with time. A man and a woman belong together, and you’re the woman I want.”
Morgan’s lips closed over hers before Faith could reply, but his words had already sent a thrill of pride through her. A woman! He thought her a woman, and one worth keeping. Compliments had been few and far between in her life, and she found it hard to believe Morgan’s pretty phrases, but these words had the ring of truth.
He didn’t linger with soft praises and gentle touches this time. Their need was too great. Morgan’s lips plundered, his fingers invaded, and before long Faith rose frantically against him, nearly begging for the act she had sworn not to repeat. She welcomed the heavy weight covering her, and with Morgan’s guidance she lifted her knees and cried out her shock and pleasure at the male hardness penetrating and filling her emptiness.
Their bodies fought briefly for the rhythm Faith was just beginning to learn before the explosion caught and overwhelmed them and carried them over the precipice. She’d never had a chance with this man. Circling Morgan’s shoulders with her arms, Faith pressed a kiss to his unshaven cheek. She would struggle with her conscience on the morrow.
They slept then, and woke long after the dawn to make love again. Faith’s shyness disappeared with her need to please, and Morgan’s praises and loving touches aroused and inflamed until she could think of nothing else but giving him all he wanted. When he’d taken his fill, she curled up within the protection of his embrace and slept again.
Morgan caressed the slender curve of her back and wondered what would become of this arrangement he had initiated, but he was a man who had learned to live from day to day. He had not abandoned his plans to marry her and flaunt her before London society, but delayed them a little. She did not yet realize that a child could come of their coupling, but it would occur to her in time. He would be prepared when it did.
Until then, he needed to ensure that she would stay, and to that end he applied his nimble mind. There were few opportunities in these misbegotten wilds for the likes of his faerie-woman. He would need to see that all he possessed would become hers in the very likely event that anything happened to him. But she wasn’t ready to accept that as a feasible solution. She wanted to make her own way, and not on her back. That was a little harder.
Morgan cupped her breast and stro
ked the crest with his thumb. The little nub grew to an aroused point that beckoned his lips. Even in her inexperience, Faith was more woman than he’d ever had the pleasure of knowing. Obviously he had been fishing in the wrong waters. Would all of London’s society ladies be so responsive? He thought not.
Before Faith was fully awake, Morgan eased into her again, gaining pleasure just from knowing he had an English lady beneath him, spreading her legs for him. He had stolen a prize far more valuable than gold, and he meant to enjoy her for a long time to come.
Tousled and spent, Faith felt no inclination to rise from the bed when Morgan did. She watched languorously as he strode naked to stoke the fire and set his coffee on to brew. She had become someone she did not recognize. Perhaps a life of sin had its advantages.
She watched in disappointment as he dressed to see to his horses. The place between her legs ached with Morgan’s ardent attentions, and she should be satisfied, but somehow, it wasn’t quite enough. Not wishing to contemplate the source of this dissatisfaction, Faith rose to start the day’s chores.
Morgan rode to the Raging Bull that afternoon and cornered the proprietor in his private parlor, much to Whitehead’s dismay.
“I’ve not touched the girl again, Jack! Honest, I ain’t even seen her.”
Morgan propped his booted foot on a chair and considered this unanticipated reaction. Had he terrorized the man that much? “I didn’t say you had, Nate. Is there some reason I should?”
Whitehead stopped backing against the wall to answer nervously. “There’s them that’s been askin’ after her, that’s all.”
“Who’s after asking for her? And how do you know it’s her they’re looking for?” Morgan asked in shock.
Nate shrugged. “She calls herself Faith and she’s got the ways of gentry. You know any other come through here that fits the description? The fellow’s a runner, I’ll be bound, Jack. You’d best watch your step.”
A runner. That wasn’t a good sign. Surely the London courts weren’t interested in the disappearance of a common thief like Tucker, nor could they put Faith’s name to the disappearance. Someone must be looking for the missing Montague, and if the example of her noble family he had met was any indication, they didn’t mean to shower her with wealth.
Morgan didn’t like it. His instincts were to keep her hidden, but he had promised Faith to find her a position, and Whitehead had the only establishment within miles. Perhaps he could hide her right beneath the nose of the runners. That audacious ploy had worked well enough for him in the past.
“The fellow’s a fool, Nate, but you’re not. Faith never hurt a tadpole, but there’s those who would see her disappear forever. Now, I can’t be looking after her all the time, but if we all watch for each other as we do, we can keep her and ourselves safe too. She’s gentry, Nate, and she knows nothing of our ways. I’ll not be teaching her, but she has it in her that she wants honest employment.”
Nate smirked. “Since when is being your doxy not enough, Jack? There’s more than enough willing to take her place if you want to be rid of her.”
Morgan scowled. “I’m keeping her, Nate, and one more remark like that will see your foul tongue on the floor. This place stinks, Nate. Even the food stinks. The vermin are the only inhabitants you’ll have if you don’t clean up. I’ve heard tell the London coach may start putting over at the Stag down the line. I know how to encourage them in that direction, if you catch my meaning.”
The smirk disappeared from the innkeeper’s face. “What are you asking, Jack? You want your fancy miss to stay here? I can’t be scouring the floors for the likes of her.”
Morgan smiled benevolently. “You’re a lucky man, Nate. I’ve found the perfect remedy for your filthy reputation. Her name is...” He hesitated and thought a moment. “Alice. Alice Henwood. She can cook and clean and keep books better than you’ve ever known. She’ll only work mornings, and she’s shy and doesn’t like to be seen by strangers, but she’ll have this place looking like a posh London hotel before you know it.”
Nate understood. Gulping, he considered the alternatives and found there weren’t any. He could hide the chit and have the place cleaned as the lazy slut Molly never did, or he could have a highwayman posted at his front door, ruining his business. Nate wasn’t particularly intelligent, but even he understood the advantages of doing Jack’s bidding.
He nodded. “Been thinking of hiring a new girl. I’ll give ’er a try. Just mornings, you say?”
“When there’s the least number here,” Jack agreed, “after the first coach leaves and before the next.” He shoved his hands in his pockets with satisfaction at a job well done.
And so Alice Henwood was created and employed.
Chapter 17
June 1751
Faith tasted the fruit tart, ordered a little sugar to be added to the cream when served, then, leaving the steaming kitchen, started up the back stairs to the bedchambers.
The unusual late-June heat had built up to uncomfortable proportions, and the stifling air struck her with a wave of dizziness. Faith gripped the stair rail until she felt she couldn’t balance any longer, then sat down abruptly on the landing to steady her swaying head.
Mrs. Whitehead would have changed the linens by now, but Faith doubted Molly had carried the dirty laundry out to the buckets of wash being prepared in the yard. It had taken Faith nearly two entire months to persuade the innkeeper to take on the expense of hiring village girls to come in and do the extensive laundry at least twice a week. Only because Faith’s other suggestions had attracted the kind of clientele willing to pay higher rates did Whitehead finally acquiesce to this expense. She had to make it successful or he would go back to his usual slovenly ways.
But the dizziness lingered and she feared to stand up. To Faith’s annoyance, Molly took this moment to pull her bulky body up the stairs. Her bloated features took on a sardonic cast at finding Miss Aristocrat sitting down on the job. “Not feelin’ the heat, are ye?” she gloated, noting the Faith’s paleness. “Maybe somethin’ else’s caught ye. I’m just waitin’ to see what Miss Hoity-Toity looks like when she’s all swelled up with Black Jack’s brat. Then mayhap you’ll know what it’s like.”
Molly had become more impossible than usual since her pregnancy had become obvious, and Faith ignored her taunts. “Mr. Whitehead said you could work as long as you felt up to it, Molly. But if the heat’s bothering you, I’ll take care of the laundry while you lie down awhile. Jack’s gone to London and I don’t expect him back soon.”
Instead of looking relieved, Molly’s expression darkened. “Just because they hired a new girl for the taproom don’t mean you can lord it over me, you slut. You ain’t no better than me any day, and when my baby’s father gets back from sea, he’ll make an honest woman of me, and that’s more than you can say.”
Faith gave up. Molly’s bile spewed nastier every day. It was doubtful if she knew the father of her child, and even if she did, it was even more doubtful if he intended to return. Ever since her tips had started falling off in the taproom and she’d found fewer men willing to dally with her because of her size and condition, Molly had grown more spiteful. Faith had tried being nice, tried speaking up for herself, and had even once threatened the maid with a frying pan. Trial and error had taught her that ignoring the nastiness was the best solution.
When Molly received no response, she stomped off in a huff, leaving Faith blessedly alone. The dizziness had passed, but Molly’s bile had left its mark. Until this day, Faith had never questioned the origins of babies. They were simply a fact of life, like leaves on trees and snow in winter. But Molly’s obvious pregnancy and the knowledge of her trade clicked together at last, and other pieces began to fall in place.
Faith had never thought of loose women like Molly getting pregnant. They didn’t have husbands, so they shouldn’t have babies. But that logic failed when carried a little further. Animals didn’t marry, but they had babies. The fact that Morgan had announced
last night that Annette was in foal now took on new significance. Annette had been the mare Faith had witnessed Morgan’s stallion covering just days before Morgan first took her to his bed.
Faith’s cheeks began to burn as the sums began to add up. The barn was swarming with new kittens. The first crop of chickens were fast becoming hens and roosters and there was another flock of fuzzy yellow balls in the stall. One foal already frolicked in the paddock, and another was on its way. The baby growing inside Molly was plain to see, and there could only be one way she could come by it—the same way the animals came by theirs. The same way Faith and Morgan shared every night.
It wouldn’t do to think about it. She knew very little of babies. Her mother had never allowed her to attend a birthing. She had held a few infants upon occasion, but they had been alien creatures of little interest. Faith couldn’t imagine what one did with one, but she supposed she would find out when Molly had hers. That would be soon enough.
Rising from the stairs, Faith stopped to hold a hand to her flat abdomen. It couldn’t be possible.
But as she trudged up the stairs to haul down the laundry, she knew it could. Morgan was as virile as any stallion. It was just a matter of time. How did one know when a baby started? The whole premise sounded vaguely improbable.
***
Morgan carefully checked the valuable documents in his coat pocket. The trunk with George Montague’s papers had arrived with perfect timing. While Faith pored and cooed over musty tomes on religion and a spider-scrawled sheaf of vellum, he had carefully sorted out the ones that counted. He had it all in writing now, in legally witnessed formal documents suitable for any court of British law.
One George Henry Montague, second son to Henry, Marquess of Mountjoy, wed to Leticia Carlisle, only daughter of the Earl of Carlisle, parents of one Faith Henrietta Montague. Holy Mary, Mother of Jesus, but a marquess and an earl!
Faith was a scion of British society, the creme de la creme. And she was working as cook and housekeeper in one of England’s less savory wayside inns. And sleeping with a highwayman.
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