Chapter 19
Faith woke to Morgan’s lean silhouette bent over a pot at the fire, tasting whatever vile brew fouled the air. She watched him move as she would watch the shadows on the wall. He did not seem quite real somehow. His white shirt picked up the gleams of firelight, but the rest of him blended in with the darkness like some insubstantial ghost. She could not relate this shadow to the man who had taken her to his bed and got her with his child.
The hollowness inside her held new meaning. Her hand went to her flat abdomen, and she felt the ache where their child had grown. Their child. It seemed very strange to think of it that way after all these months of not knowing. She and Morgan had created a child.
And lost it. The coldness crept up on her, making her long for Morgan’s comforting arms. But he would not want her now. Not after what he had seen.
The loneliness that lived inside her grew like an evil thing, and Faith clenched her eyes closed and turned away.
Morgan poured some of the meat broth into a cup and let it sit to cool a while. Meat broth had been more valuable than gold after a battle. Surely the same principle applied here. Faith had lost more blood than he had ever seen a body lose and still survive. Or it seemed that way.
He had buried the clothes and the meager remains of what should have been his child. The sight would haunt him for the rest of his life.
The guilt wouldn’t leave him. He could tell himself he wasn’t responsible for Sean’s death. His brother had been the one unable to leave the outlawed priests alone. It hadn’t been Morgan’s fault that he was still in France when the redcoats uncovered the Mass and arrested Sean and hanged him along with the priests. Perhaps he should have come home sooner, but it wouldn’t have changed the outcome.
The guilt was there a little stronger for the others. His father had always been a heavy drinker. No one had told Morgan it had grown worse in his absence, but he should have known. He should have gone home instead of nourishing hatred like a viper in his bosom, leaving his father to drink himself to death.
And had he gone home, he would have saved Aislin from starving in the hedgerows. Clenching his fists, Morgan bowed his head and tried desperately to drive away the memories.
He had nothing and no one and had lived like this these last few years. Why hadn’t he left well enough alone? He knew why, and the guilt seeped through Morgan once again as he looked toward the bed. He had seen Aislin in Faith’s fair face. He had seen a second chance, and he had taken it. And he had destroyed still another life.
Morgan helped Faith drink the mug of broth. He made none of his earlier promises. When she finally slept, he made up a pallet on the floor and sprawled out on it, hands behind head as he stared at the ceiling.
He had spent ten long years despising the Sassenach bastards and devising ways to get back at them. He had finally almost succeeded in one step toward that goal. Did he give it all up and settle for the life of a dirt-grubbing farmer for Faith’s sake?
He wrestled with the problem throughout the night, but there could only be one conclusion. Faith deserved better than the life of a poor farmer’s wife, and he could not surrender his goals without a fight. He didn’t know what would become of them, but he would wait to see Faith well before deciding.
***
“Add a little salt, Morgan, and not so much water.”
Morgan turned from the fire to cock an eyebrow at her. “Who’s cooking this, me or you?”
“Me, if you would just help me up from here. I cannot lie about forever.” Faith struggled with the covers, pushing herself to a sitting position.
Morgan waved a wooden spoon at her. “One foot out of that bed and I’ll paddle you, young lady. You have to recover your strength. Besides, I’m enjoying learning how to cook.”
That was a blatant lie and Faith sent him a fond smile as she closed her eyes and leaned back against the pillow. In a little while she would try to rise again.
When Morgan entered a little while later, carrying a stack of wood, he stopped short. “What the devil do ye think ye’re doin’!”
Faith looked up guiltily from where she stirred a touch of sugar into the beans boiling over the fire. She had pulled the sheet over her shoulders for a robe, and her feet were bare, but the July warmth and the fire kept her from feeling any draft. “I thought to help, Morgan. You cannot do everything.”
“I did everything before ye came, and I’ve not grown old since then. Now, get back to that bed!”
Faith returned obediently, but his words ignited the fears that stayed with her night and day now. Morgan no longer needed her. He had not returned to their bed since she had lost the baby well over a week ago. He had coddled her, fed her, looked after her most intimate functions as she once had for him, but there he had drawn some invisible line.
He no longer kissed her or held her in his arms. He no longer spoke of his horses or his dreams. There were no endearments, no charming smiles to send gooseflesh up her arms. Now it seemed he did not even need her to cook and clean.
He no longer wanted or needed her. Faith could understand that. If she looked half so miserable as she felt, she must seem a hag. She knew she had lost weight and her breasts had shrunk and her hair hung in dull knots about her shoulders. Morgan could never want her now, but did that mean she would have to leave when she got better?
She didn’t think she could do it. She had lost her father and mother and now her baby. If she lost Morgan too, life would not be worth living. She would be content just to have him near, but that was a fool’s paradise. The first time she realized he had been with another woman, she would die just as surely as if he had put her out. And if he didn’t want her anymore, he would find another woman. Morgan wasn’t meant to be a monk.
That meant she had to leave. So each day Faith pushed the barriers Morgan set for her a little further. She insisted on sitting at the table to eat. Then she insisted on sitting up awhile longer, helping him to wash and dry the dishes. Then she demanded a bath and refused his assistance.
It was hard, like learning to walk all over again, but she couldn’t be the docile, obedient child any longer. If she had to make her way in this world alone, she had to make her wants known.
Morgan noticed the change and wondered at it. His docile Faith had suddenly developed a stubborn streak a mile wide. Her refusal to take care of herself angered him, but he couldn’t chain her to the bed.
For once, his lust was quiescent. His concern for her overrode his body’s needs, although the unexpected sight of a breast bared for washing or an ankle exposed by a lifted chemise stirred banked embers. Still, he knew she was not ready for him, nor would be for some time. But if she didn’t take care of herself, she would never be ready.
Toby arrived one day, his thin face drawn and anxious as he found Morgan outside examining the mare in foal. His glance drifted toward the house, but he trotted over to the paddock and tugged his forelock as Morgan rose to greet him.
“What brings ye here, lad? Did I not tell Whitehead clear enough that Faith won’t be returnin’?”
“How is she? Is she better?” Toby couldn’t hide his eagerness for firsthand information.
“She’s well enough to drive me out of me own home, as ye can see,” Morgan admitted, glancing toward the window in hopes of some glimpse of Faith. “Is there aught I can do for ye, lad?” Failing to see Faith, Morgan returned a quizzical look to his visitor.
Toby shifted from foot to foot. “Well, there’s one thing. There’s been a bloke askin’ after Faith, not by her other name, but as ‘Faith.’ He looks a thief-taker to me, and he seems to have an interest in you too.”
“And what do they say about us in reply?” Morgan un- snapped the mare’s bridle and sent her back into the paddock, then reached for his shirt. Instead of donning it, he began wiping himself down. The August warmth had raised a sheen of perspiration across his skin, and he dried himself off as Toby spoke.
“Don’t none of ’em know Faith by any name
but Alice, so they answer honestly enough. Never heard of her, they say. The man can’t describe her but to say she’s gentry, and they laugh at that.”
Nodding, Morgan encouraged Toby to go on. “And myself?”
Toby grinned. “Everyone has a different tale. ’Tis enough to drive the man mad. One says ye were caught in last winter’s storm and froze. Another said as you were hanged somewhere up north. Another said a bullet pierced your bloody heart, and none too soon. They’ll have ye drawn and quartered if the bloke asks much more.”
Morgan threw his shirt over his shoulder and started for the cottage. “Buy the house a round for me, Toby, lad, and come in and have a sip before ye go. It’s good to have friends like yourself.”
Faith looked up with a smile from where she was drawing mugs of ale, obviously awaiting their entrance. Her smile faltered at the sight of Morgan’s bare chest, but she handed him his drink and turned to their visitor. “It’s good to see you, Toby. Have you heard any more from your brother?”
Toby nodded nervously, then threw a look to Morgan, who had taken the chair and sat with legs sprawled away from the fire.
“There’s come a letter. I’ll not be botherin’ ye with it now.”
“Nonsense. Let me have it. It’s too hot to make much of a meal, and I have bread and cheese if you’d have a bite to eat. Mor...” Remembering herself, Faith hastily inserted the name Morgan was known by to the rest of the world. “Jack, would you care for a bite to eat now? There’s a green-apple tart I baked last night for your sweet.”
“Sit down and read the lad his letter. I can slice bread and cheese as well as you.”
Toby openly gaped as Morgan removed himself from the chair, offered it to Faith, then ambled to the cupboard to produce their meal. His eyes widened as Jack set out the bread and cheese and rummaged for knives and poured a cup of tea for Faith.
Faith read the letter aloud, and even Jack listened with half an ear. She looked up excitedly as she finished the letter. “Will you go, Toby? Did he send enough? It’s such an opportunity!”
Jack seemed to have more interest in locating the apple tart, and Toby shrugged off Faith’s raptures. “It’s a fair amount, but I don’t see nothin’ in my goin’. He’s gettin’ married; says so right there. He won’t be needin’ my company. Those letters just been an excuse to go visit the schoolmaster and court his daughter. Now that he’s got what he wanted, I won’t hear more of it.”
Faith hid her disappointment as she continued to read and reread the lines that had come all the way from the colonies. “He sent money, Toby. Surely he must mean it. And here he says he’s building a house and needs to hire help with the farm. That means he could use you, but he doesn’t want to say it.”
“I’m doin’ all right for myself here,” Toby replied defensively. “I’m puttin’ a little aside like Jack said, and someday I’ll own me a little place like this.”
Morgan slapped a dish before the youngster. “More likely, someday you’ll be hanging from a tree and the bank will have your pennies. Don’t be a fool, lad. You’ve got family. Join them while you can.”
Toby looked surprised, but wisely held his tongue. Faith hid her surprise as she watched Morgan cross the room, but she merely tasted her tart and smiled as he returned with his own dish.
Later that night, after Toby had gone and she had prepared for bed, she waited for Morgan’s footsteps in the darkness. She lay in his bed every night, hoping he would join her, wondering if she ought to return to her pallet in the loft, but Morgan never said a word. Tonight she had other thoughts on her mind.
When he entered and the room filled with the scent of soap, Faith waited until she knew he was rolling out his pallet before speaking. “Morgan?”
He sat on the edge of the bed and took her hand. “You’re supposed to be asleep, my treasure.”
Faith let the luxury of Morgan’s strong hand seep through her. She had forgotten what it felt like. How could one man be so exciting, yet at the same time feel so secure? Her fingers curled inside of his as she fumbled for words.
“You told Toby to go to the colonies. Would not that advice be good for yourself too?”
Morgan sighed and stroked her palm with his finger. “The lad does not have the experience I do. Ye need not fret over me lass. There’s almost enough now to take you to the city, where you belong. I’d thought to buy a piece of land in the country for my horses, but I can stable them in town for now. When you’re well enough, I’ll go to London for a few days and see what can be done.”
She wanted to hope. She wanted to believe he meant to give up the road. But she was innocent no longer. Had he meant that, he would have said so. Closing her eyes, she clung to his hand. “I don’t need the city, Morgan.”
“You don’t know the city, cailin.” Kissing her cheek, Morgan rose and returned to his pallet.
For his sake, Faith stifled her sobs of despair.
Chapter 20
“How do I look?”
Thomas watched with jaded eye as Sarah twirled around the plainly furnished room. He had made her his mistress for her buxom good looks, but somehow they did not quite fit in this new role. The modest, high-necked gray stuff bodice she wore still seemed to fill to overflowing, and the heavy skirt did not disguise the provocative sway of full round hips. He wanted to lay her down on the carpet and throw her skirts over her head. That wasn’t the kind of reaction one expected a meek Methodist virgin to provoke.
“Wear a cap down around your ears and bind your chest,” he suggested coldly.
The woman gave him a heavy-lidded, pouting look that did not diminish the issue. When he snarled, she flashed him a smile. “Do we have a problem, darling?” she purred. “Do you wish to solve it now? Or shall I practice being your little cousin awhile longer?”
“You’d better take this seriously,” Thomas warned. “If we fail, I’m out a vast amount of wealth, and I shall be forced to find a rich wife.”
She snuggled onto his lap and threw her arms around his shoulders. “Don’t you think it would be much more believable if you told your uncle that we were married? Then he could start looking forward to that heir, and he wouldn’t mind at all when you look at me like that.” She nibbled at his ear and squirmed deliberately against his rising lust.
Thomas shoved her from him and stood up to pace the room. “If it’s marriage you want, then you’d better behave. You must play the part of mewling Methodist, not wanton hussy. Now, give me the story you’ll tell the old man.”
Giving a sigh of exasperation, she stood and put her hands behind her back, her downcast eyes studying the floor. “I went to stay with my old nanny. I was scared, and she took me in for the winter. I don’t know London and didn’t know how to find my parents’ families. Then Nanny got sick, and I stayed with her until you found me. When Nanny died, you helped me bury her, then brought me back here. But I don’t know any of you. How do I know you are who you say you are? I want to see Mr. Wesley.”
Thomas gave a grim smile at this last innovation. “Very good. Challenge the old bastard before he can challenge you. I like that. You’ll have him eating out of your hand. That might almost do the trick.”
She threw her head back up and braced her hands on her hips, completely undoing the image of a moment ago. “Shall we try it, then? I’m tired of these dreary quarters. I’d like to see the life of the rotten rich for a change.”
Thomas reached for the linen covering her voluptuous bosom. “When the time’s right, my little dove, when the time’s right. I have to pry those papers loose from the bank first. That bastard may cost me a fortune, but those papers will do the trick. He sold out cheaply compared to what we’ll soon have in our hands.”
The cloth fell from her shoulders as Thomas dipped his hand beneath the gown’s neckline to pinch her nipple while his other hand brought her hips to rub the place where he needed her most. “Spread your legs awhile longer, Sarah, it will be a long, cold night once we reach Montague House.”
The boy scrubbing the mud off his boots on the landing gave a snort of disgust. Stealing a fortune was one thing, but having to put up with a female’s wiles to do it was quite another. Just imagining the wet, nasty kiss, he wiped his dirty sleeve across his mouth and jumped up from his post.
The gentleman would pay well for this piece of information. That thought returned a smile, and he ran down the stairs, whistling contentedly.
Watson took the report from his informant at the Raging Bull to the judge. Henry Fielding operated his court out of his own home on Bow Street, and the thief-taker found the gentleman sitting before a summer fire, wrapped in a muffler, and nursing a hot mug of grog. Watson held back a groan at the stifling heat and waited patiently for the judge to acknowledge him.
Fielding looked up from the report. “This is out of my jurisdiction, Watson, and you know it. If this highwayman is committing crimes here in London, I might have some influence, but as far as you are aware, he’s never strayed closer than the forest. Have you any proof that he’s kidnapped this girl?”
“He has to have. He’s the last person she’s been seen with. They can’t have both disappeared into thin air. The inhabitants of the Raging Bull are thieves and rogues and covering for one of their own. A man answering to Black Jack’s description stopped Lord Anson’s carriage just last June. I know damned good and well—excuse me, sir—I know he’s alive. And I’m willing to wager the poor girl’s still with him. Just imagine a poor wench come from good family having to live like that, sir. It fair bleeds the heart. And Black Jack’s had more crimes to his name than any can count. There’s something havey-cavey going on here, and I’d like to find it.”
Fielding scratched beneath his wig and waggled his quill pen thoughtfully. “Nothing came of your bank endeavor?”
Watson grimaced. “He’s clever. I’ll give him that. The bank has acknowledged his documents, but he got away before we could find him. There’s no doubt that the papers belong to the girl, but they’re only copies. The bank wants to hold them and the fund. I reckon the earl has some influence over that. But there’s been legal papers filed to have the fund moved and the papers returned to their owner. I don’t know nothin’ about that part of it. I guess I could go down to Temple Bar and try to trace them papers.”
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