There was the chance that she had married. The legality of the marriage might be questionable, but Miles had said she had never given him word one way or another as to nullifying that fraudulent piece of paper that bound them. Perhaps in her own unworldly way Faith had assumed the marriage was null and void. He would give her credit for that much. He would make no assumptions until he knew the truth, but it was awfully easy to assume that a man like that would make her his mistress, not his wife.
Morgan wanted to strangle the arrogant bastard in the carriage ahead, who hailed all and sundry as if to show off his newest possessions. Faith seemed to be known by most of them, and few cut her publicly.
From what Morgan had seen, the colonists were an amiable lot when it came to class differences. Perhaps they even greeted lightskirts. But he thought it more likely that they knew Faith and liked her. A blade twisted in his heart as he realized Faith could very possibly have found the home here that he had never offered her.
It wasn’t difficult to follow the curricle. It paraded through the center of town, drawing comments, turning heads, setting tongues to clacking. Morgan smiled grimly at the comments he overheard. If she had married the young rascal, Faith had fallen into the next-best thing to the nobility that she had come from.
He didn’t like the idea of giving her up, but as he watched those lovely russet curls dip and bob ahead of him, Morgan knew he couldn’t take her away from the kind of luxury that young man had at his command. What had he to offer in comparison? Two horses and a meager bankbook.
Had simmering anger and anguished fascination not led him on, he would have turned around and given up any fool idea of wooing her back.
But he had to know that the bastard was treating her right, so Morgan followed the carriage’s progress. Out in the open country, the curricle began to pick up speed, and Morgan set his horse into a fast canter to keep up.
He watched Faith grab her hair and clutch the side of the curricle. He caught sight of her pale face as the light vehicle took a turn too quickly. And when he heard her voice rise in fury, Morgan kicked his stallion into a gallop, pulled his sword, and set out to stop the expensive carriage in the same manner as he had once done on the roads to London.
Faith screamed as the black beast bore down on them, his furious rider brandishing a sword and hurling curses. Randolph urged his team to greater lengths, but the highwayman kept easy pace. She didn’t even have to look to know this was the same man she had seen earlier. The huge pistol and the imposing blackness of man and beast terrified her too much to register the features beneath the hat.
But when Randolph finally brought the weary team to a halt and the horseman caught up, Faith turned her head and her heart lodged in her throat at the familiar harsh face and green eyes.
“Morgan,” she whispered, forgetting to hide his name.
He was more handsome than she remembered, his black hair curling from beneath the cocked hat and caught tightly in a bow at the base of his neck. The lacy jabot tied loosely at his throat looked familiar, and with shock Faith realized it was the shirt she had sewn and left for him those many months ago.
Morgan made a polite bow and doffed his hat. “Excuse me, but I thought there might be some distress. The lady appeared somewhat frightened.”
Randolph glanced from Faith to the stranger. “Is he known to you?”
What should she reply? He’s my husband. She didn’t know that for a fact. She had assumed Morgan would have the marriage annulled. But why, then, was he here? Uncertainly she replied, “He’s an old friend, from England. If you would, please, let us turn around and go home.”
Randolph’s usual sunny face turned hard. “Perhaps you should introduce us, my dear.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Faith stumbled, not knowing what Morgan was calling himself, not knowing if she should say “O’Neill” and raise a thousand other questions.
Morgan handled the matter himself. “Morgan de Lacy, at your service. If I have disturbed your idyll, I will apologize and be on my way.”
One glance at his face said he lied through his teeth, but there was nothing to be done but play along. Faith gestured toward her companion. “Randolph Blair, Mr. de Lacy. We were just going home. Would you care to join us?”
Home. They were just going home. Morgan fought against the pain twisting in his gut and straightened in his saddle. “Happy to meet you, Mr. Blair. If you wouldn’t mind, I have news from England that your lady might wish to hear.” He lifted a questioning eyebrow.
Grudgingly Randolph lifted the reins to turn the horses about. “If the lady commands.” He turned a quizzical look to Faith.
She nodded blindly. She couldn’t believe Morgan was here. It was as if she had stepped from the streets into a dream, or a nightmare. Morgan. Here. How could that be? Why would he do this?
Her thoughts traveled ahead to the infant awaiting her return. What would Morgan say when he learned of the child? She should never have kept his son from him. She had written to Miles after George was born, but there wouldn’t have been time for Morgan to have received the news.
She tried not to eagerly drink the tall figure riding beside the carriage. If she let her mind wander to Morgan’s wide shoulders, she would see them bare and broad and looming over her as she lay under him. If she watched his hands, she would remember how they had taken away the bloody blankets carrying their unborn child. If she listened to his voice, she would remember the soothing words of comfort he had offered as she wept on his shoulder, or the laughter as he taught her to ride, or the pride as he displayed the mare’s new foal. She shivered beneath the heat of the midday sun and all her newfound composure crumbled into dust.
They were a silent trio as they returned to the inn. Morgan cocked his brow in surprise at their destination. He had scarcely begun his search of all the numerous inns, and he certainly had not come to this one tucked away behind shady trees on a side road. Had there not been a sign out front, he would have assumed the brick facade to be part of a particularly pleasant house belonging to the young couple.
He handed his horse to a boy who came running, and stepped to the side of the curricle before the young man could. Faith reluctantly took his hand, and for the first time in nearly a year, Morgan clasped the touch of her warm fingers again.
“I could call another time if I am intruding,” he murmured for her ears alone. He liked having her close again, the fresh fragrance of her hair in the hot sun stimulating his senses and her delicate beauty tempting his gaze. He had no desire whatsoever to leave her here, but he could see she was flustered, and he had no wish to torment her. If she had become this man’s mistress, she wouldn’t wish him to know.
Faith looked at him with relief. “If you wouldn’t mind... I don’t know what to say. I didn’t expect...”
He put an end to her halting phrases by bowing over her hand and bringing it to his lips for a gentle kiss. “Give me a time. I’m at your command.”
Randolph did not smile as Faith turned to take his arm and go inside.
Thoughts spinning, Faith scarcely heeded her companion’s surly attitude. As they entered, Bess ran up with a problem that needed to be solved, and a wail from above warned it was time for George’s feeding. With a slight curtsy, she made as gracious a farewell as she could manage.
Upstairs, Faith unfastened her bodice and brought her son to her breast. As she stared down at the head of curly black hair, she knew she could not keep news of his son from Morgan. He had to know. But the complications that arose were deep and disturbing.
She could not live as she had before she came here. She had been dependent on Morgan then and had accepted his choice of pursuits because she had no alternative. But God had seen fit to give her independence and an opportunity to make an honest life, and she could not give them up simply because she loved Morgan more than common sense should allow.
Even if Morgan had become an honest man, she wasn’t certain that it would make a difference. She didn’t w
ish to return to England. She liked it here. She felt safe here. Overall, she was happier here than she had been anywhere, with one exception.
Faith sighed and leaned back against the chair and tried to let her love flow into the child at her breast instead of churning restlessly with thoughts of Morgan. Morgan had made her happy, undoubtedly, but at the same time, he had made her miserable.
Why, then, did her thoughts keep floating ahead to their next meeting?
Chapter 31
“Stop worrying, Lettice. What do you think can possibly happen to the chit now that we know where she is?”
“Think we know,” Lady Carlisle corrected nervously, fingering the pearls at her throat. “The letters Watson found could have been forgeries. We could be chasing halfway around the world for naught.”
“You mean Edward can. Damned good way to get him out from under foot, if you ask me,” the marquess responded dryly, easing his gouty foot to a more comfortable position. “He’ll find her, if only to wring that highwayman’s neck. I must say, his temper surprised me when he heard that bit of news. How does it feel to talk to a highwayman, Lettice?”
“He seemed a perfectly amiable gentleman to me, although a trifle intense, I suppose. Do you really think he followed dear Faith, or is it just some ruse to draw us out?”
The marquess sighed, then grimaced after swallowing the medicinal waters the quack had condemned him to. “How the hell would I know? What I wonder at is young Thomas rampaging off after being newly wed. It’s not as if I threatened to throw him out for his deceit. I even offered to give him a place in the country where his bride could have the babe without gossips counting on their fingers. And still the ungrateful pup goes haring off without a by-your-leave. P’raps I should have kept Edward here awhile longer to look for his cousin.”
The fingers working at the pearls moved even more restlessly. “I never liked young Thomas, I confess, Harry. He’s handsome enough, and well-spoken, I suppose, but he has a nasty habit of sneering when he thinks one isn’t looking. ’Tis a pity his father died at such an early age. You’ve not given him the attention he needed, I fear.”
“I’ve not done a lot of things I should have, Lettice. I must be growing old to admit such a thing to you. But I’m trying to make up for it now. After Edward, Thomas is the next heir to the title. It’s time I took him in hand, I suppose. If only I knew where to find him.”
Lady Carlisle shifted from the window to watch the sun play about the marquess’s still-handsome eyes. The years of dissipation had left their mark, but his eyes were clear now, and worried. As well they should be.
“I’m sorry to tell you this, Harry, but Watson says Thomas took ship with Edward. I do think you had better give serious consideration to the contents of your will.”
***
Speaking cultured French to the French wife of the owner of White’s Tavern, Morgan managed to sweet-talk his way into a room. He discovered an added benefit when he was introduced to the general populace as a nobleman in disguise by the voluble and rather creative Frenchwoman. Morgan unexpectedly found himself sharing his evening meal with a table of planters and representatives to the Assembly, speaking to them authoritatively on the status of various navigation acts in Parliament.
From listening in on conversations of the society he had been keeping and talking to the ship’s captain on the voyage, Morgan knew more than enough to hold his own and managed to convey the difficulty these colonists must face in turning Parliament to their way of thinking. They were overjoyed to have someone who would listen to their complaints, and the night grew long in their company.
The company and the conversation helped to ease the pain, but not enough to keep Morgan from seeking Needham Inn long after the others had gone to their beds. Faith had refused to see him until the next day, but he couldn’t stay away. Morgan took a table by the fire and gazed around at the homely tavern to learn more of this place she apparently called home.
One of the council members Morgan had just met wandered over to share a tankard. The man introduced the bartender, who was more than willing to credit the excellence of their meals to the new manager. The talk of food lured the young lawyer who kept his rooms at the inn, and soon Morgan was listening to some of the town’s most eligible men singing Faith’s praises. The praises of those accomplishments he knew she possessed—but had not prized enough to keep—struck like arrows in his heart, but Morgan took his punishment in silence.
It was only when he questioned the absence of this paragon of virtue that Morgan was slapped with the final blow. Dazedly he listened to these strangers speak of his son and of his wife’s talents as a mother, and felt his insides crack and crumble until there was little left of him to stand up when he could take no more.
Morgan staggered as if drunk, though he could hold more than thrice the amount he had taken this night. Someone offered to accompany him back to White’s, and he responded negatively in French. It had been a long time since he had spoken this language he had learned at a priest’s knee in the hedgerows and polished in the armies on the Continent. He didn’t know why he employed it now. He only knew his foundations had been kicked out from under him, and he was struggling for solid ground.
He didn’t want to go back to White’s. He wanted to see his son. His son. His and Faith’s. Damnation, but what a fool he’d been. One selfish roll in the hay and he had made it impossible for her to do anything else or be anyone else but his wife. She had half the bachelors in town panting at her feet, but she could take none of the advantages they offered because he had selfishly made annulment of their farcical marriage impossible if she wished to give their son a name.
It never even occurred to Morgan to doubt that the child was his. His Faith would never have betrayed him while he was in Newgate, and he knew from the signs she had left throughout the cottage that she had not betrayed him afterward. Her parents had chosen her name well. He could place all his faith in her. ’Twas a pity she could not do the same in him.
Morgan wandered like a lost soul around the outside of the inn, scanning windows, trying to determine which one might be Faith’s. There was light in one of the upper rooms, and he watched it without much hope, just for a reason to linger.
He needed to talk with her. Just to hear her voice again might soothe some of the raw places in his soul. If only he could just see her... His hand gripped the rough bark of a tree so tightly the pain brought tears to his eyes, or he blamed it on the pain.
The shadow that appeared against the curtained light above was small and slender, and when the feminine silhouette lifted a tiny bundle, Morgan felt his insides constrict with the first glimmer of hope. It had to be her. No one or nothing else could fit the scene. He could almost imagine the faint cries of an infant through the window. Faith would keep the panes closed to prevent night drafts even on this warmest of nights when others left theirs open. It had to be Faith.
Fate had held out a helping hand, and Morgan wasn’t one to refuse an opportunity. Counting windows, he placed the room’s location. Then he stalked back to the kitchen yard, pried open the latch on the back door, and slipped noiselessly up the back stairs. There was no reason to allow all of Williamsburg to know that Faith had midnight callers.
He didn’t know what he was going to do when he got to her room, but the task of finding it was sufficient to keep his mind occupied. Reaching the attic floor, he counted doors. The one with the light beneath it corresponded exactly with the window count. He had found her.
Knocking was out of the question. Holding his breath, Morgan turned the latch and let himself in.
He halted in the doorway, the scene before him robbing him of the ability to move forward. Russet curls tumbling in abandonment down a fragile gown of lawn and lace, Faith sat propped among her pillows, holding a tiny black head to her breast. She glanced up in surprise as the door opened, but she merely smiled at him and turned her attention back to the infant, as if giving him permission to admire what they had
wrought together.
Morgan entered and shut the door. His pulse raced as it once had when he rode the highways. The tableau of mother and child was foreign to him, and he felt an outsider looking in. The challenge lay in making himself welcome where he was neither wanted nor needed, for he could not imagine being anywhere else but here ever again.
This was home. Perhaps he had had more ale than he thought, but the feeling wouldn’t dissipate. His home in Ireland had been torn apart by misery and hate. He’d never known anything akin to home since then, other than the brief months with Faith. He wanted a home, and he wanted his son and wife to live in it.
It was a foolish fancy and one that would pass with time, but Morgan gave in to it for a while. He sat on the edge of the narrow bed and watched helplessly as his son fed at the breast that he had loved and caressed just the summer before. He had lived alone for the better part of his life. He had never needed anyone. But the desire to need and be needed grew in him as he watched what he could so easily have been denied.
“He is greedy,” Morgan whispered, more to be certain this was real than from the need to be heard.
Faith looked up with a smile. “He is much like his father,” she agreed.
Morgan heard the admonishment and grinned, suddenly feeling the weight lifting off his chest. This was Faith. He could say anything to her. “I suppose he is an arrogant bastard, then. You will teach him better manners.”
“Not a bastard,” she said softly, averting her eyes to the small black head. Morgan’s proximity was unsettling. She could feel the heat of his gaze on her bared breast, but she made no move to cover herself. He had seen all of her there was to see, and she was rather proud of her accomplishment. There had been some fear that she was too small to feed her own child, but she had proved them wrong.
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