Lady Fugitive (10 page)

"I'm not one of those ladies, and I
don't ride sidesaddle." Morgan's eyebrows rose in mild surprise, but he
lifted her up and over so she faced straight ahead, then waited while she
adjusted her full skirts. He swung up behind her and wrapped an arm around her
waist. 

They started out of town at a easy trot.
Rachel leaned forward, too aware that his broad chest was just behind her
shoulders. "I told you before, I don't bite, Clerk," he reminded,
pulling her back against him. His arm tightened on her waist and she admitted to
a certain pleasant sense of security at the gesture. A dangerous kind of
security. Idle conversation would be wiser than focusing on the feel of Morgan
so near.

"Crowshaven seems a peculiar name
for a village of farmers."

"There's a local legend. Flocks of
crows seem drawn to the area, particularly along the creek that springs from a
mouth of the Tyne. Old superstition says the birds are harbingers of good
fortune. Some old fishwife claimed whenever the crows appeared, something
auspicious would follow. Wanting only the best, our village became a haven for
the birds."

Rachel had to giggle. "Most farmers
I know would predict only a ruined harvest from welcoming crows. Our farmers
would put a scarecrow smack in the middle there to keep them out of the fields."
She pointed to a broad expanse of neat furrows.

"Aye, but those are
Colonial
crows."

"Oh for heaven's sake! Now I
suppose you're going to claim our crows are inferior to those hatched here on
your moors. Do you never tire of teasing me for being American?"

"I'm not. They're two entirely
different species. I've read where your American farmers have problems with
crows, but European crows eat primarily other birds and carrion. Only
occasionally our crops."

"Is there any topic you
haven't
read about?"

He bristled at the question.
"Reading is a worthy pastime. I only wish everyone in the district could
learn how. Children here receive their lessons at their parents' knees. I think
that's insufficient, and hope one day for a proper schoolhouse with books and a
schoolmistress. Someday a town hall for council meetings. I'm a member of the
village council, but haven't yet convinced the elders to dig into their pockets
for such expenditures."

"A councilman? And quite young for
an innkeeper. You mentioned the inn had been in your family. How did it come
about that you ended up owning it?" He didn't answer. She nudged his ribs
lightly with her elbow. "I asked you a question, Mr. Tremayne."

"It's a tedious story."

"We have all afternoon. You said
this trip would enlighten me. I've been visiting the inn for months, but I
still don't understand how you came to own it and live there."

"You're really giving me all
afternoon?" His lips brushed her ear. "I like the sound of
that."

"First tell me the story,
Morgan."

His voice was husky as he slowed Phantom
to a walk. "I like the sound of that, too. My name, I mean." She half
turned in the saddle to shoot him a look of exasperation. 

"All right," he sighed.
"Somersdale, my father, and a man named Jackson Stowe were partners. Together
they built the inn. Stowe was primarily a farmer, and in the early days the
place barely made a profit. Very lean, especially split three ways. Somersdale
decided he wanted out. My father bought his share, providing the capital Arnold
used to open his mercantile. Then Andrew Tremayne died and left me his
two-thirds interest. My sister inherited the cottage. When she died and the
house passed to me, I mortgaged the cottage and purchased Stowe's remaining
share. That made me sole owner."

"You said nothing about your
mother, the European with the dark coloring. She was gone before those events
took place?" 

"Long before."

Rachel thought a moment. "So much
tragedy in a young life. How old were you when you took over, my age?"

It was almost imperceptible, but some
small movement gave her the sensation of withdrawal. "I don't know how old
you are. You've never said."

"Twenty-five."

"Nay. I was eight and ten at the
time."

"Eighteen?" Rachel twisted
around again to look at him. "No wonder Somersdale resents you. It's
amazing everyone in that village doesn't. You were a successful businessman at
eighteen?"

She made it sound impossibly difficult.
Morgan remembered well the hard times, but she couldn't understand how hard. No
one did. He was no bleeding hero. He'd survived, following a basic instinct. He
wasn't particularly proud of it. His tone was casual. "You were a wife at
like age, I'll wager. That's the warehouse in the distance there. And that's my
granary." 

They rode out to the structure. There was
a low flat rock near the entrance. Morgan reined in the stallion and swung
down, reaching to set Rachel on her feet as he tied Phantom to the branch of a
large shrub. Rachel noticed her escort had grown pensive. She let the silence
lengthen, settling beside him on the large stone.

"You're a Yorkshireman,
Morgan," she commented at last. "Why does the American West interest
you?"

He stared off at something in the
distance. "I didn't ask you out here to bore you."

"You won't." 

He studied her face for a moment before
explaining. "In trade, everything's related. Our local merchant buys from
a regional supplier, who in turn gets his shipments from a factory in a large
city. The factory may receive cargo from a trading vessel. The vessel calls in
many ports, possibly from all over the world. It's not just what I do or what
Boyd or Somersdale does. All's connected. The Colonies—Forgive me," he
corrected, "
America
has great opportunity."

Neither had paid attention to the
roiling clouds overhead. Morgan was struck by a large droplet. He snatched her
off the rock, and in seconds had pulled a spare cloak from behind the saddle
and wrapped her in it. By the time they made it back to the cottage, the light
patter had become a torrential rain.

He unlocked the cottage door and shoved
her inside. "I'll take Phantom back to the livery. Put some coffee
on!"

She dropped the sodden cloak over a
kitchen chair and lit the stove. Her quilt was still over the back of the
armchair. The front door banged open again. "You never can get this
blasted fire going," Morgan complained through chattering teeth. He was
soaked to the skin, long hair sending rivulets of water down the back of his
shirt as he knelt and began to work the bellows.

"Go in back and get out of those wet clothes," Rachel
ordered. She thrust the quilt at him. He returned moments later and set his
boots beside the hearth. Rachel glanced in the kitchen and saw he'd hung his
clothes over a chair near the drying cloak. He'd dragged it closer to the
fireplace.

"Rachel."
His voice sounded oddly strained. She turned and
found him staring at her. She followed the direction of his gaze to discover
her wet blouse and undergarments were now all but transparent, clearly
revealing her dusky nipples.

"Stop gaping," she hissed,
covering herself with her arms. "It's nothing you haven't seen before.
I'll go upstairs and change." Her own eyes were drawn to his bronze torso
and the narrow trail of dark furring that trailed past his navel. The man was
built magnificently. She found it hard to swallow. Even harder to meet his
gaze, which had moved to her face.

The quiet companionship from the ride
was gone. Pure animal attraction crackled between them, snapping along with the
hearth flames. Neither could seem to tear their eyes away from the other. They
stood like that for an eternity until a large knot exploded on the grate. The
sound brought Rachel out of her daze. She dashed up the staircase.

When she came back down in a cotton
frock, she found him seated in the big armchair beside the fire, a mug of
coffee in one hand. Again the mood had shifted. He was all business, wearing a
thoughtful expression she recognized from the offices.

"What did you think of my little
tour? Certainly we have naught here that can compare with Philadelphia. What
was your home like there? Your family?" She didn't respond at once.
"Yes, I
am
being nosy," he informed her, "but I promise
not to write an article for the paper when I hear your answers."

She scowled at him. He shook a
forefinger at her. "It's your turn. Tell me about Philadelphia."

She shrugged. "It's noisy and
sooty, full of bustling thoroughfares. Not unlike London. But you've read all
about it, I'm sure."

"And your family?" She turned
her back to him and wandered off to the kitchen. He clucked his tongue behind
her, raising his voice to reach her ears. "No fair, Rachel. I discussed
mine."

She returned to sit on the sofa with her
own cup of coffee. "You doggedly avoid this particular topic," Morgan
pointed out quietly. "Is there a highwayman or black sheep among your
relations? I do hope so! Makes the tale so much more interesting." He
winked at her over his cup.

"There's an accused murderer, but
not much of a tale. I'm the daughter of a transplanted Englishman. Yes, Morgan,
the same blood courses through my veins!" She poked her tongue out at him.
"My father settled in Philadelphia before I was born. My mother was
English too. She died when I was young. Papa remarried a woman I don't much
like. End of saga."

Not quite the end, Morgan saw from her
expression. "So what did you really think this afternoon?" he asked
soberly.

"I never realized you were such a
visionary." She stirred the sugar sediment from the bottom of her cup, but
jolted and dropped the spoon as a roll of thunder shook the house. "Sorry.
I don't like thunder. It makes me edgy."

"Come sit with me, then." He
patted his knee. Another thunderclap made the decision for her. She allowed him
to wrap her in warm strength. "Better?" he whispered, cuddling her
close. She nodded, trying to ignore his bare chest and the clean scent of his
skin. 

Morgan inhaled deeply. "You just
called me a visionary."

"I didn't realize you had a passion
for things beyond your own trade interests. You want admirable things for the
village. You see how it could grow."

"Do you know what I'm envisioning
now?" His fingers caressed her throat as his tongue parted her lips. He
began exploring her mouth with slow deliberation.

Rachel was helpless against the rising
tide of desire. Another clap of rolling thunder sent one arm up around his
neck. Her fingers found his damp hair and she realized he'd removed the leather
thong. She broke the kiss and raked her fingers through his hair, fluffing it
to dry.

"I think I like your hair loose.
You remind me of a lion. Your coloring and this thick dark mane."

He gave her a skeptical look.
"Admit it. You've studied my ring."

She reached for his right hand.
Interwoven with the large initial was a medieval rendering of a lion. "I
honestly never noticed before." She trembled slightly as a deep rumble
rolled overhead.

"Let's go upstairs, Rachel,"
he whispered. "Crawl into the canopy bed and make love until the storm
passes. It could take hours, you know."

She shook her head, rising to her feet.
Straightening her clothing, she struggled to keep her voice calm and steady. No
small feat in the midst of a thunderstorm. Or with this gorgeous man watching
her, lusty desire burning in his pewter eyes. "No. Forgive me if I led you
to expect...We can't. I don't want you to touch me."

"Rachel, you're a bloody
liar," he countered, stalking out to the dark kitchen to gather up his
damp garments. "You want me. I felt your response."

"Forgive me for also being
human," she said with sarcasm. "I can't seem to help but respond to
you. No woman can, to hear Arnold talk of the legendary Morgan Tremayne. How
many local girls have you waited out rainstorms with? Dozens?"

"You're not the first woman I've
lusted after," he gritted out, shoving his shirttail into his breeches.
"So what? I never claimed you were. You know I was involved with Pamela.
There have been others. I'm sorry if you dislike the historical facts, but I
can't change the past. Just what do you propose I do about it now?"

"I'm not proposing anything, and I
don't understand why you're so upset. Unless you've never before encountered
rejection. Did the others tumble into bed so easily? Nary a one put up a
fight?"

"
I'm not proposing anything
,"
he mimicked. "Meaning I
should
, I suppose?"

"You're the landlord, I'm only the
tenant. You're the employer, I'm the lowly office clerk. How could I presume to
tell you anything, Mr. Tremayne?"

"Damn it all, somehow you bloody
well
are,
" he fumed. He seized her elbow and stared down into her
defiant dark eyes. "My interest in you is utterly, intensely personal. It
includes expectations for a certain level of intimacy between us. If you're not
ready yet, owing to your recent bereavement, I can accept that. But if you're
saying you expect me to
marry
you…"