Lady Fugitive (11 page)

"I don't expect anything of the
kind."

"Then what the devil are you
saying?"

"Good afternoon seems appropriate.
And thank you, for an interesting excursion."

Morgan gave her an unreadable look, then
banged out the front door into the storm. Rachel knew he'd been unsettled when
his seduction went awry. She also knew that there would be hell to pay for it
the next time they met up at the office. Or the inn. Or in the village square.
He wouldn't forgive or forget. He'd make her pay. One way or another.

Rachel answered the light rap at her
door and stared down at the small visitor on her porch. It was a boy of perhaps
ten, who hesitantly asked if she was the American lady.

"Yes. And who are you?"

"Nathan Tate, Mistress. My father
has a farm outside town. Mr. Morgan's come to help us, on account Papa busted
his leg whilst plowing last week."

"Ah, that's why I haven't seen
Morgan for a several days. Did he send you here?"

The freckled face bobbed once. "He
said I should ask you to Christmas supper with the Atkinsons at the inn. Miss
James, too. Mistress Poole makes a fine goose. At least my father says she
would. He says she has the backside for being the best cook in the whole
district."

"I expect he means she has the back
ground
for it," Rachel corrected gently.

"No, he says backside, all right.
He says Emily Poole can pull out a roast or ham with both hands and bump the
oven door shut without even turning 'round."

Rachel disguised a smirk. "Perhaps
he knows best. Send word back that I'd be pleased to go. Does your father read
to you from books, Nathan?"

The boy colored slightly. "Ain't
got no books, Mistress. Mr. Morgan read me a tale from one he brung to the farm
once."

She asked the boy to wait and returned
seconds later with a tattered volume. "This is a special book from
America, called an almanac. It's a book for farmers. The first one was written
by a famous American. Have Mr. Morgan read some of it to you. Tell him I'll
expect it back when next I see him."

But she did not see him for the next few
weeks, and soon it would be Christmas. She spent her spare hours at home
knitting thick woolen scarves for her two bosses and thought about the third
scarf she'd made for her father. She'd finished it first and sent it with a
long letter home. Spending a holiday here in England had its appeal, but she
was still terribly homesick, and ever cognizant of the fact she was living a
masquerade.

A few days before Christmas Eve, she
found Emily in the inn's taproom struggling to fasten small candles to the
branches of a large fir tree. "If you could just hold that limb there
steady, if you would," Emily mumbled. "It wants to slap me right in
the nose every time I work near it, and I can't move this beastie away from the
wall. Thomas never bothers to think of the decoratin'."

"I'll help you," Rachel said
without thinking. Emily heaved a sigh of relief and began issuing more orders.
When they'd finished attaching red plaid bows and painted wood ornaments, both
women stood back to admire their work—and the almost palpable new bond they'd
formed over the course of the afternoon.

"You're coming to Christmas supper
with Mr. Boyd and Mr. Morgan. Thomas and I always set out a feast, come
Christmas night. Don't like Mr. Morgan to be thinking how he's got no one left
of family, and Boyd's as apt to sup with us here as spend the day at the
farmhouse. Then there's one or two stragglers here in the village havin' no one
with whom they might share a cup o' cheer."

Rachel again wore the gown she'd
purchased for the Harvest Dance, but no one seemed to mind. She arrived to find
Boyd and Chrissy mingling with some of the local townspeople. Morgan came down
the stairs from his private suite dressed like a country gentleman, and made a
low bow before Rachel as he handed back the almanac she'd loaned him.

Rachel blushed as their fingers made
contact against the smooth cover of the book, and she glanced up to be certain
she was nowhere near the inevitable sprig of mistletoe. All week she'd found
herself pecked on the cheek or bussed on the lips by Crowshaven villagers
wherever she went, from the candlemaker's shop to the mercantile, and she
didn't intend to mortify herself by standing near mistletoe around Morgan.

As if reading her thoughts, he commented
that the mistletoe was hung closer to the kitchen doorway. Rachel glanced in
that direction, only to dissolve into a fit of giggles. Emily came bustling out
at that moment with a large roast goose on a huge platter, and Rachel couldn't
help recalling young Nathan's description of how the plump matron could remove
food from her oven and shut the door with her rump.

The hours passed quickly as villagers
took turns dancing merry jigs or telling outrageous tales. Laughter and warm
smiles helped the big fireplace keep the main room a cheery spot, and Rachel
was reluctant to leave. But the hour had grown late and she needed to return
home.

"I'll walk you."

She didn't need to hear the voice,
didn't need to feel the familiar hand come to rest on the small of her back.
She'd known Morgan hovered just behind her or close beside her most of the
night. When he wasn't within close enough range to feel the heat of his body,
she found herself caught up in the heat of his penetrating gaze. Particularly
as he opened her gift and thanked her for the scarf.

She'd wanted to cross the room and try
arranging it around his throat herself. Wanted to admire how the marled
salt-and-pepper yarn she'd chosen would set off his eyes, how the soft folds
would contrast against his square jaw. She'd fix the ends just so and then give
him a soft kiss...right there at the corner of his lip, where his mustache
curved down when he scowled.

Good heavens, but she was letting
holiday wishes get the better of her good sense. "It's just across the
square, sir," she argued in her most reassuring tone. "Not far, and
you have guests."

"None more important than this one.
I haven't yet given you a present." He wrapped the scarf around his
shoulders and began looping it in a loose knot. Rachel quickly made a show of
glancing around as if verifying she hadn't left her bag. She couldn't bear to
watch him put on that scarf. If she kissed him here, a good thirty feet from
the mistletoe bough, everyone would read her heart on her sleeve.

She breezed through the door, ignoring
the bracing chill of the night air, and kept walking quickly.

It didn't matter, for he was apace of
her in a few strides. But he said nothing and never made a move to touch her.
Probably because he was nowhere near as foolish or sentimental as she was, she
scolded herself. He'd been somber and businesslike the few times she'd found
herself alone in the holding company offices with him. Obviously aware of her,
but no more than polite in church the past Sunday. Clearly her rebuff had
settled the matter of whatever might have been between them, and—

Rachel's thoughts broke off and she
stared as he opened the front door and ushered her into the cottage parlor. Her
bare mantel and the banister to the stairway were festooned with boughs of fragrant
evergreen. A large wreath of holly and winter flowers had been hung on one
wall.

"I admit I used my key without your
permission, Widow Cordell," Morgan said softly. "However, I pray
you'll forgive the transgression for the sake of the holiday. Happy
Christmas."

She let her gaze sweep the room once more
before looking into his eyes. "Yes, it has been. I expected to feel lonely
and bereft this Yuletide, but everyone was so friendly at the inn. Even Emily
made me feel welcome, and this...this is a very lovely gift. Thank you so
much."

She took a step closer to him, half
hoping he meant to pull her into his arms and kiss her, but he briskly rubbed
the palms of his gloved hands together and reached for the doorknob.
"Well, I best get back to the festivities before Boyd and his father come
to hunt me down. We always have a toast together come midnight each Christmas.
Sleep well, Rachel."

Before she could say anything, he was
gone.

* * *

Boyd arrived at the offices earlier than
usual one January morning and began digging through the files. Unsmiling, strained
and uncharacteristically quiet, he reviewed the same figures he'd gone over the
day before. Rachel rose and nervously smoothed her skirts. "Is something
wrong, sir? If I can help you find something—"

"No, something's very
right
.
Morgan's putting something big together for us. Could be quite a coup. I'll
need you to finish the posting for the livery service and my tobacco shop, then
go over to the inn after lunch."

"But it's only Tuesday, Mr.
Atkinson," she reminded. He seemed so rattled, perhaps he'd forgotten what
day it was.

"This can't wait until Thursday. We
need accurate figures prepared right away. Squire Martin and some of his
associates are coming by later this afternoon to review our records."

Rachel obediently finished her other
work early. At one o'clock she started for the door. Boyd gave her the inn
ledger and a verbal message for Morgan. She donned her cloak and started up the
street. Though it was a bleak day, it was the first without rain in over a
week. The villagers were out and about, conducting errands. Rachel waved as
Chrissy left the apothecary shop and got a few nods of greeting as she crossed
the square.

She entered the inn to find Emily alone
in the taproom, busily polishing glassware. "Haven't got your sheet
done," she grumbled, seeing Rachel set down the ledger at her usual table.
"It's only Tuesday, Widow Cordell."

"I know, but this is a special
visit. Mr. Atkinson asked me to prepare figures today for a meeting with Mr.
Tremayne." Emily had shuffled back to the kitchen. Rachel followed, and
remembered about the message. As much as she dreaded the thought of going up to
Morgan's private rooms, she knew Boyd wanted him to get word right away. 

She fought down the memory of how she'd
stood in her parlor and wept late Christmas night like a foolish little girl
disappointed by not getting the fancy doll she'd asked for under the tree.
Morgan had decorated the cottage for her as his gift, and the gesture had been
wonderful. So what if he hadn't kissed her or taken her in his arms again? So
what if they weren't to be lovers? Rachel knew this was best.

Still, she'd rather face a wild boar in
the woods alone than venture up these back stairs into the rake's private
domain. "I need to speak with Mr. Tremayne for a moment, Emily," she
announced as she took the first riser. "I've got a message for him from
Mr. Atkinson. I'll be right back down to go over the counts."

"Oh, but you can't go up there just
now. Wait a moment! Mr. Morgan's—" Emily snapped her mouth closed,
realizing Rachel had already passed the landing. She began taking inventory of
the larder and completing the tally sheet. She was working on the bottle counts
of gin and rye behind the bar when Morgan's voice interrupted.

"Emily, is Rachel about? That's her
ledger over there, isn't it?"

"Didn't you speak to her? She
trundled up the back stairs not five minutes past."

"Upstairs? To the third
floor?"

Emily went on the defensive. "I
tried to warn her you had company. Not what
kind
, mind you, but she'd
already dashed off before I could stop her." 

Morgan bolted out the front door. Emily
stood shaking her head in disgust. "Talking to myself again. Ain't a
blooming soul in this place ever listens. Young widow dashin' up before I can
say nay. Himself with girls comin' and goin', runnin' off without his coat or
so much as a fare-thee-well. Don't know what this place is coming to, with
these scatterwits all around me." Thomas came in lugging a heavy pail.
"And you're the worst of the lot, Thomas Poole!"

Her husband's gape of utter confusion
became a sharp wince as the pail fell on his foot.

* * *

Rachel hurried toward the far corner of
the village square. Morgan cut diagonally across it and sprinted to catch her,
seizing her elbow. He spun her around. "Rachel? Emily said you were
looking for me."

"Mr. Atkinson's bringing the squire
over to see you." She tried to jerk free.

Morgan held fast to her arm and gulped a
breath. "I think you may have misunderstood something. Emily said you'd
gone upstairs. I—"

"Don't tell me I only imagined
Pamela hiding underneath that cloak and hood. I heard the rustling brocade
skirts. She dropped the hood once she got outside, and I saw her face
clearly."

"She came to repay the money her
father owed me."

"Something I've always found odd,
since she claims her father's well to do. If so, why borrow from you?"

"He had a rough spell. It's old
business. You heard what I told her at the dance. He was behind in clearing his
debt. She repaid the loan and went on her way."