Lady Fugitive (4 page)

"Is something amiss, Widow
Cordell?" He raised his head to scowl at her. "You have tasks to
complete this morning, I assume. Or is Boyd paying you to gape at me?"

"Yes. I mean, no. Excuse me."
She felt her face flush. "I haven't adjusted to having you here in the
office yet," she stammered.

"You mean I'm not what you expected
in a rural innkeeper," he replied. "I sympathize completely. When I
heard we'd hired a Colonial widow, I envisioned thick spectacles on the nose of
a withered crone."

She didn't have an answer for that. She
realized it was probably true. Just as she had expected Boyd's partner to be some
portly country gentleman with a pot belly and weak knees.

The awkward silence stretched out as
each concentrated on their respective tasks. Morgan's deep voice startled her
when he finally addressed her. "I'd like you to straighten out the files.
I can't find a bloody thing in them."

"Like what, sir?" She tried to
mask her mounting irritation. She'd familiarized herself with their filing
system. It wasn't as though their office housed all that many documents. She
hadn't noticed anything out of place. His abrupt request was made out of spite.
She was sure of it. Maybe because she hadn't simpered like a schoolgirl over
his forward behavior.
Worse men than you have tried, Englishman,
she
silently whispered.
All they aroused in me was disgust
. She shook off
the swirl of bad memories.

"Like what?" Morgan repeated.
"I'll neither define my terms nor tolerate insolence in my clerk, Widow
Cordell. I've told you the files need to be straightened out. I expect you to
correct the matter. Now."

She shot to her feet and crossed to the
bank of cabinets. She opened a drawer and closed it. She repeated the motion
with another drawer and still another. She slammed the bottom drawer and turned
to face him. "I see what you mean. Documents and papers in folders clearly
labeled as to contents. Drawer after drawer like that. Clearly a disaster,
sir."

"Are you deliberately trying to
provoke me, madam?"

"No," she replied slowly,
"but if you won't specify what you're looking for, I can't possibly locate
it. I'm not a clairvoyant, Mr. Tremayne."

He stepped past her and jerked open a
drawer. He fumbled with a handful of papers and tossed them on her desk.
"Those were misfiled. Replace them in their correct locations." Gray
eyes narrowed as they met hers. "And I don't care for the way you call me
'sir'. There's a distinct impertinence in your tone that's most annoying."

"Oh, but weren't you deliberately
trying to provoke
me
?" she asked in turn.

"He wouldn't dream of it, would
you, Morgan?" came Boyd's voice from the doorway. "He's always like
this when he's been out of the office on a trip. Morgan imagines this place
goes to utter shambles in his absence. I've never had the heart to inform him otherwise."

Morgan grimaced and stalked back to his
desk. The day dragged on in interminable silence. Rachel kept her head down,
though several times she felt gray eyes watching her. Boyd departed for the
afternoon. Morgan continued reading without glancing up. "Where exactly
are you from in the Colonies?"

"I was born and raised in
Philadelphia, but for the past few years I lived on a farm in the Oregon
Territory."

"Oregon, eh? I've read about the
pioneer trails and the land rush there. You made the trip westward with your
late husband, I presume?" She nodded. "How long have you been
widowed? Not overlong, judging by your wardrobe."

The notion of him judging her clothing
in any context irritated her. Widow's weeds hadn't kept him from ogling her the
day before. "A few months," she replied, hoping he'd drop the subject.

"Boyd mentioned you were staying
with a relation in London. Grandmother or something, wasn't she?"

"Aunt Violet. She's my father's
sister."

"Rather a long way, just to visit
one's aunt. Particularly for a woman with limited funds. Couldn't you find
suitable employment back in Philadelphia?"

She set down her pencil. "Mr.
Tremayne, I know you're involved in several enterprises. Are you also the
editor of the local paper?"

"I beg your pardon?" The soft
tone of his question belied the smoldering anger in his eyes.

"Either I'm being interrogated as
your employee, or interviewed for an article on newcomers to the area for the newspaper.
I can't tell which."

"I was attempting to make simple conversation.
Something you apparently know nothing about. You are, without doubt, the most
contrary female I've ever met. Are all Colonial women so difficult, or is this
a unique personality trait?"

Rachel met his cold regard without
flinching. "I do my job, pay my rent, and ask nothing more than to be left
alone. Had you employed a man who did the very same, there would be no problem.
Because I happen to be a woman, I'm called contrary and difficult."

"You
are
contrary and
difficult."

"Mr. Atkinson doesn't seem to think
so. I suspect it's a matter of individual perception. He doesn't look upon me
as an imbecile with a shapely bottom."

Morgan's teeth were clenched as he
asked, "Have you forgotten I pay half your salary?"

"Have you forgotten I pay all your
rent?"

He rose and slammed his chair back under
the desk. "This conversation is over. Have your ledgers finalized before
you leave this evening. I'll inspect them early tomorrow morning."

He found three mistakes and absolutely
gloried in pointing them out.

Rachel spent the entire morning
recopying and correcting her entries. She silently tossed daggers at him with
her eyes. She doubted he'd ever personally made an error in his life. After
all, she'd already concluded he was possibly the most
perfect
man she'd
ever met. Perfectly handsome. Perfectly proportioned. Perfectly exasperating.

He made her want to shout right back in
his face. But he didn't matter, pompous oaf or not. She wouldn't be here long.
She was here for sanctuary, not to do battle with the likes of Morgan the
Bargainer.

* * *

Morgan came in late one afternoon to
find her chatting with a stranger. The traveler had inquired about the owner of
the inn and Thomas sent him to the holding company office. Rachel was startled
by the instant disapproval on Morgan's features. He looked past the visitor.

"Madam, if this young swain is
finished wasting your time with his prattle, could we get some actual business
done here?"

The young fellow rose, but Morgan gave
him no chance to speak. "She's paid to provide an honest day's
labor," he snapped. He held the door and gave the fellow a warning glare.
"There's the street."

"But Mr. Tremayne," Rachel
began. Morgan silenced her with a stabbing glance. The man shrugged and went
out.

"Who was that, Morgan?" Boyd
wondered aloud.

"Ask Madam Cordell," Morgan
replied. "She seemed chummy enough with him."

Boyd's questioning gaze turned to her.
Rachel carefully phrased her answer, only partly successful in reining in her
temper. "He's my living testament to Mr. Tremayne's skills in customer
relations. After waiting an hour to speak with the innkeeper, he was kicked out
before he could even state the nature of his business."

Her workday was over. She collected her
things. "And I want to thank you, Mr. Tremayne. I used to think your
rudeness was reserved for me alone."

He was out of town for the next two peaceful
weeks. Rachel knew he was due back soon. Boyd had told her so, but she was
surprised to arrive at the office one morning to find Morgan sitting on the
edge of her desk.

"There's a matter of some concern
we must discuss, Widow. Doubtless you'll take offense, but there's a valid
reason for my inquiry. I agreed to new curtain fabric, which you likely ordered
from the mercantile. Did you also give its owner permission to court you?"

Rachel nearly dropped her reticule. She
knew from more than one conversation she'd overheard in the offices between the
partners that neither liked the fellow who owned the mercantile, Arnold
Somersdale. Morgan in particular seemed to harbor a powerful animosity toward
the older man. Having met the man herself when she visited the large store, she
couldn't blame anyone for their aversion.

Which made Morgan's question all the
more disgusting and startling. How could he possibly think she'd have any
interest in the ugly shopkeeper? And what right did he have to pry into her
social life, even if she did? None.

She kept her tone innocuous. "That
question is an invasion of my privacy, Mr. Tremayne."

"Somersdale is the one man determined
to see me and this company fail. Your position here and his sudden interest are
more than happenstance, I assure you."

"Why, how flattering, sir! Sadly typical,
however. You view every aspect of life in this hamlet only as it relates to
your own business interests. You probably timed your birth to coincide with
favorable trading on the London exchange."

His tone was clipped and abrupt.
"The company now has detailed records of every transaction—costs, vendor
discounts, sales, and profit figures—neatly penned into your ledgers.
Information like that is a far greater attraction to a business rival than any
comely face or bosom. I protect my interests, madam. You'll not see Arnold
Somersdale socially. Assuming you mean to retain your post."

She blinked. "Do I understand you
correctly?"

"You're reasonably intelligent. I
believe you do."

"You're forbidding me to see a man
socially under threat of dismissal? I'd laugh, Mr. Tremayne, but I know you
never jest." Her voice dripped with sarcasm. "At least not with
me
,
a female clerk. You only jest with male peers. Right, sir?" She couldn't
resist grinning at the hated word.

He straightened his shoulders.
"There's naught to jest about. Somersdale is my trade and personal rival.
You are my clerk and tenant. It's a question of loyalty."

"Mine or yours?"

"Mine?" he sputtered.

"Yes,
yours.
" She paced
in the office aisle behind her desk. "I've put up with complaints over
tally sheets, stayed late, fetched things while you ranted like a lunatic,
ignored your insufferable attitude, even boiled water for your insipid English
tea! All of which has earned me nothing but paltry wages and finding my
integrity in question. You're contemptible, Mr. Tremayne. I don't care whether
I retain this post or not. There's always my aunt in London."

"That was some tirade," he
observed in an odd voice. She'd expected ice—instead there was a warmth, almost
amusement to his tone. "I can't recall you ever directing so many words at
me the whole time you've worked here."

She gave a harsh laugh. "And that
surprises you? I heard you arguing with Mr. Atkinson that morning. You've never
liked me, Mr. Tremayne. You're seeking an excuse to discharge me. Why not be
honest? Don't invent a pathetic lie about someone courting me as your reason."

"So you haven't been seeing
him?"

"You know I'm in mourning,"
she said with a sigh. "I don't have social visitors. Mr. Somersdale
brought the curtain fabric to the cottage one evening. I've seen him at Sunday
services, nodded hello in the square. That's the extent of our
relationship."

Morgan returned to his desk. "I
don't dislike you, Widow. But I'm not comfortable having an unattached female
as clerk. You are correct that matters would be simpler, were you a man.
However, circumstances have thrown us together, and I gave Boyd my word I'd
make the best of it. He doesn't want you going back to London."

Rachel stared at him in confusion. His
voice had been soft, almost kind. She took a deep breath. "I understand circumstances
one did not foresee." An understatement, if ever there was one, she told
herself with chagrin. "What I don't understand is what I did to offend
you. One day you insist upon seeing me home; the next you want my head on a
pike."

"You haven't offended me." He
seemed suddenly fascinated by his empty desktop. "You're an attractive
female. The thoughts a man has relative to that fact are inappropriate in a
business setting. I understand you need the post. Boyd said it was either this
or work as a London domestic. I'm asking you to be prudent, Widow. You're privy
to vital information here. A man like Somersdale senses fruit ripe for the
picking."

"And a woman's not much brighter
than a piece of fruit."

"Must you always put words into my
mouth?" he demanded. "You have the most irritating habit of finishing
my thoughts. You do it all the time, even during dictation."

"I can compose a letter as well as
you can, sir. I attended some of the finest schools on the East Coast."

"We were speaking of Mr.
Somersdale. Have I made my position clear?"

"Abundantly," Rachel replied.
"And as I'm still in mourning, this entire conversation has been
unnecessary and distasteful." She wasn't finished goading him just yet.
"However, I must come out of mourning eventually. Perhaps you should prepare
a list of acceptable bachelors to spare us both this humiliation in the
future." She opened a desk drawer and frowned. Where had she put the twine
for bundling receipts?