Cachet

By

Shannah Biondine

SMASHWORDS EDITION

PUBLISHED BY:

Books We Love Publishing Partners

192 Lakeside Greens Drive

Chestermere, Alberta, T1X 1C2

Canada

ISBN: 978-0-9867514-1-7

Copyright ©2000 by Susan E. Block

Cover art by Sheri McGathy Copyright © 2010

CACHET. A seal on a letter or document. A mark or quality, as of distinction, individuality, or authenticity. From the Old French cacher, to hide.

Dedication:

In memory of Krystal—whose smile and gentleness are not gone too soon to ashes —but mingled with the night mists into faerie dust. May you know only love and laughter on the other side.

Chapter 1

London, 1860

"I didn't kill him, Violet."

Richelle's voice shook as she read the newspaper account aloud. "Grubstake Smith, Eastern gambler and financier, was found poisoned in his hotel room in Carson City. The hotel desk clerk placed a young brunette woman at the scene less than an hour before the body was discovered. Slender, with a single braid reaching past her waist, the woman had been identified as Richelle Nash, a newly-widowed matron from the Oregon Territory. She'd come to Carson City to meet a land speculator and collect her proceeds from the sale of the Oregon farm. Authorities speculate the meeting to settle her late husband's gambling debts went sour. Smith died from drinking the colored rubbing alcohol someone had substituted for the whiskey in his hotel room decanter."

Richelle handed the folded paper to her aunt. "I never even met Smith. I went to his room because Cletus died owing $500 from a poker game. I waited over an hour, then left the cash with a note. My old friend Jonas was in Carson City with me. We had tickets for the afternoon stage East. I never touched his liquor supply."

"There's no mention of a note or money," Violet pointed out.

"Probably because whoever did poison him stole the cash. What's robbery when you've already committed murder?"

"What does Jeremiah intend to do?"

"You know Papa. He promised he'd straighten things out. Jonas knows I'm innocent, but we parted company in St. Louis. If Papa can track him down and get his testimony, the marshal might consider dropping charges. They only have circumstantial evidence. Jonas will swear I never touched a bottle in that room."

"Knowing my brother, he'll have investigators combing the country from one end to the other for your friend."

"Yes, but America's a big country, Aunt." Richelle forced a thin smile. "I pray Papa's men can clear me soon. I'd love nothing better than to go home and be out of your way. But I can't leave until Papa advises it's safe. And I can't be Richelle Nash anymore. It's Rachel now. Rachel Cordell."

Violet returned the newspaper with a shudder and poured herself another cup of tea. "I hate to ask," she began delicately, "but what do you intend to do here in London? True, I have guest quarters, but only a modest pension. And I suspect you'll find life here with me very drab."

Rachel pulled a pouch from her handbag. "Papa gave me some traveling money. You're welcome to whatever's left. I haven't spent much."

Violet counted the folded notes. "This will help for a time. However, you do realize what your father's undertaken could take some months to conclude?" At her niece's nod, Violet rose and headed for the staircase. "You had an excellent upbringing and education. Perhaps you might consider employment as a governess or tutor for one of London's better families."

Rachel started up the stairs. Violet opened the door to the guest room and paused. "I'm giving a small gathering tomorrow evening. There wasn't time to change my plans. Invitations had gone out before I received your father's letter. We won't let on there's a problem. Only that you've decided to visit me after your unfortunate loss."

"Unfortunate?" the girl repeated. "Hardly, Aunt. It was a blessing Cletus died. The answer to my prayers."

"Don't talk like that, dear."

"I know it's not polite to speak ill of the dead, but it wasn't polite for my father to give me to a man I barely knew, either. I met Cletus only once before our wedding day. I never knew him until he was my husband, then I grew to hate him. Arranged marriages don't always end up happy. Perhaps it's best not to speak of the past. Then I won't have to pretend a sorrow I can't feel."

Rachel kissed her aunt and shut herself away in the guest room. She was safe for now. There were no marshals hunting for her or handbills with her likeness on them here. No more newspaper reports. She was safe. Tired.

Banished.

The following evening the lamplighter made his way down the street as Violet's town house filled with visitors. Rachel stood in a corner of the tasteful drawing room, awed by the glittering candlelight, softly murmuring cultured voices and muted laughter of Violet's guests. She'd almost forgotten all this, so much time had she spent on the frontier with its raw wood and coarse pioneer folk. She'd forgotten the feel of taffeta, the taste of goose liver. Forgotten that warm gatherings and happy times had once been part of her life.

Rachel watched Violet snag her banker even as he crossed the marble foyer. Before he could hang up his hat, Violet whispered something into his ear and together they moved with purpose to greet a younger man. Then the trio disappeared into the small alcove Violet referred to as her library.

Rachel circled the salon, nodding at her aunt's guests. A short time later, while reaching for a champagne flute from a silver tray, her gaze lit upon a sandy-haired man in his thirties. He appeared to be staring directly at her.

Was he from a detective agency, or some freelance agent who'd traced her from America? She'd used her alias while traveling and changed her hairstyle. He still watched her from behind a group of loud business types. She glanced toward the foyer, wonder how she might slip past him.

She never got the chance. She'd no sooner turned to set down her champagne glass when he approached her. "Madam Cordell, I'm Boyd Atkinson, a colleague of your aunt's investment banker. Mr. Soames seems to think you might be open to an offer of employment. Might we talk a moment?"

Rachel indicated the adjoining sitting room. She perched on the edge of the deep turquoise velvet sofa, eyes wary. "An offer of employment, you said."

"Yes, I need a clerk for my holding company in Yorkshire. I understand you're American and well educated. It's most regrettable you find yourself in such doleful circumstances, but perhaps a change of scene would help to cheer you."

"A change of scene." She was repeating his words like a trained parrot, but she was helpless to stop. It was either that or dissolve into hysterical laughter. Here she'd imagined being dragged off to some London prison, and the man had only been considering her for a job! He seemed nice enough. She forced herself to take a deep breath.

"I'm from Yorkshire, in the north. My partner and I have a small firm. I've concluded we must abandon haphazard reckoning for precise bookkeeping to improve our profits. A lick and a promise just won't do in these changing times, you see." She nodded. "My partner's forte is acquisition and financial negotiations. Administrative matters fall to me. Neither of us has time for auditing and posting. Therefore, I've decided to seek a clerk."

Rachel took a breath. "I've been living out West the past several years, sir. Far removed from my father's offices. The closest I've come to tallying anything lately was counting hen's eggs."

He laughed aloud. Rachel found herself warming to both the idea of the clerking post and the man himself. It was impossible to dislike someone with such a pleasant smile. It crinkled the skin around his clear blue eyes and lit up his whole face. "Still, you'd outshine the locals. My neighbors are uneducated farmers for the most part."

"But you seem educated."

"My partner and I are exceptions. We were tutored by a spinster as lads. The post would mean staying in our small village. I can't offer much in wages, but there's a cottage I rent for my partner. It happens to be vacant. The rent's modest and it's within walking distance of our offices."

"A position and a place to stay? I'd be foolish not to accept, wouldn't I?"

"I wouldn't leap to that conclusion," he responded easily.

"But you hoped I would," she teased gently. "I can see you're very much a man of trade. You're quite persuasive, Mr. Atkinson."

"If only my partner had heard that," he chuckled. "He thinks he's the only one with a talent for persuasion. I'm headed back Monday. You can think about it for a few days."

Violet floated in and settled beside Rachel, beaming at the young man. "Oh, do take the post, Rachel dear! I'll write your father you've gone to Yorkshire. Working with merchants and trade. I'm sure he'd approve. You'd be pioneering once again in a sense, you see?"

It was over in a trice. Rachel gave the man her verbal acceptance. He left soon afterward. The soiree ended before midnight on a pleasant note. Violet had gone to bed saying she was well pleased.

Rachel's mind raced as she brushed out her hair and prepared for bed. She'd pictured her adulthood filled with Independence Day picnics and lawn parties. She imagined playing hostess at home on Sunday afternoons, working beside her father weekdays at the factory. She'd have a husband and children and they'd all live harmoniously with Jeremiah at Hardwick house. Had that been so much to ask?

It must have been. Because when she turned sixteen her father announced she was to marry one of his factory workers. Papa had been drawn in by tales of virgin land out West and promises his daughter would have a wonderful future as the wife of a young farmer in one of the new territories. Though his daughter had cried and pleaded that she was too young to marry, Jeremiah had seen her wed to Cletus Nash.

That hallmarked her descent into misery.

She'd left the tall brick mansion in Philadelphia to cross the plains and head north into the Oregon Territory. The first year of her marriage had been spent in a Conestoga, then Cletus erected a ramshackle farmhouse on their parcel. He'd somehow expected his crops to raise and harvest themselves while he squandered his time in fledgling saloons. He soaked up liquor and fancied himself a gambler.

But he'd had very poor luck—which hadn't deterred him from raising his bets or thinking he could beat the likes of Grubstake Smith. There had been other fancy vests and card sharps. Too many to count. Then Cletus caught pneumonia and left Rachel widowed.

The only thing she'd inherited from Cletus was his rotten luck.

She'd wasted no time getting out of Oregon. She wanted to forget the misery of those frontier years. Forget the small marker at the edge of the fields and get home to Philadelphia and her father. But the rotten luck that had dogged her husband was her legacy. She met with a land speculator, signed papers and went to the bank. There was one last detail, a gambling debt to some Easterner, then everything out West would be settled. But she'd wound up accused of murder.

Even before she reached Philadelphia, newspapers published the lurid tale and her description. An old friend of her father's had become a town sheriff in the Midwest and wired Jeremiah that his daughter's face was on a Wanted poster. Jeremiah had already decided his daughter would be shipped off to stay with Violet in London until the tempest passed.

Only London had now been replaced with some obscure northern village. The better to bury the past....

Boyd arrived right on schedule Monday morning. He brought Rachel's trunk out to the waiting carriage as Rachel donned her cloak and checked the guest room to make sure she hadn't left anything behind. She descended the front steps and froze. Two uniformed policemen were talking with some of Violet's neighbors a few doors down the street. Violet and Boyd noticed, too.

"I wonder what that's all about," Boyd commented.

"Robbery," said Violet's next-door neighbor. He shook his head in disgust. "Someone broke into Geoffrey's place and made off with the good silver last night."

Violet's hand went to her throat and she fingered the garnet brooch pinned to the lace of her collar. "Oh, how awful! 'Tisn't safe anywhere these days." She glanced at Rachel and gave her a meaningful look. "But we mustn't detain you and your employer, Rachel. The authorities don't need to speak to you. You couldn't have heard a thing. After all, you know you sleep like a stone."

"Yes, I'm afraid I couldn't be of any help. Mr. Atkinson?" Rachel gave him an expectant look. He extended his arm and she climbed inside the coach.

"Have a good trip, dear," Violet called. "Off with you now!"

Violet all but shoved Boyd inside and slammed the carriage door, nearly catching the tails of his coat. Garnet brooch open in her hand, she slapped at the horse's glossy flank, giving it a solid jab. The animal snorted in surprise and bolted from its peaceful standstill. The carriage shot down the length of the street, jostling Boyd onto Rachel's lap.

He instantly flushed and jumped onto the seat across from her. "That was the most bizarre thing I've ever seen in my life. I could have sworn your aunt—"

"Dear me. I know, sir," Rachel interrupted. "I'm dreadfully sorry, but first encountering policemen and then the horse. Poor Violet's never been the same since the accident."

"Accident?"

Rachel coughed into her hand to mask her lie. "Her betrothed was an officer of the peace. He was killed by a runaway horse on his way to the policeman's ball."

Chapter 2

From Newcastle-Upon-Tyne the carriage headed inland across the broad moors. Rachel listened to Boyd and gazed at the passing scenery. Hazy skies were dotted here and there with clumps of whitish gray batting and a light but chill breeze had been blowing every since they'd left the inn that morning.

This was early summer. Rachel surmised winters here would not be terribly different from the wet misery she'd known in the Oregon territory. But this country-side was much prettier.

Boyd explained that he and his longtime friend held separate business interests, but had invested jointly in a livery and freight service and a small warehouse between Newcastle and the village of Crowshaven. Boyd owned the local tobacco shoppe. His partner, Morgan Tremayne, owned the local inn and a granary that had fallen to disuse. And they had recently formed the holding company of Atkinson & Tremayne, Ltd.

"I was in London negotiating with my tobacco supplier, but generally Morgan's the one who travels," Boyd told her. "He makes excursions often, so he uses a suite of rooms on the top floor of the inn and rents out his family cottage. That arrangement's suited to his erratic schedule."

Their driver swerved to the edge of the roadbed. Boyd thrust his head out the window and shouted something. Rachel caught a glimpse of a lone rider who shot past them on a dark gray horse. Boyd shouted again and the rider yelled an answer. Boyd glanced at Rachel and gave a hapless shrug. "As I said, he's off again."

"The maniac who nearly ran us off the road was the innkeeper? Your partner?" The mental image she'd formed of a sedate older gentleman instantly crumbled.

Crowshaven was visible now just beyond a gentle rise. Rachel grinned as she saw the town was nothing like she'd anticipated. No raw lumber or dirt floors; these were solid homes with glass windowpanes and stone foundations. As the carriage neared the heart of the village, her eyes took in the square with a sense of wonder and joy. Cobblestones! Real streets, not dirt and mire. It was darling, this quaint village. She liked the tiny shoppes and marketplace crowded with stalls and carts. Boyd pointed out his tobacco store and the chandlery, baker's, post office, livery stable, and blacksmith's. Just off the main square stood a large mercantile. The most imposing structure in the whole village was the Crowshaven Inn.

They swung in a circle to the outer edge of town. A row of houses dotted an angular bluff. The carriage stopped at the second house from the corner. "This is Morgan's cottage," Boyd announced.

Rachel sat unmoving. She'd pictured a single story bungalow. The weathered stone residence had a high gabled roof. Glittering diamond-shaped windowpanes flanked the front door and graced the second story. It was no mansion, but there was an undeniable charm about the place. Boyd escorted her up the front walk and into the parlor. It was snug though sparsely furnished.

A settee upholstered in a somber brown sat beside a cherry end table. A solitary armchair faced the open hearth. The chair's floral fabric matched the front window drapes. Beyond the parlor was a small kitchen. An alcove led to a pantry and a small bedchamber.

"Sorry about these," Boyd coughed, pulling the tattered kitchen curtains aside to display the rear garden. "There's a wire run to the fence for hanging out the wash. That stile leads to the alleyway." Rachel barely heard him. She was staring at the yard. There were flowers in bloom right outside her back door. Flowers, not knee-deep mud and a wooden privy!

Upstairs, the front bedchamber was dominated by a mahogany canopy bed and tall dresser. The bed's faded lace canopy and coverlet matched the curtains across the wide windows. The house featured a good many windows, Rachel noticed. A welcome change after years in a dark shanty. Across the hall, a narrow cot and small table faced the low bureau in the third bedroom.

"I trust the house is acceptable?" Boyd inquired.

"It's wonderful. You've very generous to let me stay here. I hope the owner isn't going to change his mind and decide to move back in."

"I wouldn't worry about that. Morgan hasn't lived here for years. As I said, he's quite comfortable at the inn. He lets this cottage on a yearly lease."

Rachel flinched inside at that news. She couldn't promise to stay a year. Not nearly that long, if there was any kindness left in the world! "I don't know whether I can commit to a full year, sir. Perhaps half that time." She was afraid she'd just ruined her chance at both the house and the post, but it had to be said.

"Widow Cordell—"

"Rachel, please."

"All right, Rachel," he smiled, "Don't feel you must make too many decisions all at once. Six months will be fine for now." He had the driver unload her trunk, and sternly shook his head when Rachel dug into her handbag. "I'll deduct the rent from your salary each week. I know you haven't much money. Your aunt explained the difficult circumstances that caused you to sell the farm after your husband's death. Pity, leaving you so indebted. But please don't worry, I won't repeat a word to anyone else."

"My aunt told you all about it, though." Violet, you wicked storyteller! I guess that's only fair after the balderdash I handed him about you and the horse.

Boyd coughed into a fist. "She led Mr. Soames to understand you'd had a rough time back on the frontier and arrived in England with limited resources. I don't mean to dwell on your misfortune. I thought I might ask my fiancee to look in on you tomorrow. Chrissandra would love to help you stock up on provisions. She adores any excuse to be out browsing. Please dine at the inn this evening and tell Mrs. Poole to put your meal on Morgan's account."

Rachel studied his face. "What's he like, sir? I feel a little strange moving into the man's home and eating at his inn, working in his office, yet we're complete strangers."

"Let's see. Some call him the Bargainer. He lives and breathes trade, which makes him the ideal partner for me. I believe there's more to life than commerce. Morgan believes life is commerce. He's a proud man, but not above plowing a field or making a delivery himself. Has a reputation for honoring his word. Something we literally bank upon. I think you'll get on. You seem the earnest sort, which he'll appreciate."

He was almost back in the carriage before she remembered to ask when she was expected at his office. "Take a few days to settle in," he called back. "I'll send Miss James by tomorrow and expect you Friday morning at nine."

Rachel closed the cottage door and turned to gaze again around the snug parlor. This musty but appealing little domicile was hers alone. The thought had her mind reeling. For the first time in her life, she would be residing alone. Working at a clerking post she had chosen to accept, eating meals when she wanted to fix them, bathing and sleeping and doing dozens of things when the whims—not Cletus—struck her. He'd been gone for over three months, but she hadn't been able to shake the horrid memories of all their years together.

Those bleak nights in the shack. The even worse times when his elder brother had come to stay for extended visits. The sour smell of liquor, stale smoke, vomit, and God knew what else on the men's clothes.

There would be no drunken fools to contend with here, no gropings, rushed apologies for imaginary failings.

She was really and truly alone.

Wanted as a criminal...and yet free for the first time in years. That thought brought her a strange peace that allowed her to rest easy in the strange new bed that night.

Rachel surveyed the cottage again the next day. The furniture was in good condition, but the kitchen curtains would have to be replaced. The hardwood floors in the parlor needed polishing. All she could do now was give the place a good clean sweep. She opened the front door and knocked a cloud of dust onto the porch.

"Good God! Why don't you watch what you're doing?"

An attractive and furious blonde woman shook off her brocade skirts. Rachel propped the broom against the wall. "I beg your pardon! Mr. Atkinson told me you'd be over today, Miss James, but I didn't expect you this early."

"I'm not Chrissandra. My name's Pamela Prine. I'm a close personal friend of the owner, Morgan Tremayne. He's away, so I thought I'd greet the new tenants. I'd like a word with your master or mistress, please."

Rachel extended her right hand. "I'm Rachel Cordell, Mr. Tremayne's new tenant. I'd ask you in, but I haven't a thing in the house to offer as refreshment."

"You're the tenant? Well, I hope your husband doesn't find our village too provincial, Mistress Cordell."

"My husband's in a grave back in America." Rachel gestured meaningfully at her own dark skirts.

"A widow? And a Colonial?"

"American, yes."

"Boyd is known to take pity on charity cases...which explains why he would rent to the likes of you. But I warn you, widow, the rest of us don't accept strangers so easily."

"So I see," Rachel observed dryly. "I'm also Mr. Atkinson's new clerk, so I'll be meeting other villagers soon."

"A woman can get only so far on pity, widow woman. Don't expect to turn other men's heads just because Boyd feels sorry for you."

Rachel's eyes narrowed. "Is Mr. Tremayne terribly handsome?" she asked. The flash of anger in the cold blue eyes told Rachel she'd guessed correctly. "I know he's young and has dark hair. He must be something, indeed. And I wonder which you favor most—his looks or his money?"

"Morgan's looks are of no concern to you, hireling."

"My, a handsome landlord. I can hardly wait to meet him."

"And I can hardly wait until you fall flat on your face! Which you will. A woman clerking," Pamela scoffed. "Preposterous."

"Excuse me," Rachel reached past her unwelcome visitor for the broom. "I'm not used to your English accent. Could you spell that last word for me?"

"What?" Pamela sputtered in outrage.

"I didn't think so." Rachel stepped back inside and slammed the door.

When a knock sounded later, Rachel was more cautious in greeting her visitor. This girl's hair fell in a gleaming platinum cloud around her shoulders. She had dramatic blue-green eyes that sparkled as she greeted Rachel. "I'm Boyd's fiancee, Chrissandra James. I've come to take you shopping."

Rachel explained her wariness had been in reaction to her first visitor. Chrissandra scowled. "That Pamela! She's the worst snob in town. My only reservation about Boyd hiring a woman as his clerk was the difficulty Pamela's bound to stir up. She's a vicious gossip and can't bear other womenfolk within a mile of Morgan. She won't make your tasks any easier."

"I get the impression Mr. Tremayne's the favorite son around here."

Chrissandra led her toward the square. "I've been in love with Boyd ever since I can remember. He and Morgan are best friends. Morgan's almost like a brother to me. He's gorgeous, and unlike most of the local men, yet he gets on with all of them. Well, you'll see."

They made a day of shopping and filling Rachel's larder. When the flour and sugar sacks were tucked inside the pantry, Rachel thanked Chrissy for her help.

"You're a refreshing change, Rachel. We've never had an American here for any length of time. A few have passed through, but you're the first to stay. Don't be put off by Pamela. For all the show, she's just another farmer's daughter. You'll make a wonderful clerk."

* * *

Rachel succeeded well enough at her new post, until it came time to audit the inn. Boyd had introduced her to Thomas and Emily Poole, the middle-aged couple who managed the place for Morgan. Boyd patiently explained how they were to complete the new tally sheet. Rachel would go by on Thursdays to collect the sheet and post the information into Morgan's ledger. But Rachel arrived to find the sheet blank.

"There were no sales last week?" she asked Thomas. "No purchases? No activity of any kind?"

He shrugged, running a hand through spiky gray hair. "Aye, sales aplenty, all right. Don't know how many rounds the men went through over Barker's birth announcement. His sixth. You'd think the effects would've worn off by now. Bless 'em again, Lord," he prayed, eyes lifted to the ceiling. "It's good for business!"

"Mr. Atkinson explained this," Rachel sighed. "I need to know what you sell each day and what you order every week. An empty sheet is useless."

Emily sniffed as she bustled past. "Don't have all day to go marking up papers. Got beef and cabbages to boil. Roasts don't make themselves, you know."

"I realize that, but it only takes a moment once a day to mark the tally. Surely you could spare that."

Emily bristled. "Never known such folderol in my life! Why can't I just tell you what's what when you come in each week? Always done it that way before Boyd hatched his notions about tallies."

"If you're too busy, perhaps Thomas can do it," Rachel suggested.

"He agrees it's nonsense, don't you, Thomas?" Emily shot her husband a pointed look. He muttered something and ducked behind the polished oak bar. A patron with a full tankard in his hand leaned over the bar. The craven barkeep rose to give a nodding answer, then ducked out of sight again. The customer straightened and turned to pin Rachel with his gaze.

She caught her breath. The man was dressed like any other farmer, with muddy boots and a rumpled shirt beneath an open vest. Black breeches clung to trim, well-muscled thighs. The sun had tanned his skin a deep bronze. Dark, shoulder-length hair was tied back at the nape of his neck and formed a thick mustache that obscured the upper lip of a sensual mouth.

But the man's eyes were what transfixed her. They were unexpectedly light. A pale pewter, totally arresting against such dark coloring. Rachel found it hard to ignore the strong physical reaction she had to his gaze. He made her feel as though she were standing there naked.

He crossed to where she and Emily stood. "Young lady has a point, Emily. If Atkinson's going to send her over each week, the least you can do is have the numbers ready. I know you ken what she needs."

Rachel was studying the floor in an attempt to avoid his eyes. She almost succeeded in appearing indifferent until he spoke. His voice seduced her in a deep, rich timbre. Her gaze lifted to catch his wink at the inn's matron. "Whether she knows how to properly utilize the figures is something else again. Let's have a look." He reached for the ledger in Rachel's arms.

Rachel found her tongue and stepped back to evade his grasp. "Excuse me, but we're capable of resolving this, sir. If the information is provided to me, I'll make the proper calculations."

Emily glanced up at the man now, uncertainty on her face. Her tone became more petulant. She wiped chapped hands down her apron front. "Will you please explain what it's like running this place, sir? She's no idea. Spends her day resting her bottom over at the office."

Amused gray eyes swept over Rachel in a shameless appraisal, lingering on her backside. "Hasn't done her bottom any harm, Emily. Perhaps you should sit more."

Rachel was flabbergasted. Emily offered no objection to the randy comment, but Rachel wasn't feeling so charitable. She was plainly dressed in mourning attire. The presumptuous cad was asking to have his face slapped. She was about to say so when he turned back to Emily. "Excuse us." He pressed strong fingers against the small of Rachel's back. "Let's step outside."

Rachel found herself on the broad porch before she could protest. Seconds later she did, and quite clearly. "Your behavior is distressing, to put it mildly, sir. I'm recently widowed and don't appreciate your leering attentions. Don't you have anything better to do than pester women?"

He gave her an insolent grin and seized the ledger from her arms. God, but he was irritating! And striking as a gypsy. Still, he was just another farmer with a lot of audacity and mud on his boots. She couldn't let his exceptional good looks affect her. "Sir, return that book or I'll be forced to send for Mr. Atkinson."

"Slippin', boy!" came a jocular voice from behind them. "Bosom like that and you're oglin' your books? Must be some profit this week!"

Rachel's eyes widened in horror. It couldn't be!

"Archie, the lady's a widow," came the teasing protest, uttered as a meaty hand clapped down on the younger man's broad shoulder. "Watch your tongue!"

"I should have a partner like young Atkinson. Hired you a little jewel, didn't he?"

"Aye. Not one mistake in her addition." Glancing at Rachel, the handsome one nodded, perfect teeth showing below his dark mustache. "I'm suitably impressed." He handed over the ledger. "Plainly there's more to our young widow than meets the eye, though no man would complain on that score."

Rachel waited until they were alone on the porch. "You might have introduced yourself, Mr. Tremayne! I thought...I assumed you were a farmer."

"Farmer?" Glancing down at his boots, he released a hearty laugh. "For a few hours today, that would have been accurate." His deep laughter had the same alluring quality as his speaking voice.

She edged away. "Could you speak to Emily again about the tally sheet? I'm only trying to be of help, sir."

"Are you headed home now, Widow?"

"Yes, but I have to drop off the ledger at the office first."

"I'll save you the stop. I'll see you home and take the ledger back to the office. I generally make a point of checking on my new tenants, but I've been away the past week or so."

"I know," Rachel asserted. "Mr. Atkinson and I were nearly run off the road in our coach that day. Do you always ride so fast and recklessly?"

"Only when I'm in a hurry," he answered, reaching for her elbow. She stiffened at his touch. "I don't bite, you know, Clerk."

"There's no need to visit the cottage, sir. Mr. Atkinson and Miss James helped me settle in, and Miss Prine has called on your behalf."

"So you've met her." He didn't sound surprised. They crossed the cobble-stoned square, Morgan nodding to folks they passed along the street. He waved to a wizened stranger in a rickety wagon, then boldly strode up Rachel's front walk. She stared as he fished a ring of keys out of a pocket. This particular man having a key readily at his disposal made her nervous, but she held her tongue. He was perfectly within his rights as landlord.

"Do you have a name, Clerk?" The question came as the keys dropped out of sight.

"Rachel Cordell," she answered as she preceded him into the parlor. "As you can see, the house is satisfactory. There are some minor points we might discuss, though, since you're here."

"Such as?"

"The floors need polishing. If you can't send someone to do it, perhaps I might have a rug. And I'd like to replace the kitchen curtains. If you'll reimburse me for the fabric, I'll sew a new set myself."

Morgan glanced around, noting a womanly touch evident in minor changes her and there. He'd had female tenants before. Married women intent on pleasing their husbands. This was a widow, who'd done these things solely to please herself. A throw pillow on the settee, vase of flowers on the kitchen table, scent of lemon oil in the parlor. Subtle touches he doubted anyone else would notice. But Morgan knew this house well, and found himself oddly gratified by the changes.

He cleared his throat. "I'll send Thomas to polish the floors. I've no objections to new curtains, assuming your sewing is as good as your ciphering."

"Thank you, sir. And thank you for seeing me home, but—"

"I'd take a cup of tea." He took a seat in the parlor, watching her reaction. Any local female would have already offered tea and excuses for him to tarry. This little vixen had practically dismissed him from his own bloody residence!

Morgan wondered what sort of man she'd been wed to: strapping lumberjack, or some simpering bank teller? Archie had been right about the fine bosom. That thought led Morgan to wonder if her trim waist led to equally slim legs. It was impossible to tell beneath the voluminous dark skirts. Aye, dark skirts befitting a widow in mourning. There was nothing the least bit provocative in her dress or demeanor. Odd that he found himself very aware of her.

The somber fabric only served to highlight her tawny coloring. She had luminous brown eyes and gleaming auburn hair. Damned attractive morsel, in the most devastating way. Carelessly, naturally. He sensed this one wasn't the sort to primp and fuss as other women did.

He imagined brushing her dark hair and inhaling the scent of it, wrapping his hands in her tresses. He'd tilt her head back and explore that sweet mouth...What the devil's come over you, Morgan? The woman's husband just died!

He realized she was speaking to him. Something about being out of tea. Out of tea? Perhaps it was the manure on his boots. His reliable effect on the ladies was having none on this one. But she wasn't supposed to entertain strange men in her parlor, was she? The whole point of the black was to keep men like him at bay. He knew that. He also knew she was one of the most intriguing women he'd yet to encounter. This little American was different.

She planted herself by the door. "I'm glad we finally met, Mr. Tremayne. I'm very comfortable here. I like the house. Thank you again for checking the premises. Perhaps I'll see you tomorrow at the office." She handed him back the heavy ledger.

"Good day, Widow," he nodded.

Rachel kept a smile on her face until she'd closed the door behind him. It had been all she could do to resist slamming it off its hinges. Letting her stand there like a ninny while he reviewed his books! He must have known she had no idea she'd been talking to her employer. Then he'd insisted on walking her home as an excuse to snoop around. She should have guessed the rogue's identity from his looks and manner. Emily's behavior should have warned her.

"You idiot," Rachel muttered, trudging upstairs to her bedchamber. She unfastened the collar of her dress and froze.

The accursed man was standing across the street, looking right up at her! She realized he could make out her silhouette through the lace curtains. She backed away and aligned herself with the nearest bedpost. Eventually he turned and walked off, but not before offering a stiff bow. He'd known she'd been watching him, as well.

Chapter 3

Rachel arrived at the office the next day and heard masculine voices in a heated debate in Boyd's private back room. The door was closed, but she plainly overheard Morgan express strong displeasure over Boyd's decision to employ her. The argument ended. The door flew open. Rachel jumped and fumbled with her shawl as though she'd just walked in. She turned to offer Morgan a smile of greeting, but he didn't meet her gaze.

He said nothing as he took a seat behind the empty desk directly across from hers. She silently cursed her luck again. First yesterday afternoon's embarrassment at the inn. Now she found herself only a few feet from him. Every time she looked up, he'd be right in front of her! The situation couldn't be worse. Evidently when she hadn't swooned at his feet, the local rake had no use for her. Looking at him now, it was hard to believe she'd ever mistaken him for a common farmer.

He wore a crisp linen shirt and a coat of deep blue over fawn-colored breeches. His dark hair was neatly tied back and a trace of cologne wafted to her desk. He was, as Chrissy had foretold, unlike the other village men. None of them had such bronze skin or his aura of confidence. They were plow horses. This man was a thoroughbred.

She watched him peruse several documents before placing his signature at the bottom. Then he reached for sealing wax and placed his cachet beneath his name. Though she'd heard of the practice, she had never witnessed it firsthand before. She'd thought only noblemen still resorted to such pompous ceremony, and then only for affairs of state. She stifled a laugh.

"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. I haven't adjusted to having you here in the office yet," she stammered. She sounded like an idiot, but she hadn't expected him to be so harsh. What on earth had bitten him?

"You mean I'm not what you expected in a rural innkeeper," he replied. "I sympathize. 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 a portly old country gentleman. 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 and 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, "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, Widow."

"Oh? Are you deliberately trying to provoke me, sir?" 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 shambles in his absence. I've never had the heart to inform him otherwise."

Morgan grimaced at his partner 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," came her terse reply.

"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 anger in his eyes.

"Either I'm being interrogated, or interviewed for an article in the newspaper. I can't tell which."

"I was attempting to make innocuous 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 same, there would be no problem. You and your neighbors would congratulate yourselves on your new addition to the populace. 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."

"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 for my review before you leave this evening. I'll inspect them tomorrow morning."

He found three mistakes. 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 she wouldn't, she told herself. He didn't matter. She was here for sanctuary, not 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 had 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 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 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 handbag. She knew from more than one conversation she'd overheard in the offices between the partners that neither man liked the man who owned the mercantile, Arnold Somersdale. Morgan in particular seemed to harbor a powerful animosity toward the older man. Having met the fellow when she visited the large store, she couldn't blame anyone for their aversion.

Which made Morgan's implication all the more disgusting and shocking. 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.

"That question 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! Though rather immodest, even for you. 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."

"Do I understand you correctly?" He'd made her angry before, but he'd outdone himself this time.

"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?"

"Yes, yours." She paced in the aisle between their desks. "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, but there was a warmth, almost amusement in 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. "I understand circumstances only too well." 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 fascinated by his blank 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?

"Arnold Somersdale is the only ineligible candidate," Morgan snapped. "Any other Yorkshire bachelor is potentially acceptable. I shall have a word with Somersdale. I want it clear he's to leave you alone."

She slammed her finger in the drawer in her haste to close it. "Ow! Sir, I've told you there's nothing between us. I'd prefer you didn't say anything to him."

"I'd prefer a clerk who follows instructions to one who believes it her place to give them." He turned on his heels and left. She frowned after him, thinking her broken nail and throbbing index finger were all his fault. Him with his nonsense about Somersdale!

He came storming back a half-hour later and threw two sheets of paper in her face. "Just what the bloody hell are these? Why shouldn't I fire you, Widow Cordell? You lied to me!" He'd been angry before, but never shouted at her.

She smoothed the crumpled papers, wrinkling her nose in disgust. The sheets reeked of perfume. She scanned the pages and went a deep scarlet. The notes were to the owner of the mercantile, and posed lurid suggestions that made Rachel's skin crawl.

Somersdale ranked as one of the ugliest men she'd ever known. He had a few sparse black hairs on the top of his head, which he combed east to west in an attempt to hide a large bald spot. He had a pinched nose and bulging eyes. The man was a human ostrich, and there was no change she'd ever want to engage in the activities those letters described with him.

"Is this someone's idea of a joke?" she asked Morgan. "I've never seen these before. I certainly never sent them! No wonder he thought I wanted more than fabric from him that night a the cottage."

Morgan reached for one of the letters, his fingers brushing hers. She felt a tingling awareness, but he appeared indifferent to the sensation. He was holding a sheet of the scented paper next to one from her desktop. She knew the penmanship didn't match. "You didn't write these," he concluded. "I take it they don't convey your sentiments?"

She was aghast. "I've never written a man a personal letter in my life. I can't imagine a woman debasing herself by writing such things. I don't wear perfume; it makes me sneeze. And I can spell, sir. The word 'evening' has two N's."

Morgan knew she spoke the truth. She'd been his employee for a good many weeks. Never once had he caught an error in spelling. He could call out a word and she'd unerringly rattle off the letters in proper sequence.

He didn't let himself dwell on thoughts about feminine perfume. Rachel had a scent all her own, unique and magnetic. He concentrated on the papers. "Why would someone forge these?"

Rachel gave a mirthless laugh. "That's obvious. Didn't you just threaten to fire me? How better to discredit me than plant a link between me and your enemy?"

"I wonder what else has been contrived," he said thoughtfully, squinting to peer out the front windows.

"Else?" She held her breath. He couldn't possibly have learned the truth about her.

"I'm afraid some nasty rumors are circulating about you, Widow Cordell. I've perhaps been too gullible and accepted them. My apologies, Rachel."

Words failed her. He'd never apologized openly before. No matter how rudely he spoke to her, not even when he'd thrown the stranger out of their offices. He'd also never called her Rachel. He was looking at her expectantly. She had to say something.

"I suspect Miss Prine wrote the letters. We got off to a bad start. She warned me that she expected I'd fail as your clerk. Perhaps she wanted to ensure my failure."

"I'm afraid what you suggest is entirely possible. The woman's prone to fits of jealousy." He rolled his eyes. "It's not a pretty sight."

Rachel shrugged. "I can think of no one else who would purposely do me ill. Unless you wrote them."

"I realize your opinion of me is less than charitable, but surely you don't believe that."

"I don't know. I didn't believe you'd try to have me fired just because I didn't make you a cup of tea at the cottage, either."

He stunned her by laughing aloud. "Let me atone. Have supper with me at the inn tonight."

"We've never had a civil conversation that lasted five minutes, Mr. Tremayne," she snorted in derision. "I can just see the two of us now. Food and insults flying all over the place."

"You're mistaken, Madam Cordell. We've just had a rather lengthy discussion this morning. We might be less inclined to disagree if we searched for common ground. And I, for one, do not throw food."

She groaned as she read over the forgeries again. "I'll never be able to walk into that mercantile again knowing Mr. Somersdale believes I wrote these salacious notes."

"You have no need to go there. I made it quite clear he's to avoid contact with you."

"I hope you didn't insult him."

His expression hardened. "I didn't call him out into the street with my six-guns blazing, as one of your countrymen would have done. We Englishmen have more civilized ways of settling our differences."

"So I've heard. Dueling pistols at twenty paces. Very civilized."

"I happen to own a set of dueling pistols. In some circles, dueling is still considered quite the manly art."

"Only by men," she assured him. "Few women would see it as artistic. Paint on canvas is art. Blood spattering everywhere is savagery."

"Was your husband killed in a duel, widow?"

She took down a ledger and opened it, signaling her wish to end the discussion. "Still probing for background information to write that newspaper story, sir?"

"You may be correct about supper, Widow Cordell. I might be tempted to fling my potatoes and gravy into your hair, after all." He abruptly left.

Rachel watched him stride down the street and turn onto the main square, noting the angry set of his shoulders. She tried to push away the suspicion forming in the recesses of her mind. He'd said he didn't dislike her...Morgan was many things, but not a liar.

He'd apologized for misjudging her. Remarked that he found her attractive. Even seemed stung when she hadn't accepted his offer of supper. Did that mean....?

"Oh, don't be ridiculous, Richelle!" she huffed aloud. "And don't forget, deep down that's who you are. Rachel doesn't exist, remember? You made her up in order to hide."

She repeated those phrases over and over like a Gregorian chant on her way to the cottage, her thoughts in a cadence matching that of her heels along the cobblestones. It doesn't matter what they think of you, any of them. You'll be going back to America soon. These people don't even know you. Don't let yourself care what Morgan thinks.

The rational, thinking part of her knew that was the wisest course. But a last little corner of her heart—so weary of clinging to empty dreams, of trying to do right while everything still turned out all wrong—that last little part of her, wonderful traitor, refused to listen.

Chapter 4

It was just before three in the afternoon. Morgan entered his private rooms above the inn to find Pamela curled atop his bed in a sultry pose. Clad only in her undergarments, she sucked in a breath. "Morgan! I've missed you." She ran her fingertips along the insides of her thighs. "You're always busy. Haven't you missed afternoons here with me?"

He stepped closer to the bed. "Sorry, I've had other priorities."

She rose onto her knees and reached for his belt buckle. "Shame on you. I should be your priority, Mr. Tremayne. You deserve to be punished for neglecting me so. You've earned twenty lashes."

He caught her hands in his. She glanced up into his stern face and laughed. "Sweetheart, I promise you'll like this game! Now take your punishment like a man." Her tongue moistened her lips suggestively.

"I wonder how you'll take your punishment, Pamela. You've been busy too. Writing love letters to another man. Spreading malicious gossip. Exercising your jealous streak. I've told you before I won't tolerate being manipulated."

"I don't know what you're talking about. I haven't written any letters." She tried to pull away, but he held both her wrists, his scowl deepening.

"Come now! You forged letters from my clerk to Arnold Somersdale. You lied to me, claimed they'd been seen together several times. Don't pretend you don't know what I mean." He released her without warning, sending her sprawling back onto the mattress.

"I merely passed along what I heard." She tried her best to look mortally wounded, rubbing both arms. "I thought you should be told. I never forged any letters. The slut lied if she claimed I did. You'd take the word of that Colonial?" He'd heard petulance in her tone before, but today it verged on strident.

"I've spoken to Arnold and seen the letters. Rachel didn't pen them. I know your perfume, Pamela. That was a stupid trick." To Morgan's practiced eye, it appeared she still entertained hopes of seducing him. She didn't understand her wiles weren't having the desired effect. Not today. Not ever again.

She shrugged in feigned indifference. "You complained that Boyd refused to admit he'd made a mistake and let her go. I tried to help you. A liaison with Somersdale would give you the ideal cause to rid yourself of that unwanted baggage. If the tart slept with him, she deserves what befalls her."

"She hasn't." Morgan stalked out of the bedchamber and retired to his adjoining sitting room. He settled into a dark leather chair. His head ached. The padded leather upholstery made coping with this unpleasantness only slightly easier.

Pamela reluctantly dressed, finally acknowledging defeat. "Well then, no harm done. I don't understand the fuss."

Morgan snorted in poorly disguised sarcasm. "You don't understand simple facts. I've no interest or energy for playing games. You don't grasp the concept that trade and commerce are what matter most in my life. The American woman is important. She's a capable clerk and provides me with rental income. She's a decent, quiet tenant. Your little ploy could have disrupted everything."

"That stupid chit waits on you like a chambermaid! Everyone in town knows we're practically betrothed," Pamela huffed. "It's an insult to me that you'd have that slut at your beck and call."

"We're not even remotely close to any such binding union, my dear. I have everything I need here." He gestured at his chambers. "I've no incentive to take on the burden of a wife, particularly if she demands to be my first priority."

He reached for the liquor bottle on the low table beside his chair. Finding the bottle empty, he frowned and tossed it to the floor. "Well, almost everything I need. Out of brandy." Now he glanced up to meet Pamela's furious glare. "Your scheme failed. Rachel needs a job. She'll stay on as my clerk and tenant. You did achieve one thing with this rot of yours, though. You opened my eyes to the liability I incur having a woman around with jaundiced views."

"Rachel needs a job," Pamela mimicked. "I'm not fooled by that little tramp in her widow's weeds! And I'm not the only one who mistrusts her. Always butting her nose in where it's not wanted. Poor Thomas can't pour a pint downstairs without answering to her for it."

"Indeed!" Morgan shot to his feet. "Thomas and Emily work for me, remember? I can't let them give a free pint away to every milksop with a tale of woe. The same's true for Boyd and his tobacco. Rachel looks after our interests."

Pamela made an unladylike noise in her throat. "And you look right back. I've seen you measuring her bosom and hips with your eyes. Don't tell me you haven't thought of bedding that refugee from the cow town saloons."

Morgan knew he was supposed to vehemently deny it. This was where Pamela expected him to grovel and patch things up. It didn't matter that she'd caused the trouble. Pamela never apologized. Remorse was virtually unknown to her.

He couldn't resist grinning as he gave her the last answer she expected.

"You're right, Pamela. I've thought about it. I've pictured her naked beneath me in that canopy bed at the cottage. I've wondered how she'd taste and feel. Whether I ever act upon those thoughts is up to her, not you. I'd better not hear more rumors about Rachel or find you here again uninvited. Your father's loan payments can be accelerated."

"You bastard!"

He threw a disgusted glance over his shoulder as he went out. "Take the back stairs, eh, Pam? We wouldn't want townspeople talking."

* * *

Pamela lurked on the cottage porch, Rachel discovered with dismay. It was nearly dusk, but even from a distance she spotted the pale hair and knew it didn't belong to Chrissy. Chrissy would have rushed forward with a friendly greeting. Rachel thought about turning back, but it was too late.

"Evening, widow. I've come for a word with you."

"If you mean you've come to admit culpability for those awful love notes, save your breath. I know you're behind them."

"We should talk inside," Pamela pressed.

Rachel admitted her into the parlor. "Let me guess. You're here to suggest I leave the holding company of my own volition. Why would I do that, after coming clear from London to take the clerking post?"

"Because you'll never have Morgan. He'd consider you a temporary amusement, at best."

"As opposed to you, a permanent affliction. You're an amazing creature, Miss Prine," Rachel observed. "Anyone else would be too embarrassed to show her face here."

"I have nothing to be embarrassed about," Pamela retorted. "I'm not the one without two coins to rub together. I can make it worth your while to give up clerking."

"You'd pay me so your 'close personal friend' doesn't have to? That's ludicrous."

"The arrangement here is what's ludicrous! The men pay you, then you turn around and pay Morgan rent. Why doesn't Morgan just pay himself? Unless it's for the sake of appearances."

"Appearances?" Rachel could hardly believe her ears. The woman had all but accused her of sleeping with the landlord! "Rental of this cottage was included in the terms of my post. I'd have to pay to live somewhere."

"As if Boyd hasn't let this place to you for a song!" Pamela scoffed. "He hired you and made you Morgan's tenant to spite me. Atkinson may think he's clever, but my father's one of the wealthiest farmers in this region. We can undo what Boyd's done."

"Your father's money doesn't interest me."

"You can't enjoy the drudgery of that office. Or poking your nose into everyone else's business, creating resentment wherever you go. You wouldn't abase yourself if you didn't need the income." Pamela released a tinny laugh. "Name a sum, widow dear. I'll pay your fare back to London, or even America. The farther the better."

"Just like that?"

Pamela snapped her fingers. "Just like that. Neither of us the loser. Women ought to run the world, don't you think?"

"A provocative notion. But if you already had power, you'd have no need for someone like Mr. Tremayne. You know he's an arrogant, selfish boor. Not worth the struggle you're waging."

"Not worth it?" Pamela repeated, staring intently at Rachel's face. "You wouldn't say that if—Well, well, well! Perhaps I was mistaken about you."

"Very mistaken, if you thought I'd leave this village merely because my presence here makes you uncomfortable."

"I see I must be painfully frank. Morgan's asked me to marry him. Soon I'll be mistress of this house. Obviously you'll have to depart. You should have taken my offer." Pamela rose and headed for the door, pausing to give Rachel a meaningful look. "I shan't repeat any of this to my future husband. He wouldn't be pleased to learn you dislike him so. He might decide to terminate you right away. Wouldn't that be a pity? You'd lose that traveling money. You had your chance."

"Yes, my first morning here. I should have hit you smack in the mouth with my broom."

Chapter 5

Chrissandra appeared at noon as promised. She and Rachel had devised a plan. Chrissandra and Boyd were to wed in the spring. Boyd had arranged a crew of Sheffield masons to build a second house on the Atkinson farmlands for the newlyweds, but work hadn't begun because Boyd hadn't finalized building plans. Chrissy had persuaded Rachel to help her draw him away from the offices. Rachel announced he had a visitor, and Boyd came into the outer reception area. Chrissy plied him with her most dazzling smile. "The builders are waiting for us, Boyd. No more excuses. We must review our plans today."

"Dearest, if it were any other time, but I've an important errand in Newcastle-Upon-Tyne this afternoon."

Rachel jumped in. "Sir, couldn't it wait until tomorrow? Perhaps I could—"

"That's very thoughtful, Rachel, but I truly can't spare the time out of the office." He gave Chrissy a look of reproach. "And I'm not pleased you've dragged my clerk into your scheme, young lady."

Morgan slammed a drawer shut. "It's a bloody henhouse in here! Man can't keep his thoughts together with all the infernal racket. I'll take the packet to Newcastle. Boyd, take this lady out for the afternoon so Madam Cordell can get back to work." He tossed Rachel a glower even as he snatched Boyd's hat from its peg beside the front door. "The masons are waiting."

"But Morgan, I need to review the documents with Boswell."

"I can do it as easily, and mayhap finish drafting up a new delivery contract if I can put an end to this female caterwauling. Get Chrissandra out to the farm and settle things. I'll do your errand. It's not as though you don't cover for me often enough."

There was a silence after Boyd and Chrissandra left, then Rachel heard a low sound she realized was Morgan chuckling. She looked up at him. "He'll be out to skewer me when he realizes we all conspired together. Chrissy told me he'd be stubborn about it."

"And you sat there complaining—"

"I have a reputation to uphold." He disappeared into Boyd's private room and returned with a thick packet under one arm. "Get your shawl, Madam Cordell. We're bound for Newcastle."

"With both you and Mr. Atkinson away, I should stay here."

"You know, madam, I've never seen your name chiseled above the door. Mine is, though. Which would seem to indicate I'm in charge here."

He walked her to the livery stable and had the stable boy hitch a pair of horses to a delivery wagon. They rode in silence. Morgan pulled the rig to a halt before a large stone building. He helped Rachel down and tied the reins to a lamppost. Rachel agreed to wait in front as he disappeared through a pair of thick oak doors.

But it was dull just standing there, so Rachel took to browsing along the lane. She paused to study a porcelain lamp prominently displayed in one shop window.. The milky porcelain of the lamp's globe featured gaily-painted light pink roses and green tendrils. Rachel glanced away. The lamp beckoned. She admired it once more, deciding it was truly beautiful.

"What ye lookin' at, Dolly?" The stranger's grimy fingertip left a smear on the window near Rachel's nose as he pointed to the object inside. "That lamp there? Pretty piece, all right."

"Here on your lonesome, lass?" The dirty fellow beside her had an even filthier companion. He saw the look in her eyes and laughed. "We're sweeps, Miss. Watch it, else you'll have soot on your skirts." He glanced down and smirked. "Then, no one would notice, seein' as how they be the color of soot, anyway."

"Indeed. This young lady's in mourning," Morgan supplied stiffly.

Rachel thought of the stranger he'd tossed out of the office. She tucked her arm through his and offered a relieved smile.. "There you are, sir. I was admiring that lamp. Could we go inside? I'd like to inquire what the shopkeeper's asking for it."

The merchant beamed at them as they crossed his threshold. "Can I be of assistance?"

"Yes, I was wondering how much you're asking for—"

"Another time, madam." Morgan pulled her back outside. "I told you to stay outside the office building. Instead I find you half a block away, cozying up to scum off the street. Now you want to dicker over a lamp. This isn't a shopping excursion."

"I know, Mr. Tremayne, but it reminds me of my mother. She grew flowers like those in our garden. It's a particularly beautiful lamp."

"There are lamps at the cottage. If you need more light, buy yourself some candles." He started back up the street, glanced over at their rig and horses, then headed for a pub across the way.

Rachel spotted a wooden bench farther up the sidewalk. She pulled away from him and plopped onto the bench, crossing her legs. Her upper foot kicked at nothing. Morgan continued a few paces, then doubled back to confront her.

"What's come over you?" he demanded. "Did I destroy your hopes for the evening by running off your sooty friends?"

"I want that lamp." She enunciated each word with cold precision.

"You want that lamp." This was repeated in a tone of incredulity she didn't appreciate one bit.

"Yes, Mr. Tremayne, I want that lamp. And you are the most insensitive man I've ever met."

Christ, but the wench was stubborn, Morgan told himself. "The little card by the base said he's asking roughly the equivalent of twenty dollars in American money, Rachel. You can't afford such frippery. You don't need the lamp, and you certainly can't afford it."

"How do you know?" she snapped without thinking. "It so happens my husband gave a land speculator an option on our property in Oregon. After his death, I completed the sale. I have money back in America. I'm not a total pauper, sir. If I were, I'd take Pamela's offer and buy myself the lamp on my way out of Crowshaven. I'd be only to happy to bid it and you farewell."

Tittering laughter from passing shoppers made Rachel blush. She hadn't realized she'd spoken so loudly. "Confounded females!" Morgan growled low. He caught her fingers in his. "If you've finished making a public spectacle of us both, I'd like to show you something. Will you walk with me, or must I drag you like a spoiled child on her way to the woodshed?"

She rose and let him draw her to an open area overlooking the Tyne river. He dropped her hand and rested both fists on the stone embankment. He stared down at the water.

"Forgive my presumption, Madam Cordell. It appears I was mistaken about your finances. How would I know you had funds back in America, or anything else, for that matter? You've bit my head off for asking about your private life. Reticence is one thing,

but—"

Rachel needed to change the subject. "Forgive me, sir, but just what am I supposed to see? You said you would show me something."

"Aye." He gestured expansively. "Newcastle-Upon-Tyne. The activity along the river. England. What we're about, Boyd and I."

Rachel gazed across the embankment wall and actually focused on the bustling scene before her. She'd been so angry she hadn't noticed the city itself, reminiscent of her own beloved Philadelphia. Small piers and moorings dotted the riverbanks. Men stooped their shoulders beneath crates and barrels being loaded onto boats of varying sizes. A fishmonger loudly hawked his wares, shouting to be heard above the din of wagons and horse-drawn carts jostling to deliver or receive goods from the skiffs and barges.

Morgan had told her Newcastle was a direct trade point leading north into Scotland, but she was still surprised to see knobby knees poking out beneath plaid kilts worn by a group of young ruffians. They engaged in a verbal debate about ancestry and a possible blood tie to a herd of sheep with a pair of Yorkshire farmers.

Reddening at the coarse language, she ventured a sideways glance at Morgan to see his reaction, but he appeared to be staring off at a large wagon being unloaded near a warehouse doorway. Suddenly he turned back to her. "What was that you said about Pamela?"

She'd forgotten she'd blurted the woman's name in her fit of pique. "It's not important."

"It is to me. I don't like conspiracies, Widow." He led her back to the pub and took a table by the front window. A pitcher of ale and two tankards were plunked down by the barkeep, who winked at Morgan as he hustled past.

Rachel's cheeks began to stain as she realized the significance of that wink. She noted the facial expressions of the other patrons. Her relationship to the handsome man with her had been misconstrued. They think we're two lovers who've had a quarrel. The little traitor inside her had taken over the citadel and was shouting from the parapet. Admit it, you wish it were true! You wish you were lovers...who could kiss and make up. She glanced at his lips. Oh God!

The truth plowed over her like a runaway stagecoach. How and when had she let this catastrophe befall her? She'd fallen in love with him! Abruptly she jumped to her feet. "This isn't—It's not proper for me to be here. I should wait outside while you have your ale."

He poured ale into both tankards without glancing up at her. "Sit down and answer my question. What exactly did Pamela offer you and when?"

She eased back onto the edge of her seat. "She offered traveling expenses back to London. Or even America. But that was when—" She went a deeper scarlet.

"When what?"

She couldn't admit Pamela's suspicion that they'd slept together. "After I found out about the letters. She came to the cottage and I accused her of writing them. She wouldn't admit she had. I wouldn't take the money she offered, so we reached a stalemate. She told me about the betrothal."

Rachel's heart sank. He was going to marry Pamela. The knowledge hurt. She had no chance with him, no business wanting him. She watched him drink his ale, still wondering how his lips would taste, wondering where she'd lost her common sense.

"I haven't heard any announcement. Whose betrothal?"

Rachel nearly choked. "Yours, sir."

Morgan silently cursed. Pamela's taunts came back. Boasting of an engagement when none existed was despicable enough to be one of her ruses. Rachel indicated their conversation had taken place a few days after the forged letters to Somersdale, which meant it was also after Pamela's visit to his room and his warning. Pamela obviously had no intention of heeding it. "She maintained I'd proposed to her?"

"Does that mean you didn't?" The question was asked so softly, he almost didn't hear it. She couldn't be asking out of personal interest. Not Widow Cordell. She couldn't be. But her dark eyes studied his face too closely for it to be anything else. Christ!

"Nay, I didn't. Nor will I, particularly in light of the Somersdale forgeries and this new lie. Her appalling lack of judgment doesn't endear her to me."

Rachel glanced out the window. "It's late, Mr. Tremayne. I need to get home."

He paid the barkeep and led Rachel back to the wagon. She placed a hand on his arm as she climbed up, but made certain she sat as far away from him on the seat as possible. Her mind was in turmoil on the ride back to Crowshaven. Why had she ever spoken so plainly? Did he guess her distant manner hid her true feelings?

They were back inside the village proper before Morgan broke the silence. "You asked me for a list of suitable bachelors."

"I was taunting you that morning, Mr. Tremayne. I don't actually expect you to write one out."

They pulled up in front of the cottage. "The question is whether to include myself."

Rachel wanted to drop through the floorboards. Had he been reading her mind? She tried to sound offhand. "Well, you are a bachelor. Theoretically, there's no reason why your name couldn't be included. But it's not of any significance, as I'm still in mourning."

He walked her to the porch and reached for his set of keys. "There are several reasons why my name should not appear. I'm your employer as well as your landlord. You seem to prefer the company of chimney sweeps and wayfarers. You refused my offer of supper, lest you be tempted to hurl insults and victuals at me. And there's the fact that you won't address me by my Christian name."

She slid past him into the house. "Tell Mr. Atkinson I'll finish the posting in the morning. I won't let on you deceived him into meeting with the masons, though I'm sure Chrissy will want to thank you. Good evening, Mr. Tremayne."

"Morgan," he corrected as she closed the door. "Good evening, Rachel."

Chapter 6

Long October shadows slanted across the floor of the office. Chrissy's pale hair shone like a halo as she chattered about the upcoming dance, bubbling with excitement. Rachel wrote out the last page of the correspondence Morgan had requested to be completed that day. She set the documents on his desk alongside the sealing wax, then breezed past Chrissy to collect Boyd's teacup. Chrissy pursued her to the tiny rear kitchen area.

"It sounds like a marvelous evening," Rachel sighed, "but I really can't go."

"You don't plan to wear black and sit home alone for the rest of your life, do you? Surely you've been widowed nearly a year, Rachel."

"Long enough to stop wearing weeds," Rachel admitted.

"Then what on earth are you waiting for? Good heavens! The Harvest Dance is the perfect opportunity to rejoin the living."

Rachel frowned slightly. Rejoining the living was just what she wanted to do, but not here. "You forget that I'm an American, Chrissy. I needed to get away after my husband died, but my father will send for me soon. It's better if I wear black until I return to the United States."

"Pooh! I think you're nervous about being courted again," Chrissy argued. "So what if you sail back to America one day? You can still have a social life in the meantime. Pull out one of your colorful gowns and come along. I've already spoken to Boyd and he's agreed to bring you as our guest."

"I did, and I'd be honored, Rachel. Ready, sweetheart?" Boyd had found the two women talking. He joined them, smiling at Chrissandra. They bid Rachel good evening and disappeared into the twilight.

Chrissy and her dreaming about colorful dresses... Rachel shook her head. There were none in her wardrobe. She'd fled Philadelphia with a single trunk, holding only the trappings of death. She could sew, of course, but wasn't about to set foot in the mercantile again to purchase fabric. Not after those horrible forged letters!

She didn't need to go to a dance. But the last time she'd been among happy people at a large gathering had been...God, literally years ago. What could it hurt to go and watch others having fun? But she'd have to make a trip somewhere to get a gown. There were several dressmakers in Newcastle. Chrissy mentioned that Pamela's gowns were made by women there. But Rachel didn't have transportation or time for fittings. If she took a few days off and went to London, she could purchase a finished gown and see her aunt again. She missed Violet.

And perhaps Violet would have news about Papa's investigations. The last letter Rachel received from him had depressed her. His men had located the desk clerk and the land speculator, whose statements only supported the case against her. The marshal maintained their testimony proved Richelle Nash had both motive and opportunity for the gambler's murder. She knew it looked that way. Just as she looked like a grieving, penniless widow. So much for appearances.

She shook her hair back, chiding herself not to give up hope. Someone else had killed Grubstake Smith. Somewhere there was proof of that.

Abandoning her absent musing, she noticed dark had fallen. She stacked her journals on the filing cabinets. She'd waited long enough for Morgan's return. She went about tidying the office and had just pulled down the window shade when he unlocked the front door.

"Christ, bloody locked out of my own offices."

"It's very late, Mr. Tremayne. I don't like staying alone past nightfall. If you'll sign the letters on your desk and affix your seal, I'll post them in the morning."

"Letters, aye," he mumbled. Rachel stared at him. His speech was thick, his lapels uneven. There was a strangely disheveled look about him. He scrawled his name on the documents. He gaped at his right hand and frowned. "Where's my signet?"

Rachel stifled a gasp. He'd gotten drunk and lost his signet! He was never without that ring. Symbol of family integrity and pride, handed down from five previous generations of Tremaynes. Its imprint sealed every bargain and appeared on every letter. He never executed a document without his cachet.

"I don't recall if you were wearing it this morning, sir. Maybe it's still in your room at the inn."

"My name is Morgan," he growled. "Why do you vex me by refusing to use it? Swear you're out to rattle my brains."

"They'd more likely slosh just now," she muttered beneath her breath. "I only pray it wasn't stolen," she said louder. "I know it's very valuable to you, all but irreplaceable."

"Aye, eerie-traceable! Got to think. Had it when I left this morning. Showed Grundy my family crest this afternoon...the pub! That's where I left it. Hold here, will you? I'll go back and fetch it."

Rachel rolled her eyes heavenward. The last thing he needed was another visit to the pub! "I'll go with you, sir."

He blinked to clear his vision. "What's this?"

She kept her voice smooth. "I should make certain you reclaim the ring. I know its importance to you and the company."

"Humph! Wouldn't go to supper when I asked. Had to twist your arm to get you to Newcastle. Suddenly you're craving my company. Is this your way of saying I'm besotted?"

She cringed again at the slurred speech. Beyond besotted. More like embalmed. "I simply feel it's part of my duty to make sure you locate the ring. I truly would sleep better knowing you had it back."

He moved unsteadily to the door. "You'll dine with me, then. Won't be accused of exploiting the help." She locked the office and took Morgan's arm. They'd walked less than a block when he tripped and knocked them both to the ground. Rachel pushed him away and struggled to her feet. The last of her patience had been knocked out of her. Her pride was smarting—both cheeks of it.

"Is it never possible to conduct business without ale, Mr. Tremayne? Look at you!" He glanced down at himself in confusion. "Your clothes are a mess. You can't walk a straight path you're so drunk, and this chilly night air doesn't help."

"Ha! Spent my whole life in the English damps!" he snorted. "What would you know about it, Colonial? Was fine 'til you sent me sprawling."

Images rose unbidden in Rachel's mind of nights in the Oregon Territory. Memories of struggling to drag Cletus inside their ramshackle farmhouse. Western saloons, English pubs. All one and the same. She wrapped Morgan's left arm across her shoulders. Curling her right arm around his waist, she heaved upward and started forward. "Come on, sir," she sighed. She'd find out what had become of his ring and leave the menfolk to get him back to the inn and poured into his bed.

"Sir, sir, sir. Never did like that word on your lips." He tightened his arm around her. "You've such soft lips, Colonial, but never a kind word for me comes out of them. I need an ale."

She frowned and kept walking. "You need food. Ale will only make things worse."

"Always ready to challenge me. Argue with me, frown at me." His breath was pungent with liquor and too warm as it tickled her ear. "I'd pay you for a kiss." Her knees started to buckle as he leaned his full weight upon her. "Just one, Rachel." His lips moved closer to her face.

She elbowed his ribcage. "Stop this nonsense! Find your precious signet yourself." She spun free and headed back along the street.

"Widow, you'll not go alone." He started after her. "Some churlish lout may be lurking in the shadows to do you ill."

"You're the only lout apt to do me ill," she tossed over her shoulder. She continued across the cobblestones. He caught up and pulled her up short, turning her to face him.

"I'm not so muddled I've forgotten that you agreed to sup with me. Swear I'll be a gentle nun."

Now there was a mental image! "You're impossible, Mr. Tremayne."

There was nothing to do but visit the pub. The village was crowded with itinerant workers in for fall harvest. These nights they filled both the inn and the pub. Morgan pushed past the other patrons, banging his fist on the worn bar as he shouted to the harried barkeep. "Grundy! Where's my bloody ring? Think I left it on public display?"

Grundy fished in the pocket of his apron and produced the gold ring. "Here 'tis, Tremayne. Knew you'd be back." Placing the signet in Morgan's upturned palm, Grundy advised, "Should have taken that bit of mutton I offered. You're slicker than the cobblestones in February."

Morgan flopped into a chair seconds after its occupant rose and moved away from it. Rachel stood nearby, unable to locate an empty seat herself. Morgan glowered at the pub patron on his left. The fellow muttered beneath his breath and slunk away. Rachel slipped into the vacated seat just as Grundy appeared with mutton stew and fresh bread. "Drinks, Bargainer?"

Rachel spoke up. "A pot of tea with honey and two large mugs, please."

Morgan feigned surprise. "You hate tea."

"The ale didn't kill you," she replied. "I don't suppose a mug of tea will kill me. Eat your supper, sir." By the end of the meal his posture and speech had improved. "Was today a holiday or special occasion?" she asked.

"No, All Hallows was last week. Why?"

"You drank so heavily for amusement, then? Or maybe to avoid the office. You'd forgotten the letters you said were so important this morning."

"I wasn't avoiding anything. Bloody correspondence just slipped my mind. Anyone might make a—"

"Mistake?" she supplied. "Morgan Tremayne actually made an error? Two, if we count nearly losing your ring. This date should be entered in the village records."

"Christ, so I got drunk! Next holiday I'll close down this bleeding pub."

"Why wait?" she snapped back. "Men drink when they win a fortune at cards; drink when they lose. Drink in foul weather or because it's balmy and warm. Drink because the moon is round or the sea is blue. There's always an occasion to drink, or a man creates one."

He leaned back in his chair, pinning her with his gaze. "Was your husband perchance an alcoholic, widow?"

"Indeed Mr. Tremayne, and it ultimately cost his life." She jerked her shawl higher on her shoulders. "Thank you for supper, sir. You got your ring back. I can see myself home." She left the crowded pub, ignoring the randy comments behind her back, and stepped into the welcoming darkness. She never should have started on him, she told herself. He hated to be contradicted and she had no right to chastise him for drinking.

A long arm snaked around her waist and she found herself looking up into troubled gray eyes. "Rachel, please hold a moment. You helped me retrieve a family heirloom this evening. I should like to pay you something. That's only fair. I apologize for my rudeness."

"I didn't come here for money."

"You didn't have to come at all," he observed. "That's my point. This was beyond your regular duties, though I do appreciate your concern. I must compensate you somehow. Perhaps the lamp you saw in Newcastle?"

"You paid for supper. That's enough. Good night, sir." She tried to pull away, but his arm only tightened.

"I'll walk you to the cottage."

"No, I don't need you to. I'm sure it's perfectly safe out here. I—"

"It's not safe anywhere for a young woman alone past dusk. I said I'll see you home."

"Please, just leave me alone!" The last shred of her composure snapped. She stepped back a few feet and burst into tears. Now her humiliation was complete. She'd given him yet another weakness with which to taunt her.

"Blast me!" he swore softly. "That rotten comment about your husband. I never dreamt I'd hit on the truth." He gently took her face between his palms and tipped it up so her eyes met his. "I was thoughtless and you're overtired. Put in a full day at the office, then this fool's errand tonight. Need to get you home beside a nice roaring fire."

She managed a tremulous smile. "Sounds wonderful, but your hearth doesn't permit a fire to exactly roar. The best I get is a weak sputter. I'd take even that now, along with some coffee to wash away all that insipid tea. It worked, though. You've sobered a bit."

"Thanks to my insolent little clerk." He pulled her close against his side and set out for the cottage. "There's a secret to coping with the firebox. You'll have a roaring flame tonight." He unlocked the front door and immediately set to building a crackling blaze. Then he eased beside Rachel on the settee. "The hearth's always been temperamental in this house. Not unlike its resident."

"You mean its owner."

"I apologize, Rachel. You're quite good at fencing with words. Sometimes I forget that still and all, you are widowed. A man must make allowances. It's only natural you'd find discussion of your husband's demise painful."

Rachel stared at the dancing firelight. For some reason, she thought Morgan might understand what no one else had. "It's all painful. My husband's name was Cletus. He drank and gambled and left me his debt. If it hadn't been for him, I wouldn't even be here now. He always had the worst luck. Then he died and it seems that awful luck has come to roost with me. Cletus was crude and selfish and I only hope he's burning in hell."

Strong fingers closed over hers, and when Morgan spoke, it was in a soft tone he'd never used with her before. "I know more than a man should about grief, Rachel. You're resentful. I felt the same when my father died; worse yet when my sister followed soon afterward. It's not how the person lived, but that he or she had the temerity to up and die. To utterly change the lives of those around them by doing something so final and irreparable. The pain will lessen in time."

Her eyes were huge as she turned to look at him. "I can't believe it! A soft heart beats within you, after all."

"Shall I tell you something, Colonial?" He released her hand and moved back to the grate. He prodded at the burning logs with the iron poker. "I bark and rant and act impossible because I never wanted you to make that discovery." The smoldering gaze he turned on her was astonishing in its intensity. "Now that one secret's out, mayhap I should show you something else." He fished a folded square from a pocket of his coat and handed it to her. "Your list." There was only one name on it.

"I don't underst—"

"Aye, you do. I've purposely kept myself at odds with you because you're in mourning and you work for me. You're my tenant. To think we could be—" He stopped and lowered his voice. "I've been over this a dozen times in my mind, but it doesn't stop me from prowling my rooms at night, unable to sleep for thinking of you. I've stood across the street and fought the urge to pound on your door."

"One night I thought there was someone hiding in the shadows. It frightened me, until I recognized you. Or thought I did. I woke up thinking it must have been a dream."

He snatched the paper from her hands and threw it on the flames. "Perhaps it was. Forget I said anything, Rachel. Too much ale this afternoon, then your tears. Never expected them from you, even as you never expected sentiment from me. Well." He cleared his throat. "Now that I've made a complete fool of myself, I beg your forbearance and take my leave."

"I don't think you're a fool." She'd followed him to the entry. Now she placed her fingertips on his sleeve.

"Christ, don't tell me what you do think. My sole interest is in myself and trade. I'm arrogant, incapable of compassion or genuine feeling. I've heard it before from the local wenches. I don't need to hear it from you."

"I'm not a local girl, remember?" she asked softly. "You're capable of compassion. You just proved that. I know there's more to you than handsome looks. Though certainly no woman could complain on that score." She couldn't resist grinning at having turned his own words back on him. "You wouldn't be the first man I've known to hide a soft heart under a gruff exterior. My father's like that at times." She remembered Jeremiah's fist banging down on the table as he insisted she must stay with Violet. "I understand about trade being so important. You're not a fool, Morgan."

His mustache curved up as his arms slid around her waist. "Finally, my Christian name."

"It seems appropriate tonight."

He pulled her close against his chest. "Tell me to go, Rachel. Right this second. If you don't, I'm going to kiss you." His face lowered by inches until his lips brushed hers. "Toss me out."

"No," she murmured, sliding her arms up around his neck. She melted against him, parting moist and pliant lips to admit his tongue. Her tongue met his and they shared a deep, prolonged kiss.

"Christ, but you've got my head swimming," he whispered. "I can't tell you how desperately I've wanted to do that. But you shouldn't have allowed it, Rachel."

"Maybe not, but I've wondered what your lips would taste like...Ale," she teased. She lowered her face and snuggled against his chest. "I wondered how your arms would feel." She glanced back up. "Safe."

"That's not the usual adjective," he remarked, cocking an eyebrow. She only smiled. "Don't smile at me like that, or I'll suspect you enjoy kissing me." Her lips curved even wider. "Are you deliberately trying to provoke me, madam?"

She felt his arousal pressed too intimately against her through her skirts. "No sir. I'm glad you got the signet back. Thank you for a pleasant evening." She slipped from his arms and moved to the door, waiting, once again the prim and proper office clerk. The smile she gave him now was polite, but gone was the playful side she'd revealed just seconds before.

Morgan stared at her. "This alters things, Rachel." He stepped closer and let his lips brush hers again. "I won't just stand in the shadows next time. I'll use my key."

She firmly shook her head. "I'd be forced to toss you out then. I'm still your clerk, and you're still Pamela's beau."

"Piss on Pamela. I'm finished with her. It's you haunting my nights, Colonial." His voice was strained as he stared into her eyes. "When do you give up the black?"

She hesitated in answering. "I...haven't decided yet."

"You haven't decided?"

There was a long silence as neither of them spoke. Then Morgan's features hardened. "I presume you know when that alcoholic husband of yours died?" She grudgingly nodded.

He jerked the door open and stepped past her. "I'm too old for parlor games. See you at the office, widow."

Chapter 7

It was a bone-chilling night in early November. Leaves swirled in the deep gloom and the promise of frost hung in the evening air. Rachel ignored the jostling of the carriage as they bounced along the rutted road north of the village. Chrissandra and Boyd spoke in hushed tones, gloved hands clasped above the lap robe. Rachel stared out her window into the darkness, lost in thought. She'd returned only yesterday from London. She was dressed in a gown of deep crimson velvet trimmed with ecru lace at the throat and sleeves. Half her afternoon had been spent wrapping her hair into a tight chignon, which she'd covered with a snood of gold netting. So much preparation for a night of sheer folly.

Going to this Harvest Dance was probably a mistake. She should be at the cottage now, safely toasting her feet beside the hearth. But some wicked part of her wanted Morgan to see her in a fancy gown. The reflection in her mirror tonight was no impoverished farmer's widow. The woman gazing back at her was Jeremiah Hardwick's daughter—a girl raised in plenty, one who might grace a sparkling London ballroom, one who'd attended some of Philadelphia's most exclusive parties before moving West. She wanted Morgan to see that person. Just once.

The carriage drew to a halt. Its three occupants were promptly swallowed up in the throng outside the Plummer residence. Rachel was swept into the warmth of an immense farmhouse with a huge open room the size of a modest barn. Ladies milled about in gowns of every autumnal hue, peacock blue and mossy green to burnished russets and gold. The men wore embroidered vests, their finest frock coats and crisp shirts. Tables stood laden with bowls of mulled cider and eggnog, platters groaned beneath roasted whole chickens and legs of mutton or beef. Steam rose from large bowls of boiled greens, potatoes, squash, and carrots. Rachel couldn't remember when she'd last seen so much food in one place. A huge table of desserts offered apple tarts and scones alongside mince and pumpkin pies, temptingly displayed in tiers beside bowls of berries in cream.

"I don't believe I've had the pleasure," came a deep baritone rumble that made Rachel shiver. Morgan had been away from the office most of the past two weeks. She'd wondered if his absence was connected to the incident with the signet ring and what had followed.

She turned to find him standing nearby, dashing as ever in tan breeches with a coat of dark teal. "Then again, apparently I have," he corrected. His gaze dropped to her lips. "And a pleasure it was. One I hope to enjoy again."

Rachel suspected her face must be as rose-hued as the baked apples. "You're looking dapper this evening, sir."

"And you're looking positively spectacular, madam. It appears the term 'widow' no longer applies. Dare I hope this remarkable change is the result of my influence the other evening?"

"Please, Mr. Tremayne. I'd rather we didn't discuss that." She scanned the room to see if others noticed them talking together.

Morgan made no attempt to hide his amusement. "They probably don't know you, Rachel. I didn't at first glance. Your hair up like that, the velvet gown." A hand slid to the small of her back. "We need to find someplace to be alone."

Though inwardly she thrilled at the evident heat in his gaze as his eyes raked over her once more, she was too flustered to be alone with him just then. And too aware of their surroundings.

"I don't think that's a wise idea," she demurred. "The villagers know I'm your clerk. I'm not anxious to be at the center of the next batch of rumors." She was grateful for the intervention of a local farmer, who accosted Morgan about granary storage for his spring crops. She used the distraction to cross the room, positioning herself well away from her landlord.

A farmer she'd met during one of her audits at the inn struck up a conversation, then persuaded her to dance. She found herself in his arms, whirling to the fiddles and voices lifted in song. When the dance ended, she was approached by the young male clerk from the tobacco shoppe. He had a timid young maid on his arm, whom he introduced as his future intended.

Though she didn't recognize many of the faces at the large gathering, Rachel found she knew several of the villagers well enough to receive a smiling greeting or polite nod. The villagers might not fully accept her after having her amongst them for several months, but she no longer felt hostile or curious stares. The stares now came from several of the unattached men, who seemed to have quickly noted the lack of widow's weeds.

"May I have the next number?"

Dismayed, Rachel discovered Somersdale at her side. "Oh! I'm sorry," she gulped, coughing now for effect, "Mr. Somersdale,but...I—"

"She's promised the remainder of her dances to me, Arnold," Morgan stiffly informed him. "I told you to leave this particular young lady alone."

Rachel watched Arnold depart. "Would you like to go outside for some air?" Morgan inquired. Her eyes swept the crowded room, gauging the whereabouts of the nearest exit. She spied Pamela, who was glaring hotly at her and Morgan.

"No, I'm fine. What I'd like is for you to dance with me." She caught his forearm and dragged him into the center of the room. "Please, sir."

He swept her into his arms and they began to waltz. His fingers tightened on hers as he flashed her a knowing grin. "I assume your sudden passion is for her benefit." He inclined his head toward the furious blonde at the edge of the dance floor.

Rachel tilted her chin up. "I owe her a debt I haven't repaid."

"Do you always repay your debts?"

Yes, mine and those thrust upon me, her mind answered. Even when it costs me everything. "Definitely. Don't you?"

"Apart from one. A certain young lady did me a service not long ago, but has stubbornly refused to let me compensate her for it. I'm still indebted and wondering how to resolve the matter."

"The lady performed that service as a personal favor to you. She'd like to be considered your friend, as well as your employee. You're not indebted, sir."

Morgan abruptly froze, his eyes wide. "Christ, but I'm an idiot!"

"For once I agree with you, sir," she replied, a false smile on her face. "Perhaps we might dance again later." She nudged him with her knee. It seemed he'd forgotten they were standing in the midst of whirling dancers. He stared down into her face and made no attempt to move. It was everything she'd longed for, all that terrified her—a moment when time stopped, when no one existed but Morgan Tremayne and Richelle. She had to do something to break the spell.

She closed her fingers around his hand and tugged hard, threading her way between the spinning couples. Morgan numbly followed, but Pamela wasn't going to let them escape her wrath.

"So, you decided to take your clerk to the festivities this year, Morgan. Boyd's altruism seems to be rubbing off on you."

"Not as much as you might wish," Morgan replied, stiffening. "I've been meaning to speak to your father about the back payments on his loan. If either of you thought I'd overlook his overdue debt, you're destined for disappointment."

Pamela's eyes went from hot to ice cold. Rachel had no desire to eavesdrop on this particular conversation. She mumbled an excuse and started to pull away, but Morgan wouldn't release her fingers. "I'll only be a moment, Rachel. I still want to talk to you." Now he looked at Pamela. "Is George here?"

"What, it's not enough I'm humiliated by this Colonial throwing herself at you, now you insist upon embarrassing my father at a social gathering?"

"Excuse me, Miss Prine," Rachel said. "I didn't throw myself at Mr. Tremayne. He'd already asked me to dance. This would be throwing myself at him." She rose on tiptoe to plant a searing kiss on Morgan's lips.

"You disgusting tramp!" Pamela shrieked. The fiddlers and all conversation stilled instantly. "I knew you were a harlot all along. Pretending you had no interest in him, that you disliked him. Poppycock and lies! You should wear a trashy red frock, you fat-chested Colonial cow!"

Rachel's voice rang out. "Thank you for the compliment, Miss Prine! If anyone wondered why you couldn't keep a beau, I think you've answered their questions this evening."

"You have—"

"Enough, Pamela," Morgan barked. "Get your wrap, Madam Cordell. I'll see you home." He glowered at the blonde. "And I'll speak to George next week. Tell him to expect me at the farm Thursday or Friday afternoon."

Rachel was fastening her cloak when Somersdale nudged her with an elbow. "Our little widow shows her true colors. I suspected Tremayne was taken with you himself when he came to see me, claiming someone had forged those missives you sent me."

"I wouldn't invite you into my bed if you were the last man alive."

"Tsk, Rachel. Another man might take offense."

"Another man would recognize a dismissal when he hears it and leave me alone."

"There are more than a few ladies who could tell you tales of Tremayne's romantic escapades. Half the women in this farmhouse tonight. He's notorious for losing interest once he's had his way...which means he hasn't yet with you. His talent for persuasion is known to charm the pantalets off the lasses. Be forewarned, Mistress Cordell. Once he gets yours pulled down, you'll find yourself with neither post nor domicile. He'll toss your bottom into the street and be on to the next fair damsel."

"Her bottom is none of your damned business, Somersdale." Morgan seized Arnold by the shoulder. "Bother her again, and I'll make sure your bottom's the one tossed into the street."

Morgan said nothing until they were back at the cottage. He lit a fire on the hearth and gave a rueful sigh as she brought him a cup of tea. "Well, Crowshaven's citizens put on a party with a distinctive flair, don't we? Public floggings and beheadings are next month, in case you're interested."

"Mine's the head they want to see roll."

"That's not true," he disagreed as he set his cup on the end table. "I noticed you dancing with some of your new friends in the village." There was an edge in his voice as he said the word 'friends,' but his eyes betrayed nothing. He wiped a lingering drop of tea from his mustache. "Speaking of friendship, we never finished our conversation concerning my signet."

Rachel moved to the fireplace. "For the last time, I don't want anything for helping you reclaim that ring of yours. I'm sorry I went with you."

"Are you?" he demanded, rising to stand beside her. "I'm not. Why did you leave the pub so abruptly? Were you upset over your late husband, or did I misunderstand something?"

She closed her eyes and turned away. "Do you still bear feelings for him?" Morgan crossed the room and caught her upper arms, forcing her to face him. She couldn't help thinking how handsome he was, wondering what he'd look like if he let his hair fall loose around those broad shoulders.

Then regretted those thoughts. They could only lead to heartache. She had no future with him. No future here. "Somersdale may be right about your conquests," she said softly. "I don't want to make a mistake I'll later regret."

Now he folded his arms across his chest. "I was hoping I wouldn't have to tell you this, Rachel, but I bed all my tenants and then toss them out." The sarcasm left his voice and it softened once more. "Don't tell me you actually believe that rot? You're afraid I'd do something so heinous?"

She gave a tiny shake of her head. "I'm afraid of forgetting who I am...Of becoming caught up in the moment and getting confused."

"Because you care for me."

"You and Mr. Atkinson have given me everything. You protected me when Pamela tried to have me dismissed. You're a shrewd businessman and everyone in town likes you. I can learn a great deal from you."

"Just as I could learn to make coffee from you, but that's not what I mean. Why did you kiss me tonight?"

Rachel knew why he was asking, and sidestepped his trap. "I thought it was obvious." She gave a wicked laugh. "To make Pamela crazy."

He turned and headed for the door. He'd already lifted the latch when her soft words stopped him. "But I wasn't supposed to say that's the reason, was I? Even though it's partly true. There was another reason. You want me to say I kissed you because—"

"You're in love with me?"

"Morgan, I can't say that," she whispered. "I can't think such insane things. I don't want to love anyone just now. I don't want anyone in love with me. Please don't be angry. You didn't finish your tea."

Morgan knew he should just leave, but when he glanced back at her and saw her eyes huge in the firelight, pleading with him, he was lost. She was so beautiful in that gown of crimson. He wanted so much...but he couldn't caress her as he wanted. Not just yet. Having her beside him in his own parlor while he drank his tea was a good start. He couldn't be greedy. He had to slow down, force himself to wait.

He returned to the settee and took up his teacup. As he suspected, she eased beside him and sat watching as he took another sip. She stared at his right hand a moment, then her fingertip traced around the oval of gold on his finger. "I'm so glad you got this signet back. It's beautiful." Her eyes moved to his face. "I know how much it means. It's all you have left of your family."

"That...my inn, and this house." Rachel heard a hollow sadness in his voice. For a second, it touched his eyes. Then it was gone.

Rachel found a lump forming, tightening her throat. She knew only too well how it felt to be homesick. "Don't you miss this house, Morgan? I couldn't put strangers in my family home and spend nights in a hotel. I'd hate that. I don't know how you stand it."

"Are you suggesting I spend my nights here?"

"You know I didn't mean that. I won't become your mistress, Morgan. You're an influential man in this district and you might be very generous, but—"

"I would be," he corrected.

She shook her head. "I'd rather clerk for a decade and buy this house from you than allow you keep me in it."

He set the empty cup on the table and stretched his arm across the back of the sofa. "You've every reason to take pride in earning your own wages. You understand figures and trade as well as most men. Are you also perchance a horsewoman, Colonial?"

"Why, are you giving the cottage as top prize in an equestrian competition?"

His laughter echoed off the walls. "I was thinking of a ride Sunday afternoon. See the countryside, our warehouse, the granary. Might prove educational for you."

"I can ride, yes."

"Good." His arm dropped to her shoulder and he pulled her close. "You do look lovely tonight, Rachel."

"And you look…" Her voice trailed off as she studied his face. "I've often wondered how you manage to stay so tanned in a country where no one ever sees the sun. Boyd and the other men look so pale."

"My mother was European. I got her coloring. Where did you get all the gorgeous dark hair?" He pulled the snood and pins from her tresses, destroying in two minutes what it had taken her hours to design. Her hair tumbled around his hand as it stroked the nape of her neck.

"The women on my mother's side all have chestnut or auburn hair. It's nothing special."

"You're wrong," he murmured, using his hand to guide her face closer to his. "Your hair was one of the first things I noticed about you." Her eyes closed as he kissed her. "That and your natural insolence." Her eyes flew open. She saw the amusement on his face. "How anyone can address me politely as 'sir' and sound so mocking as she does it is beyond my ken."

It was her turn to laugh. "Emily calls you that. So do quite a few of the men."

He embraced her tightly. "I don't have dreams about them in my arms," he replied in a husky voice. He gave her another long kiss. "And now I'd best say farewell, before I forget that dreams are all I'm allowed. At least for the time being."

Chapter 8

The big charcoal stallion affectionately nuzzled Morgan's shoulder. "He's beautiful, Morgan," Rachel announced, wrinkling her nose. The livery stable had a familiar smell she'd almost forgotten. Once she'd become immune to the pervasive odor of horse manure. An ocean away and a lifetime ago.

Morgan tightened the stallion's leather cinch. "His name is Phantom. His sire was the first asset I ever purchased with my own wages." He ran a hand along Phantom's neck. "I haven't always been independent, Rachel. I do recall what it's like to work for someone else."

"Which is the horse I'm to ride?"

"Phantom's back is big enough for two."

Rachel frowned at him. "If I was going to ride with you, why did you ask if I was a horsewoman? I don't need to be, if you'll have the reins."

"True, but I wanted to be sure you wouldn't faint at the thought of getting on an animal. I've known ladies who won't set a horse." He reached for her waist. "Ready?"

"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 would come from welcoming crows. Our farmers would put a scarecrow smack in the middle there." 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 the cottage, a torrential rain was coming down.

He unlocked the 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 also dragged all the chairs 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 long underwear 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 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 to 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 papers 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 distinctly recall discussing 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 it 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 with 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…"

"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. One way or another.

Chapter 9

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, account Papa busted his leg plowin' 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 bein' the best cook in the whole district."

"I expect he means she has the background 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 turnin' around."

Rachel disguised her smile. "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. She waited for Emily to refuse the assistance, but instead the older woman heaved a sigh of relief and began issuing more orders. Still, 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 with 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 shoppe 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.

Somehow 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, 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 crisp, 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, Rachel. 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 shoppe, 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 shoppe 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 suite of 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 Christmas 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 on a rampage 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, where's Rachel? 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!"

Thomas' 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 when she got outside 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. But if he is, 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."

"You came out of your rooms still fastening your trousers. That must have been some payment you got."

His jaw dropped. "You're jealous, you silly Colonial."

She smacked him in the shoulder with a balled fist. "Don't you ever call me that again!"

"But you are silly, Rachel," he chuckled. "Nothing personal took place with Pamela this afternoon. I explained as much. No matter—"

"Not silly," Rachel sputtered. "Colonial. Don't you ever say that to me again. You only do it to tease me. I'm an American."

"Aye, but I use the other term as a form of endearment," he answered, smiling broadly. "I thought you knew that by now." His fingers stroked and caressed her arm. "Rachel, you do believe me, don't you? It was purely business today. There's no reason to be distressed."

She feigned having a speck of dust in her eye. "I don't care either way. I just want to go home. People are staring at us. Please let go of me."

She tried to pull away. His hand slid down to capture her fingers. He dropped to one knee facing her. "I swear on my word of honor nothing improper took place between myself and Miss Prine today." He raised his voice so it carried across the entire square. "Anyone here will tell you I don't swear oaths lightly. If I give you my word, you can take it on faith. Right, Johnson?"

"Aye, Tremayne," came the laughing reply.

Rachel was mortified to discover merchants and customers alike had gathered on porches and stoops to witness the spectacle. Men prodded one another and smirked. Women strained on tiptoe to peer at her. One let out a gasp and tugged at her companion's sleeve.

"By the saints, Hermione! Look at that! Morgan Tremayne's proposing to that American girl who works for him."

Morgan's voice was soft and cajoling. "You believe me, don't you, Rachel?"

"Yes, I believe you. Now will you kindly get up?"

"Well, as I'm down here, there is one other point."

Her words came as a hiss between clenched teeth as she kept a smile frozen on her lips. "For God's sake, get up!"

"I'm leaving on business, Rachel. I don't fancy the notion of other men calling on you while I'm away. I've considered the matter and regret to say the only solutions I could come up with were limited. Either I can demand you go back into mourning—which doesn't seem a reasonable alternative, or—"

"Morgan," Her eyes were huge now. "Boyd and the men are coming. The squire and his associates. Stand up and greet them properly."

He ignored her and finished his statement. "Or we can cement our relationship with a betrothal."

Rachel groaned and closed her eyes even as a wave of shocked gasps and comments rose from all sides.

"He said 'betrothal,' I'm right positive he did," one fellow insisted.

"That's twenty quid you owe me, Jarvis," a deep voice announced loudly. "Told you some lass would snatch him up before another year was out. Bargainer down on one knee. 'Pon my soul, that's good as standing before the vicar! He never breaks his word."

Rachel opened her eyes and looked down into Morgan's silvery gaze. She tried and failed to see a glint of mischief there. "Why are you doing this to me?"

"I should think it's obvious. I happen to love you." Rachel numbly stared at him, unable to think of a single thing to say. "Should I speak up?" he asked. "Perhaps Squire Martin and his cronies didn't catch it."

"Don't you dare!"

His mustache curved up in a slow grin. "I hate to be tiresome, Colonial, but men of trade are waiting on me. I've now soiled the knee of the clean breeches I just donned for my meeting with them. Which, by the by, is why I was fastening my clothing when you saw me in the hallway. Now my leg is going numb, but I'll be no use in business discussions until I get my answer from you. I beg of you, madam, will you kindly nod or say yes, or do something so I can get up now?"

She nodded, meaning she'd do something. Morgan rose. Boyd rushed forward. "I say, Morgan, you've certainly ended any speculation about the two of you in a most dramatic fashion." Boyd was as red as Rachel knew she must be. "Now if you'd—"

Morgan cut him off. "Boyd, why don't you take these gentlemen over to the inn and have a round on me? Have some of Emily's fresh biscuits, too. She just put a batch in the oven."

Rachel burst into a helpless fit of nervous laughter, unable to shake the mental image of Emily's buttocks whacking the oven door shut. Morgan's arm slid around Rachel's waist.

"As you can see, gentlemen, my intended is positively giddy, overcome with happiness at my proposal. I'll see her home and join you anon."

Rachel finally stopped laughing. She confronted Morgan as soon as they were safely inside the cottage. "I've never been more humiliated! Making everyone in the village think we're—"

"Betrothed. I think you Americans call it promised. It means the same as affianced."

"I know what it means! I just don't know how you could play such a terrible jest on everyone. First thing when you see Boyd and the others you must tell them you were teasing me."

"I'll do nothing of the kind." He caught her hands in his. "I wasn't jesting."

"Morgan, a person doesn't simply up and decide to get married, like wallpapering the foyer."

His arms wrapped around her as he pulled her close against his chest. "Would you like to wallpaper it? Hold on..." He glanced around as though unfamiliar with his surroundings. "This cottage doesn't have a foyer. We could do the kitchen, if you like."

She nearly collapsed from relief. "Oh, thank God! You were joking. For a moment I actually thought—" He stiffened and Rachel saw the truth in his eyes. The wounded look that he tried to disguise. "Morgan, we can't."

"I realize you weren't expecting a marriage proposal this afternoon, but the subject has come up."

"Yes, and you shouted that you'd never hear of it."

He slowly shook his dark head. "I didn't say I'd never marry you. I asked if you expected that before I'd be allowed to bed you. We both know the answer. I've deliberately avoided you, Rachel, to give us time apart. But that time changed nothing. I still want you, and clearly you have feelings for me."

"All right, I do, but—"

"You understand me, Rachel, as no woman before has. You understand about trade. I know you'll make me a good wife."

"I haven't agreed to marry you."

"But you will, Colonial. Because you're the first woman I've ever felt this way about. The first to call me a visionary. And even the jealousy today—which I detested in Pamela and other wenches—I find I rather like coming from you. That's why I know this is right. Why I'm certain that eventually you'll agree to wed me. We belong together, Rachel."

"You can't just order me to exchange vows, as though I'm fetching something from your files."

He kissed the tip of her nose. "You're a wise young lady. I doubt I shall have to command you. The Squire's at the inn waiting for me. I'll be leaving tonight if all goes well during our meeting. I'll come here directly after the men leave and we'll talk."

"We need to talk now. You—"

"God, but you delight in being contrary! I've one thing left to say and only one thing to ask." He caught her shoulders in both hands and gave her a stern glower. "If I learn of another man visiting this cottage while I'm away, I'll call him out with my dueling pistols when I return. I'm not jesting. You're mine, Rachel."

"Morgan, we know so little about each other. In fairness, admit that's true. You can't—"

"I know you never loved Cletus. I don't believe you trembled in his arms or kissed him to the point of insanity as you do me." He took her mouth tenderly, proving the truth of his observation. "So that leaves only one important question: Don't you want to love your husband the next time?"

Chapter 10

Morgan's last question came back into Rachel's mind as she read her aunt's telegram. Yes, I want to love my husband next time. But you can't become my husband, Morgan. I'm going back to America...and there's a real likelihood I'm also going to jail.

Violet had sent a cryptic message stating she'd received news from the States. Rachel needed to go home at once. Rachel knew Jeremiah hadn't cleared her name yet. He'd written at Christmas to advise he was still working on her case, but was unable to locate Jonas Nelson. After St. Louis his trail went cold. The Nelsons suspected he might have enlisted in the army, but hadn't heard from him in months.

So, Rachel reasoned, Violet's news couldn't be good tidings about her legal case. Intuition warned it wouldn't be good news at all. There was something dark hidden between the lines of Violet's terse message.

Rachel dashed a brief note to Boyd and locked up the holding company office. She ran to the cottage and began stuffing garments into her trunk. She had tidied the house and packed her trunk by the time Boyd appeared at her door. She let him read the message from her aunt.

He insisted upon sending a carriage in the morning to take her back to London at company expense. He offered his condolences and assured Rachel she'd be sorely missed. When he mentioned Chrissandra, Rachel's control gave way. She cried on his shoulder. Boyd said nothing about Morgan, and Rachel was grateful for that. She wasn't up to explaining their supposed betrothal had been a mistake.

During two days of dusty traveling, Rachel neither ate nor slept. When she reached the London town house, Violet was tearful, badly shaken as she held out a letter from her sister-in-law. Jeremiah had fallen ill. Small symptoms, a general malaise and feeling of fatigue at first. It hadn't perturbed him. November's elections had made Abraham Lincoln the new U.S. President, inflaming the Southern states, for he was known to oppose slavery. The talk of civil unrest had escalated to the point that men like Jeremiah with Northern factories were warned to prepare to shift production to war materials. He'd been disturbed by rumors of war and frustrated at the lack of progress in clearing Richelle's name. When he grew weaker still, his doctors told him his condition was grave. He begged Violet to send his daughter home.

"I'm stricken by this news," Violet sobbed. "But I'm also frightened for you, dear. You could be arrested as soon as you set foot on American soil."

"I don't have a choice, do I? We can't ignore this. And the lie was becoming intolerable. I—" She started to tell her aunt that a man wanted to marry her, but changed her mind. She had to forget about Morgan and Crowshaven. "You don't know how many times I was tempted to correct someone who called me by the false name."

They talked together until late that night, agreeing Violet would call on Albert Soames at the bank the next day while Rachel went to the docks. Rachel needed to reserve space on the first vessel out. When she arose the next day, the house was empty. She dressed quickly and headed down the stairs. Someone rang the front bell. Rachel fumbled with her shawl and threw the door open.

Fierce gray eyes pinned hers, blazing in cold fury. His mustache was drawn down tightly over compressed lips that barely cracked apart as he spoke. "Boyd wired me where to find you."

"Morgan! Good heavens, I had no idea you were here in London." Now her face pulled into a frown. "Boyd wired you about my emergency? But—" Morgan pushed past her and glanced about the empty rooms.

"Your aunt's not here?"

"She's gone to see her banker about funds for my passage. Boyd told you I have to sail home?"

Morgan gave a derisive snort. "When the banker hears what she intends, he'll tell your aunt to save her money."

Rachel didn't know what that was supposed to mean, but she was in no shape for verbal fencing now. She'd had little sleep over the past three days and was too distraught to think. "If I'd known you were here in London...I planned to write you and explain."

"Before or after you'd sailed out of my life?" His glower hadn't softened in the least. He stood in the middle of the salon, purposely ignoring her gesture toward the sofa.

"If you came intent on punishing me, Morgan, God's well ahead of you."

"I came to bring you to your damned senses, since you've obviously taken leave of them!" he snarled. "The situation is perilous in the Colonies now. You can't sail there, Rachel. It's not sensible with widespread civil unrest brewing."

"My father's critically ill."

"With all due respect, what can you do that his medical men cannot? You'll only put yourself in danger trying to reach him. You'll be of no use to anyone in a Southern war camp."

"War camp? I know there's been talk, but—"

"It's no longer talk. Southern states have announced secession. Armies are being outfitted on both sides. I can't let you undertake this act of folly. I'm taking you back to the village. You'll write your family that it's impossible for you to come."

She clutched the back of a chair for support. Nothing he said made any sense. Her countrymen, good Americans, warring with one another? How could anyone have allowed the madness to go so far?

"I don't understand. Americans intent on murdering each other, Boyd telling you to stop me. He arranged the carriage that brought me here! Why didn't he tell me about this warfare in America?"

"He knows how contrary you can be. He also understands the full implications of the American unrest, and wired me as soon as you left Crowshaven. I'd have done the same if it were Chrissandra. You cannot risk setting foot on a deck now."

"My father is dying, Morgan! I won't simply go on as if I don't know or care! I'm his only child. My stepmother may need my help with...funeral arrangements or running Papa's business. My family needs me. Did you abandon your family when they needed you?"

She took his long silence as tacit agreement. "I'm sorry things didn't work out between us, but I have to leave England. I was on my way out to reserve a cabin on the first available passenger ship."

"Passenger ship! You think there are lines of eager passengers vying for the chance to sail to a battleground? You'll be lucky to find space on a merchantman."

Rachel gnawed at her lower lip. "You mean a trade vessel?"

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph! I'll go to the bloody docks," he growled. "Can't send a woman to deal with the rats on London's waterfront. How much are you offering to pay?"

"How much should it cost, do you think?"

His scowl deepened. "Should is irrelevant. It will cost what the market will bear. If space is even available, the price will be steep."

"Oh. My father paid my passage when I sailed last year. I've saved most of my wages. Maybe my aunt can help."

"You remember our talk about how all's connected? The situation overseas affects us here already. Cotton and tobacco shipments are already disrupted, other exports will soon be delayed. I can't believe you didn't realize this, Rachel."

She looked crestfallen, but suddenly she brightened. "You're the Bargainer! The consummate man of trade with the silver eyes and tongue! Surely you can do something."

"I couldn't get you to marry me." She blushed and stared at her feet. He waited until she met his gaze to speak again. "Few vessels will be making the crossing. Fewer yet with captains willing to risk passengers. You may have no choice but to remain here. I can't promise a miracle."

"You know people in trade and commerce. You must have some useful connections. If you care for me, help me get home. For my father's sake."

"How is it that you females will use a man's emotions against him so cruelly?" He turned his back to her. "Bearing tenderness for you, I'm expected to aid you in the very thing that will exile you from my life. What do I gain by helping you? Nothing. I'm a man of trade, Rachel. I don't enter negotiations without seeing an opportunity to better my position. In this instance, I stand to lose what's most important. You can't even offer a high fee or special favor to a ship's master. You give me naught to bargain with."

"I told you, I've got money back in America. I'll pay you, Morgan! Repay whatever the passage costs plus something for your efforts."

"What precisely are you offering, other than months of waiting to see if you keep your word? You claim you always repay your debts, but a wise man of trade doesn't take promises from someone he's never dealt with before."

She swallowed hard. He knew they were alone in the house. "We could go upstairs to my bedchamber." She turned beet red as he pierced her with a meaningful look. She stammered out the rest. "I can give you some money now, the rest when I get home."

His harsh laughter stung.

"Once again, predictable. A woman with nothing else to offer comes to her own flesh sooner or later. Tempting, but that would provide temporary solace at best. And should the experience be as...intense as I believe it might be, I would regret all the more my role in helping you leave England."

"Morgan, I need help! Why won't you be a gentleman about this?"

"Gentlemen are usually men of leisure who can afford inactivity and noble manners. Nonetheless, I'll arrange your passage—on one condition. You must agree to obey my decisions regarding your personal safety. You challenge me at every opportunity, Colonial. No debate this time. Agree to obey my instructions and not quarrel about the arrangements I make, or I'll leave you to solve your own dilemma."

"I think you're purposely trying to frighten me so I'll stay here."

"Liar, am I?" He strode quickly to the door. "Why not take a look at the London paper, if you don't believe me?" He retrieved it from the stoop and showed her front-page stories about the unrest in America. "You can still go to the docks yourself. But have you had my experience in dealing with merchants and traders? Will you know a trustworthy captain by his outward appearance? It's only your life you risk, Rachel."

She recalled the hours Morgan spent reading, his visits to the pub and the inn when he talked with farmers and tradesmen, thought about his knowledge of world-wide events and business. Finally she spoke. "I accept your terms. Arrange passage however you can and I'll repay you when I get home. I promise, Morgan. I'll trust your judgment as to what's best."

"Indeed? You didn't about marrying me. You meant to leave without so much as a backward glance."

"That's unfair and you know it. This couldn't be helped."

"Almost conveniently."

Her dark eyes flashed. "Are you suggesting I fabricated this story about my father? Why would I? I didn't need your permission to leave Crowshaven, Morgan. I might have gone back home any time I pleased."

"True, and who am I to argue? Only your employer, your landlord, and the man who asked you to be his wife! You say I think of naught but myself and my own interests. When did you consider me in this?"

"I wasn't running away from you, Morgan," Rachel ground out. In another minute she would spill everything just to see the horror in his eyes and shut him up.

"Perhaps not, but that hardly changes the final outcome, does it? Stay here. I'll be back as soon as I can."

It was dusk when he returned. Violet retreated upstairs to her bedchamber, leaving the two young people alone.

"I bartered for a small cabin on a cargo vessel," Morgan announced. "The captain wasn't pleased at the prospect of a woman aboard, but my promise she'd be in weeds allayed his fears somewhat. I didn't mention those same garments proved quite enticing to me."

She was really going home! It was difficult to speak around the painful lump in her throat. "Thank you. I'll never forget your help today."

"I've been thinking, Rachel. I may travel to the States on business myself in future. I could call on you there."

"Your life is here in England. You can't court someone across the Atlantic. And America's immense, teeming with people. The chances for a rendezvous are slim at best. It's over."

"So there's no point in asking you to come back once your family crisis is resolved?"

"I have no idea when that might be. There's...it's complicated. I can't promise anything beyond repayment for my passage. Please tell me how much I owe you."

"Damn it, Rachel, I don't want money from you! I—" He stopped until she met his eyes. "I wanted a life with you. I brought you something." He pushed a small box into her hands.

"No, please take it back," she whispered. "I can't accept a gift under these circumstances."

His fingers closed around hers. "It's just a modest token, love. To remind you of our time together. Unless you're anxious to forget me."

A teardrop coursed down one cheek, but Rachel fought to ignore it and how her heart was wrenching in her chest. "Lord in heaven, I don't want to forget you. But I can't take anything beyond the help you've given me. That's a precious gift in itself, knowing how you feel about me."

"You don't wholeheartedly share those same feelings, though," he stated as he accepted the box she pushed back at him. "Or perhaps you've take Somersdale's word over mine about fidelity."

"It doesn't matter now."

"It does to me. I offered you a future, my name—things I've never offered another woman. Wily females clawed to get what I'd freely give to you. Perhaps you enjoy trampling on my spirit."

"That's simply not true." Rachel stared into his eyes, willing him to read what she didn't dare say. "I never set out to hurt you or let things develop as they have. Neither of us planned for this. It just happened...to the wrong people at the wrong time."

He got to his feet and headed to the door. "Aye. Go home, Colonial. Remember our bargain. No complaints about your tiny cabin, or you'll be left at the docks. Good luck with your father." He paused before opening the door. "May the next man to kiss you drive some warmth into your icy little heart."

She knew his pride was nettled, knew he'd said those words purposely to lash out because she'd hurt him. She shouldn't listen, it was only wounded pride talking. Yet she found her temper rising. "Thank you. And may I be the last woman to ever kiss you! Perhaps a life of eternal frustration is what you have coming, you rake. I'll write from Philadelphia, and I expect you to name a sum. I'm determined to repay you for my passage. I'll never forget you, but neither will I spend the rest of my life beholden to you."

He gave a sarcastic laugh. "You don't write to men, remember? You said you'd never written a man in your life."

The man was beneath insufferable. "I've never had my hair turn gray, bounced a baby on my knee, or been arrested, either. Doesn't mean I never will."

Chapter 11

Rachel sat on the bunk glancing about the cabin. The entire space wasn't much more than a bunk and a table with room to walk in between. She guessed the cabin's former occupant must have been a large man. The bunk was fairly wide.

The captain introduced himself as Haversham. He pointed out the extra barrels of fresh water, small coal stove with its metal stack jutting through the ceiling, and bed curtains that had been hung up across the bunk. A tin bathtub was stowed beneath the bunk. An iron bolt had been installed on the inside of the cabin's door. All at Morgan's request. She was more than mildly surprised. Morgan had been very specific about creature comforts. The captain cleared his throat. "Was told you'd be wearin' black. Even after we weigh anchor?"

"Yes. I'd just come out of mourning for my late husband when I learned my father's dying back in Philadelphia. That's why I have to get home. Sometimes it seems I'll be wearing black for the rest of my life. How long to reach New York?"

"Month or so, dependin' on weather." Two deckhands delivered her trunk. The captain watched as they set down the luggage and stared at the cabin's new occupant. "Wasn't fond of the notion of a lady aboard, but your man's—"

"Very persuasive," Rachel supplied. "I know. I appreciate this, Captain. What did Mr. Tremayne trade for my passage?"

"Agreed not to discuss that. We'll be out 'fore tide changes." With that gruff response, Haversham left her to her musings.

Dark they were. An uncertain future loomed ahead once more, just as it had when she'd boarded the covered wagon to head down the Oregon trail. This time it was more daunting than she'd let herself admit. She could be going home to help nurse Jeremiah back to a semblance of health. She could be returning for his funeral. She might end up facing a trial and prison. But she refused to contemplate that possibility. If she did, she might end up jumping overboard.

A tattered blanket and thin coverlet had been provided on the bunk. She pulled out her quilt and smoothed it atop the covers. That small gesture made her feel better. The colorful quilt lent a bright cheer to the otherwise depressingly dingy cabin.

"It makes the room," announced a deep voice from the doorway. Her heart leaped into her throat.

"Morgan!"

She threw herself into his arms. "I thought you'd left for Crowshaven by now. I'm so glad you came to see me off. I find I'm rather nervous about this crossing."

"Are you, Colonial?"

"Maybe it was those tales you painted or the captain's manner. He's not what I'd call sociable." Morgan gently unwrapped her arms from his neck and began checking the cabin.

"He's a man of his word, which is more important. He's had the place cleaned up nicely."

"He wouldn't tell me what passage cost. You must have traded something of value, but he refused to discuss it." Morgan nodded and continued poking around. "How dare you swear him to silence?"

"How quickly the lady forgets her promises," he chided. "You agreed not to bicker about the arrangements. You gave your word that as long as I saw to your safety and welfare, you'd trust my judgment in the matter. Is there something I've overlooked?"

"No, in fact, it seems you've thought of everything. It's not fancy, but my needs are simple."

"Then the cost is unimportant." He sounded exactly like the impossible employer who'd made her so crazy at the holding company office. Suddenly she realized how much she'd come to depend upon his terse manner and unyielding strength.

"Oh, but I'm going to miss you! Please say good-bye to Chrissy and Boyd for me. And the Pooles, though I suppose Emily will be glad to have me gone."

Morgan wrapped strong arms around her. His lips molded to hers in a long and tender kiss. Rachel couldn't breathe, but wouldn't stop kissing him back and clinging tightly to him. She never wanted to let go or leave his arms. She'd only felt this overpowering misery at one other parting. When she'd left Philadelphia with Cletus and bid farewell to her father. Now it was time to say farewell again, and it was worse this time. For Morgan was part of Rachel's life—a life Richelle now had to leave behind.

A hacking cough came from behind them. Grimy knuckles rapped against the open cabin door. Morgan held Rachel protectively against his chest and nodded over the top of her head to the seaman. "This will do. Put my things over there."

Rachel stiffened. "Your things?"

"I'm sailing with you."

"Oh no you're not, Morgan Tremayne! I never agreed to that!"

Morgan laid a finger to his lips, silencing her until he'd closed the cabin door after the tar. "For once you'll hear me out before you start carping. When I came here to the docks, I learned the Southern Confederacy has hired privateers."

"So?"

"Commissioned pirates. Cargo vessels headed for Northern states run the risk of being boarded and having their cargoes seized. There's no way I can permit you to sail alone. I've concluded my business here in London. I'll call upon venture capitalists in New York. You need me along for protection."

"You could have talked the captain into a separate cabin for yourself or a bunk somewhere, even if you had to share the crew's quarters."

"Leaving you at the mercy of whatever comes? Pirates will secure crew's quarters first, Rachel! I'd be no use at all there. This is a trading vessel, remember? This is the only spare cabin. It was empty because Haversham's first mate was hired as master on another line. Haversham picks up a new mate when we dock in New York. And privateers are only part of the problem."

"You're the problem!"

"No matter how decent the crew may outwardly appear, you'll be the only female for a thousand miles. Think about that." He shook his dark head firmly. "I'll be with you to keep you safe. We agreed, no arguments about safety precautions."

She stomped her foot. "You tricked me, Morgan! I'll wait for another ship."

"We had a covenant, did we not? You accepted my help and agreed to abide by my decision. You were very specific in the terms of your offer. I'm being equally specific about the terms of my protection."

"You know I had no idea this—" she gestured angrily at the bunk, "was what you meant! I never suspected you plotted to have me ensconced with you! You're forcing me to become your mistress."

Morgan drew himself up to his full height. "No madam. You won't be my mistress. The captain's marrying us this very afternoon."

She gave his cheek a stinging slap. "You have no idea what you've done! We'll both live to regret this. I swear I'll never forgive you for this!" She buried her face in her hands and broke into choking sobs.

Morgan rubbed his cheek with a bronze knuckle. "Nevertheless, I hold you to your promise. You'll see America, as you so desperately crave, but only by marrying me and sharing this cabin. You'll have my protection, or you'll not go at all. No other ships are slated for the Colonies in the next month or more. This was the only available space, and I had to sell my granary to get it. If you've changed your mind about returning to your ailing father, say the word and I'll have our things put ashore. But decide now. Her cargo's on."

Rachel heard the shouts of the men on deck. Final preparations were underway. She sank into the wooden chair at the battered table, utterly defeated. He knew she couldn't turn back. She'd made a pact, and this was where it had led her. There was no escaping the Bargainer.

"I await your answer," Morgan reminded harshly. "Do I tell the men to remove our things?"

She kept her face averted as she dried her tears. "No. You win, Morgan. But you cheated and we both know it. You didn't barter for this passage. You just admitted you paid for it. I'll never trust you again." She glared up at him. "I just want to know one thing. When did you devise this marvelous scheme? When I foolishly solicited your help in booking passage, or even before you arrived on my aunt's doorstep?"

"I negotiated with the captain for both of us to be aboard from the first, Rachel. For the reasons I just stated. You need me. But to be perfectly frank, you gave me the idea for the marriage at sea."

"I gave you the idea?"

"At your aunt's the other evening. You wished to be the last woman I ever kissed." Her eyes widened. "I've wanted you from the day we met. I simply put two and two together, and discovered I had the means to make both our wishes come true."

He occupied himself elsewhere until after midday, then rapped at the bolted cabin door. "It's Morgan. Open the door, Colonial." She let him in and turned her back. "I know you're angry, but we must understand one another."

"I understand." Her shoulders lifted and fell. "I endured months in a covered wagon and years on the frontier. I'll endure this."

"Must you say 'endure,' as if you'd been sent to the Tower to be stretched upon the rack?" He kicked the chair around and dropped into it. "You claim I deceived you. Perhaps that's true, but what choice did you leave me, Rachel? The whole village saw me on bended knee. Instead of returning home to set a date for our marriage, I get a wire from my partner that you're leaving the country. You thought I'd calmly accept that?"

"You know there was good reason."

"Contrary to your notion about me leading some charmed existence, nothing has ever come easily to me, Rachel. I learned years ago that a man must fight for what he wants and there's a price to be paid. Don't be so quick to claim I've won today. I've also lost a measure of esteem in your eyes. You've vowed never to trust me again."

"I have only myself to blame," she sighed. "I should have known better than to place my faith in you. You bargain for yourself always, Morgan. Deep down I knew that."

"I couldn't dissuade you from this insanity, and I couldn't let you board this vessel alone." She saw there was genuine distress behind his gray eyes. "Why can't you see that I had no choice, even as you claim to have none? Your family needs you. You need me. You're just too stubborn to admit it."

"You may be right, but still, you shouldn't have handled matters this way. I just wish you'd—"

"You're a fool, Rachel Cordell. We must face the obstacles life sets before us. Wishing is a waste of energy. You might have come to care for your late husband, if you'd spent half the effort trying to appreciate the man as you did in wishing he'd been a better one!" With that he slammed out, leaving her to stare after him in stunned disbelief.

God help her, she had to tell him before it was too late. Before he got entangled in the mess that was her life back in the States. Before he came to hate her for the lies...She couldn't marry him!

Then she groaned, realizing he probably wouldn't believe her. He'd think she'd made up a wild tale to avoid a forced marriage. Or that she'd concocted it out of spite. What had he said? Nothing has ever come easily to me. A man must fight for what he wants... She knew he wouldn't relent, no matter what she told him. And he might be correct about the crew and her safety. It would be better for her if the men witnessed her taking vows, knew she had a virile husband watching over her.

She'd have to go through with the marriage at sea and find a way to tell him later.

Later. The word sent both a feeling of dread and a small thrill through her. Tonight would again be her wedding night. But this time it would be with a man she cared deeply for. Tonight Morgan would make love to her. Tonight she'd be his wife.

She peered out the cabin window. He was nowhere in sight. She brushed her thick hair and changed into a dress the color of tarnished silver she found at the bottom of her trunk. She'd never worn it in England, thinking the color too closely resembled the perpetually overcast skies. It wasn't black, but it was definitely somber. Considering her situation and the color of her bridegroom's eyes, it made a fitting bridal gown.

Morgan agreed when he returned to the cabin. "I don't recall that particular frock, madam, but I heartily approve of your choice. I'll be the envy of every man aboard."

"Thank you. I know you don't want to discuss this, but could you answer one question? I couldn't afford what this passage cost, could I?"

"Not on what I paid you. Which reminds me, you're still due a week's salary." He dug in his coat and handed her several folded notes. Then he unbuttoned the coat and hung it over the back of the chair before sitting on the edge of the bunk. He motioned for her to join him. "We need to discuss a few points."

"Meaning you intend to bully me, and I'm supposed to listen."

"Do listen. You must remain safely locked inside this cabin unless I escort you elsewhere. You're not to set foot outside that door without me. And when we are united in the eyes of God, it's critical that we appear like any other man and wife. That means you must try to look pleased about wedding me. Accept my displays of affection in front of the men. Do nothing to indicate a rift between us. I want your word that you'll heed me in this."

"Why am I always the one making promises? Look what the last one did for me! Morgan, I'm an American. I may never return to England. I really don't know that I'd be willing to give up my life in America. Had you thought of that?"

He rose and began rummaging through his larger trunk. "You shall, because your place is with me and my holdings are all in England. I'm not about to become a bloody Colonial."

"And I'm not certain I want to spend my life waiting for crows to roost on my rooftop in that village of yours!" she retorted. "This is part of why I couldn't accept when—actually, you never did come out and ask me to marry you. You still haven't asked me."

"Only a fool plays with knives."

She'd risen to peer out the cabin window. Now she dropped the curtain and turned around. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You'd only refuse. I don't need that particular blade in my chest, thank you all the same."

She groaned. "Please listen a moment. I hadn't the faintest idea you were in London or when you'd be coming back to Crowshaven. You live at the inn because you travel so much. Am I to be content with a husband who's seldom home?"

"You weren't content with one who always was," he reminded her stiffly. "My trade activities will continue. There will be times when I'm not home to share supper or my bed with you. Doesn't mean I'll be sharing them with anyone else. All that's finished. I intend to honor my vows."

The meaning behind those words fully registered. "So hot-blooded Pamela wasn't enough for you? My God, you must have a string of bastards from Newcastle to Sheffield! Sniping at me for listening to Arnold's warnings. This time I'm being forced to marry a rutting stag. Hardly a step up from the drunken lout."

"You were forced to wed Cletus too? Do you dislike men?"

"No. My father decided I should marry. At the time I barely knew Cletus. He was one of Papa's employees."

"Were you...I take it he hadn't put you in the family way?"

She was aghast at the question. "I was sixteen years old! I'd no more than kissed a boy before my wedding night!"

He pulled out a clean white shirt. "Well, I'm more than twice that age. Whatever my prior experience, I'll not apologize for it. What bloody importance is it now? I'm in the middle of the Atlantic ocean, locked in this cabin, about to marry you."

"You could be locked in here with Pamela or Medusa herself, and I'd be rejoicing!"

"You didn't rejoice when you thought I'd taken Pamela to bed that afternoon at the inn," he pointed out. He peeled his rumpled shirt off. Rachel's eyes were drawn to his bare torso and his hands working the fastening of his breeches. He noticed and chuckled aloud.

"You're impossibly conceited," she hissed, turning her back to him.

His bare arms immediately wrapped around her shoulders. His breath puffed warm against her cheek. "Look at me all you want, Rachel. There's no longer any reason to be shy or pretend you don't want me. Tonight I'll love you as a man loves a woman, as I've yearned to do for months."

Rachel fought a fierce trembling within her. Part of her had vainly hoped if and when they ever became lovers, she would give herself to him, turn lovemaking into something he might treasure. Those hopes had been dashed by his scheming.

"You've made it clear what you expect. I won't deny your husbandly rights. It would be pointless to try, trapped in this cabin with you."

He stiffened. "Are you implying I'd force myself on you?"

"You've taken away my choice, defrauded me into marriage. Consummated or not, I may seek an annulment when we reach America. I hope you'll be decent and won't contest it."

He released her at once. "That's rather extreme, Rachel."

"I don't think so. I'm giving both of us an out. I'm being forced to marry in haste, exactly what I vowed I'd never do again. I spent years in a miserable life with Cletus that was a mistake from the start. If this doesn't work out between us—"

"No annulment."

"Morgan, think! My country's torn by war and my father's dying. You won't stay in America. You're asking me to give up my country and spend the rest of my life with you in England. It's not as though you expect so little of me! You probably want children, too."

"Aye, I hope to pass the signet to a son one day," he answered slowly. She turned away and softly began to cry.

Morgan pondered again the question that had inwardly troubled him more than once. Rachel had been married for years, yet she was alone, childless. He'd been loathe to broach the subject, owing to her unnatural reticence about her past. His eyes closed at the painful conclusion he reached now. Either Rachel was barren or didn't want children. Then he recalled her loan of the almanac to young Nathan Tate. That had been a kind gesture. Surely she didn't dislike children?

"Don't cry, Rachel," he coaxed, pulling her into his arms. "I'm not after breeding stock. What I need most from you is companionship. It has to do with the cottage. I've never told you the true reason I don't reside there. Travel's a plausible excuse, but I have Boyd let out the place because I can't set foot inside without a horrible melancholy taking hold. That is, I couldn't abide the cottage until a little widow came along. She can't light a fire or steep a decent cup of English tea, but she brought warmth and levity into a house too long filled with despair. I need you, Rachel."

Now she pulled back and searched his eyes. They were soft as they met hers, almost vulnerable. "Morgan, promise you won't fight me on annulling this union. I'll go through with the ceremony because it's the prudent choice. I don't want to live in sin, and I can't argue the attraction I feel for you. Still, we—"

His lips descended to silence her, the kiss butterfly soft. His lips moved to her throat as his fingers tunneled into her loose tresses. "Rachel, I couldn't let you go. Don't make this something detestable. I'm a man who cares for you, who struggles and fails miserably at times. I dream of many things, knowing more than half will likely never come to pass. All I expect is that you'll listen to me, argue with me, make love to me, grow old with me. Are those things you cannot do?"

"I'll disappoint you, Morgan! You don't understand—"

"Shh, Colonial," he whispered, stroking her hair. His hand froze in midair as a memory came flooding back. The comment she'd made about never having held a babe.

He'd interrupted her in mid-sentence. The recollection gripped his heart in solid ice. She'd been trying to tell him she couldn't bear children, but he couldn't hear that just now. He didn't want her blurting it out. He wanted to give her time to find the right words. He owed her that much.

"Rachel, if you love me, we can work the rest out. Face problems together." He glanced away, finding the next words the grimmest he'd ever had to utter. "It's not too late to speak to Haversham and call it off."

"You would do that?" He heard the surprise in her voice.

He gazed down into her dark eyes. "I'd look a bloody fool, and maybe I am one for thinking your jealousy and the way you look at me means...for hoping. Tell me what you want, Rachel. If you truly can't abide the thought of living with me, I'll go speak to Haversham and call off plans for the ceremony."

"Don't. Maybe I'm just...unsettled. Nervous."

His heart began to beat once more. Much faster. At least a part of her wanted him, cared for him. "Ah, well! All brides have wedding jitters. Grooms, too. Yours is no different. Let's have some brandy for our nerves."

He went to his smaller trunk and pulled out a bottle, taking a long swig before passing it to her. "Mercy, that's awful!" Rachel sputtered after swallowing the fiery amber liquid.

"An acquired taste," he said as he pulled on his frock coat.

"You're nervous, too?"

He nodded and reached to gather his dark hair in one hand, thong in the other. "Would you mind leaving it down?" she asked softly. "You look so handsome. And not the least bit nervous."

He chuckled. "Shall I tell you another little secret? When I look it least, you may rely on the feeling being at its strongest. I assure you, I'm quite human." He moved to the cabin door. "Come here, love." He waited until she crossed the cabin to join him by the portal. Her eyes were still clouded with worry. He took her hand in his. "Rachel, will you do me the honor of marrying me?"

"Will you promise something before I answer?"

"I won't promise not to block an annulment."

"Would you at least agree to consider it? I have a valid reason for—"

"We'll not discuss it until we reach port. Mayhap by then you'll have changed your mind about wanting to dissolve our union."

"Or maybe you'll have changed yours." Her voice shook slightly, and Morgan frowned. "What I meant to ask," she clarified," is for a promise you'll be patient with me. I've had no time to compose myself or...I need time to adjust to...well, being your wife."

He used every ounce of control to keep his voice soft, knowing she needed gentle persuasion now. "I'll be patient as I can, but you well know it's not my strong suit." When she gave him a shy smile, he pressed his lips to the back of the hand he still held in both of his. "I shall try to be kind and understanding, try with all my heart to make you happy. Now Rachel, will you marry me?"

Cursing her own weakness, she gave the only answer she could. "Yes."

Chapter 12

Rachel stared at her left hand with something akin to awe. A dozen times since the ceremony that afternoon she'd glanced at her ring finger for confirmation she wasn't dreaming.

But she knew better. She'd actually gone through with the shipboard wedding and now heard drunken sailors cavorting on the decks outside the small cabin she shared with Morgan.

He saw her glance down at her ring. "The gift you wouldn't accept back in London was a necklace," he explained. "I returned it and commissioned the jeweler to copy my signet. The first time I held you in my arms and kissed you was the night we went back for my ring. Seemed appropriate that same ring should symbolize you sharing my life and name. But if you'd rather I buy you a traditional band or a gemstone—"

Rachel bestowed a soft kiss on his lips. "It's perfect. You couldn't have chosen anything better."

He smiled, but pressed a finger to his lips as he moved to the bunk. He lifted the mattress and pointed to a slim wooden case. His voice was a low whisper. "My dueling pistols. Always take them along when I travel. You'll sleep against the inner wall. I'll take the outside. If anyone should somehow manage to get inside this cabin, he'll have to get past me and the pistols to reach you."

"You're making me nervous again."

"You were already nervous, for an altogether different reason." Rachel met his knowing gaze and nodded, all at once uncertain what to do or say. The bunk was all she could think about, both with trepidation and a certain measure of excitement. But a woman didn't admit such things.

"Well, 'tis said a new bride must be given a few moments of privacy. Close the curtains 'round the bunk and prepare for bed. I'll check the stove and the bolt on the door."

A bundle of tissue paper lay on the one he'd designated as her pillow. She gingerly opened the package, discovering a nightgown of rose silk. Its simple design tied at the neck, then flowed from shoulder to ankles in one unbroken spill. She quickly undressed and put it on, emerging from the bunk moments later to stand quietly before her new mate. Masculine appreciation shone in his smoky eyes.

"It's beautiful," she said softly. "I...appreciate your thoughtfulness. I didn't know I'd need a trousseau when I packed for this crossing. I'm afraid you wouldn't have been—"

"Surely you know I'd adore you in anything or nothing. Especially nothing."

Her cheeks flooded with warmth. "I hadn't anything nearly this lovely."

He was seated at the table. He leaned forward. "See, there are some advantages to being swept into an unexpected union Bring me your hairbrush." She gave him a questioning look, but complied. He accepted the brush and positioned her in front of him, then began drawing the brush through her long tresses.

"A bride should know her spouse finds her beautiful and desirable." He paused and took a deep breath. "I think you're enchanting." His lips were close to her ear as he said, "I've longed to brush your hair like this." He stroked her hair until it shone in the lamplight. He closed his eyes against his mounting sexual arousal. He wanted to bury his face in her hair, his stiffening manhood in her warmth. Join with her in the most primal way.

"Morgan." Her voice was a soft whisper. He opened his eyes to find hers locked on his face. "You've been kind, even though I wasn't earlier today. I'm sorry I reacted so badly at first. It's time I stopped thinking of you as my employer and landlord." She gave a small shrug to signal helpless confusion. "It took months to become comfortable with Morgan instead of 'sir.' Now you're more than a friend or mentor, you're my husband."

The word proved his undoing. He rose and pulled her into his arms. "Rachel, I can't be patient any longer. I want you too much."

She didn't resist when he blew out the lamp and propelled her to the bunk. She climbed under the quilt and waited for him. He stripped away his garments. The bunked creaked and she felt him reach for her.

She went easily into his arms and pressed herself against him, running her hands over his bare chest. "Morgan, you were right. I've wanted you, too. Wanted this."

The silk gown was buttery soft and slippery. The erotic feel of it against her skin thrilled her as he wrapped his thighs around hers. "Not half so much as I've craved you in my arms, sweetheart." His mouth slanted over hers. Her tongue met his boldly, stroke for teasing stroke. Rachel knew she didn't have to hold back. Her body could tell him what her lips still couldn't say—how much she gloried in him.

He tugged at the ribbon at the gown's neck. The silk parted to her waist. His hands brushed the fabric over her shoulders and down around her upper arms. Rachel drew in a sharp breath as he pushed the bedclothes down. Cold air met her bare flesh, only to be replaced by his warm palms capturing her breasts.

She moaned, reveling in his strong hands laying claim to her. "The day we went riding," Rachel panted, "I thought about this. I wanted to retreat upstairs, lie back on the canopy bed, and let you do this. Do everything."

"I'm glad you didn't," he replied in a rough voice. "It's better this way. Now I can touch and kiss every inch of you. I love you, Rachel. Wife."

His hands moved over her stomach and lower belly. Her back arched and she lifted her hips. Her hands caught fistfuls of silk as she slid the gown beyond her pelvis. Morgan took over and pulled it down her legs, then thrust it aside at the foot of the bunk.

Fully nude now beneath him, Rachel wrapped her arms around his waist and kissed him with abandonment. She caressed his long torso, drew him down into her softness. He was hard and angular; she all yielding, pliant flesh and tender sighs beneath his hands. Wherever his fingers brushed, there was heat.

"Christ, you don't know how hard it's been," Morgan mumbled. "Even in those damnable widow's weeds, I craved to have you like this, nude and willing. I've longed to taste your skin."

His mouth moved to a taut nipple. His tongue flicked and swirled over it. Rachel whimpered and ran her palms over his bare shoulders. "Easy, woman," he groaned. "Don't make those wanton sounds, or I'll forfeit the last shred of control."

But she couldn't seem to stop the low keening, deny the urge to arch her back and offer him more of her twin aching breasts. Morgan feasted with his hands and mouth, kneading her firm flesh. He sent a trail of moisture from the underside of one breast to her navel. His tongue dipped there and probed. The fingers of one hand slid down to coax her thighs apart.

"Please say you're ready, love," Morgan rasped, "I can't wait. If I don't get inside you now, I'll go out of my mind."

He rose to his knees, releasing a low feral sound of triumph as Rachel spread her thighs and reached to twine her arms around his neck in welcome. He entered her with a measured thrust. Face hovering inches above hers, he gritted his teeth. "I know you haven't been with a man for a long time. Am I hurting you?"

"No, it's…good," she breathed, wrapping her legs around his hips.

"Jesus, too damned good," he grunted, making her gasp as he withdrew and thrust deep inside again. Rachel moaned and clasped his buttocks in her fingers, delighting in the muscular feel of his flesh and the power of his hard body claiming hers.

She had no memories of being naked like this in Cletus' arms. She'd rarely taken off all her garments when they'd been intimate, for Cletus seldom had shown patience to wait until she'd discarded everything. She couldn't remember what it had felt like to move beneath him, but she was certain it had never been this maelstrom of heated sensation and burgeoning desire. She wanted this, she acknowledged, with no shame and no fear. She lifted her hips to meet Morgan's thrust. Again and again. But he stopped abruptly and withdrew. "Sorry about that," he muttered as he gave her a chaste kiss. Too chaste, considering what they'd just done.

"Sorry? But I thought making love was what you wanted!"

He chuckled against her ear. "Not sorry for making love, my daft little darling. Sorry I didn't do it longer and better."

"We did what married people do," she shrugged. Aware of a vague dismay, she tried to keep Morgan from sensing it. "Now we can get some rest."

He gave an even deeper chuckle. "Nice try, but you won't put me off with taunts tonight. I'll be ready again soon." He began to stroke the flesh of her bottom with sensual fingers. "The argument earlier, waiting so long, even the knowledge that for the first time I was making love to a wife—all that affected me. But I'll prove myself worthy several times before this night's through. Name your favorite pleasure, my lady, and I'll begin anew with whatever that may be."

Rachel pushed him away and jerked upright. "Several times? You can have me every night for months! Why must I let you use me several times tonight?"

"Let me use you?" he repeated numbly. "I'll grant a certain inequity exists at the moment, but it's hardly fair to claim I used you, Rachel. It took every ounce of self control not to pummel you into the mattress, as long as I'd been desiring you. This was our first time together. Surely Cletus lasted longer after your first time."

Rachel gnawed at her lower lip. She'd never compared from one night to another. She genuinely remembered very little about lying with Cletus, beyond his crude grabs and the fact she'd kept her eyes closed. And often prayed he'd finish, the sooner the better. No, she hadn't wanted it longer.

"It's not fitting to talk about that," she announced firmly.

Morgan agreed. "Perhaps you're right. So hush now and kiss me, Madam Tremayne. I'll stiffen in a trice and we'll give it another go." He rolled her beneath him and slanted his mouth over hers. She pushed against his shoulders until he tore his lips from hers.

She gasped for breath, incredulous. "You aren't serious? Again, right now?"

"You imagined one quick tussle would sate me? After waiting months to bed you? We're going to spend hours pleasuring one another, Rachel. Through the night into the morrow. We don't have to leave this bunk at all, you know. I'm not sure I'll permit you leave it for at least a week." His hands massaged her full breasts again.

This time she flinched. "I realize you're my husband now, so I must submit to your desires, but—"

"Nay, madam." He was suddenly furious, scrambling out of the bunk. "You will not submit to me, Rachel Tremayne. You will not endure nights in bed with me. If you believe that's your place as a wife, then your first husband was an idiot!"

"See, you're disappointed already!" She curled into a tight ball and fought the angry tears forming in her eyes. She was acutely embarrassed, but also intrigued by what he'd just said. Cletus had been foolish about many things in life. Couldn't this be another? She knew some women viewed sex as enjoyable, and had wondered if what Cletus had shown her was all intimacy could be. All of it had seemed different just now, with Morgan.

She blushed to recall how he'd used his mouth on her, the bold ways he'd touched her everywhere. Cletus had merely fondled her breasts once or twice, then jammed a knee between her thighs and expected her to receive him. If she was lucky. In their later years, he rolled on top of her and penetrated her, whether she'd been willing or not. He'd never licked and suckled....

But she'd reveled in Morgan doing that, and more. She was embarrassed, but curious, too. "Are you upset that I didn't please you?" she ventured.

"Rachel," he admonished without rancor, "you please me. Never doubt that I find you all I could want in a woman. It's nothing you did. I'm irritated by what you said. Your attitude about the whole endeavor." She heard the slosh of liquid.

"Now I made the occasion for you to drink," she observed.

She heard a muttered expletive before the bunk creaked and Morgan was beside her again. She laid a tentative hand on his bare chest. "Can I tell you something?"

"I should hope so. You are my wife," he growled. "Damn, but I've a knack for being churlish toward you at times. I don't mean to sound like a boor. Talk to me." He wrapped an arm around her and pulled her close against his side. "I'll be patient and listen."

"I've always suspected there was something more than...what just took place. I asked Cletus once, but he got upset at the question. It was never wise to push him, so I let it go. But if there's more, would you...show me?" When he didn't speak for a long moment, she shook him lightly. "Morgan?"

"I—I honestly assumed you knew," he said in a hoarse whisper. It was the first time she'd ever heard him stammer, and she realized he must feel awkward too. "Ah, sweetness, I'm sorry. I'll share all I know about pleasure. Do you want to begin now?"

"I want...well, you said earlier I didn't have to be shy after we were married. You know, about looking or—"

He seemed to sense her distress, and laid her hand on his belly. "You never needed to be shy with me, Rachel. Certainly not now. Explore as much and wherever you like, though it's likely to stir a distinct impatience."

She let her hand slide lower. Morgan tensed, but didn't move. "When you show me more, I mean, other things, will it be painful?" she asked in a whisper, marveling at the feel of his velvet strength beneath her fingers. "The whores said some things are unpleasant."

"Whores?" Now he pushed her hand aside. "Whom in God's name have you been talking to? Surely no one in Crowshaven."

"My cousin owns a brothel outside Washington, near the seat of our national government. I visited the house as a girl."

"Your cousin's a madam? The proverbial black sheep?"

Rachel reflected momentarily on her cousin and the other relatives on her mother's side of the family. Most were called unconventional, even eccentric. But she knew every one of them to be harmless, if a bit unusual in their political and social views. "Not in my mind. I think she's terrific. A wonderful person. You'd think so too, if you knew her."

"If you say so," he capitulated easily. Then his words became thoughtful as he absently stroked her shoulder with gentle fingers. "Your notion of a man using a woman's body begins to make sense. But strumpets lie beneath men for coin. It's purely business being transacted, with no caring between the parties."

"So, it wouldn't be—"

"It will never be like that between us. Was it unpleasant just now? You seemed to enjoy it well enough."

She felt her cheeks flush scarlet. "More than I expected, actually."

"What?" he sounded affronted and his fingers paused in their caress. "Wait just a moment. Didn't your cousin and the trollops describe intimate matters in detail enough that you'd know what to expect when you married? About a woman's pleasure?"

"Sheila taught me how to kiss and said to open my legs to admit a husband between them. She said he'd show me everything else I needed to know, that I'd know when the magical thing happens. But something must be wrong with me. There's never been anything I'd describe as 'magical'."

Morgan's arms slid around her in a loving embrace. His deep baritone was soothing, lulling her back from nervous distress to the secure feeling she craved in his arms. "A woman needs male guidance for the magic she spoke of to happen. That's what I apologized for earlier. I knew I hadn't created it for you. But I will."

"You're sure? It's not me?"

Morgan's deep chuckle somehow reassured her more than his words. "I'm positive, little Colonial. Before we reach New York harbor, I shall prove it." She yawned against the pulsepoint in his throat. "You're tired," he observed.

She nodded and snuggled against his shoulder. His warmth all around her was a strong sedative. "Morgan, if you can prove that, show me what I don't understand about this business of being man and wife, I'm not sorry that I married you."

"Good," he whispered, "If that's what you meant about 'disappointing' me, you've no cause to fret. I disappointed you, Colonial. You're just too sweetly confused to know it."

Chapter 13

Morgan stirred shortly after dawn. Rachel was awake and watching him. "Good morning, Madam Tremayne." He gave her a lazy smile, letting his hand run from her bare shoulder to her buttocks. It rested there lightly in a possessive gesture that both charmed and slightly bothered her. She didn't need to be reminded first thing of how he'd won the battle to make her his wife. "Might have warned me you awaken with the chickens. Habit you developed in the Colonies on that farm, I expect."

Oh, but he looked smug, a conqueror gloating over the vanquished. She never should have let him see her vulnerability the night before. "My country has been an independent nation for nearly a century. It's populated with much heartier souls than yours, yet you persist in referring to it as some minor extension of the Realm."

"Heartier souls? You'd be an expert judge, naturally, having endured this lovely bundle of flesh being dragged over the dust in a...what is that charming term? Prairie schooner?" The wolfish grin widened as he laughed.

She shot past him and out of the bunk. She squirmed into a plain black frock. Morgan rolled onto his back, ignoring his blatant nudity and the fact the bedclothes had been knocked down around his knees. Rachel fought the urge to shift her gaze. He calmly laced his fingers behind his head. "Living on the Western frontier is supposed to prove you're hearty and independent?"

"I think it does."

"Ah," he nodded. "You wanted to walk home alone in the village after dark, and would have undertaken this voyage alone. Not one night out, and the men were already trailing in your wake like hungry sharks. You, my dear little bride, are foolhardy, not independent. There's a difference."

"Foolhardy?" Rachel glowered at him, chagrin at his undress forgotten. "Foolhardy was believing you'd actually help me! Trusting you was foolhardy! I should have known better, with someone who regards other men as opponents to be outmaneuvered for coin, and women as outlets for his excessive lust."

"That's unworthy. I was kind and compassionate last evening. Another man might have used your body—as you charmingly describe it—until you were unable to get up and walk this morning."

"Well I still can, and I'm going to get something to eat." She opened the cabin door, letting in the acrid tang of chilly salt air.

She'd taken only a few steps across the open deck when her elbow was caught in powerful fingers. "I specifically warned you against this, Rachel," Morgan snarled. "You'll not come out here unescorted."

Her face was instantly on fire when she discovered a group of tars watching the exchange. They were plainly amused by the sight of her arguing with her naked bridegroom. "You're not dressed, sir!" she hissed.

"I know, and I'm freezing my ballocks off, thanks to you!" He jerked her back inside the cabin and pushed her into the chair. "Sit there until I put something on. We'll go to the mess together."

"I'll never survive with you hanging over me every minute for a month or more! Those men don't look as though they mean any harm. You just like bullying me. You've exaggerated the danger to frighten me."

He flung open the cabin door. "Goatish abuser of the fairer sex. Bully, liar...Your endearments serve their intended purpose, madam wife. Have full run of the ship." He gave her backside a rude push. "We'll see how long it takes before you're looking to be rescued from the clutches of yon seamen. Mayhap you'll appreciate the bully you married after you've had a taste of their treatment." He thrust her outside and bolted the door behind her.

Determined not to let the crew read her shock and dismay, she took a seat at an empty table in the ship's dining room. She kept an eye on the hatch as she buttered her bread, watching for Morgan's arrival, but he didn't come. She decided to take him at his word and ignore his presence completely.

She stood at the rail after breakfast and gazed at the broad expanse stretching before the bow. How like Morgan's eyes the ocean looks when it's calm like today, she thought. She glanced around at the sailors and found none, fit as they were, who could surpass him in build or rugged yet pleasing features. How could she expect him to understand what being his wife meant? It was complicated on so many levels, and there was no way to explain part without explaining all of it.

The familiar deep baritone reached her ears on the light breeze. She turned and saw Morgan talking to a knot of sailors. He glanced in her direction and purposely looked away a second later. She gnashed her teeth. He was out to spite her, of course! Wasn't that always the way he reacted when thwarted? And didn't his spite typically involve a pretense that he didn't know she existed?

Well, two could play at that game. She'd just find her own amusement. After all, he'd given her the run of the vessel.

So for a time she occupied herself watching the crewmen. They scampered up the rigging like agile monkeys, shouted nonsensical orders and remarks to one another that left her befuddled but seemed to make perfect sense to them, and bustled about in various activities. She stood at the rail letting the sea breeze whip her dark skirts and stared at the flat expanse of open seas before them, awed by the immense size of the Atlantic. She spun a mental fantasy that she was one of the staunch seamen, a rebel and a wayfarer, anxious to see the world and faraway ports of call. Daydreams in which she might go anywhere, pursue whatever opportunity presented itself, with no ties to any place or any person.

Instead of her reality, where a dark cloud of suspicion hung over her head, her father lay in his sickbed gravely ill, and her handsome husband misbelieved her to be an honest, trustworthy, if not terribly biddable, new wife.

She retreated back to the galley and offered to help the cook prepare the midday meal. He handed her a paring knife and pointed to a mound of potatoes. She tucked her hair into a loose knot and rolled up her sleeves.

It seemed she peeled a thousand potatoes in the next few hours. By the time she'd finished, her fingers were worn to the bone and she was completely without appetite. The cook asked that she stay and help serve.

Rachel hefted a platter of the boiled potatoes onto her shoulder and followed the cook's helper. A wave of catcalls and whistles broke out the instant she set foot in the dining room. She kept her eyes forward, ignoring the bawdy comments of the men. A heated flush stained her cheeks as she moved between the tables. She was chagrined to find a pair of alert gray eyes watching her from a corner. Morgan sat with the other men, clearly delighting in her discomfiture.

She lowered the platter and began ladling out servings to the men. She bent to dump a spoonful of the hot potatoes and felt a hand boldly cup her buttocks through her skirts. She reacted instinctively, dumping the spoon's contents onto the sailor's lap. The tar yelped in pain and shot to his feet, jumping up and down to free himself of the scalding glob stuck to the crotch of his pants. "Bloody bitch! Nearly burnt my pecker off!"

"Oh, dear! I am sorry," Rachel responded, the lie in her words revealed by the hard glint in her eyes. "I was aiming for your plate, but you startled me. Perhaps if you sat quietly and kept your hands down, my aim would improve."

A split second of quiet was followed by uproarious laughter. The seaman grabbed the hem of his shirt and wiped furiously at the sticky potatoes. "Watch yerself, Thompson," someone shouted, "Keep rubbin' like that, she'll be pourin' stew o'er yer head next!" This brought more snickers. Rachel dropped a single potato on Thompson's plate before stepping aside to continue her rounds. As she reached her husband, every eye in the room was glued on them.

"Potatoes, sir?" She lifted a heaping spoonful.

Morgan raised both hands above his head in submission, inspiring fresh hoots and chortles. She slowly lowered the spoon, her eyes meeting his in a triumphant glare. She completed serving and returned to the galley. Emptying the remains from her tray back into the pot, she looked up to find Thompson blocking the doorway.

"Nasty wench. Harmless little pat. Didn't mean nothin'."

"I said I was sorry." Rachel kept her voice level as she glanced past him. No sign of the cook or his helper.

"High and mighty, like some bleedin' duchess. I don't think yer sorry 'tall. Little peck on the lips might console me."

Rachel took a deep breath. Years of dealing with Cletus' drunken spells had taught her showing fear was the worst mistake she could make. She picked up the paring knife and held it so the blade caught the light. She clucked her tongue. "Nasty accidents happen in kitchens. I'm afraid my husband wouldn't like you asking me to apologize by kissing you. He might decide to cut your tongue out."

"He might," came Morgan's steely voice in agreement. He stepped from behind Thompson to put himself between the sailor and Rachel. "Which would make it hard to explain to the captain how you came to be here instead of seeing to your duties. You were warned about pestering my wife."

"Foul-tempered tease, she is." Thompson glowered at her, then swung his gaze back to Morgan. "Makes a bloke all hot with them big teats, then laughs at him for it. My sympathies, wed to the likes o' her."

Rachel pressed close against Morgan's side. She slid her arm around his lean waist. Thompson stomped out. Rachel noticed the tension in Morgan's muscles didn't ease when the sailor left. "Happy now?" Morgan demanded, snatching the knife from her hand. "He could have disarmed you as easily. What then, Rachel? When I said move about the ship, I didn't mean become the bloody serving wench! Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Why do you think innkeepers and tavern owners hire wenches for serving? The men sample more of them than the food and grog!"

"Well, innkeeper and traveler Tremayne," she shot back, "You would know, wouldn't you?"

He seized her upper arm and led her out to the main deck. "You're going back to our cabin. If you haven't eaten, that's too damned bad. You'll wait until supper, and have that alone in the cabin with me. You set one foot outside the door and I'll drag you back by your hair."

Rachel stumbled across the rough planking. He forced her through the doorway and slammed the door behind them. "Foolhardy, did I say? This goes beyond that, to a level of stupidity I cannot begin to comprehend! Sauntering up and down with your rump in their faces!"

She stared at the floor. "I suppose you're going to beat me now."

"That suggestion has a certain merit." Morgan tilted her chin up with one hand. "A bad jest, Rachel," he informed her stiffly. "I wouldn't strike a woman. I can't give you the same assurance about the other men, however. That filthy ruffian looked capable of anything."

"I put him in his place," she countered.

"And left him no pride when you did it. The entire crew saw you shame him. His manhood's at stake now. Not two days out and we've made an enemy!" He began to pace and ran a hand through his loose hair. "You had no business placing yourself within his reach. You refuse to see the danger from the men is very real. What will it take to convince you, the crew doubling you over a water barrel and lining up for a go? That's precisely what could happen! Stay the hell away from them!"

She sank onto the bunk. "I was trying to be helpful. Serving was cook's idea, not mine."

Morgan took a brandy bottle from his trunk and dropped into the chair. He rubbed his forehead absently and Rachel silently watched him take a long swallow. He raised the bottle to his lips a second time when she spoke. "That won't help your headache."

"Won't hurt it, either. You sorely vex me. I've explained why you must be sensible. Flaunting yourself is courting disaster. I only let you do it to teach you a lesson."

"I wasn't flaunting anything."

"Don't test my patience!" he snapped. "Insolence was aggravating in a clerk. It's intolerable in a wife. You gave your word to adhere to my instructions about safety before we sailed. You swore before God yesterday to honor and obey me."

She was furious now. He dared speak of honor after what he'd done? He thought he could trick her, purposely mislead her, and still she'd blindly obey? She grabbed the bottle from his hand, jerked open the cabin window, and tossed the liquor overboard. "You drink too much."

He shook her by the shoulders. "Don't you ever do anything like that again! I paid dearly for that liquor. Almost as much as I paid for you. You'll be back in America soon enough. You can go back to churning butter and flopping the hogs without me, if that's what you truly want. Meantime, keep your hands off my goddamned brandy."

"Slopping the hogs," she corrected.

Morgan looked about to explode. "I'll be on deck until supper," he snapped. "Should you need me for some reason—though God only knows why you would, being so hearty and independent—holler to the deckhand outside to fetch me. You unbolt the cabin door for anyone save me, and I swear I'll have you chained to the bunk for the rest of the voyage."

He arrived hours later with a tray from the galley. Rachel saw a single serving. "Aren't you eating?"

"I'm not hungry." He pulled off his boots and undressed without another word. He crawled into the bunk and closed the bed curtains.

"Are you still upset with me?" Rachel asked softly. "I'm sorry, Morgan."

"Leave me be."

They'd quarreled often enough in the village for her to sense something was different now. He could be spiteful, but he seldom carried a grudge. In fact, a brief separation typically cured his sour moods. But not now, Rachel silently mused. Now they were married. And apparently he intended to punish her with silence.

She ate alone without saying another word. She glanced at the still curtains and decided she'd risk a minor disobedience by unlocking the door to set the empty tray outside. She'd just closed and rebolted the door when she heard the scrape of the chamber pot from behind her and violent retching. Rachel had never been seasick, but she'd seen other passengers suffer. Morgan's body needed to acclimate to the ship's movement. Until it did, he'd be miserably ill.

She undressed and put on her robe. She set the chair beside the stove and curled up to sleep herself, leaving the lamp burning low. She was awakened by more retching and a deep groan. She opened the curtains to find Morgan doubled over, both arms clutched across his abdomen. He'd broken out in a clammy sweat. Her mind was made up in a second. To hell with his orders, he needed help. She took the chamber pot to the rail and dumped the contents overboard before scurrying to the galley.

She found a basin and filled it with fresh water. She met the cook on her way out and quickly learned that most of the crew was sick, too. It wasn't seasickness. They'd eaten spoiled meat at midday. She returned to the cabin and forced water between Morgan's lips, holding the chamber pot as he vomited again. When at last his stomach was empty, she used one of her handkerchiefs to mop his bare chest and face. "Sorry, Rachel," he croaked.

"Never mind, Englishman. You and the men ate spoiled food this afternoon. Thank goodness you didn't let me eat or I'd be sick, too. Get some rest. I'll be in the chair by the stove if you need anything."

"No!" he winced. "Not safe alone. Sleep here with me." She removed her robe and gingerly climbed over him. She slid beneath the bedclothes, but Morgan moaned as another spasm racked his body, and she began massaging his abdomen with her fingers to ease the painful cramping. He groped with one hand and pulled her closer, then rested his head on her bare left breast. "I could die happy here," he rasped.

"You're not going to die," she chided softly. "You didn't sell your granary and trick me into marriage only to expire over a bit of spoiled beef! You'll be better soon."

His writhing and tortured cries awakened her some time later. "Annaliese, I would have done anything! I love you. How could you do this? Don't leave me, please!"

Rachel pressed his head against her breast again, whispering soothing words until he quieted. He began taking slow, even breaths. The warmth and nearness of his lips made her nipple pucker. His hand moved over her bare stomach and muscles deep inside her clenched. She marveled at her body craving him like this. She'd never lain beside Cletus burning for his touch, but she wanted Morgan. And the wanting made it a long while before she fell back to sleep.

She was seated at the table using her sewing kit to patch a sailor's torn shirt when the bed curtains parted. She glanced up. "Feeling better?"

"It appears I haven't left you widowed again, after all." He swung his legs to the floor and tried to stand, but he swayed with the effort. Rachel pushed him back onto the mattress. She scowled down at him and pulled the quilt up over his chest.

"You're still too weak. I'll get you some hot tea and have the cook heat water for a bath and a shave."

He caught her arm in fingers that had lost some of their iron. "Rachel, I didn't mean what I said about you going back to churning butter without me. I don't want that. You said you didn't regret marrying me...Do you now?"

She smiled kindly. "I know you didn't mean it. We both said things we didn't mean. Let's get you cleaned up."

His voice was hoarse but insistent. "I haven't been so sick in years. I'm sorry you had to see me like that and play nursemaid."

"Stop apologizing. You're still not yourself. The Morgan Tremayne I know doles out apologies once every six months or so. I'll be right back." She pressed a kiss on his forehead and swept out of the cabin before he could protest.

He was dozing when she returned. She closed the bed curtains and inched the metal tub from beneath the bunk as quietly as she could. She gathered clean clothes from his larger trunk and set his straight razor on the table. Fresh water was a precious commodity. She undressed, planning to bathe first herself, then awaken him.

A gruff voice at the door announced the hot water was ready. She pulled on her robe and threw back the bolt. The door swung open and she took an involuntary step back.

"Mistress High and Mighty! Heard yer man's got the stomach knots."

She blanched at Thompson's malicious glower. Another seaman followed him inside. Beyond them the open deck was deserted. Rachel knew most of the men were below in their quarters, prostrate as Morgan was. Thompson chuckled aloud. "Russell, lad! I've been admirin' her ladyship's robe, but wouldn't you like seein' her without it?"

Russell turned and bolted the door. The first wave of panic swept over Rachel.

Thompson was staring, his eyes slightly glazed. She recognized that look. Remembered too well what it presaged. Maybe their voices would awaken Morgan. He'd know men shouldn't be inside the cabin for more than a moment. Know there was trouble.

She'd drop something or make sounds to alert him. Then her spirits sank. What good would it do? Morgan was too weak to even stand, let alone fight off a pair of wiry men

Morgan was ailing. But the two intent on raping her looked robust indeed.

Chapter 14

"My husband's a very light sleeper. If he finds you here, Thompson," Rachel announced in a clear voice, "he'll kill you."

"What's he gonna do, spew his innards all over me?" Both men laughed. Thompson spotted Morgan's razor on the tabletop. Rachel took a step forward. Too late. Thompson mimicked her at their previous meeting, holding the blade aloft. "Lady wants a bath, Russ. I say we give her one."

Rachel's eyes swept the cabin. Morgan's liquor was locked away. Not a single bottle sat out in the open. She debated trying a dash to the bunk for the guncase. She'd never pull it out and get to a pistol before the men stopped her. Trying it risk giving their enemies arms to turn against her and Morgan.

Thompson held the only available weapon. The only thing she had left was reason. "Look Thompson, I know you want an apology—"

"Did. Now I want ya beggin' for mercy. Fill the tub, Russ, and don't be splashin' all over the place. Can't disturb his lordship," he snickered.

Russell concentrated on his pails. Thompson glared at Rachel. "Keep yer mouth shut and show me a good time, yer man lives. Open it, I'll give him a new smile. Nice big one from ear to ear. Take that off," he commanded, waving to indicate her robe. "Give me a look at what her fancy bastard's been hoardin'."

Rachel untied the sash and let her robe gap open. Russell swallowed hard and rose from his knees. "Don't be shy, Boy!" Thompson smirked. Russell reached out to clasp Rachel's breasts in callused palms. A fury built inside her, its tempest of rage sweeping all fear from her mind. No man but Morgan should touch her.

In that instant, her decision was made. Even if it cost her life, these men were not going to rape her.

Her face had gone bright red, but she refused to drop her gaze from Thompson's face. He gave the orders. He was the one she had to watch. All she needed was a second's distraction. A momentary shift in Thompson's attention. She tensed her muscles and got ready for action. She ignored the man kneading her flesh. Her concentration was on Thompson. She tried a minor diversion.

"Morgan keeps a loaded pistol inside the bunk," she warned low. She felt rather than saw Russell's frustration. His attentions to her nipples brought no reaction. The points didn't tighten any further than they had from the cool cabin air. He wasted his motions; her body wouldn't respond. Not like it did for Morgan. Her eyes darted to the closed bed curtains.

"Pistol, eh?" Thompson echoed. "Russ, take this." He passed the razor to his partner. "You watch the bitch, I'll see about yon pistol." He crossed to the bunk. Before his fingers could touch the curtains, a bronze forearm shot out to seize him by the throat. "Russell!" he choked. The curtains parted slightly, revealing the black muzzle of a gun pressed against Thompson's temple.

Russell turned, but seemed too confused to react. Rachel wasn't. She dashed to the door. Her fingers closed over the bolt and threw it back. A fingernail snapped back and tore. She paid no heed to her throbbing fingertip and the blood welling there, but stumbled onto the deck. Russell cursed close behind her. Something struck her on the shoulder. She screamed and sprawled face first on the decks. The world went black.

* * *

"Ow, that hurts!" Rachel surfaced to searing pain in her right shoulder. Strong arms tightened around her upper body.

"Stay still, Rachel." She knew that voice. The pain was white hot. She cracked her eyelids, but couldn't see for the tears blurring her vision. Too much pain to stop them.

"Morgan? You're all right?" The words were sobs of fear mingled with relief.

"Aye, love. We're both all right. Bastard cut you with my razor, though. Sailmaker's stitching your shoulder. May be painful, but the cut's not deep."

"God, I'm so sorry! I never thought it could be him at the door. Thompson swore he'd kill you if I said anything."

"Shh, stay here. I'll be right back." She discovered she was nude on her stomach in the bunk, the bedclothes pulled up to her waist. Morgan closed the curtains and bolted the door after the sailmaker finished. "Lucky your sewing kit was out, or he'd have used his sailmaking gut."

"God, the sewing kit! My scissors! I never noticed it. I was looking for a weapon of some kind. Thompson grabbed the razor before I could."

"Jesus, Rachel! You and your ill-conceived notions of wielding weapons against these curs. Smartest thing you could have done was get out and try to summon help." He sat down on the edge of the bunk and wrapped her in his arms, mindful of her sore shoulder.

"Captain's chained the pair in the holds. You should have shouted for me when you sensed danger, Rachel. Regardless of their threats to harm me. I'm along to assure your safety, not the other way 'round. Christ, a moment's weakness, and you're bleeding from a razor cut!"

"I truly am foolhardy," she sniffed.

"Nay, just a heartier pioneer than I thought. Don't know another female who would have kept her head facing such danger." His features hardened. "But you are never again to risk your life in defense of mine. Do you understand me?"

She nodded, blinking back tears. "You never got your bath."

"I sent for more hot water." He supervised the refilling of the tub and slipped out of the pants he'd hastily donned after the fracas. "Come in with me. Hot water's the best thing for jangled nerves."

"Yes, and I need to wash the stink from my skin."

He flushed at her comment. "I'd forgotten one foul cretin actually put his hands on your flesh."

She dipped a toe into the water and let him guide her down to perch atop his folded thighs in the narrow oval tub. Morgan wrapped an arm around her middle as though they were once more on Phantom's back.

Rachel's voice was hard with emotion. "I hated him touching me."

"Don't think about it. It's not going to happen ever again." His hand slid up to cup her breast and she relaxed as his damp fingers smoothed over her skin in a light caress. It wasn't overtly sensual, yet she marveled again at how her nipple puckered immediately at his merest touch. How she felt so at ease totally naked in his embrace.

"Rachel," Morgan murmured, "It distresses me that you think I would beat you. No matter how angry I might become, I'd never raise my arm to you. We argue, aye. We always have. Was furious with you more than once back in Crowshaven, but never hurt you. You believe I had more regard for a clerk than I would my wedded wife?"

"You had no right to physically punish me when I was your clerk."

"Cletus beat you, didn't he? More than once."

"I don't want to talk about him."

"And you didn't choose to wed him. You tried to dissuade your father, but he wouldn't listen. Your instincts were correct then." His voice softened. "But you're letting old fears cloud your judgment now. You weren't afraid of me before we took vows, even at my arrogant worst. Don't fear me now." He began gently lathering her skin.

"Do you think I have good instincts?"

"You should have been more cautious at the door this afternoon, but on the whole, aye, I do."

She thought about Cletus. "But who listens to the instincts of a young girl? I was barely sixteen. I didn't want to marry so young." She flinched as he moved close to the stitched area. "I thought when I was older, I'd marry my steady beau, Jonas Nelson. But Cletus approached my father at the factory and impressed him with big talk of our future on the frontier."

Morgan absently scrubbed at his exposed kneecap. "I see."

"I don't think you do. Cletus never cared for me, he wanted free land. The government gave land away to men who agreed to settle in Oregon and farm it. A man who took a wife by the end of 1851 received a double parcel. I suppose he sought me out because I was the boss' daughter."

"The hell you say!" Morgan dropped the soap. "Your father gave you to a man with no genuine affection for you? Wasted a lovely virgin on a shiftless bounder?"

Rachel didn't like the way he made her father sound. "I'd like to finish my bath alone." She stood up to let him climb out.

He wrapped a towel around his hips and sat at the table to shave. Then he dressed and announced he had to speak to Haversham, but would return to take her to the dining room for supper. "You must be starving," Rachel replied, seizing a towel. She followed him to the door, bolting it securely behind him.

She was drying her hair when he knocked. She let him in and turned her attention to choosing a skirt and blouse. "Are you always so slow, woman?"

She was ready with a rebuke, but the words died on her lips when she saw fresh blood on his knuckles. "Morgan, you didn't! You went down to the holds and beat those two men? Men in chains?"

"Aye, I beat them! What should I have done, thanked them? They meant to rape you under my very nose. They're fortunate I didn't take a galley knife to their ballocks! You were terrified this afternoon. The pair earned what they got and worse. If other crewmen have similar notions about laying their hands on you, let them ponder the same fate."

She didn't speak during the meal. Morgan was disinclined to eat very much, and suggested they leave the dining room for a walk on deck. She gazed up at him as they stood alone by the rail. She kept her voice soft. "Morgan, who's Annaliese? I never met anyone by that name in the village. Is she one of the girls from your travels?" Her gaze didn't waiver as she asked the question she feared most. "Do you still have feelings for her?"

His head immediately jerked around. "Who told you about her?"

"You did," she answered. "You had a nightmare while you were ill. You spoke to Annaliese and said you loved her."

"Anna was my sister."

Rachel thought about the day they'd gone riding. He said he'd been eighteen when he took over the inn, shortly after his sister's death. Anna had been gone a long time for the mere mention of her name to visibly upset him.

He led her back to the cabin and took out a brandy bottle. The chair was still by the stove where Rachel had left it. "Come and sit with me, wife." He took the chair and pulled her onto his lap. "Boyd's the only one who knows about Anna. He'd never tell you."

"You don't have to, either."

"Anna was three years my senior. When our father took ill and died, she seemed to take it as a personal failure, mayhap because she'd nursed him. I wasn't home much, out working every day even then. I wasn't home when my father drew his last breath and gave Anna the signet to pass on to me. Wasn't there when she needed someone to talk, someone to share her grief."

Rachel saw the gray eyes were moist. It was clearly hard for Morgan to talk about what happened. The story was uncannily close to her own present situation. It pained her to think about her father and what lay ahead for her. Suddenly she didn't want to know any more about Anna and their father's death. "You don't have your full strength back. We can talk another time."

He paused and swallowed a drink of brandy. "Anna met a man who took her away with him. I was on my first business excursion. Boyd and I tracked the couple to a derelict townhouse in London. I planned to talk sense into her and fetch her home. I've a history of following young ladies to London, begging them to return with me."

She caught the note of irony. "She wouldn't leave him?"

He focused on the flames in the coal stove. "The bloke was married. Had been all along. Never intended to do right by Anna. She found herself pregnant and couldn't face the shame. Couldn't face me, according to the note she left. I cut her down from a beam in the attic."

"Oh my God. How awful for you."

"I should have been home with her."

"I was home with Cletus. I couldn't stop him from drinking himself to death." She gestured at his bottle. "No more than I can stop you. Anna might have refused to listen if you'd tried to stop her from running away. She believed the man loved her."

Sarcastic laughter welled from deep in his throat. "What difference does that make? I love you, but you would have left me."

"I'm not Anna."

"Nay, you're not. She was very like you, though. Stubborn, bright, determined to argue over the slightest point. We bickered constantly. She was older, but I was the male and saw it as my place to protect her. Still, I didn't when it mattered most. Like today, with you. You'll have a scar the rest of your life."

She caressed his taut cheek muscle with her palm. "You couldn't help food poisoning. No one's truly perfect, Morgan."

"My father was, right up until the day he died. Could do no wrong in Anna's mind. There was a void in her life after his death. I couldn't...I didn't know how to fill it. I've speculated she secretly longed to join him."

"Loved ones sometimes do feel that way. You did for a time, remember? The night we went to the pub, you spoke about your own grief and tried to lessen mine."

"You asked back in London if I'd abandoned my family when they needed me. Now you know." Rachel cringed at his bitter tone.

"I had to make this voyage with you, Rachel." Now his eyes met hers. "I couldn't lose someone I cared about again. You were going to spurn my proposal, and I know why."

Her voice caught in her throat. It was a croak when she finally managed to squeeze out sounds. "How could you? We've never talked about Carson City or what happened before I came to England. I meant to tell you—"

He silenced her with his lips over hers. His kiss was intense, matching his mood. She wrapped an arm around his neck and returned his kiss with all the longing in her heart, praying he wouldn't turn away from her.

He finally broke the kiss, inhaling deeply before he spoke in a husky whisper. "I don't care that you can't conceive, Rachel."

"What? Wherever did you get that idea? I'm can conceive, I've just been unlucky during my pregnancies. Medical care's practically nonexistent in the West. Things might have been different if I'd had a doctor or midwife."

"Damn it, Rachel!" He came to his feet, pushing her off his lap. "You asked about children and didn't like my answer. Your talk of disappointing me, the comment about never bouncing a baby on your knee. Married for years, but still childless. What was I supposed to think? If that wasn't your reason for refusing me, what the bloody hell was?"

Rachel hesitated. Would he continue to protect her if he learned the real reason, or move to the crew's quarters and leave her to fend for herself? What if he believed her guilty as charged? She glanced again at Morgan's knuckles. He was in an unforgiving mood. It definitely wasn't time for her deep, dark confession. She grasped at straws.

"I wasn't anxious to remarry. I thought you'd be like Cletus."

He gave her a look of pure disgust. "Only a coward strikes a woman. I may not have proven it this particular afternoon, but I do possess a modicum of intestinal fortitude. I'm nothing like that foul wretch you wed the first time."

"I'm beginning to understand, though I didn't know before. Or about...lovemaking."

Morgan snarled, interrupting what she would have explained. "Oh, aye. Don't lets forget that and every husband's excessive male lust. Well, you've suffered enough at the hands of barbarians today. I won't expect you to perform 'wifely duties' until you're recovered from your shoulder injury and desire to be a loving wife to me." He took another long swallow of brandy and turned away from her. "If indeed such a day ever comes."

Chapter 15

Morgan avoided Rachel as much as possible the next several days. He stayed away from the cabin until it was time to escort her to the ship's dining room or he was forced to return to the bunk to sleep. He lay beside her each night, but made no move to touch her, as though someone had erected an invisible wall between them. She debated with herself about volunteering the truth, but he remained aloof. She held her tongue, waiting for signs of a receptive mood.

They shared breakfast with the crew one balmy morning. Morgan set aside his plate and cleared his throat. "I've been thinking. It might be best if I sent you ahead alone to see your father. I need to arrange several meetings in New York."

"Every day I become more convinced my father will be gone before I reach him. I'm never going to see him alive again."

"You don't know that."

"I feel it," she sighed, abandoning her piece of toast. "You don't want to come with me to Philadelphia?"

"I never stopped to consider your family situation when I arranged our hasty marriage. You shouldn't arrive in the midst of a family crisis with an unexpected bridegroom in tow. I'll make my way to Philadelphia after I conclude my trade activities. Unless you prefer I sail home to England."

She started to reply, but all that came out was a harsh sob. She couldn't stem the tears, and numbly let Morgan lead her back to their cabin when he realized the remaining crew members in the galley were all staring at her.

He locked the cabin door and offered her a handkerchief from his large trunk. "You should have time to explain that you've remarried, if you choose to maintain our relationship. Or you may decide to file for annulment. I won't contest it. I know you're worried about your father. I didn't want you fretting over our—over us. I need to speak to Haversham about the cargo." He turned and left.

He doesn't love me. The thought wouldn't leave her head. He'd married her believing she was barren. And in the face of that consideration, he'd steadfastly argued against annulling their marriage. Now, knowing she might give him children, he was willing to give her up. He no longer sought intimacy. She'd lost him.

By late afternoon Morgan hadn't returned. She'd missed the midday rations, but when she finally opened the cabin door to search for her husband, she saw at once why he hadn't returned. The vessel was headed into a solid bank of immense black clouds. The temperature had noticeably dropped and all around the apprehensive men were lashing down kegs and barrels or checking sails and rigging. She asked a deckhand to fetch her husband. Morgan returned to the cabin and immediately began securing their belongings.

"It's going to be bad, isn't it?"

He nodded without glancing up. "Rough seas ahead, aye. Go sit in the chair by the stove. I'll get our trunks stowed and be there in a moment." She watched him latch their trunks and wedge them against one another to keep them from shifting. "We'll be all right, Rachel."

She waited beside the stove and eagerly curled onto his lap when he took the chair. "Thank you," she sighed. "You know I can't take bad weather. And I'm very glad you're here. I'd have gone crazy facing this alone. I know it may be too late, but—" She abruptly abandoned the attempt to talk and instead gave him an ardent kiss. "I've missed you so much!" she murmured afterward, burying her face against his shoulder. "You seem to have forgotten how much I enjoy your arms and your kiss. I don't want you to go back to England without me."

"Ah, Rachel." He slanted his mouth across hers. His arms tightened around her until she could barely breathe. They were still locked in a passionate embrace when seawater sloshed under the cabin door.

She scrambled off his lap. "Morgan, the door! The ship must be sinking!"

He crossed to the window in two strides. "No, it's not. The waves are just so high, they're breaking over her bow." He dragged the bathtub out and set her trunk inside it. He wedged his large trunk between the foot of the bunk and the end wall of the cabin, then set his smaller trunk on top. "There. At least your things will stay dry, no matter what."

The puddle of seawater spread toward the stove. Morgan tossed several lumps of coal inside. "We can anticipate a damned chilly night. Banking the fire should help dry out the flooring. Hopefully there won't be much more water coming across the decks, but we'll stay driest in the bunk."

She hesitated. "I'll need my trunk to get my nightdress."

"You don't need one," he told her, thinking he'd only peel it off her, anyway. He'd been waiting for a sign from her. Her claim that she'd missed his attentions and her kiss were enough to have him randy and ready. He watched her disrobe and slip into bed. He turned down the lamp, leaving the cabin dark but for the glow from the stove. He stripped quickly and climbed into the bunk to envelop her in his arms.

"Please do what you did at the cottage that day. Kiss me and make me forget about the storm," Rachel whispered, shivering.

"Aha! So your sudden passion has more to do with the evil weather than with me."

"Not completely. I have missed you. It just took a storm and thunder to make me brave enough to curl up with you despite your reluctance."

"Consider it dissolved. Were you always so terrified of thunderstorms?" She was still trembling, but not quaking as violently as before he'd wrapped his body around hers. Morgan concentrated on her answer rather than the feel of her flesh.

"No, something happened one night in Oregon during a storm. I can't forget it, and now storms just seem to bring the whole horrible episode to mind."

"One of those beatings from Cletus"

She shook her head. "He wasn't there. I was all alone and it had been pouring rain in buckets the whole day." Morgan wondered if she realized tears were trickling from her eyes. She seemed almost in a trance. "It was dark when my labor started. I tried walking to the neighboring farmstead, but the mud was so deep, I just sank in it to my knees. The pains were too bad. I called out for help, but no one could hear me over the rain and thunder. I made it back into the house and stripped off my muddy clothes, tried to build up the fire...If I'd had someone, help...My daughter was born late that night. Dead."

"I'm sorry, sweetness," he whispered, cradling her against his shoulder. "So damned sorry."

"I named her Sara. I held her to my breast and tried to warm her, but she went cold. The rain stopped two days later. I wrapped her in a blanket and buried her on the edge of our property."

"Where was Cletus? Why wasn't he with you?"

"He went to town for supplies. Of course, the main supply we were low on was sour mash. He always forgot the time once he found a card game or saloon."

Morgan swore softly under his breath. No wonder she hated to see a man drink, he thought. He cursed Cletus Nash and secretly agreed with her that the man deserved eternal damnation.

"My only reward for putting up with Cletus would have been that child," Rachel hiccuped, "And she was taken from me. I never forgave him, never spoke another civil word to him after that. Sara was my second failure. I'd miscarried a year before. But it was better that way. No child should have a useless drunken father. He just stood there when I told him his child had come stillborn. He just stared at me. It meant nothing to him, except another excuse to crawl into a bottle."

Although he suspected she was right, he tried to lessen her mental distress. "Perhaps he did care in his own way, Rachel. It's hard to imagine any man not being affected by the death of his own flesh and blood. Perhaps he didn't know how to show his feelings, or maybe he simply had no better to give."

"He knocked me across the farmhouse not a month later and blackened my eye. Kicked me face down in the mud because his supper was cold. How could that be anyone's best?" She struggled to sit up. "Why are you defending him?"

"I'm not. But I want you to finally accept that he's gone. He can't answer your charges or defend himself. He can't hurt you anymore. He's dead, Rachel."

"Yes, and I only wore black because my father made me. I hated Cletus. Hated that I'd ever been forced to live with him."

"Then why do you still?" Morgan asked her. She sucked in a gasp, clearly surprised. "You're wed to me, but still living with Cletus. You still fear you'll be beaten. You're still afraid of letting your husband know what's in your heart. I may have manipulated you into this union initially, but you haven't given me or the marriage a fair chance."

She turned tormented eyes to him. "It's not just Cletus. There's so much in my past that can hurt us! I don't want to hurt you. I don't want to lose another child. God, not your child! I couldn't take that. This time it would kill me."

Not your child. I couldn't take that...it would kill me.

Morgan closed his eyes and opened them again to make certain he wasn't dreaming. Rachel was huddled with her back against the cabin wall, crying softly. She'd just confessed what he'd been aching to hear. Selling his granary, chasing her down in London, forcing her to become his wife—it had all been worth it. She loved him.

"Love, listen to me." He gently shook her until she met his gaze. "It's different when I kiss you and touch you, isn't it?"

"Yes," she admitted.

"Then the rest can be different, too. Don't you see that? Sweetheart, I'll teach you everything about loving. I'll never beat you like he did. And should God grant us a child, I'll have the doctor to the cottage. Every day, if that's what it takes to ensure you and the baby are well. I'd never leave you to face childbirth alone. I'd help you through it, I swear." He pressed his signet against hers. "On my family's name and my honor, I swear, Rachel."

"I should have told you long ago I'd fallen in love with you," she confessed sadly. "You probably won't believe it now. But I do love you, Morgan."

His voice was thick with emotion. "How could I disbelieve it? You couldn't be so distraught if this didn't mean the world to you. But it was important to hear you say the words."

"I love you."

His hand caressed her damp cheek. "I swear I only want the best for you. I love you more than life itself. You told me back in London that I could work miracles because I'm the Bargainer. Then accept that you're meant to love me and bear my child, because I will it."

"You're bullying me again."

His eyes burned into hers. "You're damned right, I am. Find the courage to love me back and be my wife. I know you have it in there. I've seen the strength of your inner courage. Love me, and let me love you."

"Do you think it's possible I had to go through all the horror and misery to find you? I've wondered about that. Maybe everything had to happen exactly the way it did, even boarding that stage in Carson City—just so I'd have to go to England and meet you. There's something else I should tell you."

He abruptly rolled and trapped her body beneath his. "You've told me more than enough tonight. Whatever it is can wait, but I can't. Let me make love to you and show you what I should have on our wedding night. No more talk."

Her protests were lost in the overwhelming passion and tenderness he poured over her. His hands stroked her everywhere, his lips nibbled and tasted. "Let it go, Rachel. Just love me."

He peeled the bedclothes down, knowing the heat of his blood and extra coal in the stove would keep her warm enough. "This is your first lesson about pleasure. It won't hurt. If it does, just tell me to stop. Close your eyes."

His lips met hers, teasing them apart, and again he was thrilled by her eager response. Her tongue thrust into his mouth and mated with his. Morgan groaned. He'd never enjoyed kissing any woman the way he did Rachel. "Now where?" he asked.

"My shoulders."

His tongue lingered, warm and pliant on her left shoulder, then slowly traced across her throat to her right. "And now?" came his soft question.

"Wherever I'd least expect it."

"An excellent answer, from the wench who's going to prove to be my best pupil."

Her eyes flew open. "You've taught other women about this?"

"Numerous," he chuckled. That jealous gleam was back in her eyes, and he doubted she'd even noticed the thunder had abated. "None had any complaints about my schooling. Of course, none of them were hearty, stubborn Colonials and none of them were married to me at the time. I shall have to put extra effort toward my instruction tonight. After all, these lessons are meant to last a lifetime."

He'd never let her annul the marriage, Morgan inwardly vowed. Not after what she'd told him and what he'd seen in her eyes. Not when he loved her to distraction. "Close your eyes," he reminded. "Trust me."

His wet mouth came down on a bare ankle. She twitched and giggled, but soon the sounds became whimpers as his tongue moved to her inner thigh. His hands slid to her hipbones. He held her pelvis gently but firmly and began to lick and kiss the sensitive flesh of her lower abdomen. "I remember you especially seemed to like this." His tongue explored the well of her navel. She would have come off the mattress if he hadn't been holding her down.

"My breasts now," she moaned. He released her pelvis and she wantonly arched her back, offering him her ripe mounds. He cupped her breasts in both hands and began to work the nipples with his thumbs. She released a fresh moan of pure unabashed enjoyment.

"The day the sailors were here, the young one put his hands on my breasts like that."

Morgan went still. "I told you not to think about that day, Rachel. And don't tell me any more details. They'll only make me want to drown those two rats in the hold, if this storm doesn't do it for me."

"You don't understand. The sailor pinched my nipples, but he couldn't make them harden and ache. Yet while you were sick, you slept with your head on my chest. Just having your face so close, feeling your breath on my skin, my nipples were like pebbles. I wanted your mouth on them, even though you were ill. It's wicked and only with you. I never had wild thoughts like that before."

"You're making it quite a challenge for your teacher to keep his excessive lust in check. Please be quiet! I'm supposed to make you hot now. Later comes your turn to tease me."

"Ooh, I like that." She smiled up at him, that certain warm smile that always fired his blood. The smile he knew she bestowed on him and no one else. Despite her trepidation, she'd married him. She loved him. And he'd explode soon if he couldn't get to loving her. Intensely and thoroughly.

He suckled at each stiff nipple in turn. She writhed and whimpered so loudly Morgan was grateful for the fierce winds and driving rain, else the sailors would have had an earful. He had to rest a palm on her belly to still her. His fingers moved into the triangle of dark auburn curls at the juncture of her thighs and found her already slick and swollen.

His mouth returned to hers. Their tongues met and rubbed in a slow, sensuous dance. Morgan couldn't restrain the low animal sounds coming from his own throat. He was supposed to be stimulating her, but damned if it wasn't wreaking havoc on him!

His palm pressed firmly to her mons, he circled her woman's pleasure center with his thumb. Rachel caught her breath and clutched at his shoulders. "Oh, God! Can a woman die from this? I don't know if I can take this."

"You won't die, Colonial. In another minute or two, you'll find out how very much alive a woman can be."

"I can't take another minute or two!" She bucked and sobbed. With his free hand, he reached to tweak a stiff nipple. "Morgan, stop! No, don't...I...Oh!"

Waves as powerful as those off the bow crashed over Rachel, spinning her in an eddy of swirling sensation. A deep throbbing pulsed from somewhere deep inside her. She gasped for every precious breath of air, but at last her racing pulse began to slow. She lay uncaring and limp, dimly aware that Morgan had stopped touching her.

Maybe she'd failed the training lesson. He wasn't kissing her or saying a word. She hoped he wasn't angry. After all, she tried. She'd given herself over to him, trusted him completely and done what he'd asked. Kept her eyes closed, kissed him back, let him work his magic on her . . .

Magic!

Her eyes flew open. Morgan lay on his side, a broad grin on his face. She flung her arms around his neck and began wildly kissing his cheeks, his chin, his mustache, his lips. "That was it, wasn't it? The magical thing."

"You tell me."

She realized she felt wonderful. As he'd said, very much alive. "If I'd known how it would feel...God, I want you to make love to me a dozen times every night!"

"I doubt even the notorious rake of Crowshaven could manage that on a regular basis," he chuckled, "But I'm willing to give it my best efforts. Now for the second part of our lesson—"

"I know this part. My turn now." She reached to stroke his engorged shaft.

His eyes closed and he sucked in his breath as her fingertip lightly circled the head of his shaft. She caressed and lightly massaged his length. Morgan groaned and clutched at the thin mattress with both hands as her fingers kneaded the root where it met his manly pouch. "I'll embarrass myself if you keep that up. Too stimulating watching you before."

He sat up suddenly on the edge of the bunk, both feet planted on the floor as he reached back toward her. "Come sit on my lap. Show me what a horsewoman you are. Take me in and then show me no mercy." She eased onto his thighs, facing him, and poised herself above his loins.

He reached for her hips as if to guide her, but she stopped him. "Oh no, you don't. Close your eyes and trust me."

She crushed her breasts against him and kissed him with all the passion in her soul. She moved back to rub her nipples over the light furring on his chest. Upward, as she trailed her tongue under his chin. Downward, as she nipped at his earlobe. "Christ! No more teasing," he panted. "Take me inside, please. Tell me you love me again. I need you and the words."

She slowly lowered herself on his pulsing shaft until she was fully impaled. Both of them moaned in ecstasy. He wrapped both arms around her waist and rocked his hips. Rachel wanted to give him sexual joy, but she felt her own arousal building again toward another shattering crest.

"You feel so damned good, woman! I don't think I can last much longer. Want it better than before, but—"

"Don't think," she panted. "Just feel it, my love, our bodies. Burn and tingle and nearly die because of me. Loving you with every inch of my body. I love you, husband."

Rachel drove him on, rocking, grinding, pushing them both toward the place of sweet fulfillment. His shout drowned out her soft cries as he erupted violently inside her. She collapsed against his shoulder then, both of them spent and quivering.

Finally she lifted her head. "I was very naughty just now, almost like one of Sheila's girls. I look like one, sitting atop you like this."

Morgan frowned. "I'm bound to regret asking, but just how would you know what the whores looked like whilst plying their trade?"

"I told you, I stayed at the brothel during the summers when I was young. I wasn't supposed to know what went on upstairs. So of course, I sneaked up and peeked through the keyholes. I definitely prefer doing to watching." The corners of her lips curved up.

He pivoted and pinned her beneath him on the mattress. His shaft was still buried inside her. He pumped lean hips in a slow gyration. "Don't smile at me that way or you'll have me believing you like rutting with your husband."

Her lips formed an even wider smile.

He grinned right back. "Now that you have a better idea what I'm asking, name your pleasure, Madam Tremayne."

"My husband, Morgan. He's the greatest pleasure of my life."

Chapter 16

Rachel's cries echoed in the darkness. She fought the powerful arms that held her. They closed around her as the somber marshal read the formal charge from his tattered arrest warrant. The deputy was huge, implacable. He wrestled her into an empty cell. The iron door clanked shut. " No, it's a mistake! Why won't you listen to me?"

Someone was calling her. A voice she knew. She whipped her head from side to side. "Jonas, is that you? You have to help me, Jonas! Please get me out of this!"

"Rachel, wake up!" Someone shook her.

She opened her eyes and found Morgan peering at her, holding the burning stub of a candle over the bunk. "You were having a nightmare."

"Yes, I must have—I'm sorry, I'm still a little unsettled." She rose onto her knees, unaware she was stark nude as she reached to wrap her arms around his neck.

"You're all right," he reassured her. "Let go long enough for me to put this damned candle out before we set fire to the bed curtains." The cabin was plunged into darkness.

Rachel took a deep breath and laid her head on his bare chest as they settled back against the pillows. She realized Morgan's heart was pounding. "I startled you out of a sound sleep, didn't I?"

He pressed a kiss to her lips. "Everyone has a frightening dream occasionally." She was wrapped tightly in his arms, warm and safe. "Good night, Madam Tremayne."

Rachel knew it was his signal that all was well. They'd been making love every night during the past weeks. Morgan spoke boldly while they engaged in exploration and love play, calling her wench or hussy. He growled out or 'Colonial' when their activity reached its highest intensity and he spilled his seed. But once they lay peacefully sated, drowsing toward sleep, he invariably said good night formally.

"You'd slipped your tongue halfway down my throat," he teased her the first time, "then called me 'Mr. Tremayne' as you showed me the door. It was bloody marvelous the way you did that."

Now his words in the darkness had become a tender ritual between them. Every night the whispered formal good night from him brought a sigh of contentment from Rachel. She snuggled close and drifted back to sleep in his arms.

But things weren't as they should be, Morgan reflected glumly. She'd called out to her old beau, the man she'd hoped to wed before Cletus ruined her life. Called out for him to help her; she was trapped; had made a terrible mistake. After all we've become, she called another man's name and begged him to take her from me! He edged out from beneath her and left the bunk to uncork a fresh bottle.

He gulped the brandy, greedily inviting the fire into his belly. He'd never considered that she might have left more than family in America. Maybe she'd planned to sail home to Jonas. But you showed up at the London docks and spoiled her plans.

His hands closed into fists. It was only a dream. You have them yourself. He knew he should just forget it. But he'd heard her clearly—each and every word—for he hadn't been sleeping.

He'd been going over his plan again in his mind, making certain he thought out every detail. Soon they'd reach American waters. He expected the ship would be boarded, and he knew something Rachel didn't—precisely what lay below in the holds. He'd calculated the risks back in London, but that was before he'd found himself with two new enemies aboard. Enemies who'd surely betray Rachel's presence to marauders intent on plunder.

Dark thoughts still plagued him next morning. He and Rachel shared a tray of bread and tea in their cabin, but Morgan's stomach was in a knot so tight he couldn't eat. "Is your father really the man you're going home for, Rachel, or will I be cast aside when Jonas greets you at the harbor?"

She choked on a swallow of tea. "Morgan! Jonas is just a friend. I don't even know where he is now. He and his family went to Oregon in early '52. We were neighbors there, but Jonas left when I did. He went with me—" She saw he wasn't listening. He stared out the cabin window and suddenly went rigid, cursing beneath his breath.

"What is it?"

"A vessel approaching. I doubt they've come for tea. Do exactly as I say, Rachel. There's no time. Leave the tray and pull your things out of your trunk."

She nodded quickly and set to work, more frightened than she'd ever been in her life. "No hairbrush, no ribbons, nothing feminine can be left in sight," Morgan commanded, emptying his own trunk. "Thank God you're not one for perfume. Hand me those clothes." He repacked the trunks with her garments hidden beneath a few of his and a jumble of papers in the largest trunk. The rest of his things were stored in her empty trunk. He pointed to the narrow space behind the bathtub.

"Hide under the bunk there. I'm going to cover you with the quilt."

She scrambled onto the floor and wriggled into the tight space. It was just wide enough for her body. Morgan snatched the quilt from the bunk and stuffed it over her. "With luck, they'll accept what they see and won't insist on a full search. But they'll go right to the holds and get an earful from our two friends, and come banging at our door soon enough."

"Morgan, I have horrible luck. If they know I'm aboard—"

"Just keep quiet and don't move until I say it's safe. Trust me one more time. We're about to learn how good your Bargainer truly is. But whatever happens, I won't let them harm you, Rachel. That I vow."

Shouts and thumps reached her ears. She detected the pungent reek of spilled alcohol. Morgan gave a low warning seconds before a fierce pounding came at the door. "Open up, Englishman! Mandatory inspection!"

Morgan unbolted it and the cabin door was nearly ripped from its hinges. A large man with bright red hair stood at the forefront of a throng of sailing men. "You Tremayne?"

Morgan's tone was surly. "Who wants to know? Ne'er a moment's peace on this frigging tub."

"Name's Farley. Been hired by the Confederacy to check incoming vessels for war supplies. Heard from two bilge rats down below you got yourself a right purty little wife. Like to meet her."

Morgan chuckled and seated himself on the trunk nearest the table. He took a swallow from his open bottle, spilling a little brandy on his shirt collar. "So would I! If I'd a woman in here, you suppose the place would be such a stinkin' mess?"

"It's that, all right." Farley stepped over the tray of half-eaten food on the floor. A rumpled shirt had been flung over the chair and the tabletop was awash in papers. "What's that you're drinking?," he demanded. "Some nice rye whiskey? Wouldn't have another bottle of that lyin' about the place, would you?"

Morgan guffawed. "Buffoons! A wench! Brandy!" He waved his bottle in the air. Rachel was awed by the slurring of Morgan's speech. If she didn't know better, she'd believe the man was a drunken ass. "Must think I've been croonin' to a lass when I sing its praises. Brandy, the bloody fools!"

Farley's tone was sharp. "What's in that trunk you're sitting on? Something you don't want us to find, eh? Get up."

"Aw come on, man," Morgan cajoled. "Wouldn't deprive a fellow of his sole pleasure in life, would you? I'm no arms dealer!"

"I said get up." Scuffling sounds were followed by a thump. "Well, look here, boys! Our English friend has a damned trunkload of brandy!" He clucked his tongue. "Spirits are classified as contraband. Sorry, Tremayne. Have to relieve you of that."

"At least leave me the open bottle!" Morgan whined. Then his tone became a menacing growl. "And tell your man I doubt my coat's been classified as a threat to anyone! Damn well better stop going through my pockets!"

"Marcus, put his coat down."

Morgan wove unsteadily as their vessel bumped the prow of the marauding vessel. "See here! I'm an innkeeper and merchant from Yorkshire. Got no quarrel with any of you Colonials, North or South. But I carry pistols for protection when I travel." He nodded at the guncase he'd placed near the door, well away from the bunk. " Suppose you'll relieve me of them, too."

"Right. Have to take them, but I'll let you keep your open bottle. Brandy!" Farley snorted. "Men below have been at sea too long. Captain said they broke in here and tried to rob you."

"Bloody imbeciles," Morgan slurred, hiccuping. "Got a taste of my fists for their trouble."

"One of them swore he'd had his hands on a woman in here," Marcus stated.

Morgan snorted in disgust and made a symbolic lewd gesture with his hands. "More likely on his shipmate. Trunkful of liquor wouldn't make a pair of hoary buttocks look good to me, but you know some blokes—knothole in any plank."

Farley grunted and turned to leave. "Appreciate your cooperation, Englishman." Rachel heard the cabin door bang shut. She didn't move, though her muscles were cramping and she could barely breathe.

Morgan's voice came in a hiss. "Hang on. They're pulling crates from the holds. Once they shove off, we're safe." It seemed she waited an eternity. The quilt was jerked away and Morgan pulled her out of hiding. "You need some fresh air." He cracked the cabin window to admit the sea breeze. Once the American ship was safely in the distance, he brought Rachel out on deck.

Haversham rushed up. "Got to hand it to you, Lad. Hell of a scheme! Forked over some minor incidentals, like you said, but our main cargo's intact. See your little beauty's fine." He winked at Rachel. "Damned good man you married!"

Rachel smiled at Haversham. "Any man here would say so."

The captain muttered something and hurried off. Rachel turned to Morgan, her eyes flashing. "Damned good man, eh? You brought an entire trunkload of brandy?" Morgan gave a rueful shrug. "And you offered them your pistols! They never would have found them if you'd just left them under the mattress."

Morgan's tone was offhand. "They never found you."

"Because you tossed other treats their way! You did it on purpose, didn't you? And you paid for the crew's cooperation. I heard what that pirate said. Haversham and his men lied to protect me. They could have distracted the pirates away from the holds, but they didn't."

"And lost a few insured crates."

Her fists went to her hips. "Now I understand why you had to sell the granary. You paid for more than a cabin, didn't you? You had this planned all along, even before we sailed. You were busy planning a number of deceptions back in London." Her eyes narrowed. "You're really very clever, sir."

He caught her fingers in his, grinning. "I assume you mean that as a compliment. The goal was to get you safely across the Atlantic. Apart from the wound to your shoulder, I accomplished that."

"One more thing." She watched his eyes closely now. "You're very good at playing the sot. I don't think you were drunk at all the night we went to the pub looking for your ring. You came back to the office late and pretended you were inebriated, just like today."

"Madam," he drawled as he led her back to the cabin, "It's rather early in this marriage for you to take that cross wifely tone with me." He bolted the door behind them and Rachel immediately went on the offensive again.

"Well? You tricked me that night, too, didn't you? Tricked me into supper with you."

He began unfastening his breeches. "I may have overplayed my state a bit, but not by much. I'd lost a contract that day I'd spent months working on. I honestly did misplace my ring. But I don't see why you'd be disagreeable about that evening. It's perhaps the fondest memory I have, other than the day I stood beside an angel in a silver gown and threw my bachelorhood to the winds."

Now he was devoid of clothing. She continued to frown up at him as he unbuttoned her blouse and nudged her toward the empty bunk. "I think a rather ardent display of gratitude's in order, Madam Tremayne. I did just save you from pirates, you know." He stretched out on the mattress.

She shed everything but her chemise and stared at his lips as she ran her tongue lightly over her own. "How do you suggest I adequately thank you?"

His manhood stiffened and stood against his belly even as she watched. His eyes closed and he released a deep sigh. "You could start by kissing me." She moved closer. "I'd like a nice wet kiss first."

"You would? Good idea." She bent over him.

"Rachel!" He bumped his head against the frame as he nearly leapt off the mattress. Her palms went to his shoulders. She calmly pressed him flat on his back once more.

"You anticipated everything else, Morgan. Didn't you know sooner or later I'd kiss you where you least expect it?"

Chapter 17

She rang twice before the heavy front door swung open and Elaine greeted her. "Richelle! You're finally here."

Richelle nodded. "Can you pay the hackney driver, Elaine? I've only got English currency." The cabby set Richelle's trunk on the porch and bobbed back upright, eager palm open as he grinned at the older woman.

"Take care of him, Cam."

Elaine threaded her stepdaughter's arm through hers. She drew Richelle inside the spacious foyer. Cameron Nash, older brother of Cletus, came down the curving staircase and went out to pay the cab fare.

Richelle fought a momentary panic and instantaneous loathing. She'd fervently prayed that she'd never have to set eyes on that man again when she'd left Oregon. Wished he'd have caught the lung sickness like his brother and followed him straight to hell. Instead, he'd come back to his old haunts.

She stalked past him and perched on the edge of the velvet sofa in the sitting room near Elaine. She deliberately kept her voice low. "What's Cameron doing here?"

"He lives here."

Good God. He lives here?

Richelle saw her father's wing chair was empty. "You'll have to tell me how that came about. Right now I want to see Papa."

"I'm afraid you're too late, dear. Your father passed away in March. I suppose it took time for my letter to reach Violet, then of course, you had to sail home. Jeremiah understood you wanted to be with him."

Richelle stared at her stepmother. Hadn't she predicted this? Until Elaine reached a hand to the lace at her throat and forced Richelle to focus on the fabric there, Richelle hadn't noticed her stepmother also wore weeds.

Boots clicked across the polished marble floor. Richelle spotted Cameron leering from her at the edge of her vision. She fought the instinct to visibly shudder. "I think I need to be alone. I'd like my trunk brought up to my room, please."

Elaine clucked her tongue and nodded. Richelle snatched up her handbag and started for the staircase, giving Cameron a wide berth. Elaine followed Richelle up to the second floor. "You'll find everything just as you left it." Cameron stepped into the room and let his eyes sweep over Richelle as he set down the trunk. Elaine was busy fiddling with the window shades and didn't notice. "If you need anything—"

"Please, Elaine," Richelle all but sobbed. "I just need some time."

Elaine shot Cameron a pointed look and the pair left the bedroom. Richelle heard the door close with a sharp click, but couldn't see for the tears in her eyes. Papa, I'm sorry I let you down. I tried, I really did. But what happened here? How could you let a monster into our home?

Richelle told herself she shouldn't cry. Papa's had been a good life in many ways. He'd been a successful man, happy in his work. A good father to his only child. Jeremiah Hardwick's business associates and workers had admired him. He'd been a godfearing man, well liked by everyone. There was no reason to mourn.

But Richelle was mourning, and she needed the one person who'd understand her grief to mourn with her.

But she had no way to reach Morgan now. He was in some New York hotel alone, and he still didn't know the woman he'd escorted to America.

For she'd never admitted the truth.

She'd given herself a dozen excuses why: Morgan had interrupted her, the timing or his mood hadn't been right, they weren't close enough to risk it, they were too close to risk it. Now she cursed aloud. "Richelle, you sound like a man making up reasons to visit a saloon. A thirsty man makes his own excuses and a cowardly woman does, too!"

There had been opportunities enough. She might have done it so many times, but she'd been afraid. She convinced herself Morgan would have been horrified and rejected her. That was what she feared most—Morgan's rejection. Yet she'd set herself up for it. She'd perpetuated the lie, but given him the address of this house. What in God's name would he think when he came here?

Her error hadn't been in trusting Morgan to book her passage, only to wind up married to him as the result. That had been wisdom. Perhaps the first instinctively bright thing she'd done in her life, besides go to Crowshaven in the first place. Her mistake had been in keeping the secret all this time. He might have listened, Richelle! He might have understood! But she'd never given him the chance. Instead she'd come back to Philadelphia alone.

To a house that was no longer home, to people she didn't like. Her father was dead. Buried over a month ago. Something felt very wrong. It wasn't just that Richelle detested Cameron and had been appalled to find him living under this roof. Elaine was different, too.

Almost as if reading her mind, her stepmother chose that moment to come rapping at the door. "We need to talk, Richelle." Elaine was clad in a turquoise dressing gown now. She settled on Richelle's vanity bench. "Is that a new ring?" Elaine's eyes positively glittered, like those of a raven staring at something shiny.

Richelle shoved her left hand into a skirt pocket. "Yes. An old family ring Violet found in a drawer. What did you want to speak to me about?"

"I know it seems crass, but we must discuss the financial effects of Jeremiah's death. He had a life insurance policy, but some of that money went for medical and burial expenses. I couldn't give a prominent man a cheap funeral."

Richelle shrugged. "He gave you plenty of good things during his life. The least you could do was return the favor after his death."

"Well now, about the will."

"What about it? Didn't he leave you everything?"

"He left me a small trust and half the house. You got everything else. The factory, money in his bank accounts. But Jeremiah's lawyer is executor and he talked Jeremiah into a provision that we must each remarry to take control of what he bequeathed us."

"Remarry? Papa wanted you to remarry so soon as he was in the ground? Why?"

Elaine sighed in exasperation. "That damned lawyer convinced him that women aren't capable of managing financial matters or property without men to oversee things. You know Jeremiah always made the decisions in this house."

With you guiding him every step of the way, Richelle's mind supplied. You could command the Union army without a man's help.

Elaine folded her arms below her breasts. "I've been mistress of this house for years. You should deed your half over to me. You'll have an attractive dowry without it. I've prepared a quitclaim deed for you to sign. Cameron and I will be married soon."

Richelle pointedly refused to even glance at the document. "I'm not a child now. You can't order me around or pack me off to boarding school. You're not taking over this house."

"I get a measly insurance policy and a stipend barely enough to live on. That's not fair. I should get this house after putting up with Jeremiah for all those years."

"Putting up with him?" Richelle came off the bed now. "I always thought you ran him around on a short leash, and he was just too enamored to see it. But I was wrong. He knew you better than we thought. This is his revenge. He didn't leave you much, and what he did requires a man's control. Just the opposite of when he was alive." Richelle laughed out loud. "Go ahead and marry that greedy monster downstairs if you like, but you both can find another residence. I'm not signing away my birthright."

Elaine snorted in derision. "Brave talk from a jail bird. There's still a warrant on your head, missy! I could send a note to the constable right now and tell him to come pick you up."

"Yes, and I wondered why you didn't. Until you explained about the will, I couldn't figure out why you didn't have the constable waiting for me. But you don't mean to stay on. You want to sell. That's why you need full title." The narrowing of Elaine's eyes said Richelle had guessed right.

"I've tried to be civil," her stepmother hissed. "Cameron won't be so nice. I've given enough years to this place and you Hardwicks. You'll sign." She threw the quitclaim on the bed and rose to leave.

Cameron arrived on cue. "Heard what you said about my manners, Elaine, and you know you're right? Hard bein' polite when my sister-in-law's so unfriendly. Did you hear a howdy? Not from Richelle, no sir. Never liked me to visit the farm, complained when I took Cletus out to a saloon for a round of cards. My only brother dies of lung sickness, which he never would have caught if his wife would have taken decent care of him, and Sis here sells the place just like that. Sold the land Cletus got for free. Didn't offer to split one dime of her pure profit with me."

"You never lifted a finger on the farm," Richelle observed.

"Followed you to Carson City, though, Sis. Cletus signed them papers to sell on account we owed a dude there a chunk of money. But I found that little note and the money you left in his room, so at least I got somethin' out of the deal. Pity about that mix-up with the fella's whiskey." His laughter sent a chill down Richelle's spine. "You'd think a man smart enough to draw an inside straight three times in one game would be brighter than to drink from a tainted bottle."

Richelle's voice was shaky. "Even you wouldn't resort to—"

"Creative jugglin's what I call it. Gambling debt here, dandy gets himself corned and drinks from the wrong bottle there. Adds up to zero. Zero debt for me, zero future for him."

Elaine hovered near the doorway. "We're not going to let you scoop up all the poker chips, Richelle. Cam worked with an alchemist before he went to work for your father. Cam knows about compounds and chemicals. I'd rethink your position about the quitclaim."

"I'm not staying in this house another minute."

"Wrong, Sis," Cameron replied. "Elaine honey, Sis and I need to catch up on old times. Believe she'll see things different after we do. Go on and see about supper. Ours, that is. I'll be seein' to Richelle's."

Elaine stalked out. Cameron locked the bedroom door and gave Richelle a lewd wink. His eyes dropped to her feet and slowly moved up to her face. "Lookin' better than ever, Sis. Little on the scrawny side back on the farm, but you got a decent set of teats on you now. Always did have one nice little rear."

"Stay away from me."

He threw his hands to his chest in mock surprise. "Is that any way to treat your long-lost brother? Oh, wait. That ain't right. I'm gonna marry the old lady downstairs. Makes me your new papa."

Richelle backed away by inches until she bumped against the vanity table. She reached behind her. Her fingers closed over a metal comb with a long handle. She raised the pointed end toward Cameron's midsection.

He cocked an eyebrow. "If that ain't some pumpkins! England's put some spunk in you. Almost believe you mean to do somethin' with that."

"Oh, I do. Comb your liver from the inside out."

"Time was, you would have just whimpered and let me have my way."

"I was a girl, Cameron. Barely seventeen. Your stupid brother thought I was upset over my miscarriage. I don't know how you managed to crawl between Elaine's legs, but you're not getting back between mine. One of us will die first. Watch yourself. Right now I'm the Bank of Hardwick."

"Maybe so. But banks get robbed, don't they?"

Chapter 18

Cameron had locked her in. Richelle tried the doorknob, but it wouldn't turn. She crossed to the windows. The heavy wooden shutters had been nailed to the sashes. Her bedroom was a prison. What kind of world am I living in, she asked herself in disgust, when a man like my father gets sick and dies while an evil man like Cameron Nash is still alive and healthy?

She had to do something. She couldn't stay there. What would Morgan do in this fix? She tried to think like he would, look for small details.

At last she recalled something Elaine may have overlooked. Richelle lit the small bedside lamp and took it into her walk-in closet. The old attic scuttle was partially obscured by hatboxes on the shelf. Richelle went back to check her handbag. She had a reasonable sum in English currency. If she could get out....

She slid the braided rug from beside her bed close to where Cameron had left her trunk. She heaved with all her might, flipping the trunk over until it rested on top of the rug. She dragged the rug across the floor into the closet and upended the trunk. Now she had a makeshift stepstool, just tall enough for her stand on and opened the scuttle. She took a deep breath, set a foot on the edge of the closet shelf, and hoisted herself into the attic.

Grabbing a few garments from a crate of frontier goods, she stuffed them into a weathered satchel and wrapped herself in a moth-eaten old shawl. Then she silently tripped the latch and opened the casement window. It was an easy drop from the window ledge to the gable below. From there she worked her way around to the trellis at the northeast corner of the house. Always a stubborn child, she'd used this same escape route a dozen times when Elaine ordered her upstairs for the day. Always contrary, or maybe it was foolhardy—both adjectives Morgan had used to describe her.

Morgan! Somehow she had to find him. But first she had get away to a safe place.

* * *

Two days later she stood on a sidewalk outside Washington. This quiet street of residential houses was the safest place she could think of to find asylum. The particular house she sought had been a dull green once, but had recently been painted light blue with white trim. Any doubts she'd found the right place evaporated as she watched a bull of a man talk to two dandies in business attire. The men nodded and the bull let them inside.

She hitched up faded yellow calico skirts and boldly started up the front walk. "I need to see Sheila. She's my cousin."

"Sure, like she's Tanya's aunt and Sophie's half sister." The voice was gruff as expected. He shifted his bulk to completely fill the door frame. "Sheila's got female relations coming out of the woodwork, if you'll excuse the pun. Why don't you go on back home, Dolly? Sin to Moses to let a little gal like you in here. You plain ain't the type."

"I've come all the way from Philadelphia, and I'm not moving off this porch until you check with her. Tell her it's Richelle Hardwick."

He disappeared, then came back to the door. "Sorry, Miss Richelle. She says I should send you in."

Richelle picked up her satchel. "What's your name?"

"Patrick."

"You never saw Sheila's cousin Richelle around here, did you, Patrick? Never heard of her. There's a man with sandy hair and mud-brown eyes. He's medium height and has a Western drawl. If he comes here, you never heard of me. Same if the police come asking questions. You never heard of Richelle."

"Right you are, Emma. Never heard of no Rachel."

"Richelle," she corrected, noting the irony in the reversal.

"Her neither."

* * *

Sheila's flaming coppery tresses had lost their brassiness. Silver threads were interwoven in them now and there were a few more lines in her face. She uncurled from the lap of a customer and crossed the large drawing room, stopping at the medallion-back sofa to whisper something to one of the strumpets before greeting her newest guest. Richelle quickly explained that she was in trouble and needed a place to stay for a time.

"You can stay as long as you like," Sheila nodded, "but we'll have to talk later. Full house tonight." She beckoned to one of her girls. "Lorella, take my cousin up to Naughty Nan's old room and see that she's comfortable."

Richelle bathed and put on a wrapper Lorella loaned her. The housemaid brought up a tray of cold food and lemonade. Richelle was exhausted and already in bed when Sheila knocked at her door. They sat on the bed while Richelle spun her sordid tale. She managed to keep her emotions in check until she spoke of Morgan.

"I should have told him," she sobbed, "but I was so scared he'd hate me."

"I don't hate you, Richelle. I don't see how anyone who knows you could believe you'd poison anyone," Sheila disagreed.

Richelle wiped her eyes with a corner of the bedsheet. "I've been thinking he might have been willing to hear me out. Did I tell you he outsmarted some pirates?"

"Yes, Sweetie."

"I saw how shrewd he really is. He could help me with Elaine and Cameron. But he'll probably jump aboard the first ship headed for England when Cameron bludgeons him with the nasty truth."

Sheila looked thoughtful. "Not necessarily. Leave the new husband to me. I wish your father had contacted me when you got back from Oregon. I've got friends in high places. One of them might be able to clear up the legal tangle."

"God, I forgot! You do have friends, some of the most important men in the country." Relief swept over Richelle. "Maybe I'll finally be able to shake the Nash rotten luck."

"Sounds like you already have." Sheila studied Richelle's wedding ring. "Your new man sounds like he's something."

Now Richelle couldn't help smiling. "He showed me the magic. In bed."

Sheila laughed and patted Richelle's shoulder. "In that case, we'll certainly have to reel him in. Get some rest. And keep your door locked. Never had to worry about my customers mistaking you for one of my doves before, but now you put half my stable to shame."

Sleep sounded simple enough, particularly since Richelle was mentally and physically exhausted, but it was nearly impossible to ignore the squeaking bedsprings, groans, and ribald laughter seeping through the thin walls around her. She hugged her pillow and recalled nights with Morgan. She thought about his kiss, his hands on her body, the feel of his hard length sliding deep inside her. His taunts. His smile. His strength and fierce pride.

Morgan!

* * *

He stretched out a bronzed forearm. "Here, Rachel." His fingers found only empty bedsheets. He sat up with a start. He'd told her never to leave the cabin without him! He struck a match and glanced around, blinking. Then he remembered. Rachel was in Philadelphia. He was in a hotel bed in New York. He must have been dreaming. You didn't dream her voice, his mind insisted. You heard her.

Four days and nights they'd been apart, and, he'd been unable to stop thinking of her. Her image lived in his mind. But this was the first time he'd imagined her calling out to him. He roused again at dawn, unable to shake the eerie belief that she'd summoned him. He debated with himself while he washed and shaved. He'd tabled his business activities for over a month. He should make up for lost time by accomplishing something while he was here.

But he'd have other chances at trade dealings. He had only this one chance as newlywed groom to Rachel. She needed him. He could neither shake nor ignore the persistent foreboding.

He checked out and sent a message to Boyd. He advised that he planned to hook up with Rachel and assess her family situation. He'd arrange passage to England for them as soon as the health crisis had stabilized. He asked Boyd to keep new of the hasty marriage under wraps for the present. Morgan would make a formal announcement and host a celebration at the inn upon their return.

It took a crowded train ride and a fight for a hack at the depot, but at last Morgan found himself on a quiet Philadelphia residential street. He stared out the carriage window, certain there was some mistake. The homes here were mansions. The cab pulled to halt before an elegant brick home with a large portico. Shutters covered the many windows on all three floors.

"This can't be right," he muttered. He stepped out and compared the number Rachel had written on a scrap of paper to the brass numerals above the imposing oak door.

The driver chuckled as he pulled the Englishman's trunk out of his luggage hold. "Some pretty big bugs live in this part of town. Said you were looking for Jeremiah Hardwick's, right? This is Hardwick House. Drove him to the Governor's Ball last year."

Morgan paid the man and gaped at the wide steps and imposing front entrance. Chagrin flooded his memory of the argument he'd had with Rachel in Newcastle-Upon-Tyne. He'd told her she neither needed nor could afford a porcelain lamp. She'd archly informed him she had money back in America. She'd insisted the same when offering to repay him for her passage home.

Money back in America? The girl's home was a bleeding palace! But he'd been half right. She certainly couldn't need another lamp. There were probably two dozen inside. Along with cut crystal, silver coffeepots and teakettles, a cook and a maid or two, and a thousand other things he'd never have.

He tried to reconcile this stately family home with everything he knew of the woman he'd married. The office clerk of Crowshaven. There had been subtle hints, he realized. Her insolent manner, the way he'd always chafed at her tone when she called him 'sir'. Her propensity for arguing, giving rather than meekly taking orders. He'd told himself it stemmed from the fact she was an American. But clearly no ordinary American, a filthy rich American! What in blazes could have possessed her to take up residence in his dreary cottage and hire on as an underpaid clerk?

He decided to leave his trunk behind a bit of shrubbery. Whatever game Rachel had been playing, it was up now. She was bound to realize that the second she found him at her door. The possible explanations began to intrigue him. This he had to hear.

A man answered the bell. "Somethin' we can do for you, chum?"

Morgan felt an instant dislike for the arrogant bastard. He secretly hoped this was dear Jonas. He'd love knocking the grin off the bloke's smug face.

"Morgan Tremayne," he announced without extending his right hand. "I've come for Rachel."

"You mean Richelle," the man corrected. "Strange accent you got there. Irish?"

"English. Would you be Jonas, by any chance?"

"Nope. Cameron Nash."

A woman stepped in front of Nash. "Richelle's not here." The woman wore black velvet. Her wary blue eyes studied Morgan with open curiosity from beneath a coiffure of fading blonde curls. "What's your interest in her, young man?"

"Perhaps I might step inside. The matter's personal in nature. I'd rather not discuss it on your doorstep."

The woman turned without a word and led him to a spacious drawing room. Morgan followed, gazing in awe at potted ferns and expensive furnishings. 'Money back in America' was fast becoming a phrase he detested.

"I'm Elaine Hardwick," the matron informed him. "We're in mourning in this house, as you may have noticed. I lost my husband last month and I'm not receiving visitors. You'll understand if I don't offer you refreshments or take your coat. Why are you looking for my stepdaughter?"

Morgan inwardly winced at the news about Hardwick's death. "My condolences, madam." He took her hand and bowed politely. A flicker of recognition lit her eyes as her gaze fell on his signet ring. She immediately disguised the reaction by coughing into a lace handkerchief.

She's seen my ring before. So, Rachel's here

Something peculiar was going on here. Morgan decided not to reveal the true nature of his relationship to the girl in question. He released the stepmother's fingers and put a wistful note in his voice. "I met her aboard a vessel out of London for New York. I was quite frankly enchanted, and persuaded her to give me her family's address. I concluded my business in New York and hoped to call on her. May I speak with her?"

"I haven't seen the girl in over a year."

Now his brows drew into a perplexed frown. "That's odd. We docked in New York a week ago. I thought surely she'd come directly here, particularly as her father had summoned her. Due to his ill health, now that I recall."

Elaine never faltered. "I'm afraid you're mistaken. My husband passed very quickly. He didn't have time to summon his daughter from overseas. If she contacts me, I'll tell her you came by. However, I feel compelled to tell you that there's little hope for a courtship. She's likely gone back out West. She has a beau, a Mr. Nelson, in Carson City."

The fellow Nash hung on every word. He was too well dressed and openly intrusive to be a servant. Morgan turned back toward the wide marble foyer. "Thank you for your courtesy. I can see myself out."

Starting back toward the foyer, he spotted a blur of color in the next room. He strode into the formal dining room before either of his hosts could stop him. He stared up at the large portrait dominating one wall. "Aye, that's the girl I met! A beau, you said? More's the pity."

He left the house and slung his trunk over one shoulder, deep in thought as he moved slowly along the sidewalk. He'd know Rachel anywhere. She'd been younger in the portrait, but the soft brown eyes, thick auburn tresses, and tempting lips the artist had captured on canvas definitely belonged to the woman he called wife. Why wasn't she in the house? And why had the stepmother denied having seen her? There was something else that didn't fit, also. Something teasing the back of Morgan's mind that he couldn't quite grasp.

He scanned the portrait again with his mind's eye. Now it came to him. At the bottom of the carved cherry frame was a brass nameplate reading: RICHELLE.

Originally he'd assumed Nash had mistaken his pronunciation of her name due to his English accent. The man had even commented on it. But now Morgan realized the name wasn't just pronounced differently. It was spelled differently. Her signature on notes in the office, the lease on his cottage, even on the marriage license Haversham had given him. He set his trunk down and dug inside for the bit of parchment. He was right. The license said the Biblical name, Rachel. He blinked as the inescapable conclusion formed in his mind.

The one thing the wench had always done perfectly was spell!

So 'Rachel' was an assumed name. Used not by accident or oversight. The girl had deliberately changed both the spelling and pronunciation of her name. Stubbornly avoided talk of her past and her family. Pretended to be a destitute widow. But what he still couldn't fathom was why.

"Say, you looking for Hardwick's daughter?"

Morgan had been so lost in his musings, he actually jumped. A elderly fellow with rheumy eyes peered from behind a rosebush.

"Aye," Morgan answered. "Do you know her? Know where she's gone?"

"Was told to be on the lookout for an Englishman with dark hair and a mustache. You're toting that trunk, got the look. Talk funny. Would that be you?"

Morgan nodded. "Who told you to watch for me? Ra—Richelle?"

The man glanced in both directions before he answered. "Some skinny gimp I never saw before came to my door. Told me to watch for you and ask you something."

"What?"

"Why you looking for Hardwick's daughter?"

Morgan's cheeks flushed. He felt like an idiot, but he knew he best be honest. "She's my wife. We married a few weeks ago. I was detained on business meant to join her at her father's house."

"Right," the old man nodded. "Now I need to see a ring." Morgan raised his right hand for inspection. "Fair enough. Sheila's house in Washington." Morgan drew a blank. The man scowled. "Gentleman's sort of place, the gimp said."

"Good God, not Cousin Sheila's? She's gone to the mad—" Morgan stopped himself before blurting out that embarrassment. "Thank you for the message."

But he was talking to himself. The man was gone.

Morgan struck out for the main thoroughfare. He'd find Cousin Sheila's and his runaway bride, if it took weeks and every last farthing he had. He'd find her. And when he did, he'd wring her lying, conniving, wealthy little American neck!

Chapter 19

Morgan thought he'd mentally prepared himself for whatever might come, but he was wrong. The house of ill repute still astonished him. The huge front drawing room was all plush upholstery, Persian carpets and smoky mirrors. Illumination came from a crystal chandelier. He followed the burly doorman to an adjoining chamber, where a woman clad in a sparkling wrapper and little else sat smiling warmly at him from a card table.

The full bosom, dark eyes and chestnut hair confirmed a strong family resemblance. "Morgan, my new English cousin! Sheila Reeves." She thrust out her hand in welcome. "Have a seat and I'll get you a brandy."

"I want to see my wife."

When he pointedly ignored her hand, she shrugged indifferently and moved to a sideboard, then calmly poured a splash of brandy into a glass. "Not one for social graces, huh?" She set the glass in front of him, offering a bountiful view of her cleavage in the process.

The drink didn't soften Morgan's tone. "Your cousin owes me an explanation. I'm weary of playing round rosy. Fetch her now, or I'll get my trunk off your porch and my English ass out of this bordello and onto the next ship sailing for Europe."

Sheila only smiled. Morgan noted with irritation that the sultry smile ran in Richelle's family, too. "She warned me you had a temper. She's not here at the moment. I sent her to a friend of mine. You're welcome to wait here in the meantime, and I can give you part of that explanation."

"Good. Let's begin with the fact that I now know she's bloody wealthy and her name isn't Rachel. My partner gave her a clerking job, and she rented a cottage from me. Why would a rich American choose to live with common English folk? A social experiment?"

"There's no nice way to say this, so I'm going to give it to you flat. My cousin stands accused of murder and there's a warrant for her arrest. Her father sent her to his sister's in London to keep Richelle out of jail while he tried to get the charges dropped. I gather the sister wasn't too keen on harboring a fugitive" Sheila shook her head. "I wish Jeremiah had told me about the legal charges. I know several important men in some high places. Richelle's gone to consult one now."

"The authorities think she killed someone? Whom?"

"A blackleg. A professional gambler, I mean." Now Morgan nodded. "In Carson City, a Western mining town in the Nevada territory. Rough sort of place."

"How could she be blamed for something there? I thought she'd lived in Oregon."

"The land speculator who bought her farm wired funds there. She went to collect the money and settle her husband's gambling debt to the blackleg. She was the last person seen near the man's room before the body was found. Somebody poisoned him."

Morgan rubbed his eyes. "I never considered anything criminal. Bloody hell. A murderess!"

"You can't believe for one minute she did it? The charges are based on circumstantial evidence. It's a big mistake." Every trace of warmth disappeared from the woman's eyes.

Morgan gave his head a negative shake. "I'm quite certain she didn't. But it comes as a shock to learn one's wife is wanted for a capital crime."

"Paper's here, Sheila." The strapping doorman tossed it on the table in front of her.

The newspaper! Morgan nearly choked as he realized he'd held the key in his own two hands just before they left the ship. When he'd reshuffled their belongings after the privateers departed, he'd found a newspaper below the almanac with Rachel's clothes. It had been an old Philadelphia paper, but he'd perused it briefly, hoping to pick up some useful information before visiting there. He'd seen an article about an Eastern gambler poisoned by a young woman. That's where he'd first seen the name Richelle.

"She wouldn't tell me much about her family. Only got a few glimpses of her past. I thought it was because of her husband's death. Do you know this fellow Jonas, her old suitor? How does he figure in all this?"

"He was with her in Carson City. Her father tried to locate him and get his statement."

"I received a message to come here. Did Richelle summon me?"

Sheila reached over and squeezed his knuckles. "I did, honey. She doesn't know you're here. I'm not going to ruin that little surprise. She'll be very relieved you've come. She's in love with you, and I'm so glad. She hated her first husband."

"Apparently with good reason." Morgan realized she studied him with keen interest. "Why do I get the feeling you want something, Miss Reeves?"

"Sheila. Plain old Sheila." Her tone became all business. Morgan recognized it. He usually heard it from men. "You've been to that house, so you've seen for yourself Richelle isn't going to starve any time this century. Her stepmother wants part of what Jeremiah left his daughter. That fortune hunting witch and her lover made Richelle a prisoner in the house. She climbed out an attic window and came to me, thank the Lord. You'll have to stay until we can figure out what to do. Heard you're good with pirates."

Morgan chuckled. "I was lucky my scheme worked."

Sheila's eyes twinkled. "I hadn't seen Richelle in years. Not since she was a young girl. She appeared on my porch spouting tales about a murder charge, being tricked into marriage on a trade vessel, pirates, and relatives taking her hostage. Anybody else would say the kid had been in the frontier sun too long, but I know my cousin. She's never been one for flights of fancy."

"I did trick her into marriage. She got word her father was ill, and I refused to let her sail back alone. She won't face this new problem alone, either." He tilted his glass in a salute. "I'm in your debt, madam."

Sheila handed him the bottle of brandy and led him up the stairwell. "I put her in this room." She pointed to a closed door. "Bath's a the end of the hall. Have a hot soak and relax. My housemaid will fix you a plate and I'll have Patrick bring up your trunk. Anything else I can do to make you more comfortable?"

Before he could answer, doors opened and several whores poked their heads into the hallway.

Sheila noticed. "Ladies, this one's off limits. He's married to my cousin. They'll be staying here a spell. I catch any of you within a foot of this Englishman, you lose your cut for the month."

The harlots disappeared. "You are some handsome devil. I can't blame them. You're sure there's nothing I can do for you while Richelle's gone?"

Morgan understood the hidden meaning in the subtle question. "I'll likely never again find myself in such surroundings, and never before have been offered the premiere lady of such a house. I'm sure you'd make it a memorable and discreet experience."

Sheila's dark eyes flashed and she looked as though about to reply, so he rushed ahead to finish. "But I love your cousin, and I took vows to be faithful to her. Unless I hear from her lips that she's released me from them, I mean to honor them."

Sheila burst out laughing. "Guess I won't be having Patrick throw you back out into the street. We'll talk again after you've had a chance to discuss things with Richelle. And don't go ripping my bed linens during those 'discussions.'"

* * *

Richelle returned just after dusk. Sheila's friend at the War Department had been sympathetic, but couldn't give any assurances. Richelle felt ridiculous in the disguise Sheila had persuaded her to wear: a blonde wig of fat sausage curls and flashy blue satin gown. Richelle was only too glad to peel off the gaudy things in the bathroom and sink into a tub of hot water. She scrubbed away the face paint and pulled on her borrowed wrapper before ducking into her bedroom. She locked the door and struck a match. Then burnt her fingers and dropped it as a deep baritone voice came out of the darkness.

"Evening, Love."

The words came from the chair beside the window. Richelle made out a dark silhouette. Her heart was pounding. How had the man gotten in? She'd needed her key.

"No greeting for your new husband?"

"Morgan?"

"Aye, and I'm waiting for a kiss from my bride."

She forgot all about the lamp, dove across the dark chamber and flung herself onto his lap. His torso was bare, his breath smelled of liquor. Richelle thought she'd found heaven. She hugged him fiercely and kissed him with an audible smack. "I was afraid I'd never see you again!"

"You do have a nasty habit of eluding me, Colonial. I think it's time we got better acquainted. I'm the innkeeper from Crowshaven, Morgan Tremayne. And you're the dissembling American heiress who's been calling herself Rachel Cordell."

She dropped her arms from his neck. "I can explain."

"I've been counting on that; however, full details can wait. Now I want answers to a few basic questions. This man they believe you poisoned, who was he to you?"

"A stranger. I never met him. I arranged to meet with him in his hotel room, but he never arrived. I left the money Cletus owed with a note. Later I found out he'd been killed and the desk clerk placed me at the scene. Someone put poison in his whiskey decanter."

Morgan's deep laughter stunned her. "You think it's funny? Your wife being charged with murder amuses you?"

"Nay, but poison in a whiskey decanter is the last way you'd kill a man! You railed at me about men making occasions to drink. You poured my brandy overboard. Poisoning a liquor supply would hardly be your method of choice. I'm none too certain you'd attempt a stabbing or blow to the head, either—the way you criticize males for dueling and spilling blood." He took another sip of brandy. "You were distressed when I beat those sailors. I'm not convinced you're at all the murderous type."

"You believe me! You know I'm innocent."

"Of course I do, love."

"God, I hoped...I should have told you aboard the ship. I honestly did try to force myself, even though I was so frightened and ashamed, but—"

"I interrupted you in mid-sentence. I've been sitting here waiting for you, mulling things over. I had time to remember the occasions."

"Oh Morgan, are you horribly angry? I was afraid you'd hate me."

"Hate you? I probably should, but all I can think about is how I've missed you," he whispered, kissing away the salty tears on her lips. "I know your sire was gone before you made it home, and I'm sorry about that." His voice sounded rough and strained. "Having seen his grand house, I understand why you spoke of annulling the marriage. When I believed you a widow of limited means, I considered myself worthy. Naturally, marriage to a struggling English merchant is out of the question. Your use of an alias means the marriage probably isn't legal. So there's no real harm done, other than damage to my pride."

She choked in horror. "What?"

His voice was thick with drink and emotion. "Christ, if I'd ever dreamt you came from such affluence, I never would have proposed in the first place. Don't know how you kept from laughing in my face."

"My talk of annulment had nothing to do with my father's money, Morgan."

"Oh no?" He eased her off his lap and got to his feet, draining the last from the brandy bottle. "You can't mean to imply you'd have chosen a man from some tiny English hamlet. I don't blame you for your obvious reluctance to wed me."

"Because of the murder charge, not because of your background. I was the one living a lie. I couldn't promise you a life together." She turned to stare out the window, then swallowed and spoke again.

"It's true I never would have willingly married you. You're the most incredible man I've ever met, but the Bargainer didn't bargain for this. Remember I said we'd both live to regret you forcing me into the marriage at sea? I regret that you've been hurt by this. I never wanted that. And I know you realize now you made a terrible mistake. You're the one with no reason to honor those marriage vows we exchanged on deck."

"Call me stubborn, but there are reasons why I still would." She turned to stare at him. "You're innocent of the crime, for one. And while you ran away from me before, this time you ran from everything but me. You wanted me to find you. That says I have some value to you, even if only as your protector."

"I wanted to spare you. Can't you understand that? I never had any right to get involved with you in the first place."

"Seems I recall the identical thought going through my mind about you."

"I'm sorry! When you came to the ship that day, I thought you wouldn't believe me. After we set sail, I just couldn't make myself confess. You were right about the crew and I needed you to take care of me." She sniffled, wiped ineffectually at her damp face. "Then we became so close, especially after the storm. I let myself get too selfish."

"Selfish how? You already have more than I'll ever be able to give you, Richelle."

She stared into his gray eyes, a single tear coursing down her cheek. "I wanted the fairy tale to come true! I'd had such horrible bad luck up until then. Remember when you asked me didn't I want to love my husband next time?"

"Aye."

"I let myself begin to believe I really was your wife, Morgan. I just couldn't give that up."

His voice was soft. "You are. In my heart, this alters nothing. You're wearing my ring. You share my life and my name unless you choose not to, Richelle."

"You're not furious? I lied to you."

"Furious you've been in danger without me there to look after you. But you didn't truly lie to me. Everyone got the same false tale. That was an act of self preservation, not a deliberate untruth directed at me personally. Though it does sting that after all we'd shared, you still didn't trust me."

"I was too afraid of what you'd think of me."

"I still think you're the most contrary and difficult little wench I've ever met. Risking yourself to spare me pain." He shook his head, but couldn't hold back a grin of white teeth she saw clearly in the murky room

"You're the first woman I can recall who's ever tried to spare me misery. That in itself says something about your feelings. But it's perfectly acceptable for you to put them into words. Or demonstrate them."

He bent his face close to hers. Her lips quivered as he claimed them. They kissed for long moments before he peeled away their scant garments. Then he carried her to the bed. Her arms and legs enfolded him until she was lost in his strength and he in her softness. She came once, then again as Morgan too found fulfillment.

"Felt the bloody fool standing outside a mansion," he mumbled later as she lay quietly in his arms. "Especially when I recalled our debate over a frigging painted lamp. Money back in America, you'd said. Enough to buy all the wares in the man's whole shop! I still can't reconcile myself to the fact you're a very rich young lady."

Richelle smoothed his mustache with the tip of her index finger. "At least I can be sure you didn't marry me for my money. You never knew it existed until now. But maybe now you understand why I want to repay you for out passage. As you said, I can afford to, and you sold your granary."

"I don't want your money, Rachel."

"Richelle," she corrected softly.

"That's much too exotic a name for a Yorkshire matron. But it suits a hellion with a fine, ripe bottom. I was scarcely able to conduct my business in New York for thinking of it in my hands...just so." He squeezed her buttocks in his palms and gave her a lusty kiss. "What shall we do about the villagers calling you 'Rachel'?"

"I don't think we need to inform them you married an accused criminal. Though Pamela would finally see what I had to offer you. Money and adventure."

"Aye, hiding with my fugitive bride in an exclusive American brothel. How many men will ever be able to make that claim? But we can't stay indefinitely. Sheila told me about the trouble in Philadelphia, and having encountered those two myself—"

"You met that vile man at the house?" At his nod, she took a deep breath. "He was my brother-in-law. Cletus was Cameron's younger brother. Cameron bragged that he poisoned that gambler. I don't know if it was an empty boast to scare me, but it's probably true he owed the man money. He and Cletus often gambled together. Cletus owed Smith $500 when he died."

Morgan bolted upright. "He killed his creditor and let you take the blame? A woman, his own brother's wife? What kind of monster would—"

She rolled away from him. "He is a monster. I can't believe Elaine's hooked up with him, of all people. I hate that man. He's the only person I ever hated worse than Cletus."

The hackles rose on the back of Morgan's neck. "Why? You'd best tell me the whole of it right now. Out with it, no matter what you fear I might think."

"This isn't about trying to protect you."

"Tell me. You had good reason to hate your first husband. What worse reason makes you hate his brother?"

"The miscarriage wasn't Cletus' child. It was Cameron's."

"And you threw up a string of bastards to me? I haven't any, to my knowledge, and at least I've never committed adultery. You . . ."

He stopped in mid-sentence. He'd been on the verge of accusing her of intentionally sleeping with her husband's brother. It wasn't inconceivable, in light of her powerful dislike for her spouse. She wouldn't have been the first abused or unloved wife to seek the shelter of other arms. But he couldn't picture Richelle deliberately cuckolding her husband, no matter what he'd done or how she'd come to wed him. He knew her too well to believe that of her. Even as his mind had formed the words, he'd known they felt terribly wrong.

Which left only one other conclusion as to how she'd become pregnant by her own brother-in-law. "The son-of-a-poxed-whore raped you."

She didn't replay, but her shoulders stiffened. "That's it, isn't it? The reason you hate him so. He forced himself on you, his own brother's wife."

"Cletus was drunk and passed out cold. I was seventeen and afraid of Cameron, then. But I wouldn't let him touch me this time."

Morgan's pulse began to pound everywhere. In his temples and chest. In his closed fists. "This time? You're my wife this time!"

"But he doesn't know. I didn't tell them I'd remarried."

"That rakehell is bedding your father's widow. Doubt that's coincidence. Either he has a penchant for rutting with women within the family, or there's a purposeful scheme behind all this."

Richelle got up and pulled her wrapper back on. "He's known my family for years. He and Cletus both worked at Papa's factory. He probably went back to Philadelphia asking for his old job back. Elaine's the type to latch onto any available man. Particularly one she can control."

"Widdershins," he muttered.

"Excuse me?"

"Widdershins. Other way 'round. The man more likely controls her. I suspect he always has. There have been too many little coincidences in your life, Richelle. Perhaps Nash had his mistress marry your father in hopes she'd outlive him, which she has. Did she encourage the arranged marriage to Cletus?"

Richelle nodded. "To my everlasting regret."

"Cameron's own flesh and blood, who cared less than nothing about you, as you've said. I doubt the union was even about that free land, though it didn't hurt. I suspect Cletus was forced to wed, too, probably in exchange for a promise he'd share the wealth later."

He beat his fist against his thigh. "I sensed something amiss when I visited that house. Elaine lied, claimed she hadn't seen you in over a year. But she recognized my signet ring when I shook her hand. You didn't have that until two months ago. I knew she'd seen you since our marriage, no matter what she said."

"But we're probably not married, remember? I signed the license Rachel Cordell."

He crooked a finger at her. He pulled her back into bed and his naked embrace. "We've spoke briefly about pregnancy. Even now I could have given you a child. It only takes once, as your brother-in-law proved in such a revolting manner." He shuddered. "I still can't believe that animal raped you."

"I wish you hadn't made me dig up that ugly part of my past. It was long ago."

"It amazes me you'd let any man within twenty feet of you after the experiences you had with the Nash brothers. But you let me kiss you and hold you, even back in the village. Hell, you asked for lessons in passion."

"I always knew you were different." It was stated calmly, but firmly, with no teasing lilt in her voice. Morgan's manhood began to swell along with his heart.

"I love you, Richelle. I want to make love to you, tenderly and often. I would like children, but I'm not the one who must risk carrying them. There are precautions we can take if you don't want to take that risk."

"But what about the son to wear your signet one day?"

"You wear its mate."

She gazed into his eyes, her face very still and intense for long seconds. "Morgan, would you marry me?"

"I did. And I told you, I don't care about technicalities."

"You married Rachel Cordell. I'm asking you to marry Richelle Hardwick Nash. I'll need your name if I'm going to give you a son."

"You're certain? No precautions?"

She slowly shook her head. "No precautions. I love you, Morgan."

"You're bloody incredible, do you know that? I'm getting a marriage proposal in a brothel from an wealthy and beautiful young widow...who looks fearful I might not say yes." He winked and stroked a hand across her brown and along the auburn tresses on the pillow.

"I'd be honored to marry you, Richelle Nash. But just now I think I'd like another go at conceiving that son. I haven't finished demonstrating my feelings for you."

Chapter 20

Morgan was awake, stroking the silky skin of Richelle's hip. The room was dimly bathed by early morning light. She rolled onto her back. He immediately covered her nude body with his own. "So many times back in the village I pictured us together like this. I imagined exactly what I'd do, if I was ever allowed to claim you for my own." His lips branded a fiery trail along her throat.

Her eyes were still closed, her voice teasing. "You pictured us like this? In a Washington whorehouse?"

"Not quite, though I find the setting very appropriate for reminiscing. Those wonderful images I had. You atop my desk in the office with your skirts rucked up. Riding Phantom stark naked. I'd lift you off his back and lay you across that big rock outside the granary. But my favorite had you wrapped in white lace. I'd peel away the layers until all that remained was above and below you, in the canopy bed, and you'd sprawl there in wanton abandon, licking your lips and begging me to make you—"

She clapped a palm over his mouth. "You do have a wicked mind, sir!"

"Husband," he corrected. "We went to the courthouse yesterday. It's positively legal now."

"Oh, speaking of making it legal, it must have infuriated Elaine when you showed up and introduced yourself as my new husband. What did she say?"

He flushed. "I wasn't certain you'd admit me. The mansion put me off. I pretended to be a lovestruck suitor and claimed I'd just met you during the Atlantic crossing."

"My father's will has a condition that both Elaine and I must remarry to take control of the estate from Jeremiah's attorney. He's executor. I can take over my inheritance, but Elaine hasn't married Cameron yet. At least I don't think she has."

Morgan got up and began to dress. "Why would your father place such a stipulation in his will?"

"Elaine says it was the lawyer's idea. He persuaded Papa we need husbands managing things for us. I think my father may have had other reasons, but it doesn't matter. What am I going to do about Elaine and Cameron?"

"I've considered the problem. We can't delay any longer. I'm going to need you make up a ledger and business records that will make me look very prosperous. The Americans I meet must take me seriously. And you need some decent clothes. No more widow's weeds, and none of the garish strumpet attire. Get up, madam, you've got shopping to do."

The next few days were a flurry of activity. Richelle shopped and prepared the false business records while Morgan stayed up late playing poker in Sheila's private card room each night. He drank and laughed at the men's jokes, making sure he lost enough to blend in. He made careful mental notes of where political sympathies lay, which men had investors already lined up, and which knew others in positions of power. Several businessmen Morgan met had known Richelle's father personally or by reputation, and Morgan learned as much as he could.

He trudged upstairs late one night and to find Richelle had completed the sham record-keeping. Ledgers had been compiled on the holding company, freight service, warehouse, and Crowshaven Inn. Morgan's profit figures were inflated, and costs adjusted so the entire picture looked plausible, yet impressive. Richelle closed the books and slipped out of her dressing gown. He ignored her nudity and forced his mental focus back to business matters. He'd never had to battle to concentrate on trade and recordkeeping with any woman before her, but one glance at Richelle and numbers became a jumble. She'd had that effect from the first day, he recalled ruefully. He'd looked over those ledgers at the inn while she fumed at him and hadn't been able to add up a single column for thinking about the fire in her eyes.

"You're a very capable clerk," Morgan commented. "I still can't believe you worked for our holding company all those months."

"Some of the best months of my life," she yawned.

He gave her a weary grin as he sat to pull off his boots. "Boyd was proud of locating a clerk who already had rudimentary recordkeeping knowledge."

"Rudimentary," she repeated, with a snort that sounded suspiciously amused.

"I distinctly recall pointing out several errors during your first days."

Now a vixen's smile teased her lips. "You, Mr. Tremayne, were overbearing, disdainful, and convinced I couldn't know what I was doing. It would have made matters worse if you'd searched for errors in vain."

"You bloody little sneak! You deliberately planted mistakes in our books just to spite me?"

"I paid invoices and sorted papers for my father from an early age. He owned a factory that made wrought iron for balconies, gates, coach parts, and such. He had several dozen men employed there and always kept two sets of books. You didn't need to explain the concept to me."

Morgan frowned. "He had a highly successful business. Why would he need to falsify records?"

"Actually the false set showed a lower profit. They were for vendors or the occasional banker who wasn't inclined to be flexible on loan terms. The true set was kept in Papa's study at home."

"False name, artificial lowering of skills and ability, sham of poverty." Morgan sighed and peeled off his breeches. "I only just wed you. Already I see I must question even the smallest details, check everything about you very thoroughly." He untied his long hair and shook it out, piercing Richelle with a hot gaze.

"Everything?" she asked with mock innocence as she turned back the bedclothes to expose her unclad body to Morgan's gaze.

He blew out the lamp and joined her on the mattress. "Every damned inch of you."

* * *

Morgan was gone when she awakened the next morning. The records were gone from the table, as well. Richelle spent the morning in the garden, enjoying the spring weather. She went back to their room after lunch, to find Morgan naked and stretched out on the mattress, fingers laced behind his head. "You're blushing, Richelle," he announced as she locked the door.

"You're undressed."

He gave her a lecherous nod. "Men don't come to a house like this to keep their trousers on. I had an interesting meeting today." He sat up and watched her brush her hair. "We're going to visit a certain gentleman tomorrow. He's the last stop before we're finished here in Washington."

She halted in the midst of a brush stroke. "You know it's dangerous for me to leave this house."

His tone was reasonable. "I'm aware. You spent a year in Crowshaven and listen to my speech now every day. Can you imitate the Yorkshire accent? Well enough to sound English yourself?"

"I expect so," she answered slowly. "My parents had English accents, too. Though I don't remember my mother very well, my father hadn't lost his, even after all the years here in America."

He moved to the edge of the bed, close enough to reach out to finger her dark tresses. "That was very good, love. You'd never fool an Englishman, but I think the American will buy it. This fellow's very important. I'll do most of the talking, but if you're questioned, use the accent."

She turned around to confront him. "Just who is this important man?"

Morgan's eyes dropped to her breasts. She read his intention and stopped his hand before he could touch her. "I asked you a question, sir."

"He poses as a man of enterprise and trade, but he's actually in your government. A high-ranking official in law enforcement."

"Have you lost your mind? I'm not going within a mile of anyone remotely connected to law enforcement! Not with a warrant out against me!"

"Calm down, sweetness. If you walk in on my arm and are introduced as my prim little English bride, he'll have no reason to connect you to some incident over a thousand miles away."

She felt a rush of fear and dismay. He made these charades sound easy, but she'd tried wearing disguises in public and it wasn't easy at all. "I don't know if I can go through with it. It was one thing to let you hide me under a patchwork quilt. Quite another to look some man in the eye, knowing he can send me to prison."

He pulled her onto the mattress beside him. "Remember before our shipboard wedding, when you said I didn't look nervous? What did I tell you? The key is convincing yourself that your inner goal is the imperative. Focus on that and never stop believing it must be attained. That's how I view business transactions. Not as though I'm conquering an adversary. The men I deal with in Newcastle or Sheffield aren't adversaries. They're chaps I hope to encounter and deal with again and again."

"I'll be too nervous. One slip and I could end up in jail!"

His powerful arms closed around her. "The only prison for you is right here in my embrace. You have the Bargainer's word, Richelle. I'll never let you see the inside of a prison."

"How can you promise that? You're not a defense lawyer. You're not even an American citizen."

"But I'm acquainted now with several prominent men who are, Richelle. Here's what I want you to do tomorrow . . ."

They entered a dingy warehouse and met with a middle-aged man named Richardson, who listened quietly as Morgan explained that his wife had acquired a business in the States that they wished to sell. Their dilemma was what to do about reports that its current manager was dealing in arms for the Confederacy. "Naturally," Morgan finished, "you'll understand that this has distressed my lady wife beyond words. To have her good name in any way associated with such unconscionable acts."

Richelle brought out a handkerchief and covered her eyes at that point, just as Morgan had coached her to do. She made a sniffling sound. Their host cleared his throat. "Yes. If Carstairs sent you to me, this must be serious. He doesn't refer people here on a whim. I'm not a wholesale shipper, though that's what the sign on the warehouse door says."

Morgan nodded. "I was told you have certain connections."

Richardson's voice became authoritative. "I'm a Federal agent working for the Attorney General's office. If this fellow Nash is willfully supplying the Southerners, that could constitute an act of treason. It's worth investigating, assuming you can obtain hard evidence. We must have more than rumors. I need tangible proof."

"I can get it," Morgan stated. "We'll be reviewing the business records in preparation for the sale. Bills of lading, receipts, invoices, everything. We travel to Philadelphia this week."

"Good," Richardson affirmed, rising from behind his desk. "Wire me at this address." He handed Morgan a card. "I can obtain a warrant once I know there's hard evidence about Confederate dealings. You get us proof, he'll be arrested. Then your pretty wife can rest easy. Won't you, Mrs. Tremayne?"

Richelle's voice was heavily accented. "I don't think I shall be truly at ease until that horrid man is safely locked away. He's a traitor against your King Lincoln."

"President Lincoln, yes ma'am. We don't have kings here in America. But we take our leaders just as serious as if they were, you can bet on that."

They thanked him and left the office. Morgan gave Richelle a hearty embrace as they entered their waiting hack. "I knew you could do it, Colonial! King Lincoln!" They started back to the whorehouse.

"How do you know Cameron's arming the South?"

Morgan smiled. "Don't I learn everything possible about the people involved in my business transactions?"

"How would you learn something like that? He wouldn't post a circular bragging about it."

"Why do you suppose I've spent every evening playing poker? I detest the game. Apart for the bluff," he chided lightly. "Have a flair for that. You said both Nash brothers gambled. Stands to reason Cameron still does. All's connected, remember? Sooner or later I was bound to meet up with someone who'd played with Cameron Nash or heard about him. You'd be amazed what a man will boast about with liquor flowing."

The carriage pulled up in front of Sheila's. Richelle went inside, but Morgan paid the driver and hesitated at the front porch. Sheila's beefy doorman was seated on a wide bench, sipping from a dented tin flask.

"Care for a snort?"

Morgan nodded, took a swig and returned the flask before wiping his chin with a coat sleeve. "Where might a fellow find some real gaming in this town, Patrick? Serious money. The sort of gaming where bad debts can get a man's legs broken. I need to meet some unsavory gents—characters down about three notches from what parades through here."

"Cabby down the block will know where to find that sort of game," Patrick said, scowling. "But what am I supposed to tell the women? They're bound to ask where you went."

"A new flask says you don't know."

"You got any idea how many gents step onto this porch and try to buy my loyalty?" Patrick huffed, rising to flex his substantial pectoral muscles.

"Quite a few, I should imagine. I'm just the one who succeeded."

Chapter 21

Richelle paced the length of the polished kitchen wood floors, then turned and started back again. "I don't understand," she fumed at Sheila. "You pay that man to watch the door!"

"To watch who comes in through it," her cousin returned mildly. "So he's gone out for the evening, so what? Take a nice hot bath. You might even try sleeping in that bed, for a change."

"He doesn't know his way around Washington, Sheila! He could get lost or be attacked and robbed, or—"

"Are we talking about the same Englishman who tricked pirates and beat some ruffians until his knuckles bled? He can take care of himself. I tested him."

Richelle knew all about Sheila's infamous test. Many a customer never got a second visit to the brothel after failing it. "You didn't? Sheila, you knew I was married to that man!"

"All the more reason, Richelle. I had to know if he was half the champion you thought he was. Wasn't about to let him hang around if he didn't truly care for you."

"So he had to prove himself by turning down your tits on a platter? Or was it one of the others this time?"

Sheila ignored her cousin's anger. "He'd discovered you had money before he got here. Then he learned about the murder charge, but he stood by you. Some might say he's sticking with you because of the money. But I know men, Richelle, and that kind would take a free ride from any female in the crib. Morgan cares. What more do you want?"

"I want to go home." Richelle announced firmly. "And I want Lorella to come with me."

Sheila instantly regretted asking the young girl, one of her newest, to aid Richelle during her stay. The two girls were close in age, and Sheila had more than once seen them talking or laughing together. She'd been pleased at the time. Richelle could use a friend after all she'd suffered recently. But Sheila hadn't anticipated that friendship bond would lead to a financial loss to her business.

"I know how you feel about the girls leaving, Sheila."

She shrugged. It happened. More often than most churchgoers believed. Few girls truly lived life on their backs for extended periods of time. Usually they resorted to that life when circumstances drove them to it, only to leave it once more when the tide of fortune turned. They met a good man or got in touch with distant relations. Heard of jobs working as hotel maids or cooks in lumber camps.

Sheila genuinely liked Lorella and the girl was popular with the clientele, but she had a right to make her own choices. Sheila wouldn't stand in her way.

"I'll be good to her," Richelle rushed on.

"I know that," Sheila sighed.

"I can offer her a paying job, helping me keep house. Morgan said we'd leave here soon for Philadelphia. As soon as he gets back, I'm going to tell him the three of us are leaving tomorrow."

They just reached the train station when a messenger intercepted them.

Sheila's friend at the War Department had news about Jonas. He was in the Union Army and gave his commanding officer a formal statement of the events in Carson City. The messenger gave Richelle the deposition, along with a safe deposit box key. Jonas had left her money in a Philadelphia bank on Chestnut Street.

Morgan and the women checked into a hotel near Hardwick House. The following day Richelle tucked her hair under the blonde wig Sheila had given her and took Lorella to the bank. The safe deposit box contained the bulk of the Oregon farm money. The women spent the rest of the afternoon purchasing a chaste wardrobe for the former prostitute.

Meanwhile, Morgan hid down the street from the ironworks to observe activities there. For three days he watched Cameron Nash to learn his routine. Then he waited until Elaine and Cameron had left the Hardwick mansion for the evening and used Richelle's key to slip inside. A review of the records in the desk told Morgan what he needed to know. He dispatched a wire to Richardson and returned to the Philadelphia hotel.

Richelle was stunned by what he'd discovered. "Cameron's not only selling arms to the South, but cheating the Union while he does it? And Elaine's involved, too?" Morgan nodded. "So Elaine will be arrested, as well."

"That's a distinct possibility."

"No, Morgan, I can't agree to that. I can't be responsible for putting my stepmother behind bars."

"I wouldn't give a tinker's damn about her if I were you," he replied harshly. "Sara should be enough salve for your conscience."

Richelle had been pacing back and forth. She stopped and stared at him. "What's Sara got to do with any of this?"

Morgan met her questioning gaze with a powerful sense of regret. Richelle had to understand what she was up against, make informed choices. Yet he knew he was about to hurt her. "From what you've told me, Cletus usually came home to you, even when he was dead drunk. He knew you were about to give birth. Doesn't it strike you as odd that he'd choose that precise time to disappear for several days?"

Richelle merely shrugged. "He lost track of time or was sleeping it out of his bloodstream somewhere."

"Richelle, think. Women and their babes both may die in childbirth. You told me there was no medical help available. Cletus and Cameron would have known that."

"Men make mistakes when they're drunk, like when you lost your signet. Cletus wasn't—! You want me to believe they wanted me dead! Sara, too? Even the Nash brothers wouldn't be so vicious."

"I want you to see that it's possible. Quite plausible. Both had a vested interest in making certain Jeremiah Hardwick had no blood heirs to his fortune. If you and Sara had perished, Elaine would have everything now. Elaine and her lover."

"No, Morgan. No!" But even as she outwardly denied it, Richelle admitted it was probably true. Hadn't Cameron killed a man with his 'creative bookkeeping'? Murdered a stranger and tried to hang her for it? She turned away from Morgan and silently wept.

The next morning she awakened early. She was dressed and ready to talk when Morgan first opened his eyes. "I've asked myself a dozen times what I ever did to deserve the Nash curse. Cameron's taken everything that mattered from me. And Elaine helped him."

"I'm afraid so."

"They took things I can never replace: years of my life, my child, maybe even my father. Cameron and his damned poisons could have killed Papa."

"Even if that's true, I doubt we could prove it."

"I don't care. I'm going to stop them, Morgan. They're not taking my father's house. Cameron's not going to stay under that roof. I won't let him win."

Morgan nodded, his face a hard mask of resolve as he began lathering his face to shave. "I've already got things in motion. I'll handle him."

Chapter 22

"Oh, it's you again." There was no welcome in Elaine Hardwick's voice as she opened the Hardwick House front door to find Morgan on the porch. Richelle stepped from behind him. Elaine snorted, "I see you located my stepdaughter. Resourceful fellow, I'll give you that."

Morgan swung the door all the way open and escorted Richelle inside. He glanced around to be certain there was no sign of Cameron. He'd watched the house and knew this was the cook's day off. Elaine was home alone.

"We've come to discuss my father's estate," Richelle announced. "I believe you've already met my husband."

Elaine made no move to sit in the drawing room. She glanced from Richelle to the man beside her. "He's not your husband. He'd only just met you. What are you trying to pull, Richelle?"

Morgan answered for her. "We're married. Twice, actually. By a Justice of the Peace in Washington as well as the ship's captain en route to New York. Richelle was my wife before she ever returned here. I had business that detained me in New York, so I sent her ahead alone. Had I any notion you and that foul heathen would treat her as you did, I'd never have let her come." He pinned Elaine with an icy glare. "You lied about having seen her. That wasn't kind, Widow Hardwick, nor was it particularly bright. You recognized my ring. You couldn't have unless you'd seen its copy on Richelle's finger."

"So you're her husband. So what? Cameron and I can run down to the courthouse, too, you know."

"More likely the jailhouse," Richelle sniggered.

"I'm managing Richelle's business now," Morgan informed the older woman. "I've investigated Cameron Nash and the operations at the ironworks. Some highly unorthodox business practices take place under his management. Unethical and illegal practices, interestingly enough—with documentation that indicates you're also involved."

Elaine shook her head. "Cameron worked for my late husband. He manages the factory. I have nothing to do with that."

"Then why did I find bank drafts and receipts bearing your signature? Let's not toy with one another, widow. I know about the sales to the Confederate Army. I've also learned Cameron's got heavy gambling debts. Several of those are guaranteed by a life insurance policy on you."

Elaine scoffed, "There's no life insurance."

"I assure you, there is. Distasteful concept, isn't it?" Morgan sneered. "Finding his only interest in you is financial. But he's what, sixteen years your junior? Young enough to be your son. He can easily find another lover. Several, in fact."

"Stop this. I don't have to listen to your lies."

"Remember when you had Jeremiah believing you attended ladies club meetings? You and Cameron met in a hotel across town during those afternoons. Did you realize Cameron was also seeing a maid employed there? She got pregnant and was forced to resign. She and Cameron's bastard are living with relatives in Delaware now."

"Fascinating," Elaine snapped. "Doesn't Richelle see your interest in her is just the same? All about money."

Richelle narrowed her eyes at the older woman. "Morgan didn't know who I was before coming to this house. He married me believing I was a poor frontier widow."

Elaine picked at a fold of her black skirt. "You said this was about Jeremiah's estate."

Morgan dug in his pocket and removed a bulky envelope. "Here's two thousand dollars, enough to buy you a fresh start. We're offering you a chance to get out unscathed. Against the whole of Jeremiah's estate."

"If you can prove I'm involved in something illicit, why help me?"

"Richelle doesn't want to see you go to jail. You can go straight to the devil for all I care." He opened the envelope and withdrew a folded document. "This is a release of your share of Jeremiah's estate. Sign it and pack your things, or your next home will feature bars on the doors. I wouldn't take too long thinking it over. Government agents are due with a search warrant this very day. Sign this and I'll destroy the documents implicating you before they arrive."

"I can take your word on that, of course."

He cocked his head at the older woman. "What choice have you?"

Elaine got a pen from the study and scrawled her signature on the form. Then she hurried upstairs. Richelle followed to watch her pack. Elaine flung open her wardrobe, gathering day dresses along with satin and taffeta evening gowns. She gave her stepdaughter a cold glare and went about the task of emptying her bureau drawers into a small valise. "I always planned to pack like this one day. Rehearsed my steps and the speech I'd give Cameron after I sold the place. No need for that speech now."

She tossed a small jewelry box at Richelle. "You can have this. Your mother was the one fond of useless trinkets."

"My mother was the one fond of my father."

"You've got your nerve, talking to me like that and having that Englishman toss me out like an old shoe! When I first came to this house, you were wearing yesterday's rags and digging in the flowerbeds. Your mother and her crackpot relations had your mind addled like theirs. You spent summers in a whorehouse!"

"I spent the last week there, too."

"Your father didn't have a clue as to the proper upbringing for a young girl. You'd be whoring there right now instead of married to that arrogant son-of-a-bitch downstairs if I hadn't made something of you."

Richelle took a step forward, menace in her tone. "Don't you call Morgan names, Elaine. He's the only thing standing between you and a long stint in federal prison. One word from me and he'll give those government agents the evidence against you."

Elaine slammed the lid of her trunk. "When I think of the years I gave you."

"Let's both think about them," Richelle shot back. "You keep talking about everything you gave me and my father, but all you did was keep me away while you bided your time. You pushed me off on Cletus and did whatever Cameron told you while you waited for my father to die." Richelle couldn't hide the total disgust in her voice and couldn't stop herself from taking at least some measure of revenge.

"Cameron mentioned our old times. The baby I miscarried was his. If that child had lived, Cameron probably would have forced me to marry him after Cletus died. Then he would have been both husband and father to Jeremiah's kin—with absolutely no use for you."

Elaine's jaw went slack before she recovered what remained of her false dignity. "I curse the day I ever met you and your father."

"Not half as much as I do."

* * *

As agreed, Richelle left the house after Elaine and returned to the hotel. Morgan poured himself a tall sherry and set to work. By the time Richardson and his men arrived, Morgan was lounging in the drawing room beside a low fire. "It's springtime," one of the agents remarked. "Little warm for a fire."

"You're right, of course, but I'm an Englishman. We like our hearth warming a house, even in summer. Old habits, as they say. You'll be pleased at what I've gathered for you. Have a look." Richardson pored over the contracts and invoices.

"You're right, Tremayne. This is bad. You're sure you can get him to tell you about this business?"

"I'm sure."

Richardson motioned to his agents. The documents were all returned to the study as the men took up hiding places in the dining room and kitchen. They would be able to overhear what was said in the drawing room without being seen. Morgan appeared to be alone when the front door opened and Cameron walked into the foyer and shouted for Elaine.

"She's gone out, Nash."

"She never goes anywhere without telling me. And what the hell are you doing here? We told you your little ladybird flew the coop."

"Widow Hardwick says you handle financial matters. I told her I'd wait here until you got home. We need to confer, my good fellow. Hope you don't mind that I poured myself a drink. Join me?"

Cameron nodded and splashed some liquor into a glass, his eyes wary. "I don't know what financial things you mean or why I'd talk to you about 'em."

Morgan smiled and became the Bargainer. "I've got a confession to make, Nash. I located Richelle. She knows I'm here. I wasn't entirely honest when I came by the house the other day. I did much more than meet Richelle aboard the vessel from London. I married her on it."

"So, what's that got to do with me?"

"We're men of experience and commerce, you and I. Men with a distinctive talent and certain tastes in common."

"Other than those leather boots on your feet, I don't see nothin' in common. You're a friggin' Limey."

"A talent for attracting ladies with a good deal of coin. When I learned Richelle's father was dying and she's the only child of a wealthy businessman, I jumped at the chance to wed her." He gave Nash a sardonic grin. "Though a good many other wenches over the years have been disappointed that I wasn't the marrying sort." Both men chuckled. Morgan watched Cameron relax and begin to warm to him.

"You don't see no ring through my nose," Cameron snorted.

"But I'm sure there will be a wedding band on Elaine's finger soon. Because the will stipulates the women need husbands to manage the estate."

Now Cameron's brown eyes had a feral gleam in them. "That's what I heard tell."

"One look at this house and the suit you were wearing, and I knew you'd done well enough. That's why I've a notion that we can do some private business between ourselves." Morgan winked and took another swallow of his drink.

"That depends on what you're figurin' to give up," Cameron announced, leaning forward. "Your little bitch has most of the old man's holdin's, and that don't seem right. Elaine had to put out for the old coot the past fifteen years. I hardly ever got to see her and had to baby-sit that gal of yours. She was married to my little brother for while. You know that?"

Morgan nodded and tamped down his anger. "Well, he was never too bright, so I had to check up on her. All the way out to Oregon. Figure me and Elaine earned a lot more than what's declared her share. And I got me a style to maintain. Liquor like this, cards, nice clothes, and such."

Morgan set down his glass. "I've several irons in the fire myself back in England. Can't say I'd opt to stay on here. Not without the proper incentive. Richelle's told me her father left her a factory. Metals of some kind. She wants to sell it, but I should imagine there'd be profits in metals with a war on. This may not be the time to sell."

A broad grin lit up Cameron's face. "Limey, you're smarter than you look. That was always my point. Couldn't get her idiot pa to see what he had."

Morgan rubbed his chin. "I might be willing to sign over Richelle's half of this house. Could even stake you to a few more games of poker with some cash besides, if there's serious money in that factory."

"There's money, all right. North and South both pushin' to outfit their armies. Any time you got two buyers after the same thing, you get a biddin' match. Gone beyond frettin' over bids, though. Play cards yourself?" Morgan nodded. Now Cameron's eyes positively glittered. "Don't lose no sleep if somebody loses big, do you?"

"Not so long as it's the other chap."

Cameron rose and beckoned for Morgan to follow him to the study. "Got somethin' to show you." He pulled the ledger from the desk and began openly bragging how profits had increased. "Hardwick always sold short, worried about his damned reputation. Look what happened since he took sick and I started runnin' things."

Morgan scowled. "Costs are too low for so many shipments. You wouldn't pull the wool over my eyes, would you, Nash?"

Cameron nudged Morgan's ribs. Morgan resisted the urge to grab the bastard and choke the life out of him. "Cost figures are right, but cut shipments down to less than half that. I make up duplicate bills of ladin', one for each side. Most outposts are such a mess, the brass don't know what's in munitions stores or sittin' on docks. Anybody wises up they got shorted, I give 'em shippin' credits, rush a few parts out, and shut 'em up."

"Aren't you the least concerned about what would happen should someone learn you're shipping to the Southerners? That's not exactly cricket, is it? You're outfitting the enemy." Morgan held his breath. Everything rode on this one answer.

"Don't send the goods direct. Riverboat or rail 'em to a depot or warehouse, then I get a third party to move them. You'd be surprised what you can get away with if you plan it right."

Morgan scowled. "But your scheme's bloody complicated. Might be simpler to sell and take my cash. I don't need to get involved in all these shenanigans."

Cameron's expression darkened. "Don't be like the old man. You'd don't want to sell the ironworks. It's like gold linin' your pocket, Limey."

"Gold, you say? How do I know your arrangements won't blow up in my face as soon as I step in? Don't want trouble with your authorities. And it's not as though you've a reputation for masterminding successful frauds. I've checked on you, and all I heard is that you're an occasionally lucky gambler with some connections."

"That all, huh? Did you also happen to hear about a blackleg name of Grubstake who turned up dead in Carson City last year?"

Morgan raised his shoulders in indifference. "I may have. What's he got to do with your factory scheme?"

"Nothin'. He was somebody I owed big. Poisoned him with his own liquor. Debt erased. Ain't nobody lookin' for me, either, cause somebody else got the blame. I got a middleman at the factory. Any problem's his, not yours."

Morgan purposely gave no reaction and appeared lost in thought. Cameron's tone became insistent. "Here's our deal: I want the house and five thousand cash. You keep the ironworks. I'll set up a few sales for a percentage of the take. These here are my private books. Set in the factory office don't show none of this. Elaine doesn't know, neither. I get a third off the top. You keep two-thirds. Damned fair, considerin' I laid the ground work."

"Maybe. I'd have to think about it."

"What's to think about? I'll still be helpin' you! Kind of like a silent partner." Cameron began to laugh. "What you say, Son? Once I get hitched to Elaine, you'll be my son-in-law. Tarnation, partners and kin! I like it!"

"There's a detail you've overlooked in all this kinship," Morgan announced in a dispassionate voice. "I agree to the percentages and the five thousand. However, I want the stepmother servicing my needs when Richelle's indisposed each month. Elaine's past child-bearing age, so she shouldn't suffer the same indisposition. I know Richelle's first pregnancy was yours, not your brother's. You've had both the women. I want the same arrangement. That would be equitable."

"Now wait a just a goddamned minute!"

"Why? You intend to take a cut of my money. I want a cut of your wench. I'm a lusty fellow. Don't like abstinence a week out of every month."

"You friggin' nuts? I don't care what that lyin' bitch Richelle told you—"

"Only that you'd forced yourself on her. I could do the same to Elaine, or we could come to a gentlemen's agreement now."

"Gentlemen's agreement?" Cameron gaped. "You think I'd ever agree to let some other man bed my woman? Christ Almighty!"

"Come on, Nash," Morgan snorted. "You let Richelle's father bed the blonde for years. But then, he was an 'old coot', as you put it. Probably not much between the sheets, while I'm quite virile. Elaine might not be content with you once she's had a real man plow her field."

As Morgan expected, the last remark brought Cameron's fist up, swinging wildly.

Morgan unleashed every ounce of the stoked fury in his soul. He seized the younger man by the shirt and flung him against the wall. "I love Richelle, you worthless son of an infected whore! You and your sniveling brother foully abused her and left her to die on the frontier. Fitting retribution that she survived, while Cletus caught pneumonia and died."

"My brother—"

"Shut your face! I've got something for you, on behalf of my wife. Something she should have given you years ago."

Morgan's knee shot forward and up, connecting with Cameron's groin. Morgan straightened the lapels of his frock coat. He left the study without glancing back at the slumped American writhing helplessly on the floor.

"He's all yours, Richardson."

Chapter 23

Richelle and Morgan sat in the law offices of Jeremiah's attorney. "This is my husband, Morgan Tremayne. He'll sign any requisite documents. I've decided to sell the ironworks." She reached into her bag and withdrew a business card. "This man's the buyer. He'll contact you in a day or two."

Morgan stared at Richelle in dumbfounded silence. She'd said nothing about selling the factory. He'd fabricated that lie when he'd met with Cameron, but never revealed the specifics of their conversation to Richelle. How could she be saying this now to the barrister?

"I'd be pleased to assist you, Mrs. Tremayne," the man replied. "I've ordered your father's bank accounts consolidated. Here are vouchers for the expenses my firm has incurred to date. With your husband's approval, I'll reimburse them from estate funds."

Richelle nodded. The lawyer thrust a pen at Morgan. "Sign here please, sir. And here. Thank you."

Small fingers came to rest on Morgan's sleeve. "I'll want your recommendations as to specific terms, Morgan. I think I've been offered a fair price, but of course you'd know best, since you've been over the records for the factory."

Morgan found his voice. "There may be a problem. The factory manager was arrested for supplying war materials to the Confederates. It may be difficult to convince a purchaser that Madam Tremayne had no part in those dealings."

"It's all right," Richelle interjected. "He knows I wasn't involved."

"Yes, I believe he's aware your wife's been out of the country and—" The attorney stopped speaking when Morgan rose and walked out of the office.

Richelle found him pacing furiously on the sidewalk outside the law building. He whirled around as the door shut behind her and began fuming before she could descend the steps.

"Why go through the pretense of needing my opinion, Richelle? You're already in negotiations with a buyer. I'm only needed to sign papers. That's the way of it, eh? Too bad I left the sealing wax in the holding company office! Why bother bringing me here with you at all, Richelle? You can even place my seal on any document you choose. You've got your own goddamned ring now!"

"Morgan, please stop railing at me."

"What am I to you, Richelle, if not the minor technicality you needed in order to gain control of your assets? That's why you proposed that night in the brothel. You knew about the remarriage clause."

She shook her head as she reached his side. "That wasn't the reason. At least not my primary reason."

"But it was part of it!" He headed up the street, striding so fast she had to trot to keep pace.

"Morgan, stop!" she shouted. He halted, but didn't glance back. When she drew even with him, he stared off into the distance.

"I don't want any connection to that factory and Cameron," Richelle panted. "Surely you can understand. And honestly, I was approached with an offer on the ironworks. I didn't tell you, because I intend to use part of the profit to repay you for our passage. There was no point in bringing it up. I knew you'd only argue about taking the money. But it's my debt to you, Morgan Tremayne, and I mean to repay it. I never wanted you to sell your granary."

He cocked his arm. "Let's get something to eat. I'm hungry." He led her to a small restaurant.

"You're still upset with me," she observed as he pulled out her chair.

"Disenchanted. I somehow convinced myself that my wife—should I ever decide to take one—would look up to me and admire my business acumen."

"I do. I have the deepest respect for you."

They paused to give the waiter their orders, then Morgan looked into her eyes. "All I thought about while away from the village in London was that I'd finally found the woman who'd make an ideal wife. A modest little female clerk named Rachel who seemed to understand me and admire me. When Boyd's wire came, I was frantic. I couldn't lose my darling Rachel. But I lost her, anyway."

Richelle shook her head slightly. "You didn't lose the woman who admired you, Morgan. You didn't lose me, just your illusions about me. And I know what a talented man you are. I could never have entrapped Cameron and arranged all of that without your help."

"But you can arrange a good many other things without me." He turned to gaze out the restaurant window. "You're harboring second thoughts about a cramped cottage and life in a small English village. I note you didn't announce plans to sell Hardwick House."

"I'm not having second thoughts." Her reply sounded more petulant than she'd intended. "But I'm not ready to make that decision. You didn't sell your family's home. You have no desire to live there yourself, but you never sold it. I've always loved the brick manor. All that time on the frontier, I longed to be back in my family home here. And it's my legacy, Perhaps the attorney could act as my rental agent, like Boyd does for you."

"Did," Morgan corrected, mounting irritation in his voice. "It's no longer a rental property. I thought you understood I'll be giving up my rooms at the inn. It's one of the matters I intend to discuss with Boyd when I return. However, at the rate things are progressing, I shan't be seeing him before the turn of the century."

"Having a little sarcasm with our sandwiches, are we? No one asked you to sail here, Morgan, remember? I didn't go looking for you in London or beg you to come on the voyage with me. Coming here to the States was purely your decision."

"What a comfort to know I need never worry about forgetfulness in my old age, with you to continually refresh my memory of how you never wanted me. On the voyage, or as your husband."

* * *

Lorella was waiting when they returned to the house. "This came while you were out, sir." She held out an envelope. Morgan took it and went to the study, where he poured himself a drink and began to read.

Lorella asked Richelle if she might have the evening off to go to supper with a local drummer who'd come to the door selling spices and herbs. Richelle encouraged the girl to go, hoping the prospect of an evening alone with her in the house would improve Morgan's dour mood.

But she entered the study to find Morgan looking paler than she'd ever seen him except while he'd been ill aboard the vessel. "What is it? What's wrong?"

He crumpled the letter in one fist. "It's from Boyd. I wired him this address before I went to Washington. We have to go home right away. I don't understand it, but he says we've suffered financial reversals. It's bad. We could lose the holding company if the freight service collapses. I'll have to work something out once I get back," he mumbled, more to himself than her, Richelle suspected. "Maybe I can renegotiate with the squire."

Richelle knew Boyd better than that. He must have indicated some reason as the cause of the problems. "Why would your delivery service be near financial ruin? You were doing well enough just a few months ago."

"One of our shipments was stolen. Highwaymen, apparently. We also lost a driver in the incident. He quit right afterward. There was no insurance on the shipment, so Boyd had to pay for the lost goods. Some of the other customers heard the tale and canceled pending deliveries. Damn it, I never should have left England!" He took a long swallow of his drink and rubbed at one temple.

Richelle reached for his hand. "You remember Boyd and I met with Squire Martin the day before I left town, the day in the square?" Morgan asked. She nodded. "Boyd's had to guarantee repayment of the funds the squire invested. I signed a power of attorney long ago so Boyd has autonomy to act in my stead. It seemed a reasonable precaution, as I'm away so often."

He closed stormy gray eyes. "He gave a promissory note against the inn. I've got to get home, develop some new prospects and generate more business. I'm the Bargainer, not Boyd. Without me there isn't likely to be new activity. Just mounting of debt and no way to make the payments. I could lose the inn."

She wrapped her arms around his neck. "No, Morgan. I'd never let that happen. You heard what the attorney said. Papa left money in bank accounts, and I've already found a buyer for the factory. We'll wire funds to Boyd."

He pushed her away and frowned. "I'm not begging for alms by telling you this. I can manage my own affairs, but I must be in England. You know I was anxious to return even before I got this news."

"It's not charity. I want to help you because we're man and wife. What harms you harms me."

He answered in an odd, flat voice. "I understand you mean to show me a kindness, but I cannot take any part of your inheritance. You must let me deal with this in my own way. You see, I led Cameron to believe I was of his ilk—a man who would deliberately prey upon women, beguiling them into parting with their coin. Were I to accept money from you now, an ugly element of truth would come from my lie."

Richelle sighed heavily. Why had she convinced herself he was any less impossible than when they'd first met? "Where would you be without your damned pride, Englishman?"

"On a farm outside Crowshaven, stacking hay. Where I may yet end up. Advise the harlot we'll be packing and closing up the house. I've got to see about passage for us and send a reply to Boyd."

"The 'harlot' isn't one any longer, and you know it," Richelle informed him. "Her name is Lorella, and she's gone out for the evening. We can deal with packing and what to do about the house tomorrow."

His jawline tensed. "I realize this forces a decision, but it cannot be helped. We must sail home on the first available vessel. I've devoted all the time and effort I could to your life. It's time to get back to living mine."

Morgan reached the riverdocks and put deposits on two cabins aboard Rigadoon, a passenger ship leaving for France in early June. Next he went to a telegraph office and wired Boyd to expect them by mid-July. He stopped at a drinking establishment and spent an hour improving his outlook. He went back to Hardwick House to find Richelle sitting in their bedchamber in the dark. He told her about the travel arrangements. She said nothing. When they got into bed and he reached for her, she pulled away from him. Morgan knew he'd wounded her feelings.

"You know I can't sleep unless I'm curled around you," he whispered. "Can we please suspend our differences until the morning?" She didn't answer, but moved to press against him. He slid his arm around her and kissed her cheek. Though she was silent, Morgan sensed she'd forgiven him. "Good night, Madam Tremayne."

But his verbal cue was false this night. His mind continued churning out bleak thoughts. He had an idea what Jeremiah's estate must be worth. Was Richelle clinging to this mansion out of sentiment, or was it something else? Could she honestly forsake this grand home and wealthy social circles for a reluctant stone hearth and faded lace curtains? Did they have a future together as man and wife?

Morgan had no answers for those dark questions. And he was secretly afraid to find them.

Chapter 24

Morgan and Richelle testified against Cameron Nash. Richelle had been exonerated of the murder charges once the agents had Cameron's confession. But she was questioned for several hours about the events in Carson City, her past knowledge of the Nash brothers, and all she knew of the ironworks' past and present operations.

"Can I go home now?" she finally requested. "I've already told you what I know, given you Mr. Nelson's deposition, and answered all your questions twice. I'm feeling a little tired."

Morgan got to his feet. "My wife's been terribly distressed by all of this following on the heels of her father's death. I'll answer whatever remaining questions you have, but let me put her in a cab."

The agent nodded and Morgan escorted her outside "You are a little pale," he noted. "You haven't slept well recently. Have Lorella fix you something to eat , then put yourself to bed. I'll be back when we're finished here."

Richelle's attorney called the next afternoon with documents for Morgan's signature on the sale of the factory. Carstairs had acted as intermediary and brokered the deal for a fee.

"We must put the home up for sale or long-term lease also," Morgan announced. "I believe Madam Tremayne intended to consult you about that." He glanced at her, but before she could respond, Lorella bustled in with pastries and coffee. Richelle took a tiny sip of coffee, but never touched a morsel of food. The attorney discovered he was late for another appointment and left before the subject of the house could be addressed again.

Morgan closed the front door and glared at Richelle. "Why did you say nothing about selling this place? You've been in contact with him about the factory sale, yet made no progress in this matter. Are you deliberately trying to provoke me?"

Richelle sighed. "I've decided to get the advice of my father's banker first. I'm going to see him later this afternoon. And I don't need you to come with me. There must be at least one book in my father's study you haven't read yet. There's no reason for you to hover over me."

"Hover? Forgive me for taking an active interest in your health or financial well-being! You're frigging ungrateful, do you know that?"

"Don't confuse gratitude with servitude, Morgan. There's a difference."

He was out the door before she could react. He returned in a foul humor that evening. He went to the study and buried his nose in a book, not glancing up until Lorella announced the evening meal was served. They ate in silence for a time, then Morgan let his fork clatter onto his plate to get Richelle's attention. "So madam, what does the banker recommend?"

"It's stuffy in here all of a sudden," Richelle answered. "Can we go out into the yard to talk?"

She went through the kitchen and out the back door. A wave of dizziness hit her, despite the refreshing coolness of the early evening breeze. She reached for Morgan's arm to steady herself.

"Jesus, why didn't you tell me you weren't well? We' discuss this later. Right now you need to go upstairs to bed."

Morgan scooped her into his arms and carried her through the house, a peculiar tightness in his own chest. Richelle had been behaving oddly and he couldn't ignore his sense of impending doom. He was losing his grip on everything: his assets, his sanity and his marriage. And there wasn't a damned thing he could do change the tide.

* * *

"We should have a doctor examine you, Richelle," he finally announced one morning. She barely ate, fell asleep immediately after a single bout of lovemaking, seemed listless half the time in the afternoons, and looked too pale.

"I must have eaten something that didn't agree with me last night," she replied without meeting his gaze.

"Just what would that have been? You didn't touch your supper last evening." He turned to her, fists clenched. "I don't ken, Richelle. Are you trying to make yourself ill? Is it so distressing to give up this house, or is it me you plan to forsake? Perhaps you misunderstood your feelings toward me. You needed someone during the crossing, and I was there. Even in the village, you were frightened, in hiding. It's only natural you might believe you'd come to care for the man who protected you from danger."

"How can you even suggest that? I don't want to give you up. I don't want to give up this house, either. It's not only because I was raised here or that I planned to be mistress here one day all my life. When our children—that is, if we have children, I'd want them to visit here. And I hate to think what might become of the house if this war gets any worse. That's all those agents could talk about. The South may send forces towards Washington and Northern states. It sickens me to think of strangers here, especially those filthy Southerners!"

"I'm given to understand that most own huge farmsteads, with dozens of slaves in their fields. Those Southern farmers are probably cleaner by far than I was the day we met. Rich men with slaves have no need to muddy their own boots."

Richelle gaped at him. "They're filthy because they have slaves, you imbecile! This is Pennsylvania—one of the original thirteen Colonies, where Americans fought for freedom and independence from your King. We don't keep darkies in chains here or treat humans like animals, the way those fiends in Georgia or Mississippi do! Whose side are you on, anyway?"

"Neither," he answered simply. "And I wonder at your strong bias. You're descended from English blood and wed to a Yorkshireman. For all intents and purposes, you're English yourself now. The outcome of this slavery debacle should be irrelevant to you."

"Irrelevant? How dare you? Oh, I forgot—everything's irrelevant except as it affects your business interests! You've never been able to see any other perspective. What's any of this to you, Morgan? You never lived here!" She snatched up her robe and started down the stairs, but Morgan followed.

"I'll tell you what this house is to me. A nightmare! While we're discussing perspectives, let's examine yours. Are you still a child enslaved by her childhood dreams, or a grown woman who can accept that we all must move on? No one says it's easy. Do you suppose I liked being an innkeeper at eighteen? Do you think I would have chosen to be alone and shouldering that kind of responsibility? Or that I'm not suffering now?"

"Suffering? So business has fallen off. You'll recover."

"Will I? From what you're doing to my insides? Initially I feared once you got your inheritance, you'd order me to build you a fancier home in Newcastle, or even demand we take up residence in London near your aunt. I wasn't certain how I'd react, but I was foolish enough to believe you might want a pampered lifestyle in England. Instead it seems you intend to put the Atlantic Ocean between us."

She slowly turned, brown eyes wide and haunted. But Morgan was unable to stop the torrent he'd unleashed. "Damn you, Colonial!" he choked, "If I hadn't come to your aid, I would have hated myself. Now that I have, I'm afraid I'll end up hating you."

* * *

The doctor set aside his stethoscope. "You haven't told your husband you're expecting his child?"

Richelle lay in their bed with her nightgown bunched around her hips from the doctor's examination, praying Morgan wouldn't return just yet. "No. I remarried a few months ago. He's arranged for us to sail to France next week. I wanted to be sure before I said anything. I suffered a miscarriage and a stillbirth during my first marriage. I've been worried that a pregnancy would interfere with—"

"Absolutely!" the doctor agreed. You mustn't make a voyage now. If you'd been under my care for some time and were farther along possibly, but the risks are significant. You'll have to ask your husband to postpone your trip."

Richelle took a deep breath. "He can't. He's had business problems and his partner needs him to return to England."

Just then the front door slammed and she heard Morgan calling out to her. "Please say nothing about a child. Give him any other explanation for why I can't accompany him. I'll see you regularly and go when you think it's safe."

The doctor frowned. "I respect confidentiality, but—"

"Then respect it now. It's the wife's prerogative to break this sort of news to her husband. I'll explain the truth when I join him later."

"He's bound to resent such a deception," the physician warned, "but I'll think of some reasonable explanation."

Moments later she heard pounding footfalls coming up the staircase. Morgan threw open the bedroom door. "We're due to sail in three days, Richelle! Three days, and you're too ill to travel? What the hell am I supposed to do now?"

"Calm down, Morgan. Shouting won't help."

"Calm down? I've got to postpone our departure, and who knows when another passenger vessel will be available? We could be stuck here for weeks!"

"You must as planned." Richelle hoped her voice sounded casual. Reason was her only defense now. "Aren't you glad I brought Lorella with us now? She can stay and help care for me. When the doctor says I'm recovered enough, she and I will take another ship."

"Have you gone daft?" he thundered. "I'm not sailing without you. We go together now or together later, but I'm not leaving you behind."

She reminded herself of his own words: the important thing to remember was the final outcome. She had to achieve her imperative. "Boyd needs you home now. You wouldn't let me send him money and you can't afford to be detained any longer. I'll follow as soon as I can."

His eyes flashed with silver frost. "Is this some trick to avoid resolving the matter of this house? Stalling for time by feigning illness?"

"Did the doctor say I was feigning anything?"

"He said your digestion's gone bad. Dyspepsia, or some such rot. Assured me you were basically in sound health. Claims it's only temporary."

"Then I'll only be temporarily delayed."

"Christ, I'm not leaving an ailing wife behind!"

"In the words of an Englishman I'm very fond of, what choice have you? I love you, Morgan. I didn't ask you to put everything on hold and chase after me, but I am asking you to go back. The longer you're away, the further confidence in Atkinson & Tremayne Ltd. will erode. Boyd needs you more than I do. Go home."

Morgan's eyes probed the depths of hers. "I have to ask this. Are you coming after me, Richelle? You know I've naught to offer that can compare with this splendor. You had to concoct false books to make me look as prosperous as I'd like to be. If you had the doctor fob off a tale because you thought it would be easier to let me down this way…

"I didn't, Morgan. I am coming back to the village, I just can't say when."

"I've told you the thought of losing you terrifies me."

"I love you more than I've ever loved anyone in my life. Half your problem is that overdeveloped sense of personal honor. Stop wrestling with your conscience! Americans do this sort of thing all the time. Husbands go West alone, then send for their wives and families once they're established. You're talking to a woman who lived years on the frontier, remember? The hearty Colonial. I can cope with this."

Neither of them slept the night before he left. Richelle traced the lines of his body with her hands, committing the feel and scent of him to memory, all the while trapped in bitter irony. If she told him of their child, he'd know they shared an eternal bond. He'd know she could never leave him, never keep her child from its father and its English heritage. But if she told him, he would also refuse to leave her side, and much of that heritage would be altered or destroyed. So she held her silence.

And watched him sail away without knowing he'd left his bride behind with his child growing inside her.

Chapter 25

It was late October when Richelle and Violet arrived at the private offices of a prestigious London bank. Albert Soames greeted them courteously, but his expression was dour.

"Mistress Tremayne, my associate's report is complete. In accordance with your instructions, he thoroughly investigated the situation in Crowshaven. Mr. Atkinson's tobacco shoppe and his family's farm seem are solvent. However, as you knew, there have been problems with the livery and freight service. The Atkinson & Tremayne warehouse is sitting nearly empty."

Richelle gestured in impatience. The banker went on. "We purchased the note against the Crowshaven Inn and paid cash for the granary outside of town." Here Albert paused. "I feel compelled to make a personal observation. I've been your aunt's advisor for many years. She trusts my judgment. In my opinion, it was a mistake to purchase that granary. No spring crops were stored there this past year, and without someone actively courting the region's farmers, it seems unlikely the fall harvest—"

"Thank you," Richelle interrupted. "I have a man who can rent out the space. Is there anything else?"

"My associate reports that Mr. Tremayne has ceased his usual business activity. Previously he spent most of his time in meetings with venture capitalists and investors, but of late he haunts his office in Crowshaven." Albert rose from his desk and reached for Violet's hand. "My dear, I think my assistant has tea ready in the outer room. This talk must be tediously dull for you. Richelle will join you momentarily."

He returned after escorting her aunt from the room and handed Richelle several documents. Her eyes narrowed as she scanned them.

"What does this mean?" She pointed to a second signature panel and notations on the back of the promissory note.

"It was originally issued to another party, who sold it to this man Somersdale," Albert replied, shrugging. "It's common practice for notes to be discounted and sold."

But not to Arnold Somersdale, Richelle thought darkly. Another unsettled debt.

"I asked your aunt to leave before we discussed the final observations of my associate."

"Which are?"

"It seems Mr. Tremayne imbibes rather heavily." Albert cleared his throat. "I believe I understand the reason for your interest in him." The banker's gaze dropped to her stomach. "But he's obviously turned his back on his responsibilities. You may wish to bring him to heel using financial incentives, but I cannot in all conscience watch you squander your inheritance. You must preserve your resources. Think of your future and that of your unborn child."

"I am thinking of our futures, sir."

He shook his head. "Not clearly. There are other eligible young men. Investing in this knave who sullied you...a drunkard who likely misled you into believing he'd give his child a name...Surely you know this is folly."

Richelle reached into her bag for the copy of her marriage license filed in Philadelphia. "Your associate should know that small villages are rife with gossip. Much of it unfounded. As you can see, Morgan and I are legally man and wife. What's become of the remainder of my funds?"

"They remain in escrow here." Albert glanced at the license and flushed a deeper hue before returning it to her. "You'll want them drawn up immediately, of course. I apologize for any impertinence."

"I want half the funds transferred to an investment account in my name. The other half I'll take in cash. Immediately, please, Mr. Soames. I'm leaving London this afternoon."

A short time later Richelle and her aunt left the bank. As they entered the waiting hack, Richelle informed Violet that she and Lorella were leaving and they would need the driver to wait while she collected the luggage.

"You can't go today, Richelle!" Violet protested. "You and the girl only just arrived yesterday. You'd been on that ship for weeks. All this traveling can't be wise in your condition. I know you're anxious to be reunited with Morgan, but—"

"Anxious isn't the word for it, Aunt."

The luggage had been loaded onto a hack. Lorella had already boarded when Richelle paused and turned back to Violet. "I have something for you." She held out a small jewelry container padded with satin. "Elaine left these behind. They're diamond earrings Papa bought her."

Violet's eyes widened. "Richelle, I can't take these. You should have them."

"I'll never wear diamonds, Violet. Please keep them in memory of Jeremiah."

* * *

The two American women boarded a train for Newcastle-Upon-Tyne. Richelle was exhausted by the time they finally settled into rooms in a tavern near the train station there. Lorella flopped down on the narrow bed across from her mistress.

"How much farther is Crowshaven?"

"About an hour's ride up the road."

"We left London as if the backs of our skirts were on fire. You insisted we had to make the early train. So why tell the innkeeper we'd be here for two or three days, if home is just up the road?"

Richelle flushed, an awkwardness replacing the bravado that had brought her this far. "I sent a banker to take care of business in advance for me. He came back to London with a strange report. The local folk in Crowshaven seem to think Morgan's still a bachelor. The banker all but called him a sot. I can't rush home until I find out what's going on."

They shared a pot of tea and a basket of raisin scones the next morning as Richelle outlined her plans. She didn't want Morgan to learn they'd arrived in the district until she'd settled other matters. She would need Lorella to go into the village for her, and they'd have to make sure she didn't run into Morgan.

"There's something I saw here in a shop once. I want to go back for it," Richelle told the girl. Richelle found the open square near the river and retraced her steps from the day with Morgan. She recognized the large office building and the store where she'd seen the porcelain lamp, but it was gone.

"Had a pair like you described, yes. But that was some months ago," the shopkeeper acknowledged with a sad shake of his head. "Sold them to another customer. Sorry."

"Damn!" Richelle fumed as she walked back to the hotel with Lorella. "I really wanted that lamp! Typical of my rotten luck. See something I really want when I haven't got any money with me. Come back with the money, and what I want is gone."

"Sort of like your husband."

Richelle stopped and looked thoughtful. "There's something else, Lorella. First you must learn to call me Mrs. Tremayne, or Rachel—not Richelle. Then I need a special favor, one you must never discuss with anyone. Especially not Mr. Tremayne. It involves reverting to your old ways. I want you to bait a man. Seducing him, so to speak, although you needed go through with things to their conclusion. I just want to put him in a compromising situation. Would you do that?"

"This men, is he handsome, like Mr. Tremayne?"

Richelle grimaced. "Definitely not. This one's going bald and paunchy. He's about the ugliest man in town."

"Can I accept his money?"

"I don't care," Richelle shrugged. "If he gives you any, keep it. What I'm after is his promise on a business matter. He'll give me his word easily enough, but have no intention of keeping it. So we're going to give him a little incentive to make sure he holds to the bargain."

They slipped into Crowshaven in the back of a hay wagon late that same afternoon. Richelle kept her face covered by the hood of her cloak and skirted the main square, taking back streets until she had a direct view of the holding company offices.

Meanwhile, Lorella strolled across the square in a blouse that left her plump cleavage well displayed. She wandered into the mercantile, ostensibly to browse. The proprietor rushed over to greet her. It was only a matter of minutes before Arnold was drooling over his unusual new visitor.

The girl had a strange accent, and said she was from the Scottish border. She laughed at Arnold's jests and leaned down to study the goods on a low counter. Arnold was afforded a delicious view. He was surprised when she gave him a knowing look and just laughed. "I see you like my goods as much as I like yours. Are you the bartering sort, sir? Maybe we can work out a private arrangement. Is there someplace we can be alone?"

* * *

Richelle watched through the windows until she was certain no dark head and broad shoulders were at Morgan's desk. She slipped inside the front door, startling Chrissandra, who was seated at the desk where Richelle had once spent long hours. "May I help—Good heavens, Rachel!"

"Shh," Richelle cautioned, finger to her lips. "Morgan's not here, is he? I don't want to see him just yet. I plan to surprise him later."

"No, he's not here, but Boyd's in back."

"Not any more," came the familiar warm voice. "Rachel." He stepped forward to embrace her. The joyful reunion was followed by a strained quiet as Rachel untied her cloak, allowing her midsection to come into full view. Chrissy was first to recover.

She came around her desk and gave Richelle a hug. "How marvelous you look! Morgan didn't tell us—"

"He doesn't know yet." Richelle glanced at Boyd. "Can we talk?"

"Of course. Come back to my office. Chrissy will keep an eye peeled for my partner."

As soon as Boyd closed the door behind them, Richelle released the breath she'd been holding. "Morgan did tell you we got married, didn't he?"

Boyd nodded. "He wired me from New York that he'd married you, but he wanted me to keep the news to myself. Chrissandra's the only other person who knows."

"Is he pretending he's still a bachelor? Why? Is he ashamed of having married me, Boyd?"

"Not of you. He—" He stopped abruptly, his face going a deep crimson.

"Boyd, this is my life we're discussing. You're the only other person who knows Morgan well enough to know his mind. I'm trying to understand what I'm up against."

"When he came back, we had a talk. He told me you'd lied—"

"Didn't he tell you I had a good reason?"

"About being too ill to sail home," he went on. Richelle was momentarily stunned. Had Morgan kept the secret about her previous identity even from his best friend?

"He was certain you'd decided to stay on in America, though I suspect I now see the true reason you weren't able to sail with him." He pointedly gazed at her abdomen. "He said you'd been ill. Intestinal problem, or something. If he knew more about women, I think he might have guessed the truth."

"If he knew more about women?" she snorted. "Boyd, we're talking about the district rake!"

"Who had no mother, whose sister was gone before he earned that title. I don't know that he'd recognize the signs, Rachel." Rachel. It was the second time he'd called her that, and they were alone now. Morgan hadn't told him about the criminal charge.

Boyd sighed heavily. "He's intimidated by your wealth. I must say I was surprised to hear your American home's a virtual mansion. Morgan's convinced you'll never relinquish it. I think the best he hopes for is a sort of divided life between here and Philadelphia. He said you'd come to England originally on rather a lark—"

"He didn't say why?"

"Something to do with family matters, is all I recall. A moot point now that your father passed away. My condolences on your loss."

"Thank you," she murmured. "This is such a tangled mess. When you wrote about the problems with the warehouse, I offered part of my inheritance to clear the debt against the inn. Morgan refused. He insisted he needed to come back here. Just after he got your letter, the doctor confirmed I was pregnant and forbade me to make the crossing until I was farther along. I lost two babies during my first marriage. Morgan knows that. I couldn't tell him about this child, so I had the doctor mislead him. It was the only way to get Morgan home."

"Aye, his unwavering, damnable pride being what it is. Always makes things difficult. I've often accused him of preferring life that way."

Richelle smiled weakly. "You may be right. He once suggested I become the village schoolmistress. Of course, that would be after he battles the council elders over erecting a schoolhouse and convinces them to hire one."

"He's put it to the vote several times. I'm the lone member to agree with him."

"He envisions a future with his son and yours managing this company in their fathers' tradition."

Boyd grinned. "A mutual fantasy we've had since we were young. Typical masculine boast, that's all."

"It's not. Don't you see? I could be that schoolmistress and give our son knowledge from books. I can teach reading and ciphering, but he'll need more than that. He needs his father. What you and Morgan know about trade isn't in any book."

"And what Morgan doesn't understand about his wife would fill one."

"How do I win him back, Boyd?"

Boyd scowled for a moment. "His father provided for the family sufficiently so Morgan didn't have to toil as a lad. Not that he came from your privilege, but Andrew Tremayne was a leading citizen in the area and more than moderately successful. Still, Morgan hired out to any farmer who'd pay him. Up before dawn, breaking his back for next to nothing in wages. Morgan had no need to spend or hoard money. Just a burning need to earn it."

"He told me about Anna. He still feels guilty about her death. Maybe that's why it's hard for him to believe he's entitled to happiness."

Boyd shook his head. "It started even before her death. He's always been driven by some mysterious inner demon. You'll recall I warned you from the first, trade and business are his whole life."

Richelle cleared her throat. "A man came from London recently and bought up the promissory notes on the inn and the cottage. He was my agent. I purchased the granary. I intend to restore Morgan's assets. His sudden decision to accompany me to America and the sale of the granary eroded his financial stability. I must undo some of that damage."

"He must be told, Rachel. About his assets and the child. Right away."

"I know. Is he in town or away on business?"

"He's here, staying in the cottage. Surprised the hell out of me when he announced he was going back there."

"Do you think you can convince him to meet with the new owner of the granary at three tomorrow?"

"He suspects that's Somersdale. It's been sitting idle for months. Who would buy the place to leave it empty, particularly with autumn harvest upon us? He believes Somersdale bought it purely to spite him."

Richelle smiled in triumph. "Somersdale did, but has unknowingly sold it to me. I don't want Morgan to know that, however. I've got someone meeting with Arnold. He won't tell Morgan he ever held ownership. Maybe you could tell Morgan you met the new owner, who's aware of the Bargainer's reputation. Offer a commission if he'll arrange to rent grain storage to the area farmers. That's not a lie. I'd like him to get commitments from them. He can earn the granary back from me."

"I never realized you had such a devious mind," Boyd said with a laugh. "I can make him curious enough to ride out."

"When does he leave the house in the mornings, and where does he usually go? I don't want to run into him before the meeting."

Boyd rose and tucked his chair back under the desk. "When he's not at the inn or livery, he comes here. He's due today, so if you don't wish to see him, you'd better go."

"I don't want to discuss things until we can be alone. I'm staying in Newcastle. I'll be at the granary tomorrow afternoon. I'm relying on you to make sure he rides out there."

"Oh, he'll be there, if I have to drag him behind his own horse."

Chapter 26

Richelle arrived at the mercantile to find the window shades pulled down and the sign on the front door showing CLOSED. She went around to the side entrance, where, as planned, Lorella had secretly turned the thumb-lock while pretending to browse. That door was unlocked, and Richelle entered the empty store without making a sound.

She turned the window sign back to read OPEN and raised the shades, then unlocked the front door and purposely let it bang closed.

"Mr. Somersdale, are you here?" she called in a clear voice.

He scurried out from the back, hastily fumbling to smooth his shirtfront with one hand while the other raked over his balding pate. Lorella appeared right behind him, a grin playing across her lips. "Thanks for the special arrangements, Arnold."

"I never said there'd be any—er," He glanced at Richelle, whose face was still obscured by the hood of her dark cloak. "May I be of assistance, mistress? This young lady was just—"

Richelle snorted and tossed her head so her hood fell back. "It's plain enough what she was doing, and you, as well. You should be ashamed of yourself, Mr. Somersdale, negotiating like that."

"Wi-Widow Cordell!" Arnold stammered. "I wasn't aware you'd come back to us. Rumor had it you'd left Crowshaven for other climes."

"I went back to America. My father took ill and passed away. I've come to discuss business with you." She lifted her eyebrows. "If you're quite finished."

Somersdale mumbled something unintelligible and glared at Lorella, who appeared to be absently browsing about the mercantile once more.

Richelle pulled the banker's documents from her bag. "I hold the promissory note on the inn and have a bill of sale you executed for the granary. The man from London was my agent. You've done business with me, Mr. Somersdale. You simply didn't realize it."

He glanced at the papers in Richelle's hand. "Your father must have left you very well off. Congratulations. So you've come to buy up the town. Sorry, my enterprise isn't for sale."

"Did Morgan know how close you were to destroying him?"

Arnold snickered. "Still mooning after Tremayne, eh? What a waste! You can do better than that arrogant tippler. Particularly now that you've a substantial dowry. I might overlook our unsavory history and court you myself."

"Did he know?" Richelle repeated in a hiss.

"I doubt it."

Richelle glanced down. The cloak still disguised her pregnancy. "I paid you a twenty percent profit on the granary. Quite a handsome return on an investment you held only a few months. You bought the inn's note at a discount. You've made the only profits you ever will from my husband's difficulties."

"Husband?" Somersdale snorted in derision.

"Morgan was gone for several months earlier this summer. He met up with me in London and we married aboard the ship to New York."

"Ha! No wench has been able to get Tremayne to the altar, and you're not the first to try. You're hoping he'll wed you. That's why you've come back and begun tossing your inheritance about. Did you have to buy your late husband, as well?"

Lorella moved faster than Richelle would have believed possible. One second the man stood erect. The next he was covering his genitals with both hands and gasping for breath.

"You know his cachet, don't you, Arnold?" Richelle inquired, ignoring his obvious distress. "You must. His father was your business partner at one time. Andrew wore the signet before Morgan, and you've had dealings with both. Look at my wedding ring. Still doubt Morgan married me?" He couldn't even wheeze in answer.

"If you ever cross Morgan again, the entire district will be informed of your activities with this young lady. I doubt that would increase your matronly trade. I trust we understand one another. Since you now know my housekeeper in the Biblical sense, she'll be a frequent customer. And you'll treat her with the utmost courtesy, won't you?" Arnold nodded. "I see no reason why any of us need mention the unfortunate incident today. But you have far more to lose, should it come to light, than she does."

"I understand you, Rachel Tremayne," Arnold grimaced. "It appears we all underestimated you."

"You underestimate many people," Richelle answered. Lorella winked at him, grinning suggestively. Richelle's voice was strong and steady. "Not a strong point for someone who claims to be a man of commerce. Afternoon, storekeeper."

Lorella waited until they were back outside. "All right, I did your favor. Now why am I and everyone around here calling you 'Rachel'?"

"It's a long story. It's just simpler to let them call me that than explain. And I like finding Morgan's the only one who knows my true name."

They paid a farmer to give them a ride out of the village. The man pulled to a halt in front of their tavern in Newcastle, cursing and kicking at an underfed cur who came sniffing at his feet. "Who does he belong to?" Richelle asked. She reached a tentative hand to the dog. He sniffed cautiously before he let her stroke his matted fur.

"Been hanging 'round here for weeks. Seen him last month when I was here for supplies. Best shoo him off before the innkeeper spots him."

"It's all right." Richelle bent and patted her knees, clucking her tongue. The dog trotted a few feet away. "Come on, fellow!" Richelle spoke gently. "Lorella and I know what it's like being stranded where you don't belong. We're nice ladies. We won't hurt you."

The dog edged closer. "Wouldn't trust him," the farmer cautioned. "Might have the foaming madness and turn on you."

"He's just frightened and hungry. Do you see his eyes, Lorella? He has good eyes. He's a good dog. A little boy should have a dog."

The driver accepted his pay and took off. With the man gone, the dog slunk closer and allowed Richelle to pet his head again. "Come on," she urged, grasping a tuft of fur behind one ear as she led him to the tavern door.

"You expect to march him in there, just like that?" Lorella asked, rolling her eyes. "Well, why not? You've only changed your name to Rachel and had me tussle the owner of the general store. Let's take a hound to dinner!"

Richelle had to smile. "We're leaving tomorrow morning. He'll only be here one night. We can hide him upstairs."

"Diversion time again," Lorella sighed. "I distract the barkeep. You trot the furry fellow up."

Lorella not only distracted the innkeeper, but got the male cook to slip her a plate of scraps. Richelle marveled at the girl's ability to get what she needed. She wished she could do the same. But she sat alone, brushing out her hair in a strange room, while the man she loved sat drinking in the Crowshaven pub.

She placed a hand on her abdomen. No, not quite alone. She had a tiny companion to give her a good swift kick now and again...And I'm going to get your father back for you, if it's the last thing I do.

* * *

"Morgan! I was about to go hunt you down," Boyd announced as his partner entered the offices. "Ran into the new owner of the granary. The London investor wasted little time in transferring it." Herding Morgan toward his rear private office, Boyd went on. "We've been made an interesting proposition. Sit down."

Morgan scowled, a bitter taste rising in the back of his throat. The last thing he wanted to hear about was someone else running his granary. "It's late, Boyd. Chrissy's already gone home. She'll be expecting you for supper."

"This won't take long," Boyd assured him. "Seems your reputation precedes you, my friend. The new owner asked if you'd lease out storage for a commission."

"Piss on him! He bought it, let him lease it."

Boyd ignored the hostility. "At this juncture we can hardly turn our noses up at any opportunity for income, can we? We both know that exercise in the Colonies cost us dearly. This could be a chance to make at least part of that back. You can easily fill that granary."

Morgan looked incredulous. "Jesus! You've already committed me to this, haven't you?"

"I merely promised you'd ride out for a meeting tomorrow at three. Won't hurt to at least discuss the matter. The owner's anxious to meet you."

"Since when do you make promises for me? We've always made our decisions jointly. Except for when you hired that bloody Colonial clerk. I hate to remind you that the whole disaster can be laid at your feet," Morgan groused. "You've concluded I have to participate in this because I still owe you money."

"Stop being such a stubborn ass," Boyd taunted. "I'm saying you should investigate the offer before rejecting it out of hand. Perhaps you two won't get on, or the commission won't be worth your trouble. On the surface, it sounded like a reasonable offer. I'm not complaining about what you owe me, but on the other hand, pride doesn't pay operating expenses."

Morgan scowled. "Who the hell is this popinjay who thinks I'll lick his boots after he bought the place out from under me?"

"Morgan, this is the..." Boyd counted on his fingers, "third owner since you held it. Your name's recounted as the only one to have success with it! You know the farmers. We have connections to help them sell their crops in Newcastle or Sheffield. Don't be so quick to resent someone who only thinks the best of you."

"Something weird is going on, Boyd. I wondered if you'd heard anything." Morgan's expression abruptly changed. "Then again, mayhap it's foolish of me to even ask."

"Heard anything about what?"

"There's talk that chap from London also bought the note against the inn. I wondered why someone from London would come here and start nosing around. Is this a hint? Am I to be replaced as your partner? This commission—a bloody job, Boyd? Throwing a bone to me to assuage your guilt?"

Boyd was incredulous. "Morgan, I think it's time you pulled yourself back out of the bottle. I can't believe you're implying I'd sneak behind your back."

Gray eyes met blue in a level stare. "You're the one pushing me to meet with this new fellow."

Boyd took a deep breath. "I can't say I like this coming from my oldest and dearest friend, Morgan. You're definitely not being replaced. I met the London investor briefly while he was here in town, the same as you did. You'd remember that if you hadn't been in a drunken stupor. And if I had that sort of capital, old friend—assuming we are still friends—I simply would have sunk it into this partnership. The pledge to the squire never would have been necessary."

Morgan offered his right hand. "Sorry, Boyd. We're still friends, above all else. I seem to fancy evil spirits everywhere these days. Know you'd bail me out if you could. I'd do the same for you. Which means I'll have to consider this commission offer."

Boyd clasped the outstretched hand and shook it firmly. "Morgan, I know you've been under a strain. Have you tried to contact Rachel's aunt? She may have news. Rachel was probably detained with the war on. There must be some good reason why she hasn't arrived yet."

"I told you the reason! She's made her choice. I know you wish things—" Morgan stopped abruptly, realizing he sounded exactly like the woman in question. "Let it go, Boyd, please? We never allowed a female to come between us when we were bachelors. Certainly makes no sense now that you're a married gent."

"So are you."

Morgan's voice was heavy with sarcasm. "So I was told by the Justice of the Peace in Philadelphia. I hate to go to the granary, Boyd. Hate to face that I sold it ultimately for naught. I could have made a success of it."

"You may yet." Boyd narrowed his eyes and spoke more sharply. "Didn't I see an envelope from America on your desk one day? I'm certain I did! Wasn't that from Rachel?" Morgan said nothing. "Odd," Boyd rambled on. "She never seemed the type to be obsessed with coin."

"What are you prattling about now?"

"Only that women fascinated by one's purse usually exhibit certain symptoms. Why didn't she try to wrangle a salary increase out of you, or refuse to pay rent once she'd been in the arms of her landlord? From everything you've told me and what I recall of her, Rachel seemed more like you—proud to make her own way. She must have known, as an only child, that she was destined to inherit one day. If she was willing to work and live a simple existence, why would she change so dramatically?"

Morgan's voice was ragged with emotion. "It's difficult for me to discuss this, even with you. I can't explain, except she was like an entirely different woman over there. And I felt a thousand things at once. I was insane being around her. Now I'm more insane without her."

"How do you mean, 'insane with her'?"

"How would I mean that?" Morgan snapped. "All I wanted was to bed the wench, every damned minute, night and day! Didn't know whether to curse my erections or curse the loss of my virility when they subsided. Is that plain enough?"

"All the more reason why I'd fight to get her back. There'd be no question in my mind if it were Chrissandra."

"If it were Chrissandra, I'd help you go after her. But my wife's just one bizarre misadventure after another. It's so bloody complicated—"

"And you like things that way!" Boyd chuckled, noting Morgan's inadvertent slip of the tongue regarding his marital status. "You're never happier than when things are nearly impossible. The challenge, Morgan! Rachel's perfect for you." Morgan gave him a skeptical look. "Damn it, she is! And when I see her again—as I suspect we both shall—I'll tell her so."

Chapter 27

At half-past two the next afternoon Morgan stood joking with the stable boys at the livery. He glanced down at his pocket watch and reluctantly mounted Phantom. If it weren't for his promise to Boyd, he wouldn't bother riding out to the granary. But he had to secretly admit he wasn't sure he would have been as understanding as Boyd had been lately if their situations had been reversed.

Morgan knew he was a broken man since his return from the Colonies. He'd set to drinking during the return voyage and hadn't let up since. He moved out of his rooms at the inn, giving Emily and Thomas more space for guests, but at the cost of his own sanity.

He dwelt alone in the cottage with his specters, and every evening thought of nothing but Richelle. Sometimes he started only needed a drink or two to blot out her image and fall asleep. Other days he began imbibing at noon, only to find she still tortured him into the wee hours that night. Then he needed a whole bottle or more to reach oblivion.

He hadn't admitted it when Boyd questioned him, but he had received a letter from her. Weeks ago. He just hadn't opened the bloody thing. The fact she'd written could mean but one thing: she wasn't coming back here to England.

He didn't need the pain of reading her vague excuses and explanations in black and white. He'd seen it coming. God knows, he'd seen it and been helpless against it. Yet for some inexplicable reason, he'd been unable to throw the damned envelope away. He carried it with him daily, in his inside coat pocket. Kept it next to his heart and secretly prayed the American civil war might yet change Richelle's mind.

He passed a grove of trees where the crows had found the remains of a rabbit or squirrel. Some were on the ground picking at the carcass; others were in the treetops, squawking and cawing. He remembered the ride out here with Richelle that Sunday afternoon. They'd talked about the birds...his plans...his dreams for the future and the village. The granary was gone now, and so was his Colonial. Life had a way of rubbing a man's nose in his failures, he mused.

He frowned as he glimpsed a large canine loping across the track ahead. Accursed mutt was likely responsible for whatever the crows were feasting upon. The dog lowered its head and moved toward someone at the outer edge of Morgan's vision. The figure clapped its hands once. The hound obediently approached and sat down. Apparently the man who owned the hound also now owned the granary. No one else was in sight.

Morgan glanced again at his watch. Just past three. This had to be his man. He pulled back on the reins and peered through the dust. There was no carriage or mount, but the figure moved to sit on the big flat rock. Morgan frowned again. The man was dressed oddly, in a long cloak or robe of some kind. It wasn't long past Michaelmas, and the weather had been mild. Hardly cold enough for a man to need a cloak.

Drawing closer, he realized he wasn't looking at a man at all. He jerked Phantom to a halt and stared in disbelief. The woman reached down to pat the dog's large head. A cascade of auburn tresses spilled with the forward movement. A bit of gold on her left hand flashed in the late afternoon sun. Morgan's heart knew what his mind had only begun to grasp.

"Richelle?"

Instantly the auburn head came up, and Morgan felt the sharp stab of recognition hit him in the chest.

"Morgan! I'm so glad you came. I wanted to talk to you alone before we go back to the village."

"I'm not working for you."

It wasn't at all what he'd intended to say, Morgan realized with dismay, but he'd been too stunned to think clearly. Boyd knew! He set me up for this, the smug son of a bitch!

"I don't see why not. I worked for you."

"You don't see!" he roared, sliding out of the saddle. He tossed the reins at the branches of a low bush. "You show up without warning, months after lying to me about being ill, and you don't see?"

"You lied to me, too," she countered. "Several times. A man would meet me at the docks in London? Everyone in the village believing you're still an unattached bachelor because you've hidden the truth from them. I'd say we're even."

"Even? Christ, have you done this to punish me? You said you forgave me for the wedding at sea." He advanced toward her, but the dog raised it his hackles and began to growl.

"I wouldn't come any closer while you're so angry," Richelle cautioned. "He's very protective, and you're thinking about wringing my neck. He senses it. If you can't calm yourself enough to speak quietly, maybe you should ride back to the village. We can settle things between us later. When do you think you might control your temper enough to listen?"

He stood with his hands on his hips and inhaled deeply. "I want—no, I deserve an explanation." He ground out the words through clenched teeth. "I want to know why it's taken so long for you to get here."

"I do owe you an explanation. I also intend to receive one from you. We both have things to answer for. But first, as to the business you came to discuss. I purchased the granary. Fill it this coming harvest, and your commission will be ownership reinstated in your name."

"You think to bribe your way back into my life using my granary?"

"Excuse me, sir, but I think I just explained that it's mine. I'd sign it over here and now, but I recall you steadfastly refused to benefit from my inheritance. I can't just give it to you, so I'm offering you means to attain it. You do want it back, don't you?"

"Of course I bloody well want it back!" He started to step closer, then thought the better of it as the dog snarled once again. Protective is too mild a term. Wonder where she picked up the filthy beggar?

Richelle smiled. "Then you will work. If not for me, for yourself. Good. That makes me very happy."

"Well, isn't that jolly," he snapped with sarcasm. "You've had weeks to rehearse what you'd say to me, Richelle. I've had no such luxury. Why have you come back now, to reopen old wounds?"

She visibly flinched. "You were emphatic about my place being here with you in Crowshaven. You said a wife's place is with her husband. You are still legally my husband."

"Aye, and I've been your damned legal husband for half a year, which didn't seem to matter these long months! There were three vessels you might have taken, Richelle. Three! I know because I scoured the papers and counted! Counted and waited, but you never came."

"Morgan, I'm sitting right in front of you."

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

She smiled warmly, and he felt his chest loosen in spite of himself. She was possibly even more beautiful than he remembered. And her smile...He remembered only too well its effect. Time hadn't altered the predictable physical reaction. He was stiff as a flagpole just looking at her.

"I do so love it when you ask that," she laughed. "I think I like you best of all when you're angry, Lion."

"Stop it," Morgan snapped. The dog replied in kind. Morgan swore under his breath and forced himself to retreat a few steps and speak more calmly. "I would prefer you didn't say such things to me."

"As you wish, sir." She held up a document. "Besides the granary, I purchased the note against the Crowshaven Inn."

"You?" he gaped. "To think I suspected Boyd! I never dreamt you'd—You're not going to buy me, Richelle."

"Why would I need to buy my own husband? You married me twice. I don't see why you've chosen to hide that fact."

"You don't want this union between us. You lied to be rid of me. Even that last night, when you swore you'd follow me, I knew you weren't telling me the truth. I felt it."

"It was the truth," she insisted. "I did come. So I was delayed, what did you plan to do, divorce me? Forget about me, as if I'd never existed?"

"How can I forget?" he demanded harshly. "Tell me how! God knows, I've tried. I fill my gut with ale and brandy trying to blot out your image, but still you haunt me. I can't eat, can't sleep, can't bloody think half the time!"

She rose to her feet. The dog moved too, keeping himself pressed tightly against her legs. Richelle's voice was soft and beguiling. Morgan's chest ached with longing. He desperately wanted to hold her and kiss her.

"I'm trying to understand what will make you happy, Morgan. I can tear up the promissory note, sign over the granary and leave. Your assets will be restored. Your life will be back to what it was before I ever came to Crowshaven." She faltered slightly on the next words. "If you want a divorce, I'll contact my attorney. That's not what I want—"

"Nay, you want me bleeding by the side of this road!"

"Why would I want that? Do you believe I've deliberately set out to bring you pain?"

"You don't need me, Richelle."

"God, I need you more than ever! Didn't you read my letter?" She began to cry. "My feelings haven't changed. I waited for you to write back. I expected some reply, but none came."

Morgan stared at her. She genuinely looked distraught. He reached inside his coat and pulled out the sealed envelope. "I never opened it."

"Never opened it? What on earth's wrong with you? You thought I took the time to write, but had nothing to say?"

She sounded furious with him, which was a good sign, to Morgan's way of thinking. The granary and promissory note might have been guilt. She's compulsive about debts. But anger meant he still mattered to her.

She turned her back to him. Morgan saw her shoulders moving. Tears over him? He tried to ignore his rapid heartbeat and the soaring hope he felt.

"I was afraid you'd written to say you'd changed your mind about leaving America," he explained. "As you pointed out rather sharply, I couldn't fully comprehend your ties to the mansion and Pennsylvania. Compared to what little I can offer, I understood why you would make that choice. I just couldn't bear to read your words in defense of it."

"Read that letter and tell me again you've so little to offer," she sniffled.

He didn't look up for a long time. His question barely reached her ears. "You write here of a surprise. Does that mean you resolved the problem of your father's property?"

She turned around, her voice flat. "I deeded it to Sheila."

"Bloody Sheila! Why didn't I think of that?"

"Perhaps because you were too busy seeing the house and my father's money as obstacles between us."

He edged closer, eyeing the dog. "Maybe I was. Richelle, why did you stay so long? Don't give me that balderdash about ailing digestion. Something was wrong. Why couldn't you trust me and tell me what it was? If you still care, as your letter claims, why come here now and speak of divorce?"

She looked him straight in the eye. "Didn't I have good reason for being Rachel Cordell?"

He nodded and took a deep breath. "What was the good reason you couldn't sail when I did?"

"I told you a dozen times how much you mean to me! How dare you think I'd just throw everything away? I sent you back here to take care of your business interests, but you didn't even do that! It sickened me to hear you've become a drunken wastrel!" Tears streamed openly down her cheeks.

"Piss on whomever says that. And stop crying," he barked. Her words struck at his heart. For the first time in years, he felt deeply ashamed of his own behavior.

"Maybe I was jumbled in my thinking, Richelle, but it's easy enough to become confused when there's been so little time between a man and his wife and so much distance and mistrust. You never completely trusted me after my deception on the vessel."

"You know I've trusted you since. You knew where and who I was even before you arrived in Washington. You could have left me at the brothel and taken the next ship home, or told the authorities where to find me. But I knew you wouldn't. I gave myself to you completely, Morgan! You've taken me in ways no other man ever has or ever will. And I'm— If you only knew how wrong you are."

He wiped a sleeve across his face. "I'm not masquerading as a bachelor. I just can't face the whole village learning I couldn't keep a wife."

"Morgan, I hated sending you away that day, but if I'd revealed the truth, you never would have set foot aboard that ship. You needed to come home. I couldn't let you lose everything!"

"Tell me your dark truth now."

"Do you still love me?" she asked softly. "Whatever you think I've done, please tell me honestly. I know I've hurt you. I can't deny that. But I swear I've been faithful and I still love you. Can you say the same to me?"

She read the pain he tried to deny in the depths of his eyes. "I shouldn't," he replied slowly. "You've deceived me, eluded me, torn my pride asunder. But I've lost my soul to you, Richelle. No amount of drink or time can wash you out of my blood. I never had a choice. I love you so much it's killing me."

She wiped a tear from her chin. "I've hurt you, but you've also hurt yourself. Don't make me the reason you drink to the point of destroying your life. You know I'd never want that. I fought to preserve your life. There has to be more making you so desperately unhappy."

"I bloody hate that house," he lashed out. "I never should have gone back, but I told myself you'd be there with me. Everyone who ever lived there is gone, even you. I hate that accursed cottage! I hate myself when I'm inside it!"

She reached to lay her fingertips against his lips. "Don't talk like that. I need you to stop all this and get back to your old self again. I need you to be strong. You're not alone any more, Morgan. I'm here." Her arms went around his neck.

"Jesus, but I've missed you," he groaned, kissing her passionately. His arms slid beneath her cloak. He abruptly stiffened and broke their embrace.

"Damn you! You had that doctor lie to me. You lied to me! The most important thing in my life, and you frigging lied to me! You're right. I'd never have sailed if I'd known—and I should have! I had every right, damn you. That's my child, too. How could you do this to me?"

The dog rose and curled its lips back in an ugly snarl. Richelle talked softly until the animal stretched out and lowered its head onto its paws. Morgan went to stand next to Phantom. He reached to stroke the animal's neck, unable to look at his wife. He didn't want her to see how strongly her deceit had affected him, how deeply the pain cut.

Her voice came quietly from somewhere behind him. "Remember when we spoke of the future and your son? You said he'd need a good education to follow you into trade. But how could he, if you'd lost everything? You wouldn't accept my financial help. I helped the only way I could. I know my decision seems cruel on the surface.

"But it also let each of us safeguard what was most precious to you. You have everything you did when we first met, and more. You have my love and a child on the way. If that's not what you want...if you tell me to leave, you won't see your son. I'll take him back to America and raise him without you."

He vehemently shook his head. "You'll stay. There'll be no divorce." He turned to face her. "You and the babe are all right?"

"We're both fine. This baby has his father's strength and determination. He kicks ferociously." She gave him a radiant smile.

Morgan stared into the distance, his throat tight. When he finally spoke again, his voice was still rough with emotion. "Your motive was honorable. I do see that. But you violated my trust as well as my direct command that you never again put yourself in jeopardy to protect me."

"It wasn't the same."

"Nay, even worse. This time you placed my son's life in jeopardy along with your own! The choice of whether I stayed in America wasn't yours to make. Deciding between the demands of my business and needs of my family is my responsibility. You had no right to keep your pregnancy from me." He squinted in the fading sunlight. "You wore that cloak so I wouldn't know the instant I saw you. For God's sake, Richelle, didn't you think I'd want it?"

"I didn't want a child binding you to my side if...if you no longer cared. You're too easily ruled by your sense of duty and honor."

"But that child is mine, thus I do have a duty. I gave you my word to be at your side when your time comes. As you honor debts, I honor promises. Let's go home." He walked Phantom to where Richelle stood and lifted her crosswise onto the saddle. Her eyes were soft as they searched his face.

"No more riding astride." He swung up behind her and settled her across his lap, his whole body rigid. "The hound can come along. But I warn you, if I ever feel his teeth, he'll find himself back out here chasing squirrels."

Chapter 28

Morgan insisted they stop at Dr. Rowe's house. He stood beside Richelle as the elderly physician examined her. Richelle blushed when he pronounced everything normal and cautioned the couple against marital relations after the next several weeks.

Morgan had been so stonily quiet during the ride, Richelle wasn't sure there was any need for such a warning. She wasn't sure there would be any further sexual intimacy between them. She hadn't forgotten Morgan's fierce pride or how unforgiving he could be.

Lorella was already at the cottage, and had prepared Morgan's favorite, beef stew with dumplings. He greeted her stiffly and ate slowly, his eyes on Richelle. She'd been too nervous to eat that day, but was ravenous now. She downed two helpings of stew with a large glass of milk.

"Appreciate what you've done for us, Lorella," Morgan announced as he left the table. "We'll discuss your wages in the morning. Expect you're due an increase. Madam and I are retired for the evening. Have breakfast ready at eight."

He started up the stairs without a glance for Richelle. She obediently followed, but paused when she found him waiting outside the master bedchamber. He gestured for her to precede him. Her eyes misted over when she spotted new bedside tables and a pair of porcelain lamps. Lamps with pink flowers on their upper globes.

"You weren't sure I'd come, yet you bought these?"

"An impulse purchase." His voice was gentler now. "I knew how badly you'd wanted the lamp. The merchant admitted he had a second. I thought you'd like a pair flanking the canopy bed."

"It's a very nice surprise," she whispered. "Thank you."

"Nothing like mine." He sat on the edge of the bed. Lorella had placed the patchwork quilt across the lace coverlet. Morgan ran one hand over it. "I never liked this, you know. It's an eyesore, yet I wouldn't have believed I could miss the thing so much." His eyes met hers, and she saw his were misty, too.

The pain in the room was a palpable thing. She couldn't bear it.

"Morgan, please try to forgive me," she pleaded on a whisper. "I just couldn't risk losing this one. I didn't know for certain until after Boyd had written you. But if you can't forgive me, if things can't—" Her voice broke. "They'll never be like before."

"You promised when you came back here, I'd find you right beside me." He patted the mattress. She sat a little apart from him, still uncertain. He laid a hand gently on her abdomen. "Somehow I assumed a pregnant belly would feel like a pillow. But it's hard," he marveled. "Strong, filled with new life." His hand moved higher and cupped a breast. "This, too. Fuller, plumper."

She made no attempt to move his hand. He leaned closer until their lips met. He pulled back, then dipped his head to taste her again. It was like that first tremulous kiss long ago. Richelle felt the first tear begin its course down her cheek. "Tell me to go across the hall if you can't bear having me in bed with you. Don't humiliate me. I'll end up begging you to make love to me."

"Ah, love, you won't have to beg. I need you so badly, I can scarcely breathe. I'll be as gentle as I can, but it's been so damned long." He opened his breeches and freed his swollen manhood. "Touch me, Richelle." He bent to kiss her again, sucked in a hissing breath as her fingers reached to curve around him.

"It's been hell, hasn't it?" she whispered, closing her eyes as his thumb and forefinger tweaked her left nipple. "I missed you so very much."

She moaned when he took both swollen breasts in his hands and tenderly kneaded them. He slowly peeled away her garments, staring at her body. Richelle knew her areolas had darkened and spread. Where it had been a dimple before, her navel protruded slightly now. Morgan bent to flick his tongue against it the spot, tasting her flesh there.

"That's the most erotic thing you've ever done," she admitted in a choked whisper, all at once shy and confused. "I was afraid you wouldn't like the changes to my body."

"I like the way you've changed, and knowing I'm the cause."

"I love you. So much." She stroked his length, worshipping him. "Please, Morgan. Make love to me."

He quickly stripped and pressed her back onto the quilt, entering her with a single slow, measured thrust that made her gasp in pleasure. She made soft mewling sounds that grew louder with each buck of his hips. Her fevered hands pulled him in deeper and deeper. Richelle cried out, reaching her climax just as Morgan shuddered with his own release. She was still lying quietly sated in his arms when a soft rap sounded at the bedroom door.

"I'm sorry," came Lorella's hushed voice. "Your partner's downstairs, Mr. Tremayne. Should I tell him you can't be disturbed?"

"Have him wait, Lorella," Morgan called out. "I'll be down directly." He gave Richelle a look of reproach. "You and Boyd played a nasty trick on me today. Put something on and stay here until you hear your true name. Then come down and join me." He rose and retrieved his pants from the floor.

He descended to the landing, upper body and feet still bare. His hair was loose around his shoulders. He glanced furtively toward the kitchen before frowning down at his guest. "What's so important you had to come here tonight?"

"I wanted to see how you fared this afternoon. I gather it went well," Boyd winked, grinning.

"You didn't tell me I'd meet a tempting wench in need of servicing out there! Had I know, I never would have argued about going But I can't let the maid catch sight of the lass upstairs. You were right, it seems. My wife decided to come back, after all this time. She sent her maid and the luggage ahead. Going to have to finish pleasuring the wench quicker than I'd like, then get her out of here."

Boyd visibly paled. "What in the name of God have you done? I sent you to meet with your wife! I can't believe you're dallying with some milkmaid. If Rachel comes home and finds you tumbling—"

"Richelle," Morgan corrected loudly. On cue, she appeared in the rose silk gown and descended to stand beside Morgan. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "Most tempting wench I've ever met." He pivoted slightly and planted a passionate kiss on her lips. Richelle blushed from the roots of her hair all the way to her toes.

Boyd almost dropped his hat. "God! You nearly gave me heart failure, Morgan!"

"Forgive me, oldest and dearest friend," Morgan taunted, "but you knew what lay in store for me, yet purposely had me chafing and so distraught I didn't sleep a wink last night." He glanced at Richelle. "Not that I'll do much better tonight. I owed you for your part in this."

"I'll take that as appreciation for my efforts," Boyd responded, smiling at the woman in front of him. "But I want to be certain I heard you correctly. Your name's not Rachel?"

Morgan started to answer, but she nudged his ribs gently. "I came here originally under an assumed name, due to a legal problem. It's resolved now, thanks to your partner. My name's Richelle. Richelle Tremayne."

"It's been a good many years since there's been a woman with that surname in this village. Congratulations, Morgan. You two must come to supper at our place one night soon. Chrissandra threatened to horsewhip me if I forgot to invite you." He donned his hat but made no move toward the door. "Didn't I say I'd make a bold statement to the lady when next I saw her, Morgan?"

"Aye."

"Mistress Tremayne, I'm firmly convinced you're the ideal mate for this difficult fellow. I sensed as much from the first."

Morgan pulled her closer against his side. "I'll be damned if I let you claim an ounce of credit for this marriage, Boyd. I had to scrape my knee in front of Squire Martin and the entire village, then pursue her through hell and high water. You can see I take my husbandly role very seriously." He grinned and slid his free hand over Richelle's abdomen.

"Since you're at last smiling, my formerly downcast chum," Boyd huffed, "I should think my part today counts a great deal. I might remind you that just yesterday you were only too anxious to lay blame for a disaster at my feet. However, I believe the lady can settle this dispute." He glanced back to Richelle. "Do you recall when we first discussed my business partner and your new landlord?"

"Yes."

With a total air of confidence, Boyd asked his next question. "When did he first make a suggestive comment or advance toward you?"

"The afternoon he met me at the inn and insisted on walking me home."

"What does that prove?" Morgan carped. "She wouldn't even give me a bloody cup of tea that day! She practically threw me out of here."

"So you'd already been rebuffed when you complained about her the next morning at the office. She didn't jump at the chance for a flirtation. That's the first I've ever heard of that reaction from a woman where you're concerned. What a challenge that must have presented, Morgan!"

Morgan's features went slack. Then he released a hearty laugh. "Get out of here, Atkinson."

"Gladly," Boyd grinned. "Got a new bride and soft mattress waiting at home myself."

Minutes later Richelle and Morgan were once again nude and wrapped in one another's arms. "It pleases me more than words can express to have you here with me, madam," he announced as his fingertip traced around her pliant nipple. "At my side, in this canopy bed, where I dreamt of loving you for so long."

"It pleases me to hear you laugh again," she answered.

"Afraid your child would have a sullen, disagreeable father, were you?"

She shook her head, pressing her overripe breast into his hand until he cupped its full heft. "He'll have the most handsome, wonderful, understanding father in the world."

"What if he is a she?"

"I won't have a she," Richelle replied tartly. "I'm not sharing you with another female. Even one who only weighs eight pounds." Her arms wrapped around his waist and she kissed him, starting the loving all over again. Morgan forgot the baby, the loneliness, the separation. There was nothing but Richelle wanting him and loving him.

Later, when the parlor clock struck midnight, Morgan's baritone rumbled softly in the darkness. "You know I can't repay you for the granary and the inn, Richelle. I don't know that I'll ever be able to."

"I don't expect repayment."

"But I told you I didn't want any part of your inheritance. You've not only disobeyed me, you've left me deeply indebted."

"Would you rather I'd left you bankrupt? You sound almost bitter. If you feel you must repay me somehow, do it by keeping your promise to be with me when the baby comes. And don't speak of my inheritance again. It only causes friction of the wrong kind between us."

"Have you had enough of the right kind for one night?" Morgan asked, stroking her bottom. She nodded against his shoulder. "Good, because your rake of a husband is getting sleepy. I'll keep my word about the birth, never doubt that. Haven't I already insisted you be seen by two different doctors? I'll be at your side when the babe comes, Richelle."

"Can you forgive me for hiding the pregnancy?"

He sighed. It was wisest to just capitulate. "I'll think about it, if you'll banish the ghosts from this cottage." He felt a sudden movement against his flank. Richelle murmured something, snuggling closer. He realized with a shock what she'd said. "That was our son?"

She nodded, yawning. The movement came again, stronger this time. Richelle was completely relaxed. She hadn't made the abrupt movements.

Your child lives and moves inside her!

Only yesterday, hell, even that selfsame morning, he'd had nothing. Just unending misery and a bleak future filled by more of the same. Tonight he held his wife close to his heart. She'd spent her inheritance restoring his assets. He couldn't tell her how profoundly that affected him. Tonight had Richelle's warmth and comfort, the promise of a family.

"Richelle, thank you," he whispered. "For the child and for coming back." He realized she'd fallen asleep. He pulled the quilt over her shoulder and kissed her forehead tenderly. "Good night, Madam Tremayne."

It had been long months since he'd whispered those words to her in the darkness. So many nights he'd fought the bitterness in his soul, the tortured worry in his mind that he'd never say them again. Tonight he truly meant their secret signal of peace and safety. His arms around Richelle, he closed his eyes, and for the first time since leaving America, drifted off to sleep without a single drop of liquor.

Chapter 29

Morgan rapidly got commitments enough to nearly fill the granary, and Richelle signed it over as promised, relieved to have it off her conscience. She filled in for Chrissy at the holding company office now and again, but Morgan insisted she spend most of her time resting at the cottage. She couldn't argue the point. His concern for her welfare and that of their unborn child touched her too deeply.

Still, she needed to get out for fresh air and exercise occasionally. She enjoyed accompanying Lorella on market days, although doing so also meant receiving all sorts of unwanted advice from Crowshaven's matrons and merchants. One woman was adamant that any cats in the household must be disposed of before the babe's arrival, lest the feline smother the poor babe in its cradle by sucking the breath out of its chest. Another woman had the only proven colic remedy known to four generations in her family. Richelle was offered cures for hiccups, poor eye focus, teething, ear tugging and bedwetting.

"Sometimes I think they'll be telling me how to find him a wife next," she groaned to her companion. But Lorella wasn't listening. She appeared to be getting lessons in how to select a pumpkin from a young man with a very cocky grin.

"You want a good, firm stem," he told her as his fingers guided hers to check the solidity of the squash in question. He encouraged her to wrap her fingers around the green stump, and Richelle heard more than a few snickers around them.

But the astonishing fact was that Lorella actually bowed her head and flushed a very becoming shade of pink.

These villagers had no way of knowing that Lorella was anything but a timid young American housemaid. Her blush brought a wave of sympathetic teasing from the local farmers, who enjoined the young rascal to stop tormenting the poor lass.

Richelle choked down her own laughter. If the rascal only knew! Lorella had caressed far more than pumpkin stems and could give him lessons about "solid meat" that would straighten all his rumpled curly hair. Lorella paid for the squash and kept her face averted as they crossed the square toward the cottage.

"He was a nice looking hooligan," Richelle remarked with feigned casualness in her tone. "Strapping young fellow. I think I've seen him before. Out at the Atkinson farm. Maybe he's one of the masons or laborers. His face looked familiar. Must live in the general vicinity."

"Mmm," was all Lorella said.

"Your cheeks are red as twin roses, Lorella," Richelle said, unleashing her suppressed laughter. "I can't believe you were actually embarrassed!"

"I was, but not the way you're thinking," Lorella replied with new starch to the set of her shoulders. "I knew he was taunting me, hoping he could offend my sensibilities. Men like to shock a girl. But my face was red because I was wondering why it had to happen with a pumpkin. Where was that fine young stallion when I was at the butcher's picking out a sausage? That's what I'd like to know!"

* * *

Morgan was home before nightfall most evenings, but there inevitably came a trip that called him away for several days. He returned just as dusk fell. He opened the front door and was immediately attacked by the mongrel—christened Patrick by unanimous vote, in fond remembrance of Sheila's burly doorman. The price of admission into his own parlor was Morgan scratching behind the big dog's ears.

"Ah, supper! I can't tell you how wonderful it feels to find hot food waiting after my ride home on this chilly evening," Morgan announced. "I'd even take a cup of coffee to warm my bones, unless you brewed a pot of tea.. Don't know how you knew I'd be arriving just now, Lorella," he taunted their cook and maid, "unless Richelle and Patrick both kept watch at the parlor window."

Richelle poked her tongue out at him. "I won't drool over you, sir."

"Care to wager on that? Mayhap supper will have to be delayed an hour or so." He scooped a laughing Richelle into his arms and took her upstairs. They took that night's supper, then breakfast the next morning, and supper again the next evening on trays in their room.

Richelle knew part of his ardent expression was due to the doctor's orders that they abandon lovemaking soon. Morgan was tender and gentle, still, she was almost grateful when a pair of farmers came to the cottage seeking Morgan to discuss transporting their winter sheaves to the granary. She finally got the chance to resume wearing clothes.

November trickled away into December. The mornings were frosty as the bedroom windowpanes beyond their lace curtains, Morgan noted, debating whether to rise and greet the new day or linger within the cocoon of warmth generated by his sleeping wife and the bedcovers.

Recalling the errand awaiting him along with other duties at the offices, he reluctantly pulled on a pair of breeches, shivering as he tiptoed across the bedchamber to find his boots and a shirt. He dressed quickly and headed quietly downstairs. But the scent of brewing coffee assailed him before he reached the kitchen, announcing that Lorella was already awake.

"You're early this morning," he commented. "I thought I'd have to go begging this morning."

"Oh no, sir," Lorella countered. "I saw Mr. Atkinson in the square yesterday. He warned me you'd be riding out at dawn this morning. I've already started toast and eggs." She turned to glower at the big gray shadow at her feet. "And you, you worthless beggar, how would you like your eggs?"

"Straight off my plate, as usual" Morgan responded with a deep chuckle.

Lorella cracked several eggs into her skillet. "The girls from Sheila's sent a parcel last week. They knitted some baby clothes, blankets and such. That was nice of them."

Morgan grunted in assent and stirred a heaping teaspoonful of sugar into Lorella's dark brew. He grimaced and took a seat at the table.

"Now all we need is that cradle you keep promising to fetch." The maid's tone was one of subtle reproach.

"Today, Lorella."

"What's today?" Richelle stood yawning in the kitchen doorway, her long chestnut hair in tangles. Morgan was startled by his reaction to the sight. Even nine months gone with his babe, she stirred his blood. He briefly considered taking her back upstairs and slowly brushing her tresses as he'd done many times since their wedding at sea. But Dr. Rowe advised abstinence, and they had to be prudent.

Which didn't mean his groin had to agree.

"A last trip to the outskirts of the district," he answered. "But it won't take long. I'll probably be back at the holding company office a little past noontide."

Richelle's expression darkened. "You know how close I am. It makes me nervous to have you away now. Even for a few hours."

"I do know," he nodded, helping her into the big armchair beside their hearth, where Lorella had a cheery fire going. He handed Richelle his coffee mug. "You'll like this. I put just the perfect quantity of sugar for you."

"That won't sweeten me into forgetting that you've gone off somewhere, after you promised me you'd stay in the village."

"This particular outing is an exception. Something on the order of another promise I made, long before I met you."

"And this long ago promise is more important than—"

He smothered her protest with a kiss. "Nothing is more important than you and our child, Richelle. You know that." He offered a defeated sigh. "I'm going to see Entwistle this morning."

"Oh, Entwistle. Why didn't you say so in the first place?"

Lorella arrived in the parlor with a tray of toast. "Who or what is an Entwistle?"

"David Entwistle's one of Mr. Tremayne's oldest friends. Almost a father figure."

Lorella glanced over at Morgan in confusion. "But I thought your father had been innkeeper before you and you took over when he died."

"Aye," Morgan replied, "But I worked on Entwistle's farm as a lad of fourteen. He was the first local farmer to hire me. Word had passed around the village that he needed help, even though David Entwistle has a full brood. My father snorted at that, saying if he could provide for his family without hiring chore boys, Entwistle should as well. None of the other lads were willing to ride out to Entwistle's farm. He was known as a fierce taskmaster and disagreeable sort."

"So," Richelle finished, "with Andrew Tremayne dead set against the idea and no one else willing, Morgan hired on."

"You must realize," Morgan qualified, "that of David's five sons, two were merchant seamen and one was at university. Only one of the remaining pair was old enough to be of any use at farm work. The youngest was a mere tot."

Lorella had an amused gleam in her eye. "So, was it as awful as all the other boys thought it would be?"

"I worked until my fingers bled and the sun went down. Day after day. Mistress Entwistle kept me in tea and scones with honey. The bank sent a fellow out one day to foreclose on David's loan." Morgan grinned broadly. "I ran a pitchfork through the fellow's hat, vowed he'd be paid inside a month, and made certain David kept that promise."

"And Morgan's word has been legendary ever since," Richelle said quietly, glancing into her husband's eyes. "It's good you're going to see David."

She gazed at him with a forgiving softness in her expression, but Morgan inwardly fretted. The damned place was too cold. And Richelle looked too pale. "Fix Madam Tremayne some eggs, Lorella. I'll be back as soon as humanly possible."

Richelle declined the food. Morgan halted, his hand on the doorknob, dismayed by what he'd overheard. Early in her pregnancy, Richelle hadn't been able to keep much in her stomach. She turned away from food nearly every day. But in recent weeks, Richelle ate like one of Entwistle's strapping sons. Peculiar that she'd awakened without being famished. "Richelle, are you all right?"

"Just tired. I'll eat later."

Morgan strode into the kitchen to seek out the maid. "While I'm at Entwistle's, I'll ask his youngest son to come by. He's a chimney mason. I'd been meaning to speak to him about installing a small stove in the hall upstairs. I also mean to ask the good doctor to look in on Richelle." He started toward the back door.

Lorella grabbed his arm. "Take the dog along, sir. He paces so when you're out, he makes the missus nervous."

Morgan opened the door and Patrick bounded along the bluff, panting with excitement. "Blasted mutt," Morgan complained aloud, heading toward the livery. "You underfoot and a massive crate due at Crocker's farmstead by ten. I've quite the day ahead."

He checked his watch and calculated he could make the deadline, even with the extra stop at the doctor's house. He wasted few words with the physician and arrived at the Entwistle farm just after seven. With his furry companion firmly instructed to stay in the wagon and wait, Morgan approached David's back door, recalling another frosty morning like this one. He ridden out here alone to speak privately with David and repay him for a favor.

Morgan had wanted headstones carved for his father and sister, but couldn't afford to pay the Sheffield stonecutter. Arnold Somersdale had refused to loan Morgan the money. David Entwistle had heard the tale and driven to Sheffield himself to order the markers.

Morgan had come here to repay that debt. From time to time he'd see David at the inn. One day they stood sharing pints together and had sworn a drunken oath that should Morgan father a son, he'd rock his child in the same hand-carved oak cradle that had rocked all five of David's sons.

Now Morgan stood gazing at that cradle, somewhat in awe of all that had come to pass. The years and the changes in both men. "Are you sure you're comfortable parting with it?" he asked. "You're bound to have more grandchildren."

"You saved my farm, lad. Only whelp in the village with ballocks enough to work for me. And work hard you did, for little pay. Take the cradle, but know this. If you don't make me the child's godfather, I'll take a strap to your back!"

The door blew open, admitting a frigid blast of winter air and several other men to the big kitchen. Morgan recognized one chap as Entwistle's immediate neighbor. Behind him stood Joshua Tate. The others Morgan knew only in passing. "Did you tell him why we want to talk to him?" a stranger asked. Morgan turned back to David.

"Was getting to it." David lumbered to his broad oak table and sat down with no further response. The other men filed around to join him. Reluctantly Morgan took a place, as well, nervous at the somber demeanor of this gathering.

Morgan nodded at Tate. "How you feeling these days? Chasing young Nathan across the fields by now, I expect."

"I'm well enough." Tate glanced at the others in turn. "He worked my fields for a week last year when I was laid up. That's the sort he is."

"What's this about?" Morgan was distinctly uneasy now. Every man in the room sat staring at him.

Entwistle cleared his throat. "Some of us have been discussing the future, Morgan. Crowshaven's growing, due in part to your efforts. The others on the council will probably go along. Somersdale's likely to be a fly in the ointment, but we can set aside his objections regarding your holdings—"

"Objections?" Morgan had stolen a look at the promissory note after Richelle fell asleep her first night back at the cottage. He knew Somersdale held a stranglehold over him that had been broken by his wife's intercession. He'd approached Somersdale on the topic, but the man had slammed the mercantile door in Morgan's face. "His debts were cleared months ago," Morgan asserted. "He's got no claim against my holdings."

Another man spoke up. "But your ownership could be seen as a conflict of interest, particularly with regard to the inn. Somersdale could try to block our nomination. You'll need to sell it the inn, Tremayne. Bound to be a sore spot."

"My father built the bloody place! Somersdale can't make me sell the inn."

"Morgan, listen, lad." David's voice was firm. "Crowshaven's becoming a proper town and needs a proper mayor. We're nominating you at next council meeting. Would help the vote pass if you'd agree to sell. You know council meetings are held in your taproom. Someone else must profit from our ale and food purchases. Shouldn't be the town mayor."

Morgan was speechless. David scowled. "We'll pay you a salary, Tremayne! Not much at first, but you'll still have your fingers in other pies. Granary, warehouse and livery service. What say you?"

"I agree with the concept," Morgan replied slowly. "Same thought's crossed my mind. But I can't honestly agree that I'm the man for the job. What about Squire Martin?"

One man shook his head. "Too old."

"And some say not to be trusted," grumbled Entwistle's neighbor.

"Then Boyd. He's the administrative sort and his family goes back—"

"Who do you think suggested you sell the inn?" David laughed. "We need someone who's not afraid to look others right in the eye—bedamned, even spit in their eye, come down to it—for the good of this village. A man with a stiff spine, yet someone who can get on with one and all."

Tate spoke up. "We want someone who won't favor a merchant over a farmer. A man known for his word. You're the bloke, Tremayne."

"I'm flattered, but—"

Entwistle noisily cleared his throat. "We discussed this with Boyd while you were overseas. We waited until your bride arrived and you settled down and quit that lovesick drinking. You're about to find yourself with a new mouth to feed. You want the post or not?" David demanded. "It is me asking." His eyes flicked to the cradle.

So now it's personal, Morgan told himself. "Be forced to sell the inn," he mused aloud, swallowing the lump in his throat. "No way around that. I'd demand the same if it were another holding the council meetings in his tavern."

The others shrugged. Entwistle gave him a hard look. "No way 'round the chores, neither. You did them."

Morgan took a deep breath, trying to loosen the tightness in his chest. "I can't attend the next council meeting. My wife's time is very close, and she lost a child during labor in her first marriage. She needs me with her." He rose and tucked the cradle under one arm.

"Let's see first if the vote carries. We can meet and discuss this at length afterward. Thank you again for this, David." Morgan's words came out all the faster as he neared the door. He realized he sounded ungrateful, but he couldn't help it—he had to get out. He couldn't take their eyes on him a moment longer. He hadn't come expecting anything like this. He mumbled an excuse about documents awaiting him at the holding company and stepped into the pale sunshine.

"Morgan!" David followed. Morgan climbed back into the wagon. "Expecting an invitation to supper and see the new Tremayne soon as your wife's back on her feet. And a last drink with you over your bar, son."

Morgan waved and gave the reins a slap. Patrick slobbered over his master's face as they made the sweeping turn across the fields and started back down the road into Crowshaven. "A last drink across my bar," Morgan repeated aloud. "I'm beginning to see there's much I don't know about my old friend and partner, Atkinson. First that stunt with Richelle and now this! Hell, I haven't a clue about being mayor, Patrick!" The dog thumped his tail.

"Running the inn, trade negotiations, dickering over prices...that's what I know. Hell, I've only recently begun to think I can make Richelle a decent husband. Haven't the faintest notion how I'm going to be a good father. Now they want me to be the town's first mayor? Jesus, Mary and Joseph!"

Chapter 30

Morgan raced back toward the village, his mind in turmoil. The wagon lurched abruptly. Too late, Morgan mentally flashed on the image of a large rock he'd glimpsed in the roadbed. A splintering sound accompanied the wagon skid as he pulled the horses up short. "Bloody perfect! Busted a frigging wheel! Why today, of all days?"

He was still cursing and struggling nearly an hour later.

As partner in the livery, he'd insisted spare wheels be stored beneath the beds of all service wagons. But it wasn't easy working to change a wheel alone in the icy cold; Patrick kept loping across the moors threatening to wander off, Morgan's fingers were numb. He'd propped the left side of the rig by tipping the big crate on end and was positioning the new wheel when one of the horses stamped from the cold, jerking the wagon. The crate tipped. The wagon tilted crazily and skidded backward, knocking Morgan to the frozen ground.

There was momentary blinding pain. Morgan inhaled and forced his voice to sound calm. He clucked his tongue. "Forward, Midnight! Steady." The mounts were well trained. In unison they took one step, two. Then they halted, brought up short by the wagon's immobile dead weight. Morgan roared in pain as the load shifted and brought fresh misery to his pinned right leg. He couldn't get his shoulders positioned to apply full upper body strength. Forcing his arms against the wagon bed was useless and merely caused spikes of agony to shoot into his leg.

He glanced around and felt his spirits sink. The road was empty in both directions. The nearest farmers were all at Entwistle's, not out working their fields. It could be hours before any of them reached the perimeter tracts near the road. In desperation, Morgan whistled to Patrick, grateful now that he'd taken the pesky cur along. The lanky hound trotted up to sit beside his master.

"Patrick, go home," Morgan ordered. "Go get Richelle. I need her, need help. Go, Patrick!" He waved his arm in dismissal, grimacing as the pain in his leg became one long incessant throb. The dog fretted and whined, sniffing at the dark stain spreading near the lower half of his master's body. "Get Richelle, Pat," Morgan gasped out.

The dog turned and trotted back toward the village. Morgan watched until the moving shape was beyond his blurring vision. He silently prayed the animal wouldn't be distracted by a cat or loose hen along the way. He begged God to let someone find him before he slowly froze to death. As the minutes dragged on, he realized he barely felt the pain in his leg now. He mostly felt cold. It's not so bad any more. Can hardly feel my leg at all...Christ! Richelle, I don't want to die here! HELP ME!

* * *

Dr. Rowe addressed her in a somber voice while Richelle straightened her garments. "We may have a problem. The child hasn't turned. I've seen cases where the head repositions at onset of labor and things proceed normally, but I need to be alerted as soon as your labor begins. I'd judge that to be in less than a fortnight."

Before Richelle could respond, there was a banging and commotion downstairs. Richelle and the doctor hurried down to the parlor. Boyd was there, questioning Lorella about Morgan's whereabouts, worried since he'd missed making a delivery to old man Crocker. Dr. Rowe spoke up. "He was by my place early this morning. He's probably just been delayed somewhere."

Richelle didn't think so. Not when Morgan had sworn to return early. "Boyd, you're sure he didn't make that delivery? He was going past the outskirts of the village to see David Entwistle. He wouldn't forget the time. He promised it shouldn't take long I hope nothing's happened to him."

Boyd got no chance to respond, for at that moment, Malcolm Entwistle came out of the kitchen. "Saw a crate in the back of Morgan's wagon this morning. He was visiting with my father and some of the other men when I left."

There'd been a moment of awkward embarrassment earlier that morning, when Morgan's chimney mason turned out to be the same young man who'd given Lorella a lesson in selecting the best pumpkin.

Lorella had instantly flushed beet red when she'd let him into the parlor, but he seemed to take no notice, professionally surveying the premises and taking quick measurements upstairs. As he descended the staircase, though, he cleared his throat and inquired whether she'd enjoyed the ripe pumpkin last month.

Lorella announced she'd baked it and another she'd purchased later into pumpkin bread. She inquired whether he'd like a taste and a cup of tea. Richelle wandered into her own kitchen to find herself about as welcome as a tax collector. The two young people had eyes only for each other. Dr. Rowe had arrived a short time later, going upstairs to conduct his physical examination of Richelle.

She'd forgotten about their brash young visiting mason until he'd spoken just then. But thoughts of where Lorella's flirtations might lead were interrupted by their mutual concern about Morgan. Richelle recalled Boyd's summons when she and Morgan had been in Philadelphia. The tales of past deliveries gone wrong.

She tossed a worried glance at Boyd. "Dear God, you don't suppose Morgan could have encountered highwaymen? You had freight robberies and problems like that once before."

"Now hold on, mistress, " Lorella interjected. "Mr. Tremayne took Patrick with him. You know that dog doesn't trust strangers, particularly menfolk. I'll wager a month's pay Patrick would never let anything happen to the master. He'd lay down his life for Mr. Tremayne."

"Yes, that's true," Richelle agreed. But she couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't right.

She walked out onto the front porch and peered down the lane. A vague shape approached from a distance. Gray, low to the ground. She knew even before she heard the distinctive bark that it was their dog, Patrick, running along the bluff toward the cottage. Alone. Her shriek brought Lorella and the others out.

Richelle spotted the dark red on the animal's fur. "There's blood on him!"

Dr. Rowe bent to examine the hound. "Not his own, I'm sorry to say. Come on, men. We'll take my rig."

"I'm coming, too," Richelle insisted. She seized Patrick's head between her palms. "Pat, show me where Morgan is. Take us to him, boy."

They flew out of the village, leaving a trail of dust and a tearful maid wringing her hands in their wake. Richelle scrambled out of the doctor's rig before it came to a full stop behind the stalled delivery wagon partially blocking the road. She gasped as she dropped to her knees beside the still form on the ground. "Morgan! Dear God, his leg! Hurry, Dr. Rowe!"

Morgan's eyelids fluttered opened as she lifted his head and gently laid it on her knee. "Richelle...Sent the dog," Morgan mumbled. "Mess. Should have listened...stayed home."

"It doesn't matter. You're alive, Morgan, that's all that matters. Dr. Rowe's with us. He'll patch you up."

Boyd and Malcolm lifted the wagon so the doctor could slide Morgan out. "Get him into the bed of that bloody wagon," Rowe barked. "He's losing a lot of blood. Got to sew the torn leg now. No time to move him to my surgery."

Richelle cradled Morgan's head as the doctor prepared to suture the lacerated flesh. As his breeches tore with a harsh rending sound, Morgan clutched at Richelle's hand with icy fingers. "Don't let them take my leg, Richelle!" he croaked. "Child needs me whole. You do!"

"Dr. Rowe has to sew your leg, that's all. Like my shoulder, remember? Try not to think about the pain." Her voice was low and soothing. "Sweetheart, it won't be long and we'll have you home by the fire. Here, let me warm you." She removed her shawl and wrapped it around his upper body, kissing his forehead. She held him securely in her arms and nodded to the doctor to proceed.

"Foolhardy...like you," came Morgan's ragged whisper. He tried to smile, managed only a grimace of fresh pain.

Tears streamed down Richelle's cheeks. "Not foolhardy. Determined. There's a difference."

* * *

Morgan awakened to vague images of Richelle weeping copiously over some tragic event he'd dreamt about. Or thought he'd merely dreamt about, until a throbbing in his right leg made him aware the something horrible must have been real. He opened his eyes. He was in a dark room. His own, he realized, recognizing the canopy overhead.

"Richelle?" He heard the mounting terror in his own voice and tried to swallow his fear.

Then came a sleepy murmur and he realized her warmth was there, close beside him. She flung an arm over his chest. "I'm here."

"What happened? Feels like my leg's in a vise. Jesus, do I still have a leg, or is this phantom pain?"

"You have your leg, and I need to check it," she muttered. She rose and lit both bedside lamps. "You were trying to change a wheel and the wagon slipped. If the pain gets too bad, Dr. Rowe said I can give you more laudanum."

"Aye, it's bad." She spooned some of the liquid into his mouth. He swallowed and winced. "Feels like someone ran over my leg with a loaded wagon. Right—I did that, didn't I?"

She gingerly sat on the edge of the mattress, trying not to jostle him. "Now you're jesting? You might have been killed, Morgan! I would have been left to raise our child alone."

He stretched to lay a hand over her swollen belly. "Everything's all right?" She ignored his question, peering at the bandage over the stitches. It was clean and dry. The flesh around it was slightly pink, but not hot to her touch. She glanced up at her husband's face. Morgan's eyes were clear, not glazed. No sign of fever.

"The doctor says you were fortunate it was so cold out there on the road. Lessened your chance of infection. Of course, that wouldn't have been much consolation had you frozen to death out there under that rig." She shook herself and stood up. "Can I get you something to eat? You haven't eaten since breakfast."

"Thirsty. Need some tea." She started for the door. "No! Have Lorella fetch it. Stay here with me."

"I'll only be a moment. She's asleep, Morgan. It's the middle of the night."

"It's all right, Mistress," came a muffled voice. "I heard him cry out and thought you might need help. I'll fetch the tea."

Richelle colored slightly, wondering how many other cries and night sounds Lorella may have overheard. She turned back to Morgan. "Where did you get the cradle you had in the wagon when we found you? It's beautiful."

He tried to sit up. Richelle helped prop him against the headboard. He seemed a bit stronger after the hot tea and a few bites of Lorella's soft biscuits with butter. He was at least able to offer a weak smile as she lowered the teacup. "Wench makes fine biscuits. Young Malcolm shall grow fat."

She had no idea how Morgan had learned of the budding romance between their maid and the mason, but it was clear from the kindly look in his eye that he approved. "The cradle," she reminded, "It was supposed to be a surprise for me, wasn't it?"

"Aye. David's been saving it for my firstborn. Didn't listen to your female intuition about riding to the outskirts of the village. Remind me next time I'm being stubborn of how you won this argument. Trust you won't resort to having a wagon strike me for future victories."

"This is certainly not my idea of a victory," she protested. "You're badly injured. You need to rest. Let's go back to sleep." She helped him slide back down under the covers.

She put out the lamps and settled next to his left side. His whisper was hoarse in the darkness. "I can't sleep like this, Richelle. It's bad enough lying on my back. I much prefer resting on my side, curled around you. I need to feel you."

"I'm right here," she whispered, moving to share her body heat.

"Put your arm over me. Aye." His words were beginning to slur, Richelle noted. The laudanum taking effect. She adjusted her position so her arm lay draped across his chest and he released a deep sigh that almost could have passed for one of contentment. "Better... Good night, Madam T..."

Richelle closed off the worry from her mind. Morgan wasn't feverish. He'd be all right. He'd already drifted back into a deep slumber. Dr. Rowe had promised to return and have another look at Morgan tomorrow afternoon. The damaged leg would heal. Richelle swallowed and bowed her head. Their child would be born soon, and Morgan would be all right. He had to be.

Chapter 31

"I'll not abide this, Richelle. I can't stay in this damned bed!" Morgan fumed while Richelle patiently outlined the doctor's instructions. Her husband had convinced himself Dr. Rowe would examine him and grant permission for a to return to limited activity. Instead, Morgan had been told to stay off the bad leg.

"I'll go insane staring at these same four walls. I don't need laudanum now. The pain's abated; I'm doing better. There's no reason I can't go to the office for a few hours. I'm not going to stay here in this bed for days on end!"

"I did, back in Philadelphia," she replied coolly. "I didn't particularly enjoy it, but I reminded myself I had a duty to you and our child. You'll do what the doctor says is best, just as I did. You're not strong enough to be up and about, and you can't put weight on your injured leg. The doctor said he'd send a crutch for you. Then you can begin moving about the house, but you won't be allowed to leave it. Stop pushing yourself. Anyway, I need you here at home. Have you forgotten we've got a baby coming?"

"Not at all. Come here a moment." He patted the mattress beside him.

Richelle gave him a wary look. His gruff manner had evaporated too easily. He was giving her a different gaze now. One she recognized as his prelude to lovemaking. He meant to manipulate her, and stood a good chance of succeeding. They both knew it.

Though they couldn't engage in full coitus, Morgan had taught her about many forms of sensual pleasure. Richelle knew some were not forbidden to them—had her husband not been recovering from a very serious injury. She had to keep that in mind, though it wasn't easy. Her body was heavy with their child; her blood was thick with womanly need. Her sexual desire had been strong throughout this pregnancy.

And Morgan looked altogether too handsome at that moment, with his bare torso resting against the headboard, his dark mane unbound around his shoulders, those misty eyes of his beckoning. His mustache curved into a wolfish grin. Damn him, he knew the nature of her thoughts.

Since Malcolm had installed the new stove, their bedchamber was much warmer than before. Morgan had reverted to his brothel habit of wearing nothing most of the time. He was naked beneath the bed sheet.

She shook her head. "Oh no, Lion! You're not going to kiss me and make me forget how stubborn and impossible you are. I know you feel a bit stronger, but you're going to do what the doctor prescribes. I'm not going to let you kiss me in hopes of getting me all flustered so you can win this argument."

"I don't want to kiss you."

"Then there's no incentive for me to waddle over there. I can hear you perfectly well from here."

"Christ," he growled. "All right, I do mean to kiss you! What's wrong with a man kissing his own damned wife? My lips still work! If you don't come here to me this instant, madam, I'll go there to you." He shoved at the bedclothes and pretended he was about to get up.

She crossed to sit on the edge of the bed. He reached an arm around her shoulder and drew her closer. She leaned to kiss him slowly, sighing as he explored the recesses of her mouth. The kiss deepened until he groaned and placed her fingers over the rumpled sheet. She could feel his stiffening member. "You're about to whelp and I've a smashed leg. Wonderful time for the devil to jump up. At least it proves the wagon didn't affect my most vital part."

She tried to pull her hand away. "You're supposed to be resting, not straining vital parts."

"But I've a painful ache in my lower body, sweet nurse. I'm sure you can relieve the pressure without making me exert myself." His grin became thoroughly wicked as his hand encouraged her fingers to stroke him intimately.

A knock at the door made Richelle jump up. Her face was a deep red as she cracked the door open and mumbled something before quickly closing it again.

"Your partner's come calling. You're not going to receive a visitor in the altogether," she scolded. She pulled a clean shirt from the closet and brought it to him. He thrust one arm through the sleeve and leaned forward so she could draw the shirt across his back. "Stop that," she giggled as his lips once again brushed hers.

"Tell Boyd to come back in half an hour," he suggested in a husky whisper.

Her eyes dropped to his groin. "I won't. And for God's sake, cover up or he'll know exactly what sort of attentions you've received from your nurse."

His pewter eyes sparkled. "I don't keep secrets from Boyd. He knows what a lusty beggar I am, and exactly the effect a certain Colonial has on me."

"Hush!" she chastised and opened the door. Boyd nodded in greeting as he came into the room and took a seat in the chair Richelle used during her vigils over her recuperating husband.

"Boyd, use a strong arm if you must, but keep Morgan quiet in that bed. He'll be allowed to move around once the doctor gets him a crutch. For now, he's to keep weight off the leg." She left the men to discuss business.

But by midday Boyd hadn't come back downstairs, and Richelle began to fret. Morgan was in no condition for extended visits. He'd overtax himself. It was only a few days since the accident, and he was weaker than he would admit. She took hold of the banister and started up the stairs, but had to pause after only four risers. She was winded all ready, sucking in a deep breath. Two more risers, then a third. She was almost at the top when Morgan's baritone reached her ears.

"Squire Martin recommends going in with this fellow, eh? Might be worth looking into. How much of an investment do they need from us?"

Richelle strained her ears, but couldn't make out Boyd's reply. Then Morgan spoke up again.

"You know I'll have substantial capital available soon. Look forward to repaying you at long last. Then I'll see how much I can invest in this new venture."

Richelle knocked sharply and entered before she got a response. Boyd said his farewell and left the house. Richelle watched his departure down the street from the bedroom windows, twisting the fabric of her dress between agitated fingers. "You're getting too far ahead of yourself, Morgan. You've enough to handle now, and a child on the way. Boyd should know better than to pressure you."

"Worrywart, he's not pressuring me. He's handling things quite effectively. He wanted to discuss a few matters, that's all. There are decisions to be made. I'm not tired, Colonial. Honestly. Stop fussing over me."

"You look it," she argued. She emptied the chamberpot and bent to pick up a dirty towel from the floor.

"Madam, I don't pay Lorella so my pregnant wife can exhaust herself doing household chores."

Richelle kept her face averted. "I heard you mention Squire Martin and some new venture requiring a sizable investment. Don't patronize me about how you're recovering so quickly. You were fortunate not to lose that leg. You're not investing in anything just now, Morgan. Not until—well, you're just not!"

"What the devil is going on here?" he demanded. "My partner doesn't make my business decisions for me, and neither do you. Since when is it your place to speak for me concerning my trade or business interests? You've never presumed to order me about like this before. You're nagging at me, fussing over me as though I were a helpless invalid... Jesus, Mary and Joseph!"

He stared in horror at the heavy wooden splints. "The doctor told you something you haven't yet admitted, didn't he? That's why you're so adamant that I not get out of bed. You're taking over my life...what am I, Richelle? A bloody cripple?"

She'd been struck speechless, unable to respond to his appalling conclusion.

"Is this what I'm reduced to, then? Lying here bedridden, while my wife conducts my business affairs? Or can I at least look forward to eventually hobbling about my office once or twice a week? Perhaps then I wouldn't have the entire village pitying me behind my back! Whispering how my partner has to carry me, how I've become naught but a pathetic, useless burden."

"Morgan, you—"

"Damn that Rowe to hell!" he snarled in fury. "'The leg will mend,' he said! Couldn't look me in the eye and swear I'd walk normally, though. That's what you're withholding this time, isn't it? There's always something you keep from me, positive in your superior wisdom that I'm unable to cope with the unvarnished truth. I've news for you, Richelle! I may rant and I may rave, but I can bloody well cope with whatever misery God dishes up for me. Been doing it all my life! So go ahead, summon whatever's left of that pioneer courage of yours, and admit you haven't the stomach for life married to a lame wretch!"

"What have I ever done to make you believe me so heartless and cruel?" she demanded. Sometimes I think I should leave you, Morgan! You expect it with seasonal regularity! You offered me an annulment after I denied wanting one any longer. I proposed to you and took vows a second time, but you were so positive I'd written to say I was never coming back, you didn't even bother to read my letter!"

She paced in abject fury. "While I was ill and concealing our child to save your unyielding English ass, you came home to drink and brood and let everything crumble around you! I was crushed when you didn't answer my letter. Distraught to find you'd hidden our marriage from everyone. But I still paid off your debts and tried to make a life here with you. Why? Because you mean so little to me?" She was in tears now.

His voice was cold. "You deserve better than a drunkard followed by a cripple, and we both know it."

"Oh, that's the spirit, Morgan!" she shot back with sarcasm. "Wallow in self pity. You can't abide staying in bed? I can't abide listening to you go on like this. You can't help when I go into labor, and I can't nursemaid you any longer." She opened a dresser drawer and separated the feminine garments, tossing them onto the armchair.

"Richelle, stop it. You're not seriously leaving. You've nowhere to go."

"Even when I thought you'd changed your mind about our marriage, I was willing to forgive you." She stuffed her clothing into a satchel she'd found at the base of the closet. "But you've doubted me from the very first. Doubted my intellect, my clerical abilities, my loyalty, and now—although it should be blatantly obvious—even my love for you. How would labor be any different for me this time, Morgan? I'm as alone as I've ever been in my life! I can't have faith in you. You have none in me."

He fumbled with the covers and slid his legs over the side of the mattress. His splints hit the floor with a thump. "Stay in that bed, damn you!" she screeched. "Lorella can look after you. I'll stay with Boyd and Chrissandra, or have Thomas put me up at the inn."

"Like hell! You'll do no such thing. You're not leaving this house. Not you, and not my unborn son." His voice was bitter. "If I have to break my other leg trying, I swear I'll stop you, Richelle." He rose unsteadily and dragged himself to block the doorway.

She sighed and shook her head. "You were crippled before you ever got into that wagon, in your mind and in your heart. You can't accept my love, Morgan, no matter how much you claim to want it."

"That's not true, Richelle. Christ, I was trying to win you when I didn't even know who you were!"

"It is true!" she insisted. "This is no different than using Somersdale as an excuse to fire me. You didn't marry a name, you told me once. Well, I didn't marry a leg, I married a man! One who sits in silence and drinks and disappears somewhere dark and lonely inside himself where I can't reach him. I'll never understand why, but somehow you want it this way, Morgan."

He seized her wrist in a painful grip. "Richelle, I don't! You can't go. I can't even walk! You can't leave me like this. I'm not letting you out of here."

"Let me go, Tremayne," she ground out, jerking her arm back.

He instantly released her. "That's what she said." His voice was hoarse. "Bloody exact same words. My mother's last words." A single tear trickled down his cheek and became lost in the dark mustache.

Richelle stepped back, rubbing her wrist. "It must have been very painful hearing your mother's dying words to your father, but—"

"She didn't die, Richelle. She left him! It was a night like any other, but they had cross words. She told my father she'd always hated this niggardly village and every single human being in it. Then she packed a valise and left. When she didn't come back, he made up a tale that she'd visited sick relations, caught smallpox and died somewhere in Cornwall."

Richelle let her bag drop. "Oh Morgan, she didn't mean you and Annaliese! She couldn't have meant her own children."

"She swore she'd send for us. But I never saw her again. Except at night. I still see her at night. In those damned dreams, with that bag in her hand. And those words on her lips. Same as on yours now."

There was a long silence as the horrible truth sunk in.

Richelle never understood what he'd meant by saying she frightened him, why he'd judged her so harshly. Why he'd been so quick to believe she'd abandon him or disliked the cottage so intensely. All that talk of ghosts and despair.

She'd asked what she'd done that he could believe her so heartless, but it was nothing she'd done. It was what his mother had done.

His rasping whisper nudged her from her reverie. "Richelle, if you don't come here and catch me, I'm going to fall flat on my face." He was reaching for her, pleading with his eyes. Pewter eyes awash in anguish and sorrow.

She wrapped her arms around his waist and held him tightly, not speaking, knowing he needed her to listen. "That's why I can't sleep without my arm around you or yours over me. I have to be sure you're still there when my eyes are closed. Can't watch you while I'm sleeping."

"I'm always there," she replied softly, tears spilling down her own cheeks. "Right there beside you, Morgan. Every night. I ran away before because of the maelstrom around me, not because of you. It wasn't anything you'd said or done. And that was Rachel, not your true wife. Not Richelle."

"Every day I try to push away the dark thoughts. Pray it won't end today. I detest when you debate with me, because it starts with a disagreement. Any disagreement might be our last. Any moment I might find I've become Andrew Tremayne all over again. No better, very likely worse. Anna couldn't face me. She believed me worse than he was."

"No, Morgan, you're not," she soothed. "You're the most wonderful man I've ever known."

The words spilled out now in a torrent between his harsh gasps. "I tried not to let any wench matter. Never wanted to care so deeply about anyone, but I couldn't help myself. I'm the son of Andrew Tremayne. Andrew Tremayne would never beg. Swore he'd never show weakness to a female, and he never did. Watched her go without a word. Maybe it is weakness, Richelle—" came his choking sob, "but I'm not as strong as he was! I need you! Please don't leave me, Richelle. Please!"

She clutched him fiercely to her as he released the tears he'd kept inside for so many years. She cried with him. Cried for the lost boy he'd been, the adolescent who'd broken his back trying to measure up, trying to prove himself worthy of love and respect.

Wiping at her eyes, she glimpsed the signet on her left hand. Her symbolic wedding ring. She'd been wrong about that, too. The cachet never represented the past and his family roots. His family had abandoned him. It was a symbol of honor, yes, because Morgan could swear a promise for the future and control whether that came true.

The signet wasn't revered because of his past. It represented the little he had left besides a hated cottage and a proud name. His desperate hopes for warmth and family. Prayers for a future happiness he was terrified would never be his.

She helped him back to bed and sat down beside him. "I wish you'd told me about your mother before. I understand things now that had confused me. I'm glad you finally divulged that bit of your past, because it's made me realize there are things you don't understand. I'd like to help you see what's in my heart."

"What?" he mumbled, embarrassed to look at her now that she'd seen him reduced to unmanly tears.

"When I first came to this village, I simply needed somewhere to hide. You wondered why a rich girl with a good education would come here and clerk for you. The truth is, it seemed an ideal place for an American widow to lose herself. I came knowing I'd be an outsider. I didn't expect the villagers to welcome me. I didn't want any of you to. I was determined to keep to myself and fade into insignificance. When your name and likeness appear on posters and in newspapers, it's startling how quickly you come to desire anonymity."

She knew he digested her words. Perhaps he was seeing her reasoning for the first time. "The peculiar thing is that I wasn't insignificant," she emphasized. "Here in Crowshaven, I wasn't Jeremiah Hardwick's daughter, Sheila's cousin, or anyone's wife. I wasn't even Richelle. Out of place in the midst of you English country folk. Yet in some strange way I came to belong. And I met the most incredible man I'll ever know in my life."

She took both of his hands in hers. "A man I couldn't help but fall in love with."

"When I first arrived, I asked Boyd and then Chrissandra what you were like. I wanted to develop a mental image of the man who owned this house. Their answers made absolutely no sense."

"What could either of them have said about me that would make no sense? They're my two dearest friends."

Her smile widened. "That you were a man who was very like his peers, but unique among them. That you joked and drank and chased women, yet lived and breathed trade and business. I couldn't understand how one person could be all those things: a driven yet playful scoundrel, a somber jester, a royal commoner, an understanding beast. But you see, I didn't know you then. You are all of those things."

He gave her a look of reproach. "What an absolute load of rubbish!" Then he seemed to reconsider. "Did live for trade, though. Before you, women never really mattered. I can't think straight for loving you, Richelle. I'm petrified I won't be a good father to our child. I always had visions of a wife and children some day, but they were like museum paintings one admires from a polite distance. I thought it would feel like that, be like that."

"I see. But it's not." He shook his head. "And it doesn't feel like that," she supplied. "How does it feel to you?"

"Like my intestines are knotted in your fist. Like being lost, muddled, half besotted all the time. Not Morgan—at least not just Morgan anymore."

She tilted her head thoughtfully. "I suppose there's some truth to that. Together we're more, or different than we were separately. But it's false, too. You're still Morgan. Capable, smart, handsome, and distinctly your own person. Different from everyone else in this wide world. Still strong and still proud."

So much of the wonders between a man and woman she had learned from him. This she could finally give back.

"You're on the same path, but you're no longer walking it alone. What you feel is my shadow. It's not stronger than you are, but it's constant. Whichever way you turn, whatever murky grove or bright clearing you pass through along your path, it's always there, just beside you." His pewter eyes burned with a strange intensity as he studied her face. "I'll never feel the way your mother did about this house or the village. Now I see why my father's money and the manor upset you so."

His Adam's apple bobbed. "What woman in her right mind would trade that palace for this?" He waved his hand to indicate their bedchamber.

"I don't recall ever boasting about being in my right mind," she teased, caressing his unshaven cheek. "Morgan, this cottage is my home. Chrissy and Boyd have become my close friends, too. My heart is here in Crowshaven because you're here! I choose to walk beside you. I still have a healthy portion of my inheritance in a London bank. I decided to let the money grow until our son is a few years old, then offer it to the council for the schoolhouse you've always wanted. I even thought I might accept your offer to be schoolmistress, if the rest of the council members agree."

"You're serious about this." It wasn't a question.

She nodded. "I meant to discuss it with you later, when you were feeling better. I intend to live the rest of my natural life here. I'll give you whatever years I have remaining, Bargainer—but at a very steep price." She wagged her finger in his face. "And we'll not negotiate. This time it's you who must pledge to me."

Morgan's eyes clouded. "What do you want from me? You know this is all I have." He glanced again about the room.

She turned his chin back to face her. "In return for my life and my love, I want the one thing you have in shortest supply—therefore, the most valuable commodity you can offer. Faith. You must trust me now, and let me be your tutor in this. You can learn to make your heart strong, just as I learned to let my body respond freely. But you must trust me as I've trusted you."

Morgan felt something that had always been constricted inside loosen a fraction. Richelle's eyes said she meant every word. "It strikes terror in my soul to know you're keeping something from me," he whispered. He squeezed her fingers. "Please be honest with me, Richelle. I've been painfully honest with you."

"All right."

His fingers nearly crushed hers. "I'm not going to walk again, am I?"

She didn't flinch. "The doctor can't predict with certainty either way yet. There is a chance you may not."

He squeezed his eyes shut again. "Another truthful answer, please. If not—" The gray eyes opened and peered closely into hers. "Would it matter? Don't say it doesn't alter your feelings. It must, on some level. I want to know if...if you could feel as you did before my accident."

"Perhaps not. A man can look most debonair with a cane. He can get around with a crutch under his arm and still outsmart a whole crew of pirates or the next clever merchant. If your mind healed but not your leg, I would love you more deeply than I do now. I'd have all the more reason to look up to you."

"How the hell could you be proud of me, hobbling about on a damned wooden crutch? You Colonials speak in riddles!"

"I make perfect sense, sir, if you listen with your heart. You told me once you hoped your wife would respect and admire you. Look into my eyes, Morgan. Don't you see pride there, even now that you're bedridden? When have I ever refused to take your arm or stand at your side?"

"Only when you were my insolent clerk," he replied with chagrin. "But I've been whole, Richelle. We were speaking of the consequences if that's no longer the case."

"I'll love you no matter what becomes of your leg. But if your heart and mind don't mend, you'll cheat us both of what we might have had together. You've taught me what love is between man and wife. You've earned the affection and passion I feel for you. You've earned my respect. Don't let a wagon take that from you."

He was silent for a long time before he responded to her words.

"My heart is not broken, for the wife I adore with every fiber of my being speaks of respect and admiration for me. This has astonished me since she was only my lowly office clerk, for I've no experience that could prepare me for such immense charity of spirit. She freely gives me her esteem, even as she gave me her money, though I commanded her not to. And she's amazing in her persistence."

She grinned. "I see we Colonials are not so mysterious, after all."

He raised her hands to his lips and kissed them. "My beautiful wife carries my child, despite her past struggles with pregnancy and motherhood. She speaks of my home and my life as also being hers. I've bullied her, wounded her pride, behaved like a drunken idiot, and blackened men's eyes just for speaking to her—yet the wench steadfastly claims to be proud of me. She's my wellspring of love and hope. Before you, Richelle, my heart was empty. Now it overflows."

He kissed her softly. "I can't be a merchant or the Bargainer or the village mayor without you, Richelle. But I can be a cripple with you, if that's God's will."

"The mayor?"

"When I went to Entwistle's to get the cradle, several local gentlemen arrived to meet with us. I'm to be nominated at the next council meeting. Vote's due any day. I told them I'd consider it, but I'd like to have your blessing. Or your thoughts, if you disagree with the notion."

"Of course you have my blessing! I think it's a wonderful idea." She gave him a tight squeeze.

"You may not think so when you hear the stipulation. As you just pointed out, everything has its price. You know the council meetings are held at the inn. They produce significant sales. I'd have to sell the inn to take the mayor's office."

"You've owned it since you were eighteen, Morgan. Is that what you want?"

"I don't know," he admitted truthfully. "I'm flattered to be their choice, of course. We could build the schoolhouse that much sooner. Certainly as mayor, I'd finally have more influence in such matters. It's a chance to leave my mark."

"Yes," she nodded, watching and waiting.

"Please don't look at me like that," he groaned. "It should be a simple decision, but it's the most difficult I've ever faced. Selling my granary to have you was easy by comparison. You've just restored my assets and salvaged the inn. Wouldn't you now be dismayed to see me abandon it?"

"You fought Cameron and Elaine to help me obtain my father's estate. You weren't distressed when I was forced to liquidate. You were angry I wasn't more anxious to do it!" Suddenly her teasing manner was gone. "Oh Morgan, you're so pale and tired. You should rest."

She ordered Lorella to fix a supper tray and they retired early that evening. Richelle sensed that Morgan only feigned sleep, but she wasn't disturbed or particularly surprised. He was considering all he'd learned—about her, about himself, and their future. He needed time with his private thoughts.

But she noted hours later when she stirred in her sleep that his arm wasn't wrapped around her. Yet his steady, even breathing told her he slumbered soundly.

He never felt the brush of her lips on his face or heard the desperation in her whispered prayers.

Chapter 32

Richelle cracked open the door just after nine the following morning. Morgan was in his robe, seated in the armchair. "You're up! I was going to let you sleep. You look much better."

"I got the best night's sleep I've had in ages." She crossed behind him and went to the windows, opening the lacy curtains to admit the pale sunshine.

"You didn't toss and turn with indecision about the inn."

"Nay, I didn't. I was genuinely exhausted after yesterday's ordeal. I came very close to losing the dearest person in my life. Yet having said that, I've never felt the powerful kinship I feel towards her today. It's odd, isn't it? Even odder that she's offered no preference about the inn."

"You openly admitted you wanted a son, but would have taken precautions against ever having one if I'd asked. You observed, quite correctly, that pregnancy and labor are the woman's risk. You allowed me to reach my own conclusion whether the risk was worth taking."

"You made the choice I hoped you would, though. I admire your courage, Richelle."

"And I've always admired yours, sir. After all, you're the one who knowingly married Richelle Nash—accused murderess from the wild and woolly frontier."

"You know, it's really quite remarkable that I did that. I've always been known for a cool head and rational judgment. Whatever could I have been thinking?"

She folded her arms. "That I'm very much like you, Morgan."

"Ha! You're a Colonial!" he scoffed.

"An American," she corrected. "By accident of birth. My blood's as English as yours."

His expression grew stern. "You're far too outspoken for a female."

"And you need to match wits with someone of intelligence," she shot back.

"Absolutely brazen in your displays of affection."

She gave him a sultry look. "Are you saying that's a flaw, Sir Lion?"

"Not as long as I'm the sole recipient of those displays. The elders expect a certain decorum from the mayor. It would help if my wife maintained a bit more reserve."

They glared at each until they both burst into rollicking laughter. Morgan sobered first. "Please come here a moment, Richelle."

She approached his chair, frowning. "Are you feeling weaker? Heavens, you must be starving! Lorella has breakfast for you. I'll go down and fetch the tray."

"Nay, it's not my gut bothering me." He reached for her hand, pressing it to his chest. "Higher. Right about here. There's something important I forgot to say. There's never been a moment when I haven't been honored to be your husband, Richelle. I stand tall with you beside me. I'm proud you bear my name, and that pride in you has never faltered. Not even when I learned of the charge against you."

She instantly burst into tears. "Now I've gone and done it," he sighed, cradling her against his upper body. He held her while she writhed and sobbed.

"Mercy!" came her muffled gasp. "My stomach's gone hard as a rock. I think..." Her words trailed off as they both stared at the spreading damp spot on the front of her dress. "Your child's decided to make his appearance."

Morgan bellowed for Lorella to summon the doctor, then hobbled beside Richelle, helping her into bed. She struggled to pull off her wet garments before covering herself with the quilt. "Have her go...right away," she panted. "Dr. Rowe said to send for him immediately. Baby hasn't turned. Only a chance, but there could be trouble this time, too."

"Rowe told you the babe hadn't turned? Why the hell didn't you tell me this before?"

Richelle waited until the contraction eased. "He told me the same morning as your accident. I honestly forgot, I was so worried about you, and with everything else going on, I didn't want to worry you about—"

"Richelle, I'm a grown man! I'm perfectly capable of—"

Lorella burst in, her features mottled with an angry flush. "If you two don't stop carrying on like a pair of hissing cats, I swear I'll toss a basin of dishwater over you both! You got a baby coming, and he's not going to wait until you iron out your petty differences. You sir," she carped, shaking a forefinger at Morgan, "either take this chair and talk nicely to her, or I'll help you down to the kitchen. There's a fresh bottle of brandy behind the sugar in the pantry."

Richelle looked from one to the other and began to giggle helplessly. Soon the giggles became whooping peals of laughter, cut off abruptly as the next pain hit.

"Your mistress could use a spot of that brandy in some hot tea," Morgan told the maid. "Bring some on a tray before you go. And take Patrick with you. I'll look after my wife until the doctor comes."

Richelle inhaled deeply as Morgan reached for her hand. "I'm sorry I forgot to tell you about the baby. I've honestly been so worried about you and that leg..."

Morgan smoothed the thick auburn locks from her forehead. "Rowe will turn the child, should it be necessary. He's done it before. You've a tough fight ahead, but I'm right here at your side as promised, Colonial." His eyes were a soft, shimmering gray in the stove's firelight.

"How is it you're so calm about this? Most expectant fathers bolt from the room when their wives go into labor."

"Ah, but remember, I spent my boyhood working on farms. This isn't precisely unfamiliar to me."

"I didn't realize a farm boy's chores extended to helping the farmers' wives give birth. Just what did you do to earn your pay?"

He flashed her a look of mock indignation. "You're always suspecting me of improper behavior."

"If you never engaged in any, I'd hardly be in this situation, would I?"

He patted her hand and beamed at her. "That's my girl. Keep your sense of humor. Phantom and a good many other heads of valuable livestock have me to thank for their arrivals."

"Now I'm certain you're jesting with me."

"Madam, you know very well I never jest. Besides sweeping out manure and stacking hay, I often found myself helping a cow bring forth a new calf. I've turned newborns in the tunnel more than once. Always had strong, slender fingers and arms."

"Please don't elaborate." Richelle felt slightly queasy.

"Sorry for the indelicacy. However," he frowned, "It occurs to me that our good doctor lives a fair distance beyond the outskirts of the village, and this is not your first." He hobbled to the washstand and rolled up his sleeves. Then he began vigorously scrubbing his hands and forearms.

"Morgan! You can't mean to suggest you're going to—" Her words were cut off by another sharp pain.

"I've sworn to provide any and all necessary assistance. Don't ask me to break my oath now. I'm deeply indebted to you, my love, in ways I'll never be able to fully repay. This would be but a small comfort." His eyes held hers. "You know I'd never hurt you, Richelle. I thought we'd established your trust in me." She nodded and held her breath.

He was extremely gentle. He probed cautiously and a smile broke across his face. "That babe's not turned wrong, Richelle! I felt the head. You're doing fine!"

"Oh Morgan, honestly?"

"Aye. Now take a sip of the tea Lorella made you," he directed, bringing the cup to her lips. Lorella had also provided a sandwich for him. He took a bite and began talking as he chewed. "Remember the pirates? You were afraid for your very life then, but you listened to me and made it through. Listen again now. You'll come through this fine, and so will the babe."

She panted, clinging tightly to his hand and resisting the urge to bear down. Morgan never winced, never adjusted his hand, just let her crush his fingers when she needed to and continued to smile.

At last the doctor appeared. "How's she doing?"

"Fine, Doc," Morgan grinned. "Normal presentation, head's pretty low. She's opening up nicely. Won't be long."

Richelle felt her face redden. "Morgan!" she hissed. "I think the doctor can decide for himself how matters are progressing."

"Right as rain!" the doctor pronounced as he examined her. "You're fortunate to have this fellow for your midwife, you know." Dr. Rowe gave Richelle a wink and grinned at Morgan. "He's delivered some of the finest animals in Northern England. Never lost a foal or calf yet."

"When I begin munching oats, I'll take comfort in that."

"I see I'm no longer appreciated," Morgan sniffed in mock offense. "I'll go have some of that brandy, then." He started toward the doorway.

Richelle shook her head violently, seizing the doctor's arm. "The stairs! He can't make it down alone."

The doctor glanced at Morgan. "She's got a ways to go yet." He'd left a crutch by the door, and handed Morgan the padded end. He ran his hand along the damaged thigh. "Thought I told you to stay off that leg. How's it feeling?"

"Never better," Morgan replied, staring into his wife's dark eyes. "Might I have a word alone with my wife before you help me downstairs?"

Dr. Rowe nodded and quit the room. Morgan eased onto the edge of the bed and spoke in a serious tone. "You were right about the marriage aboard the ship. Before I arrived at your aunt's house, I'd already set my mind to do whatever was required to keep you in my life. I misled you about passage knowing full well I'd never let you go anywhere without me. I did purposely deceive you to get what I wanted. My own goal was all that mattered."

"I've forgiven you, remember?"

"I did it because I longed to make you mine from the first moment I held you in my arms and kissed you. Even though marriage terrified me. I wanted you so much." He reached for her hand. "Other than wanting you for myself then, I've never wanted anything as much as I now pray to watch you suckle a healthy child. Son or daughter, makes no difference. Just so long as the babe's healthy and you're blessed at last, Richelle. Because you've been denied motherhood for so long."

She grimaced again with a fresh wave of pain. Morgan's voice lowered. "I never understood about your inheritance and why you defied me, spending it to restore my assets. I thought you meant to pay me to forget how you'd hidden the pregnancy. And it hurt my businessman's pride to accept that you had so much, while I was barely able to keep even this modest little place. Your wealth made me feel a failure."

"Only in your eyes, Morgan. Never in mine."

"I suppose part of it was my own guilt, for tricking you into a marriage you didn't want. I couldn't also lay claim to your inheritance. But I've sorted things out in my mind, and I know it wasn't my assets you salvaged, Richelle. It was my hopes and dreams. You've understood from the first what trade means to me. It's more than money. It's my whole future."

Tears trickled from her eyes as she gazed at him. "My father believed that, too. If only you could have known him."

He caressed her cheek with his palm, wiping the tears with his thumb. "I'm sorry I never got the chance. He was a fine man. Everyone I met said as much. And I don't know his perception of his business interests, but you're mistaken about mine."

"Mistaken?"

"I'd throw away everything I have for you, Richelle. You are the one asset beyond price—the only asset my future and dreams can ever be built upon. I can't explain how completely you've changed my life. I owe you such a debt, and now I've got the chance to repay it.

"Morgan, you don't owe me. We're together, that's all that matters to me."

"Nay, this child matters. Push hard when it's time to bear down. Believe in your Bargainer and don't be afraid." He moved unsteadily from the bed to the door.

"Not that I don't want to believe in you, but—"

Richelle thought she imagined tears glistening in his pale eyes, but it might have been a trick of the light. Or the dampness in her own.

"I had a talk with the Almighty, beloved wife. We struck a bargain between us. I've put up the use of my leg against your welfare and the child's. I had a long talk with Him. He knows I'm a man of my word. I know full well the power of His."

Richelle gasped, but not from the pain of childbirth. "You asked God to leave you crippled?"

The resolve on his face hit harder than any contraction yet. "Aye, if that's the price of your dream, Richelle."

Epilogue

Richelle sat ramrod straight in the crowded pew as her gaze swept the church. Every row was filled. Morgan was seated immediately to her left, mustache neatly groomed, the thong gone from his hair. His mane had been shorn to just grazing the top of his starched collar. Lorella was on Richelle's right, holding tight to Malcolm's hand. She would be back in a month to wed Malcolm and move into the Entwistle's farmhouse.

The vicar called Morgan and his wife forward. Morgan flashed Richelle a look he hoped conveyed the mingled uncertainty and solemn pride in his soul and rose to his feet. He waited as Lorella transferred the chubby bundle from her lap into Richelle's arms. Silently Morgan laid his cane across the wooden pew behind him. He heard several audible gasps. He ignored them, moving stiffly to join his wife and David Entwistle in the nave. The vicar asked David a question.

"Regan Hardwick Tremayne," came the resonant answer.

Richelle barely heard the words. She saw Morgan standing tall with nothing in either hand. Balancing Regan in the crook of her arm, she reached for Morgan's right hand with the fingers of her left. Their twin signets came together in one soft, burnished glow. Morgan had insisted upon naming their son Regan—half Rachel, half Morgan. It was a good name, she reflected as the baby loudly voiced his complaint at the rush of water over his brow. A strong name for the son of a strong man.

They stepped into the crisp spring air. Chrissandra tugged at Richelle's sleeve and whispered something in her ear. Richelle smiled broadly and nodded in the direction of her husband and Dr. Rowe. The women moved to where the men stood talking. The doctor cautioned Morgan about pushing himself and the leg too hard.

Richelle drew her husband aside. "He's right, Morgan. You're not overtired, are you? You haven't been without the cane for so long before."

"I'm fine, love."

She gave him her warmest smile. "We'll be attending another christening before long. Your partner's going to be a father, if Dr. Rowe confirms what Chrissy suspects."

Morgan glanced at Chrissandra, then at Lorella holding hands with Malcolm. He shook his head in exasperation. "You've managed to hasten the demise of our bachelor population, Richelle Tremayne," he scolded in mock severity. "We allow one little Colonial widow into our midst, and look what comes of it."

Thomas and Emily stepped up beside them. "Aye! Little American's the best thing ever befell this village," Thomas declared. "Told Emily for years Swanson was cheating on the ale shipments. Rachel finally got the figures to prove it. Won't cheat me again, now that I own the bloody place!"

"Want to thank you again for your help with the banker, Mr. Tremayne. I'll have the last of your funds to you next week. We're honored you offered the place to us, rather than selling to strangers. Know it wasn't easy for you to part with the inn. We'll take good care for you, and in Andrew's memory. You're welcome to drinks on us any time, sir. In moderation," Thomas winked.

Morgan frowned. "What's this 'sir' and 'Mr. Tremayne' business? When did I stop being Morgan?"

Emily went red in the face now. "It's not that we're not fond of you as ever, Morgan, but you're the mayor now! I mean sir, eh...Your Honor," she stammered. She held up an elegant silver and ebony walking stick. "And you forgot your cane, Your Honor, sir."

"Yes, he did," Richelle answered, reaching for it. "Thank you, Emily."

Morgan signaled for their carriage. Richelle waved good-bye to Chrissy as Regan yanked on the filigreed silver handle of the cane. He pulled it in close to his face, infant eyes wide and intent. He was soon happily gnawing on the handle, gurgling softly.

Morgan reached for his son. "Richelle, our son is slobbering all over my best cane."

"I know. But seeing you have no need of it any longer, I didn't think you'd mind, Your Honor."

His scowl deepened as gray eyes locked on hers. "Are you deliberately trying to provoke me, madam?"

She let her hips sway as she stepped up into the carriage and turned to smile over her shoulder at him. Her wicked, sultriest smile. "Indeed, sir. Oh yes, indeed."

THE END