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?"<
br />
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.
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