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.
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