Cachet

by Shannah Biondine

  "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 Am
erican 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!"