The innkeeper’s wife charged forward. “You stay right there, Hobbs,” she commanded. “I think there’s a law against it! I don’t think a man can walk up and throw any woman he wants over his shoulder and walk off. Not if she’s paid her fare. That’s not right.”
“Unless he has a good reason to throw the woman over his shoulder,” the innkeeper mused, as if this were a salient point. He addressed Grant. “Do you have a good reason, sir?”
Grant didn’t give a damn about reasons. He was bloody tired, and every muscle in his body ached from the bruising chase Miss Abbott had forced him to undertake.
Now that he’d found her, he was feeling a bit short of tact…and yet he could see from the faces in the crowd that these people weren’t the type to listen to an explanation about banks and guardianships. If he wasn’t careful, they would put Miss Abbott back on the coach and he’d have to chase her to Portsmouth. He’d fight every man jack of them with his bare fists before he’d let that happen.
The woman’s words made Miss Abbott twist and wriggle all the more. Grant decided to take command of the situation.
Flipping her off his shoulder so that her feet hit the ground hard—a movement that caught her by surprise and, thankfully, temporarily deprived her of speech—he clapped his hands down on her shoulders to hold her in place and announced, “She’s my wife.”
Grant didn’t know whose shocked gasp was the loudest: the innkeeper’s wife’s, the passengers’, or Miss Abbott’s. He’d chosen the right words. Immediately the crowd’s favor swung from the runaway to him.
He played the jilted husband to the hilt. “She’s running away to join her lover—”
“My lover?” Miss Abbott spit out, obviously finding her voice.
“—a sailor,” Grant continued, as if she hadn’t even spoken.
The crowd gave a murmur of disapproval. Several voices whispered in knowing tones.
Grant nodded his head. “He’s so completely turned her head with his foreign talk and pretty baubles that she’s running away to meet him in Portsmouth, leaving me behind with the children.”
“Children?” the innkeeper’s wife said, her voice soft with dismay.
“Children?” Miss Abbott shouted. She jerked away and turned to confront him, her hands on her hips.
“Aye, Phadra darling,” Grant said, laying his act of lovesick husband on thick. “You must come back before they wake up wondering where their mother ran off to. Tonight little Miranda called and called to you before she finally cried herself to sleep.”
“Oh, I bet little Miranda cried out my name,” Miss Abbott shot back. She straightened the bonnet that tilted over her eyes, the ribbons hanging completely undone—and then almost immediately realized that it had been the wrong thing to say.
The innkeeper’s wife asked in a horrified voice, “Are you unnatural? Are you unmoved by the cries of your child?”
Phadra turned to the woman. “Trust me, Miranda doesn’t worry about me at all.”
“But she’s your child,” the innkeeper’s wife said, bristling with righteous indignation. “A child needs its mother.”
“It’s not like that—,” she started to explain, but a snap of the whip cut her off.
“I’ve had enough of this!” the coachman announced. “I’ve got the mail to get through.” He turned on his heel and marched toward the waiting coach.
“Wait!” Phadra cried, starting to move after him. “I’m going with you.”
Mr. Morgan stepped in front of her, his hands reaching down to grab her wrists. “No, darling, don’t leave me,” he cried dramatically. “The children and I need you.”
Phadra thought she could murder him. She doubled her fists and would have punched him in the nose if his superior strength hadn’t been able to hold her flailing arms at bay. “Let go of me, you—you—” She searched for a name bad enough to call him. “You rat! You scum! You banker!”
“Phadra, does this mean you don’t love me anymore?” he asked in his subservient-husband voice. She could see the laughter in his quicksilver eyes.
“I hate you,” she muttered, and moved in closer to him to give him a kick in the shins.
“It’s all for the best, dear,” he answered, his words coming out in puffs as he dodged her kicking feet. He turned her in his arms and held her firmly in place, then looked at the innkeeper. “Now, about that rig I need to hire…”
“Jim, hitch up a team,” the innkeeper commanded. “This man has to get to London before dawn.” He turned toward Mr. Morgan, his manner solicitous. “Are you sure you can manage her, sir?”
“Aye,” Mr. Morgan assured him grandly even as Phadra managed to connect her booted foot with his shin. He grunted, his hold breaking, and she pushed away to run after the mail coach, her bonnet tumbling off her head in her haste.
“Wait!” she cried, dismayed to see the coachman swing up into his place. She had to get on that coach. She had to! Suddenly she felt strong arms around her waist, pulling her back to him.
She prepared to fight, balling her hands into fists. But then Mr. Morgan did something she never would have anticipated in a million years.
Instead of grabbing her arms again, instead of holding her prisoner, instead of any of the dozens of things he could have done that she was prepared to guard herself against, he did the unexpected.
He kissed her.
Phadra didn’t even realize it until his lips came down on hers, and when she started to gasp in surprise, she found her mouth locked with his. His action startled her. She started to struggle until a part of her realized this was actually very pleasant, a far cry from Popov the poet’s wet, sloppy kisses.
Grant Morgan tasted of the night fog, of hidden secrets, and of something so incredible that Phadra found him impossible to resist. She leaned into him, her mouth now exploring his, timidly at first but then more boldly. His hold on her relaxed. No longer did he grip her arms; rather, he caressed her back, bringing her closer into the strength and protection of his arms—and the kiss deepened in magic ways that Phadra had never imagined possible. She wrapped her arms around his neck and held on for everything she was worth.
From the dim recesses of what was left of her mind, she heard the blast of the guard’s horn and a crack of the whip as the mail coach took off into the night without her.
Phadra was only vaguely aware that he had pulled his lips away from hers. She leaned forward, anxious to return to his melting kisses, when she heard him say clearly and succinctly to the innkeeper, “Is the team ready?”
“That it is, sir,” the innkeeper confirmed as a small two-passenger post chaise and a team of horses rolled forward into the torchlight.
Phadra shoved against his body with all her might. He freed her this time. And why not? she thought furiously. The coach to Portsmouth was gone and with it her hopes.
She turned to the innkeeper angrily. “How dare you believe him over me! How dare you let him lie to you? There is no sailor! This man has no rights over me at all.”
“It appeared to me that you gave him a good number of rights a moment ago,” the man replied sagely. “And you should count your blessings. If you were my wife, I would have beaten you.”
Phadra had a few choice words to say about that—until a round of guffaws and giggles from the maids and stable hands made her realize that her complete and absolute humiliation had had a rather large audience. Her cheeks flamed. How could she have responded so wantonly to Grant Morgan?
The force of his kiss had shaken her to the very root of her being, but he stood there calm and unruffled. Sweet Mary, she was no more levelheaded than any of the silly women who dropped their gloves for him or flirted openly.
Phadra picked up her bonnet from the dust at her feet. Her head held high, she said, “This isn’t over yet.”
“No,” he agreed soberly, his eyes hard and determined. “We’re not back in London. Back to little Miranda.”
Phadra’s palm itched to slap him—but she wouldn�
��t give him the satisfaction. “You had better watch what you wish for, Mr. Morgan. You may get your wish.”
With that grim announcement, she squared her shoulders and marched proudly to the waiting post chaise, its coach lamps lit for the dangerous night journey.
Phadra sat as close to the coach door as she could, her bonnet in her lap. That still didn’t mean that her body didn’t touch Mr. Morgan’s after he’d settled with the innkeeper and climbed into the coach. For once she wished that he weren’t such a large man.
She also wished he weren’t such a masculine man. The taste of his kiss still haunted her.
After a half hour of traveling he broke the icy silence. “Is something wrong?” She could feel him turn toward her in the darkness.
“Wrong?” Phadra put anger into the word. “Why should anything be wrong? I mean, just because you made a fool of me in public with your lies and your deceit—”
“I was acting for your own good.”
“Oh! That’s a rich one. Whose good? Be honest, Mr. Morgan. You came after me to save your arranged marriage to a spoiled, petted woman, who has no idea of decency or good manners, so that you can earn a title. Well, you have earned a title in my esteem. Lord of Lies! How do you like that one?”
He snorted. Obviously he didn’t like that one at all, and Phadra felt a small measure of satisfaction.
When he spoke again, the tone of his voice was conciliatory, as if he was negotiating a difficult business transaction. “Miss Abbott, I’m aware of how much you wish to make contact with your father. However, the trip you were planning is dangerous, especially for a young woman alone—”
“It’s my life. My choice.”
“I can appreciate that sentiment. However—”
“Save me from your ‘howevers.’ I’m sick of ‘howevers.’ All my life I’ve had people pretend to agree with me and then tack on ‘however.’ ” Her tone changed to mimic Miss Agatha’s squeaky high voice. “ ‘Yes, Miss Abbott, you are very bright and could study Greek; however, it is not an acceptable language for a young woman’s studies.’ ” She dropped her voice in an imitation of Lady Evans’s round tones. “ ‘Hooow becoming that dress is on you, Phadra. However, it is not the mooode. We don’t want to be different, do we?’ ”
She turned to where he sat in the rolling coach. “But you’re the worst,” she said. “I think you genuinely do see and hear me, but still you give me a ‘however’ because you want everything nice and neat. You know what Lord Evans is guilty of, and yet you play his game and cater to his daughter because of what you want. But the devil take me about what I want! I want to see my father—”
“And you will, when he returns.”
“Don’t pretend with me, Mr. Morgan. You don’t even believe he is alive. But I do.” She leaned closer to him in the dark, the better to make her point, conscious of the firm, muscular tightness of his thigh beneath her palm—before she quickly moved it. “I have a dream, Mr. Morgan, that is just as important to me as the dreams you hold are to you. I want to find my father. I need to find him. There is no compromise to that dream, no ‘however.’ ” She threw herself back in the seat as far away from him as she could manage. The energy and spirit so necessary to her hopes and dreams drained from her body, to be replaced by an almost overwhelming sadness. She wrapped the bonnet’s ribbons around her hands before she added quietly, “It’s something I have to do…or I’ll never feel complete.”
He didn’t answer. She wished she could see his face, read his expression. Her open show of emotion embarrassed her. When, she wondered, had been the last time that she had revealed herself so completely to another human being?
She couldn’t remember.
They rode in silence for a while. Then his deep voice came to her through the night: “I’m sorry.”
Well, what did I expect? Phadra thought ruefully.
He continued, “But I can’t let you go off alone. It’s too dangerous. However—” He paused briefly after the word before he continued. “There are other resources to explore that may help you find your father. Letters, reports from men who have been in that part of the world.”
“I’ve talked to some men with the Royal Geographic Society since I’ve come to London. No one has heard of or from him.”
He said in a measured, thoughtful voice, “Most of the members of the Royal Geographic Society are chair-bound explorers. I have contacts through the bank—merchants, military men and others—who may have had word of Sir Julius during their travels. We could contact them.”
Phadra turned to him. “You would do that? You would help me?”
He made an impatient sound. “Of course. I bear no animosity toward you. I covered the payment for the fake emeralds and chased after you tonight not to teach you a lesson but because I care what happens to you.”
When he said, “I care what happens to you,” Phadra noticed he used the tone of voice one would use to express affection for a sister or other female relative. The sting of hurt surprised her.
“Let’s see if we understand each other,” he said slowly. “I’m here because I don’t want you ruined. Whether you believe it or not, a young woman’s reputation is of value to her. If Mrs. Shaunessy hadn’t told me—”
“Henny! She alerted you to my absence?” Phadra felt betrayed.
“Yes, but don’t hold it against her. She knows what a dangerous world it is out there and was only concerned for your safety.” When she made no comment, he continued, “She’ll be waiting for us at the servants’ entrance of Evans House. If all goes well, we should arrive in London before dawn and be able to sneak you in without the Evanses’ being the wiser. You are going to have to marry, Miss Abbott. I know you are not ready, but you must understand that someday you will want to, just as my sisters eventually wanted to. Unfortunately you must do this sooner than you wish, thanks to Lord Evans and your father’s exploits, but believe me when I say I’m committed to finding a companion who is acceptable to you.”
Phadra leaned her elbow against the door and rested her head on her forearm. He didn’t understand. He didn’t want to understand. She felt tired, defeated.
“Captain Duroy is planning to make an offer for you,” he added.
Phadra didn’t answer. What could she say? She demanded her freedom; he attempted to placate her by telling her she had a serious suitor for her hand. Was he deliberately being obtuse, or was it a trait of his gender in general?
“Miss Abbott?”
“Mr. Morgan?” she answered sarcastically, and then heaved a heavy sigh. “So the emeralds were fake,” she said as if stating a fact.
“Yes.”
“I wondered.”
A long pause drifted between them before he asked, “Aren’t you going to thank me for covering your debt? The goldsmith could have contacted the magistrate instead.”
“Yes,” she agreed, but added, “However, I would have been long gone by then.”
It wasn’t the answer he’d wanted. She could almost feel him staring at her through the dark.
She closed her eyes, wishing she could completely shut out the disturbing nearness of his presence. She forced herself to think instead of the goldsmith. He’d been a kind young man, and she had felt the worst sort of criminal in deceiving him. It had crossed her mind that the emerald pieces she’d received from her mother might also be fake. But she didn’t want to believe that her father could so thoroughly cheat both her and her mother.
The pressure of tears pushed against her closed eyelids. Not now. Not in front of him.
Why couldn’t she put this behind her? In a sense she knew Mr. Morgan was right. No good would come out of a direct confrontation with her father.
He gave an exasperated sigh, as if annoyed by her silence. “What do you want? I’m doing my best—”
The sound of a pistol shot interrupted him. A cry of alarm came from outside the post chaise. It sounded as if it came from the postboy, Jim. The loud, gruff voice of a highwayman answered her unsp
oken question by declaring, “Stand and deliver!”
Chapter 9
In the dark, Grant Morgan’s hand came down on her arm, and he squeezed as if commanding her to be silent. The human contact quelled the panic she felt rising inside of her. Dear Lord, what had the brigands done to the poor postboy?
“Come out, guv’nor, and bring your lady with that wad of pound notes she has in her pocket, and we’ll let you go with your lives,” the gruff voice commanded.
Mr. Morgan was silent for a moment, as if weighing the consequences. He wasn’t a man who liked to be forced to do another’s bidding. She knew how he felt. She wasn’t about to climb out of the coach and calmly turn over the balance of her five hundred pounds!
“I’m not getting out,” she whispered.
“Do you plan on fighting them off by yourself?”
“I have no intention of just handing my money over to them without a fight!”
“Whose money?” he asked dryly.
“Mine,” she snapped. “Your money purchased fake emeralds from the goldsmith.”
“I wondered how you’d justify that to yourself,” he muttered before reaching across her and placing his hand on the door handle.
Phadra boldly covered his hand with hers. “This is everything I have in the world. I’m not giving up without a fight!” She wished she could see his face.
“Then you are free to stay in this coach and let them blow holes in your hide, but I for one value my life over pound notes.” He turned the handle and pushed open the door.
In the dark, foggy night, the coach lamps cast an eerie light over the figures of three masked and hooded highwaymen. One stood holding a brace of pistols aimed at the door. Two others sat on horseback like silent specters. The horses impatiently stamped their hooves, their legs disappearing into the drifting fog along the ground. Phadra raised her hand to her throat, wishing that he’d never opened the coach door.
Mr. Morgan climbed out of the coach first, holding his hands in the air. He then turned and offered her his hand. Suddenly Phadra realized she didn’t want a pistol hole in her “hide,” as he’d succinctly put it. She placed her trembling hand in his. His touch was reassuring and warm. It gave her the courage to climb down the step and onto the hard, fog-shrouded ground.
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