Devil's Lady

by Patricia Rice

  There was nothing he could say. He took her in his arms, and when she did not protest, he leaned back against the wide mattress, carrying her with him. His feet were still on the floor. His intentions were of the purest. There was none to know how they spent this night. He nestled her against his side, stroked her hair, and prayed to a God he had long since deserted.

  It was dawn before she finally whispered, “I killed him, didn’t I?”

  Morgan considered denying it. Perhaps it was callousness that made him tell the truth.

  “It was Tucker, lass. He meant to murder me in my bed. It would not have gone well for you had he succeeded. You did the only thing you could have done.”

  “I did not mean to do it,” she wailed softly. “I did not mean to shoot at all. It just happened. How could it happen like that?”

  Morgan cradled her head against his shoulder and pressed a kiss to her unruly hair. “I do not know, my cailin, but I am glad for it. He would have coshed my head and carved my heart and thought no more of it. I was a fool to think myself so safe that I need not keep my firearm at my side. I’ll not let it happen again.”

  Morgan’s voice was as thick and soothing as warm honey, and his strong arms made Faith feel safe and protected. As long as she did not have to open her eyes, she could pretend it never happened. She wanted to stay here forever. She wanted to feel more of his kisses.

  That startled Faith into looking up. She could see the harsh jutting angles of Morgan’s profile, and the gentle curve of his lips. He was such a contradiction, even in his features, that she never knew what to expect of him. But she knew she could not stay here forever.

  Morgan let her go without any sign of reluctance, but his dark-lashed hazel eyes watched her.

  “I will have to go away now,” Faith announced matter-of-factly. “They will come looking for me. I cannot shame my father’s name.”

  A grin spread across the highwayman’s face. “You have a high opinion of English justice, lass. Even should Tucker be missed, which is doubtful, do you think it is written on the air that one Faith Montague perpetrated the crime? Nay, lass, I think it best you stay with me awhile. When you leave here, it shall be as Lord Montague’s granddaughter, and no one will dare accuse you of anything other than foolishness.”

  “Foolishness!” Faith glared down at his blasted laughing eyes. “Of what foolishness do I stand accused?”

  “Of trusting an Irish papist highwayman, my lass. But how’s a child to know a rogue from a knight? I’ll ransom you in return for my good name, or keep you here in domestic bliss forever, or until my neck is stretched, whichever comes first. Do you think we might have a morsel to eat?”

  Fury flared through her, a white-hot fury Faith had never dared to free in all her life. A man had died this night—at her hand—and he made jests! He talked of hanging and asked for food! Was he insane?

  She struck his arm, knowing she hurt her hand more than the iron-clad muscle she abused. “There is a dead man out there, with family somewhere. They could be left to starve. I could hang for protecting your worthless life. We should be praying for our immortal souls. And all you think of is your stomach! How could you?”

  She leapt from the comforting shelter of his arms and fled toward the door. Morgan could not follow so easily. His leg had grown stiff, and the pain in just sitting up was excruciating. He cursed himself, he cursed Tucker, and he cursed the little imp from Satan who made him feel the biggest fool alive.

  He had spent nearly a decade denying his conscience, hardening himself to the kind of life he must lead to win back what had been taken from him. This little imp would smite him with feelings he didn’t want or need.

  He found his stick and dragged himself to the hearth to start the morning fire.

  By the time Faith returned to the cottage, he had set the fire roaring, burned a pan of bacon, and filled the air with the aroma of overcooked coffee. He was contentedly scorching toast in the bacon grease when she entered.

  He looked up but said nothing at the sight of her bedraggled chemise-clad figure. Her braid had come partially undone and fell across the overlarge folds of her bodice. Her bare legs bore the scratches of her flight. He noted their length and shapeliness but politely turned his eyes back to the fire.

  He really did need to find out how old she was. She buried herself in linen and wool, so that it was impossible to gauge her age. But this glimpse of her in the morning light revealed a perfectly proportioned filly of small stature, not the gawky child he had imagined. Perhaps she was not amply endowed, but that did not mean those weren’t a woman’s curves beneath her threadbare shift.

  When she came down, she was properly clothed in her old brown dress. There was nothing bony about her rounded arms, and Morgan once more averted his eyes to the fire. He could pamper a child and send her on her way. A young virgin was quite another kettle of fish.

  Morgan turned his crisp toast with his knife. “Will you have a bite to eat?”

  She politely took her seat at the table. “Just some toast, if you do not mind.”

  Setting his jaw, Morgan pried a piece of toast loose and dropped it on the table before her.

  Faith quivered at the return of the taciturn stranger, but she bravely took her toast.

  Swallowing a lump in her throat that had little to do with the wretched toast, Faith spoke. “The weather is more favorable now. If your leg does not bother you too much, I had best be on my way. By the time you are well enough to travel, it will be warm enough to let the horses loose.”

  He shook his head and sipped his coffee. “You’ll not be leaving until I can go to London and find your family. You would not even make it safely through the forest on your own.”

  Knowing now the kind of men who lived here, Faith acknowledged the truth of his words, but still, she watched him warily. He did not meet her eyes. Did he mean to hold her for ransom, after all?

  “I have no wish to be a burden to you. I have made it across the breadth of England without your help. Surely London cannot be much farther.”

  Morgan glared at her. “You will stay and I will hear no more argument. Have the horses been watered?”

  Faith blinked, felt a lightness in her chest, and nodded.

  She might be three kinds of a fool, but she didn’t want to leave. Gratefully she offered, “Shall I fry some eggs for you? You could see to your leg while they’re cooking. The water should be warm by now.”

  She didn’t want her to leave just yet. There would be time enough later, when the weather grew warm.

  ***

  “What do you mean, there is no trace of her? Is the country so large that a child can disappear into it? Do we harbor red Indians who will carry her off to their camps? Have the Gypsies declared her queen and spirited her back to their homeland? Do not give me your faradiddle, Watson! I’ll have her whereabouts or your head.”

  The rotund man with wisps of hair around his gleaming bald pate struggled with his unaccustomed cravat as the tall lord paced the library like a hungry tiger. He should have worn a wig, Watson decided. A wig would have made him a gentleman, and his lordship would not speak to a gentleman thus.

  Mountjoy swung around and glared at the silent Runner. “Well? Have you nothing to say for yourself?”

  Watson drew in his stomach and tried for a portentous voice. “There are many things that might befall a child on such a journey. This has been a harsh winter. It is possible we might find her bones in the hedgerows at some future date. We can continue searching for as long as you require, my lord.”

  Mountjoy’s color turned choleric, and he lifted his arm as if to bodily fling this purveyor of bad news from the room. “Get out! Get out before I have you thrown out, you damned excuse for a man. I’ll box your ears if you linger! I’ll report your impudence to Fielding. I’ll see you drawn and quartered should you show your face in my presence again.”

  Paling, seeing all hopes of promotion fly out the window, Watson scurried out. Far be it from h
im to report that a girl resembling the subject in question had been seen at a wayside inn known to harbor some of the countryside’s worst criminals. That remark would undoubtedly cost him his head. Let someone else tell his high-and-mighty lordship that his granddaughter may have fallen among thieves and harlots.

  In the library, Mountjoy paced the jewel-like colors of his newly acquired Persian rug. He condemned all the incompetent idiots of the world. He vilified his son and the Wesleyans. He cursed Lettice and her tear-filled pleas. Then he rang the bell and summoned a servant to bring his elder—and now only—son to him.

  If something weren’t done soon, his title would die with the foppish macaroni he called heir, and who would never produce a child.

  A granddaughter, indeed! Damn George, he couldn’t even manage to produce a grandson.

  Chapter 8

  Faith stared in disbelief as Morgan settled his tricorne on his thick hair, threw back his cloak to check the fastening of his scabbard, and strode toward the door with a still-noticeable limp.

  “You are mad! You cannot go out like this. Your leg is not yet healed. The ride will tear it open again.”

  Morgan turned impatiently. “It is mending. That’s all that is necessary. See to the horses and I’ll return in a day or two.”

  It had been nearly a month since he had ridden out. Faith had hoped that might mean an end to his marauding. She could see now that she had been a fool to think so, but even shattered hopes were hard to give up.

  “Please, Morgan, don’t go. We have enough provisions to last for months. I can start a garden. With Melisandra in foal, you could make a tidy sum at the fair. You needn’t go out.”

  One black brow went up. “Melisandra?”

  Faith had the grace to blush, but didn’t lower her gaze. “She needs a name. That’s what I call her.”

  “Call her what you will. She’ll be sold come fall. I’m going now.” He strode out without giving chance for further protest.

  Faith stared at the closed door and fought back tears. She had tried to divert him from his villainous ways. She had hoped to atone for her crime by returning Morgan to the Christian life. If he could not see the path of righteousness, she could not lead him to it. It was time she took steps toward her own salvation.

  She did not dare borrow Morgan’s horses without permission. So in the morning, after she had set the house to rights and seen the animals fed and watered, she set out on foot. If nothing else, she knew there was an inn nearby. Inns had need of cooks and house maids. She was quite accomplished at such chores.

  Actually, she acknowledged with a wry grin, she could fill the position of ostler, if required.

  It was well after noon before Faith found the inn. It looked shabbier in the daylight than she remembered. The faded sign of a rampaging bull dangled from only one link. The ancient leaded glass in the tavern window was so filthy as to make it useless for letting in light. The mud and wattle between the half-timbered siding was chinked and moldy and hadn’t seen whitewash in a century, if ever.

  Refusing to be discouraged, Faith stepped inside the dusky interior. The brisk March wind had done nothing to air the reek of ale and cooked cabbage. The odors of unwashed chamber pots mixed with other noisome stenches that she had not noticed the night she had arrived on Morgan’s arm. Morgan had a way of waving his hand and making the unpleasant disappear.

  Drawing her frayed cloak tighter, Faith searched for the proprietor.

  When he finally waddled out, the innkeeper was taken aback by her soft-spoken request for employment. Ladies did not work in public houses, and certainly not ones like this. When she pulled back her cloak to reveal her youth, a head of russet hair capped in a scrap of lace, and innocent wide eyes, he nearly choked—until he remembered her in his taproom some months ago.

  She had been with Black Jack. He swept his gaze down her slender figure, but the cloak concealed any sign of a swelling belly. Well, if Black Jack had tired of her, then his patrons would enjoy a new face.

  Nodding his head and wiping his sweaty hands on his apron, the innkeeper agreed. “Ye can begin with the linens. T’night, I’ll set ye to the taproom.” Her smile of pleasure quelled any further doubts. Wait until the boys saw the surprise he had for them!

  ***

  Faith frowned at the tightness of the bodice stays Mrs. Whitehead had insisted that she wear. She knew maids were expected to wear uniforms, but she had scarcely expected one so indiscreet. Her small breasts were pushed up until they resembled overripe melons. How was she supposed to work in such binding?

  She had no mirror. She wished for a brooch to keep her kerchief securely fastened over her bosom, but she had to be satisfied with tucking the ends inside her bodice and praying they would not work loose.

  The skirt and petticoat were too long, thank goodness. The last maid must have been of taller stature. They would be a nuisance, but better than revealing any more than the gown already did.

  Changing the linens and emptying slop jars was tedious, but Faith was experienced and efficient and accomplished it with little instruction. Proudly, she discovered she had time to scrub the jars.

  She was offered a tankard of ale, a bowl of stew, and a chunk of stale bread for her supper. Sitting in the kitchen, Faith eyed the grease-coated hearth and utensils with doubt and an itch to scrub them, but no one had mentioned a need for a kitchen maid.

  She wondered what Morgan would do if he came home tonight and found a cold hearth and an empty table. She had hoped to find a position to occupy only her daylight hours, but surely he would understand if she must work the evenings too.

  She had finally found work and was well on her way to independence. Let him put that in his hat and lump it.

  She wasn’t feeling quite so confident a little while later when she stood behind the bar washing tankards. It was early yet, and the room was nearly empty, but the smoke and the dimness and the male laughter made her edgy.

  Molly had already made it clear that the tables were her territory, and Faith gratefully agreed to that. She tried to keep her back to the room as she washed and dried, but the occasional shout from behind her made her jump often enough.

  The cheap, high table that served as bar between kegs and customers was never intended for more than overflow from the tables, so Faith held back uncertainly when two of the customers strode up and demanded refills. That was Molly’s job, and she sent the other girl a questioning look. But Molly was squirming on the lap of one of the gentlemen in the corner and took no heed of her plight.

  Shrugging her shoulders, Faith took their tankards and filled them at the keg. Instead of returning to their table, they lingered, their gazes following her, their whispered words not so quiet that they kept her ears from burning.

  Faith had no illusions about her looks. She was small. She had the height of a child—and nearly the figure of one, when compared to Molly. Her eyes were too large for her face, her nose too small. Brown matted leaves had the same charm as her unruly curls. She had braided and wrapped them around her head, but wisps were escaping and sticking to her brow from the heat of the steamy water and the huge log in the hearth.

  It could only be the blamed bodice that they were seeing.

  A familiar voice rang out behind her, and Faith swung in surprise and greeting. The red-haired youth Morgan had introduced to her was working his way toward the bar, and from the grin on his angular jaw, he remembered her. It was good to see a friendly face.

  The two customers at the bar watched Toby’s approach with disfavor.

  “Why, an’ it’s little Faith I be seein’!” he exclaimed with a grin at his own poor jest. “Did Jack decide he might share ye with us lesser mortals?”

  Faith drew him a tankard and placed it on the bar. “Jack has no say over me. How have you been keeping, Toby?”

  He raised a puzzled eyebrow and cast a glance askance at the two blackguards slavering over her, then raised his tankard. “To independence, then, lass.”

&nbs
p; The tavern began to fill. Faith hastily returned to washing tankards while a crowd swarmed the bar. Molly gave her filthy looks, but Mr. Whitehead beamed approvingly as Faith filled cup after cup.

  She just wished the men weren’t so blatant in their personal comments. Perhaps she ought to teach them that wasn’t polite.

  “She’s a shy ’un, Matt. Maybe we ought to break ’er into the traces.”

  Faith recognized the voice as one belonging to a black- bearded individual who had been particularly loud in his admiration all evening. She ignored him as she scrubbed at the latest lot of tankards Molly had dumped into the basin. The water was no longer warm, but that didn’t seem to bother anyone.

  “’Ere, girl, bring us another,” a man named Matt shouted.

  Faith dried her hands on the soaked towel and reached for two clean mugs. They seemed to find that remarkably funny, but it seemed a filthy habit to refill a dirty mug.

  Their hot gazes raked her exaggerated bosom as she brought them their drinks and accepted their money, but she was unprepared for the heavy hand reaching over the bar to grab her arm as she took the coins.

  “There’s some in that for you, girl. Just give us a kiss now.” The black-bearded man leaned over the bar and jerked her forward.

  Faith screamed and instinctively swung the heavy tankard. The pewter caught Black-beard on the jaw, and he yelped. His companion roared with laughter and reached to join the game.

  “Let’s give her a welcome, boys. She’s a feisty one, but I take my turn first.” With a burly arm, the man called Matt grabbed Faith’s waist and lifted her bodily from the floor.

  Faith struggled, but the bar between them kept her from kicking, and the tight binding of her laces didn’t allow much movement. A heavy hand squeezed her breast, and she screamed in outrage as Matt’s breath fouled her face.