Devil's Lady

by Patricia Rice

  “Leave ’er alone, mate. She belongs to Jack and ’e’ll ’ave your skull if you touch ’er.” Toby spoke sensibly, although his change of accent warned of a change in mood, and his right hand rested on the hilt of his knife.

  Matt scoffed and dragged Faith onto the bar. Her skirts wrapped around her legs as she tried to kick free, and her hands beat futilely against impervious shoulders. The kerchief covering her breasts came loose with the mauling, and she nearly expired with fear as the man’s nasty mouth closed over hers.

  Other hands grabbed at her skirts and legs, and her screams filled the air, drowning out Toby’s warnings.

  ***

  Morgan patted his winded stallion as they cantered down the last stretch of road before they reached the cottage. The night was brisk, but there was just a touch of spring in the air. He inhaled it deeply. He had no right to this feeling of well-being. The haul he had taken had been small, the fence had been particularly niggardly in his payment, and his leg ached like hell.

  But he imagined the fire awaiting him, Faith’s serene hands full of her perpetual sewing, and a steaming hot supper in the kettle, and his other concerns vanished. He remembered the newly sewn cambric shirt he had found in his trunk, and his smile grew even broader. He had found a treasure, better than any fey faerie, even if she had a temper beneath that docile demeanor.

  When he rode into the clearing and discovered the darkened cottage, Morgan frowned. Perhaps it was later than he thought. Quietly he led the stallion into the barn, fed, watered, and rubbed him down.

  Even if Faith had gone on to bed, he knew there would be something keeping hot over the coals, and his sheets would be warmed with heated bricks. The cottage would be cozy and his coffee would be fixed just right. Never had he lived in such luxury, even when he had thought himself heir to a thousand acres.

  Remembering the surprise he had brought for her, Morgan rummaged in his bag and tucked a package under his arm before returning to the house. He would have to wake himself up early in the morning to catch her eagerness. Faith loved surprises, he had learned, and it was so very easy to please her.

  When he opened the door on icy darkness, Morgan’s insides clenched, and his hand went to his sword. No lantern burned on the table. The fire had died completely. No smells of cooking perfumed the air. And the room was empty of Faith’s presence.

  That sent him hurriedly across the floor to the loft ladder. She had to be here. There was nowhere else for her to go.

  An icy knife stabbed Morgan’s heart at sight of her empty pallet.

  She had left him. She had put on that ratty cloak and walked out. He should have expected that.

  He slowly climbed down the ladder and lit the lantern. He had no stomach for his own cooking. Perhaps there was some cheese in the cupboard.

  He wondered if he ought to go after her. She couldn’t get far on foot. He’d likely find her sleeping in the hedgerows again. That threadbare cloak of hers wasn’t enough to keep out the cold. She would be prey to every thief and panderer in the shire. She would never make it to London on her own.

  As the lantern light spread across the hearth and table, it caught on a glimmer of silver on the shelf by the fireplace. That was where Faith always left her precious sewing kit. He ought to have bought her a new one. Her scissors were old and dull and her one needle must be blunt by now.

  Morgan wandered over to examine the source of the light. He exclaimed at the discovery of the little leather case lying open, waiting for its owner’s return. Faith would never have left that behind. Grabbing the lantern, he returned to the loft.

  Her few meager possessions lay neatly stacked by the pallet on the floor. Only the green gown and petticoat he had bought for her were gone. She hadn’t left him.

  She had gone out and not returned. That she had meant to return was a fact that Morgan had difficulty grasping, but once he did, he knew she must be in trouble.

  Cursing, Morgan ran for the door. There was only one place he knew of to start searching. In this darkness, he might not see her if she were lying huddled in some ditch, but if anyone had seen her this day, it would be the villainous patrons of the Raging Bull. He might have to knock a few heads together to get any information, but he’d skewer them all if necessary.

  He didn’t take the time to saddle a horse, but took the nearest to hand, and grabbing the mare’s mane, kicked her into a gallop. She sprang forward eagerly, and the wind swirled around them as they raced down the lane.

  The path to the inn took a thousand hours and years off his life. There was no London coach this night, Morgan could see at first glance. That meant the worst scoundrels in the shire would be carousing and raising hell.

  The roar from the taproom was louder than usual as Morgan entered. Swearing at the bad luck of arriving during a brawl, he strode in with his hand already at his sword.

  A woman’s screams caused Morgan to freeze. He had been ignoring the crowd at the bar in the favor of finding a few sober heads at the tables, but the screams drew his attention to the riot in progress.

  Toby’s furious cries of protest barely overrode drunken laughter. A shifting of the crowd offered a glimpse of a long white limb kicking furiously from beneath an unfamiliar mustard-yellow skirt; then the crowd closed again, cutting off his view.

  With a roar, Morgan jerked his sword from the scabbard and leapt to a table. The first arc of the steel severed the shirt from one man’s back. The next swing sent an upraised tankard flying through the air and induced a scream of pain.

  The crowd began to fall back, but Morgan had no patience for their terrified expressions. Sword swirling, he sent men staggering into retreat. In their drunkenness, they fell over their companions who did not retreat fast enough. The whine of steel and flash of silver drove the remaining vultures from their prey as surely as if a whirlwind had descended in their midst.

  Only Toby remained, and he was helping the terrified barmaid to her feet as she gathered her torn bodice together and straightened her skirt.

  Morgan held his sword pointed at the crowd, while he dragged Faith to him. She grasped his coat and buried her face against his side as he sheltered her. He wanted to wring her neck, but first, he would kill every man jack in the place.

  Reining his temper, Morgan pointed his sword and his wrath at the innkeeper huddled in a far corner. “I’ll have your heart out for this, Whitehead! And if you ever let another of these filthy scoundrels touch her, I’ll remove those parts you prize more dearly than your stone-cold heart.”

  “For the devil’s sake, Jack, get her out of here!” Toby fingered his pistol nervously.

  Gritting his teeth at the wisdom of the lad’s warning, Morgan swung his cloak around Faith’s torn garments, then gathered her in his arms and strode for the door. “Come along, Toby. Leave the vermin to their amusements. I’ll not be back to pull your hide from the fire later.”

  That was as close to an expression of gratitude as Jack would offer. Toby was young and small and did not pack the muscular strength of many of the men back there, but he had stood up to the blackguards with the cockiness of youth. Jack wouldn’t leave him to suffer the penalty of that foolishness.

  Faith wept against his shoulder, but all Morgan could think of was her lovely breasts revealed for all to see. Rage ate at his insides, and he stalked wordlessly toward his horse.

  Daringly Toby planted himself in front of the dancing mare as Jack seated Faith atop the horse. “She’s had enough trouble, Jack. You take care of her.”

  Without a word Jack whipped his mount around and started down the road.

  Chapter 9

  Morgan maintained his silence all the way back to the cottage. Faith dried her tears, and, thoroughly wretched, clung to the highwayman’s closeness without thought or pride. His black cloak engulfed them both with the rise and fall of his mount.

  Her humiliation ravaged every ounce of courage it had taken her to walk out into the world this day. She wanted nothing more than to cu
rl into the safety of Morgan’s large body, never leave again, to be part of his midnight booty.

  The fact that he was so furious he couldn’t speak didn’t terrify her, oddly enough. He was a brutal man, one who could wield sword and pistol without a qualm. But his arm was the only shelter she knew, and his silence comforted better than words.

  He rode the mare into the barn and dropped Faith to the hay in the nearest stall. When she hastened to fetch brush and water, Morgan caught her arm roughly.

  “Get back to the house. I’ll take care of that.”

  Her eyes widened at his harsh tone, but Faith hurried to do as told. She would never be disobedient again. She would scrub his floors and polish his boots. But right now she had need of warm water to scrub away the feel of filthy hands, decent clothes to cover herself, and a dark hole to hide in.

  She had not missed the gleam in Morgan’s eye when his gaze fell on her breasts beneath the torn bodice.

  The fire was dead and the water cold, but Faith carried a pail to her loft and hurriedly ripped off the hated mustard gown. She mourned the loss of her beloved green wool, but she would never go back to claim it. She would never leave Morgan’s home again. If he let her stay.

  The fear of being turned out made her ignore bruises and pride as she hastily scrubbed and donned her old drab gown. She would make it up to Morgan. Surely this one transgression would not convince him to throw her out.

  His silence took on new and ominous meaning as her fingers trembled over the lacing. Not bothering to secure the cloth ties that completed the bodice, Faith hastened back down the ladder to start the fire, her mind worriedly cataloging the contents of the cupboard for an easy meal. She must at least make his coffee ready.

  When Morgan entered, Faith had the coffee almost boiling, but he reached for the rum. Cursing at finding the bottle empty, he drew some ale and drank deeply.

  His guest gave no sign that she saw him, but concentrated on the smoked meat she was slicing. He studied the trembling of her fingers, then raised his gaze to study the rise and fall of her breasts beneath the bulky gown.

  She was slender, but the creamy curve of her throat dipped to feminine hills and valleys beneath the unfastened ties of her gown. In his mind’s eye Morgan could see the firm mounds of young breasts lifted for all to see and grab, and his anger frothed inside his chest. Gad, he had been a bloody idiot.

  “Go on to bed. You needn’t do that for my sake.”

  Faith dropped the knife. She scrambled for it on the floor until he dragged her up.

  He held her body pressed against him. Hazel eyes became a smoky green in this half-light, and, she watched his face as if her life depended on him.

  “How old are you, Faith Montague? And don’t be giving me any of your witty answers. I want the truth.”

  Nervously she licked her lips. He tightened his grip, and she hastily gave him the answer he sought. “Eighteen this month, if it’s March now.”

  “It is.” Morgan stared down at her, held in the grip of fascination. Eighteen. Not a child. His gaze returned to the glimpse of skin at her throat. “Eighteen, and no more sense than to enter a taproom after dark.” He threw scorn as a shield between them. He watched her flinch but didn’t let go.

  “I couldn’t refuse employment when it’s offered,” she protested. “I cannot live off charity forever.”

  “Charity, is it now?” Morgan tried to focus on the fear in her face, but he saw only the luminescence of those long-lashed eyes and rose-hued lips.

  If he lowered his gaze from those temptations, he mentally stripped that ghastly wool from skin the texture of cream satin. His imagination could easily carry him farther, and he used his tongue to act as barrier to his thoughts. “It’s not charity I offer. You work for me and I’ll pay you in coin. The kind of service you offered tonight pays well. I’ll meet whatever price Whitehead offered, and double it to keep you exclusively mine.”

  He didn’t know if she understood his implication. The insult in his tone spelled it out quite clearly. She struck his cheek with her free hand.

  Morgan jerked his head back at the blow, but he grinned. Violence put them on a level that he understood. With a tug, he pulled her up against him, pressing Faith’s struggling frame where he wanted her. Without consulting her wishes, he bent to taste the lips that had been beckoning him for longer than he could remember.

  Faith gasped at the shock of Morgan’s hard mouth slanting across hers. She could smell the fumes of ale on his breath, but other, more arousing odors confused her senses. He always smelled of horses. Tonight she could smell the masculine perspiration from his long ride. The lacy jabot tickling at her throat still had the faint odor of clean linen.

  But beyond all that there was a strong scent that was all Morgan’s own, a musky manly smell that overpowered her, just as the touch of his body in so many places overwhelmed her ability to think. She didn’t even try to fight him. His mouth belonged on hers, he seemed to say, though he said nothing, but merely tasted of her mouth.

  She had never been kissed before. The intimacy was so shocking it took a moment before she realized she was expected to respond. Some tiny fraction of intelligence warned that she ought to struggle, but she longed for this physical pleasure after the harrowing events of earlier. Morgan wasn’t hurting her; he offered a tenderness she craved.

  When her lips finally returned his pressure, the fierce flame of desire scorched Morgan. Usually he sought out London’s whores or Molly’s favors when he grew bored and restless and needed release. Such interludes did not offer the thrill of the chase or anticipation of the future. What Faith offered with her childish kisses was so much more that Morgan could scarcely rein in his desire.

  Morgan felt her body soften and relax as she grew accustomed to his kisses. He pressed for more, until Faith’s lips parted with pleasure. She stiffened when he used his tongue to sip her nectar, and Morgan slowly withdrew, nuzzling tiny kisses along her lips and across the smoothness of her cheek to nibble delicately at her ear.

  Her blood seemed to flow with fine wine, and her head spun as Faith clung to Morgan’s broad shoulders and allowed him these freedoms she had never before dreamed of. She knew she should stop him, but she could not see the harm in kissing.

  But at the same time, she was terrified at the depth of the sensations he induced. When his tongue touched hers, a shock of pure electricity shot through her, and she tried feebly to break away. His caresses reassured, and she bent her head to his shoulder as his kisses grazed through her hair.

  “Ahhh, Faith, ye’re like a long draft of cool water after a summer’s day. It will be a pleasure to know you,” Morgan murmured.

  Whether it was the sensuous vibrations of his husky voice or the phrasing of his words that warned her, Faith couldn’t say, but she stiffened. He was seducing her, just as her father had warned that a boy would do should she be alone with one. And Morgan was far more than a boy. He was a man, with a man’s strength and desire. She wouldn’t stand a chance against him now that he knew she was not a child.

  Faith jerked free of his hold and hastily caught the collar ties of her bodice and overlapped them, glaring at him furiously as she did so. “I’m not your harlot, Morgan de Lacy. I’ll be your cook and housemaid and groom, if you wish, but I’ll not live in sin with the likes of you.”

  Amusement wrinkled his eyes. “You would live in sin with the likes of someone else? What are your preferences, Faith, my sweet faerie? A gentleman? An honest farmer? A merchant? I’ll be whatsoever you wish. You need only wave your magic wand.”

  He exuded virility and male confidence, and Faith was seriously tempted to smack him again. The fine lace at his throat was rumpled from their kiss, but the black coat and stark white waistcoat beneath bespoke a gentleman’s attire.

  He was too many men at once, and he frightened her. He could do anything he wanted with her, and she wouldn’t have a chance against him. Not knowing perfectly what seduction meant, but understanding the
humiliation of brutality, she studied his chiseled face for understanding.

  “I’m no faerie,” she whispered. “I’m a plain, ordinary working girl. You could have beautiful women by the droves. If I cannot just be your housekeeper, let me go on to London. I think I could earn a living with my needle.”

  Those huge eyes could easily slay dragons. Her innocence smote Morgan’s hard heart. He flinched inwardly, even as he raised his hand to release her russet curls from the cap and pins. Thick tresses tumbled to her shoulders and beyond, catching the fire’s light and playing tricks of red and brown in the glow. A plain, ordinary wench, indeed, but one who gleamed like a candle in the darkness.

  “You’ll come to learn there’s no such thing as plain, ordinary working girls in London, my cailin. Sooner or later you will end in some man’s bed, willing or no. The city preys on the unprotected, and you’re as unprotected as they come. It is time I looked for your grandparents.”

  The relief in her eyes shot a wave of guilt through him, but Morgan made no effort to discount her hopes. He had spent seven more years in this world than she had, but all his years had been ones of hardship and hatred. He saw the world through eyes of cynicism so thick it distorted even the loveliest of angels.

  But he wouldn’t tint her world with the grays and browns of his. Gently Morgan caressed her hair and let her hold her dreams a while longer. “I’ll leave for London on the morrow. Tonight, why don’t you open the surprise I brought you? I thought you deserved some reward for all your hard efforts.”

  Faith watched him warily. Her gaze strayed to the package he indicated on the table. “You have given me room and board. I did not bargain for more.”

  “Very good. You’re learning to be suspicious.” Morgan grabbed the bundle and dropped it in her hands. “But you’ll accept it anyway, in the nature of a bribe. I’d not have an unhappy maiden crying my name and occupation to the authorities, should you leave here. I’m willing to pay for your silence.”

  He didn’t mean that, of course. He knew she would never give him away. But he wanted her to take the gift. He used his blade to end her dallying.