Devil's Lady

by Patricia Rice

  Morgan’s glee would have been greater had she been anyone but Faith. As it was, he was having a hard time reconciling the downfall of two great Sassenach houses with his need to protect his innocent faerie.

  Still, he would do it. Morgan watched in satisfaction as his man of business entered the coffeehouse and looked around. His plans were made. He had only to see them out.

  The man spotted him and strode forward, hat in hand. He looked perfectly respectable in this meeting place of gentlemen, just as Morgan did. To all outer appearances, they were two gentlemen engaged in a spot of business—nothing tawdry like trade, but perchance a real-estate exchange or fund investment.

  Morgan smiled at the image as Miles Golden took the seat across from him. Wouldn’t their fellow coffee drinkers be stunned to know they dined in the company of an Irish papist highwayman and the son of a Jewish bastard?

  Miles frowned at his client’s smile. “I think someone was trying to follow me.”

  “You lost them, I trust?” The news didn’t surprise Morgan so much as cause him to give his enemies a little more respect. He hadn’t thought the Sassenach rogue to be so clever.

  “I hope so. I know these alleys as well as anyone. The money’s there. I’ve brought a list of instructions on how your ward is to claim it.”

  Morgan hadn’t thought it would be quite so easy. He had hoped to return to Montague House for a little more arm- twisting. But for Faith’s sake, he was happy he had secured some form of safety for her. He handed the sheaf of documents to Golden.

  “Here’s all the proof that should be necessary. You’re holding the girl’s life there, Miles. See that you take care of it.”

  Miles scanned the documents, raised his eyebrows, and neatly tucked each one in a different pocket. “I’ll have copies made, witnesses confirm the originals, and register them. Then I’ll return them to you. These are more than adequate to meet their demands. Unfortunately, if they’ve hired someone at the bank to follow any claimant to the trust, she’ll be in jeopardy the instant she comes to claim it.”

  Miles was clever. He had already surmised the circumstances. Morgan nodded in agreement. “You’ll have to act as go-between, Golden. Once Faith’s authenticity is established, it might be necessary to transfer the entire trust elsewhere. I’ll tell her your name, and not the bank’s. Should anything happen to me, she’ll be in your hands. I trust you have adequate protection and someone you can rely on in the event of your unanticipated demise.”

  Miles grimaced, an expression that came naturally to his long, bony face. “If you weren’t such a damned good client, I’d tell you to go to hell. But to answer your question, I’m protected, and I have eight brothers, four uncles, and a squadron of cousins who can step into my shoes at any time. She’ll be safe.”

  “You’ll own London by the turn of the century.” Morgan grinned. “Do you intend to enjoy yourself before you’re eighty?”

  Stiffly the solicitor rose. “Indeed I do. She’s eighteen, with hair as gold as her father’s pockets. I have none of the aristocracy’s prejudice against trade.”

  Morgan leaned back in his chair and held out his hand. “Neither have I, my friend. We’ll meet over dinner when we’re rich and living in St. James’s. We can compare our respective choices then.”

  Miles took his hand firmly. “You’d best marry her, then,” he answered in farewell.

  Sipping his coffee, Morgan watched the solicitor weave his way through the tables. Marriage sounded good to him, but he was growing more and more uncertain of its advantages for Faith. The granddaughter of an earl and a marquess. It was preposterous. How could the bloody thick-headed Sassenachs produce a brilliant gem like his little Methodist? It didn’t bear thinking on.

  Out of curiosity, on his way home Morgan took a detour to the Montague mansion. Staying out of sight in an alley between two houses, he watched a sedan chair arrive and waited to see the occupant. Were he at all familiar with family crests and livery, he might identify the sedan’s owner from the servants’ garb, but he was not.

  So he watched with curiosity as an elderly lady was helped from the chair by one of her footmen. She was so tiny as to be almost doll-like in size, but her back was as stiff and straight as any martinet’s. A frilled cap covered her hair and lapped over her cheeks, hiding what little he could see of her face, but it wasn’t the face he noticed. It was her carriage, the posture, the grace, and above all, the daintiness. By the time the woman was taken into the Montague home, Morgan had no doubt that he’d just seen Faith’s grandmother.

  Somehow, he had never pictured a grandmother in his scheme to destroy the Sassenachs. All he knew of the Montague family was the scheming, devious bastard who had tried to deny Faith’s existence. It had been easy envisioning rubbing the heir’s face in the mud, or the faces of any of the other self-righteous criminals who had left Faith to starve. But a grandmother?

  Thoughtfully Morgan reared his stallion in the other direction. He had a healthy respect for women. Would a grandmother leave her grandchild to starve?

  It sat uneasy on his mind all the way home.

  ***

  Faith coaxed the colt to the fence with a baby carrot from her garden. The treat was barely more than a nibble, but the young animal took it eagerly, allowing her to pet him for just a second before he gamboled off after a butterfly.

  She watched the patient mare as she chewed at the thick turf, undisturbed, even when the colt came skidding up to grab a teat for a drink. The sight of the foal nursing at his mother’s side stirred odd feelings in her own breasts.

  She glanced toward Annette in the far paddock, trying to identify the signs of the mare’s quickening, but she was too ignorant.

  The stallion had quite a harem, and a right to strut. Would Morgan be the same? How many bastards had he sired in his lifetime?

  She had no right to think such thoughts. He had offered marriage, and she had refused. He had found her a paying position, and she had continued to share his bed. She wasn’t certain she could have left had she tried, but she had never tried.

  Wondering at the changes that had taken her from starving innocent to highwayman’s bedmate, Faith entered the cottage to start the evening meal. The changes weren’t all emotional or mental, but physical as well. She had become a woman in Morgan’s hands, a woman who needed a man to share her pleasures.

  As she tied a clean apron around her neck, Faith glanced down at her swelling breasts. They were still growing, and they felt a bit sore at times. She had thought she would never have a figure to entice a man, but it seemed it took a man to develop a figure. She had curves now that she had never possessed before, and she felt slightly awkward in the newness of it.

  As she reached for the kettle, the dizziness struck again. It wasn’t so severe this time, and she managed to remain standing until the spell passed, but it left an uneasiness behind. The cottage was warm, but not so heat-bound as the inn. Fresh air entered the open door and window, and she hadn’t lit the fire yet.

  Was she sickening for something? Remembering her mother’s illness, Faith clasped her hands in silent prayer.

  Six months ago she had been prepared to die. Today she had a whole future before her. She didn’t want to die.

  Chasing away these morbid thoughts, Faith set the kettle on and started the fire. But as she chopped new onions and carrots and crushed the fresh young leaves of herbs, she had plenty of time to let her mind wander over other physical changes that might give some clue to her illness.

  She had never been regular. She had stopped her monthly flux before. But counting back, it had been March when she’d had her last bleeding. There had been none in April or May, and June was almost over.

  But Morgan had first taken her to his bed in early April, and that seemed the most natural explanation for the flux to stop. It would be much too embarrassing for a woman to tell a man she couldn’t share his bed because of her monthly woman’s time. So it only seemed natural that it would go away wh
ile she shared her bed with a man.

  Perhaps she had been working too hard. She would put a simple stew on to cook with the beef she had bought from the inn, then she would read more of her father’s manuscript.

  She had the stew simmering and was just about to take out the bread dough and knead it when she heard a horse in the yard. Hurriedly Faith wiped her hands and untied her apron, patting her hair to see if all was in place. There was scarce time to smooth her skirts before Morgan threw open the door and strode across the floor.

  Faith squealed as he swept her off her feet and buried his lips against the uncovered skin at her throat. She clung to his thick hair and bent her head back to allow him better access as the thrill of his touch coursed through her.

  But when Morgan’s mouth strayed lower and his fingers began working the laces of her bodice, Faith gave his hair a tug and she tried to wriggle away. “What do you think you’re doing, Morgan de Lacy? ’Tis broad daylight. Now, put me down.”

  “I’m a starving man, my dear. I just wanted a taste to tide me over. Can I not have just a taste?”

  He wasn’t waiting for her permission. Already he had her laces untied. The chemise tie was next, and then Faith felt the tug of his lips at her breast, and there was no further fighting him. The sensations he had taught her were swelling up inside, begging for release, and her cry of pleasure only urged him on.

  “’Tis shameless, Morgan,” she whispered in one final weak protest as his kisses grew bolder.

  “Have I never taken you in day, then?” Morgan murmured from between breasts. “Then it is time we corrected that error. Undress me, my cailin, and let us show the sun a thing or two.”

  Undress him. The thought was even more shameless than seeing each other in daylight, but the need to touch him, to feel him close, was even greater than shame. The lace of his jabot untied easily. His shirt fell open to reveal the dark crisp hairs of his chest, and as Morgan eased her feet to the floor, Faith daringly placed her kisses at the V of his neckline.

  But that wasn’t enough. She wanted to touch all of him. Morgan always came to their bed unclothed, and she was given little chance to explore while he drove her to new, frantic heights of desire. What he offered now was different, but she wasn’t certain how to pursue it.

  Morgan was already unhooking her bodice and pulling it off her shoulders without separating it from the skirt. His big hands were amazingly swift and nimble, and they stroked and teased until she forgot all the day’s concerns and concentrated on only one thing: the man in front of her.

  In the June warmth he had doffed coat and waistcoat long ago. He stood there now in wide-sleeved shirt, breeches, and boots, defying her to bring them closer. The long tails of the shirt were tucked into the tight waist of his breeches, and there would be no removing the one without unfastening the other. Beneath Morgan’s amused gaze, Faith bit her bottom lip and twisted her fingers into the fastenings of his breeches.

  When they were released, she tugged at his shirt until she could, at last, run her hands up his bare chest. Morgan gave a gasp of pleasure as she tweaked his nipples as he did hers, and then his kiss was moist and hot against her mouth again.

  Faith felt her skirt and petticoat fall loose from her waist; then strong hands pushed them to the floor until she stood there in only her stockings and chemise. The air felt warm and good against her bare skin, and Morgan’s fingers caressed and stroked until she ached for what was to come.

  “’Tis not fair, I cannot reach to take yours off,” she murmured, pushing his shirt upward so she could explore more fully the firm planes of his chest. “You have all the advantages.”

  Morgan’s eyes crinkled at the corners as he swept the shirt off. He grinned as she determinedly focused on his face and not the expanse of flesh he uncovered as he obligingly dropped his shirt to the floor.

  “Fair, is it, now? Is it equal you would be? Undress me, lass, and I will show you equality.”

  Faith knew Morgan’s charm to be dangerous to a fatal degree, but the challenge was thrown and she must accept it. She glanced down at his knee-high boots and frowned. His clothing posed too many obstacles.

  Morgan bent a kiss to her breasts beneath the open chemise, then sat down on the chair and held up his leg. “Off with the boots, wench.”

  She had seen him do it innumerable times, but it still did not appear easy. Straddling the leg he held out, she began to tug. The boot slid loose and Morgan helped her with the other one, not without catching Faith by surprise and riding her briefly on his knee, rubbing her woman’s place until her desire kindled even more. Then he stood, and she was faced with the feat of rolling his breeches down over his narrow hips.

  “It’s all right to touch me, my sweet. I’ll not break. Well you should know that by now,” Morgan chuckled as she hesitated.

  Faith’s cheeks colored, but she needed what he hid beneath that cloth to satisfy the itch he had aroused. Setting her jaw in determination, she rolled the cloth down over lean hips, releasing the hardened length of his maleness.

  She tried not to stare, but she had never seen him in daylight. He was so magnificent, so marvelously made, that she could scarce keep her eyes away. Wide chest and shoulders, lean flanks, narrow hips, and flat belly, all tightly muscled and shaped to move with careless grace, as he did now.

  “Now, my Faith, I’ll show you equality.” Morgan slid the chemise off her shoulders and to the ground, until they were both naked in the puddle of sunlight from the window. Then he lifted her in his arms and carried her to the bed, but instead of laying her down on it, he sat down and left her in his lap.

  Faith stared at him in disbelief. They were full naked, with his manhood jutting awkwardly between them, and he was sitting down as if to table. Spread wide by his muscular thighs, her legs dangled awkwardly over his, and the ache in her belly began to swell with demands she could scarcely suppress.

  “Equality, Faith.” Morgan pulled the pins from her hair until it tumbled down between them. Then he sought her mouth with his lips and her breasts with his hands until she was moaning with the need he kept barely under control.

  When she felt him hot and heavy against her belly, Faith finally understood what he meant for her to do. It seemed impossible. He was much too large, almost fearsome in the light of day. How could he enter her? But she had spent nearly three months in his bed and knew the length of him filled her with remarkable ease.

  Morgan lifted her, and then he was there, right where she needed him, and it was but a moment’s work to guide him inside, to take him more fully than she ever remembered. Half kneeling on the bed, she found her place and moved cautiously at first, then with increasing vigor. Morgan responded wildly to her movement, and she learned the joy of giving him pleasure as well as finding her own.

  She could do it. She could drive him to the same wanton abandonment as he drove her, and the joy she received of this knowledge was equal to or greater than the explosion of their mutual release.

  He needed her. They truly were equals. And for the first time, Faith realized, she was in love.

  Chapter 18

  Faith wasn’t particularly happy with her new feelings. Morgan had made her love him, tied her to him more surely than with rope and chain, but nothing held him bound.

  The misery of unrequited love burned in Faith’s belly as she watched Morgan over their meal later that evening. He had washed, and his black hair still gleamed with moisture, slicked back from his strong features and held with a strip of leather.

  She tried to ease the ache by introducing a topic that had played in her mind ever since Toby had spoken of it one day at the inn. “Do you think the colonists live much differently than this?”

  Morgan shrugged. “We don’t have red Indians, leastways.”

  “Toby said his brother lives in a town over there. It isn’t all Indians. They have inns and stores, just like here.”

  “I suppose they must.” Morgan eyed her quizzically. “What is your interest in
the colonists?”

  Faith squirmed. He could look right through her sometimes and know her every thought. “Toby’s brother just bought a lot of land. He says anyone can make a living over there. He wants Toby to join him.”

  “Toby is a young fool and will probably be better off over there. How do you know so much about Toby’s brother?”

  Faith ducked her head to hide the heat in her cheeks. She didn’t want Morgan to know the direction of her thoughts just yet. “Toby can’t read and he brings me his brother’s letters to read for him.”

  “And is Toby going to join his brother?” he asked.

  Faith shook her head. “He doesn’t want to be a farmer, he says, but I think he’s afraid of the journey alone.”

  “As I said, Toby’s a young fool.”

  He seemed prepared to dismiss the topic, and Faith hastily fumbled for the words to keep it open. “You once said a man needed land to be gentry. Land is cheap over there. You could probably buy a whole farm with the price of this place here.”

  Morgan’s black brow quirked upward as he finally fathomed the direction of her thoughts. “’Tis not a dirt farmer I am, lass, nor a farmer’s wife you’ll be. You belong in satins and lace in a great terrace house in St. James’s, with servants at your beck and call. You’ll have that one day, lass.”

  Faith glowered. “On a highwayman’s take? I’m more likely to see your dead body hanging from a noose than I am to see inside the great houses of London. I do not know who’s the greater fool here, Toby for not grabbing the chance when it’s offered, or you for being too blind to see it!”

  “Lass, you worry over naught.” Morgan rose to come around the table and place his hands on her shoulders. “I’ve seen that you’re provided for, whatever might happen to me. There’s a man in London, Miles Golden, who looks after my business. I’ll leave you his direction. I don’t think you’ll be needin’ it. I’ll only ride a little longer, and I’ll have all that I need to set us up royally. We’ll have that house in London, lass, see if we don’t.”