Patricia Rice (13 page)

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.

The paper spilled open to reveal a shimmering sea of
yellow silk. She gasped and touched the rich folds as if she feared it
would disappear. He watched in pleasure as she stroked the feather-light
fabric and drew it from the folds of the package to billow around her.

The yellow silk overskirt was lined with white
satin, and the elbow-length sleeves had a waterfall of white lace. The
delicately embroidered white satin stomacher was modestly adorned by a
fabric so sheer it could not be compared to a kerchief. She sighed in
pleasure and tossed the folds to catch the fire’s light.

Morgan smiled at the ease with which she could be
won. Hers wasn’t a greedy reaction so much as admiration for an object
of beauty. She hadn’t even noticed the lace-edged petticoat or the satin
corset and silk stockings he’d provided to go with it.

He had thought to prove her a woman. He had succeeded in proving she was an innocent.

“I do not know if the fit is right,” he told her.
“You will need to try it on in the morning. Right now, I think you had
best go on to bed. There are shadows under your eyes.”

Faith clasped the silk, not knowing how to thank
him. If she should thank him. Then Morgan glanced down to the remainder
of the package, and she blushed a bright red. He had bought her intimate
garments, as if she were already his mistress.

She blushed. He could not possibly... But he could.
Those green eyes said he very definitely could. Faith once again
registered the elegance of Morgan’s attire, the contrast of fine lace to
harsh visage and callused hands, and remembered the seductive
tenderness of his mouth. He chose not to, but he very definitely could
think of her in the way he thought of Molly.

That knowledge sent a tingle all the way to her toes
that had little to do with fear. Laying the precious silk back on the
table, Faith carefully backed away to the ladder. She refused to let his
heated look intimidate her.

As her foot touched the first rung of the ladder,
she could hear Morgan’s deep voice call softly, “Pull it up behind you,
lass, for your own good.”

Heat raced through her blood just as if he had crept
up behind her and kissed her ear again. Understanding the wisdom of
obedience in this case, Faith pulled the ladder into the loft.

***

Morgan was gone in the morning before Faith had time
to try on the yellow silk. She tried not to look at the empty cottage
with dismay. He had gone to London as he had said he would. Last night
was no more than a wicked memory.

But the bruises on her arms and breasts were very
real. Faith shivered as she pulled the new gown’s fine white muslin over
her breasts and tucked it into the stiffly embroidered stomacher. The
gauzy fabric did not conceal the livid bruises. Faith inhaled and
watched her breasts swell with breathing.

The silk of the gown rubbed across her uncovered
nipples, and she knew a pang of longing akin to the one Morgan had
aroused with his kisses. She would have to make a chemise to go under
the gown. It was indecent to feel her nakedness. Indecent, but very
exciting.

Faith hastily removed her elegant garments and
returned to her old wool ones. They would never feel the same again, and
she sent a longing glance to the silk. She knew it was her place in
life to work for a living, but she couldn’t help dreaming of wealth and
elegance. Her mother had given up such a life in return for love. She
would have to hope for the riches of love too.

Glancing at the highwayman’s cloak beside the door,
Faith felt the blood rush to her cheeks once more. What hope of love
would she find there? It might be easier to seek wealth.

March, 1751

Lord Mountjoy’s valet adjusted his lordship’s wig
and added a dusting of powder. Behind his face cone, the marquess
coughed. Growing impatient with the process, he waved aside the valet
and threw down the mask.

His scowl grew blacker at the scuffle of feet and
restless rustle of silk behind him. Glancing in the mirror, he could see
his son and heir lounging across the settee, sipping at wine, while his
nephew stalked the dressing room like a hungry tiger. The two men could
not be more unlike, and he could not stifle the unbidden hope that it
would someday be his handsome nephew and not his portly son who would
take the title.

Made even more irritable by that thought, Mountjoy
rose and allowed the valet to remove his dressing robe and bring his
coat. He glared at the indolent sot sprawled across the chair. “Wine at
this hour, Edward? Do you never let your liver rest?”

“The pickling aspects of alcohol have never been
thoroughly pursued.” Edward raised the crystal to the light and admired
the rainbow of colors. “What did you want of us at this ghastly hour,
dear pater?”

The well-dressed gentleman at the window swung
around and waited for the answer to his cousin’s question. Dark whereas
Edward was fair, lean whereas Edward was rotund, Thomas was a direct
antithesis of his cousin, but both held a common interest in this
question.

Not for the first time, Mountjoy wondered if he had
been wrong to keep them on such short purse strings. He had hoped to
teach them financial responsibility, but he very much suspected he had
taught them to pray for his early departure from this mortal coil. Well,
it was much too late to change his habits now.

He shrugged into the coat the valet held for him.
“It has been over four months since my granddaughter disappeared. The
fools and babbling idiots I have paid to trace her can find nothing. It
is impossible that a well-brought-up child can disappear from the face
of the earth. I want the two of you to find her.”

Both men managed to look bored. The one at the
window stared out into the street, evidently intent on some fascinating
sight below. The one on the settee reached for the decanter.

“I cannot honestly see the point, dear pater. She is
bound to be an uncouth country bumpkin with sharp tongue and pious airs
given to hysterics at mention of fire and brimstone. Damme if I can
think what you would want with the likes of that.”

“I’ll be damned if I can think what I want with the
likes of you, either!” the marquess exploded. Shrugging the valet away,
he gestured for the servant to leave, then reached for the decanter in
his son’s hand. “If you do not find her, I’ll leave all that is not
entailed to the institution at Bedlam. Bigawd, if they wouldn’t know
better what to do with it than you.”

His nephew lifted a disdainful eyebrow. “That is
quite an encouragement for me. I wonder at your calling me here at all.
Should this personage be found, Edward inherits everything. Should she
not, Bedlam gets half. I rather favor the second option myself.”

This wasn’t going at all as the marquess had planned
it. He had meant to offer rewards, dangle rich plums before their
indolent noses, inspire a little action and concern for their niece and
cousin, but as usual, their arrogance had got the better of his temper.

Mountjoy growled, “Find her and wed her and you can
have Bedlam’s share. That way I’ll know the line will perpetuate,
something neither of you seems eager to do presently.” He threw his
corpulent son a look of disgust.

“That sounds as much punishment as reward,” Thomas
murmured, turning back to his observation of the street. A lone horseman
caught his eye, and he watched the man’s progress as the marquess
rattled their cages.

“Then marry someone decent and I’ll split the
inheritance between both you and her, should she be found. All I want is
to see the line carried out and my granddaughter located. That task
should be none too difficult.” The marquess reached for the jewel case
on his dressing table and removed the diamond-encrusted ring he favored.

Thomas concentrated on the interestingly garbed
gentleman stopping at the door below. Black was favored only for
mourning, but somehow, the man didn’t appear to be very mournful. His
rugged jaw held a day’s whiskers. His dark queue was neither wigged nor
powdered. Only the expensive imported lace at his throat and wrist
bespoke the quiet elegance of a gentleman of fashion. A very interesting
character, and about to knock at the door, if he did not mistake.

Smiling, the Honorable Thomas Montague turned and
made a brief bow before his uncle and murmured words of departure.
Searching for the lost Henrietta was a singular waste of time. The chit
could not inherit the title and would only dilute what remained of the
wealth. No, he had far better plans than marrying a holier-than-thou
antidote who was too stupid to find her way out of the woods.

He trotted down the stairs in time to catch the butler opening the front door.

***

Morgan had studied the elegant limestone town house
with its banks of windows as he rode up. The only Montague he could
trace with a son about the age of Faith’s father was a marquess, and one
wealthy enough to own nearly half a block of London property for his
own personal use. The upkeep alone would house half the inhabitants of
London’s slums for a year.

A man did not give up a life like this for something
so intangible as religion, and the marquess was known to have only one
son. Faith’s father had to be a liar. Unless her father’s name was
really Edward and not George, Morgan very much suspected George Montague
had glorified his name and origins.

Still, he needed to verify that the heir still lived
before giving up on this lead. If Faith were the only daughter of the
marquess’s heir, he would have to return her to her family for her own
good.

Perhaps at the cost of a little ransom. Morgan
grinned up at the blank windows. He didn’t want to part with his little
faerie, and he thought it doubtful that she belonged to so noble a house
as this, but just in case...

His boots rang out on the stone steps as he climbed
up to lift the knocker. The butler answered the door, but the tall, dark
gentleman lounging in the foyer was the one to approach at Morgan’s
first careful question.

“Mannering, what is this? Do you always leave gentlemen to idle in the streets? Have you an appointment with the marquess, sir?”

Morgan narrowed his eyes and studied the very proper
young man in fashionable cadogan wig and expensively tailored gray silk
coat. The aristocratic arrogance of his sharp features and air of
authority labeled him the heir, and Morgan didn’t know whether to feel
relief or disappointment for Faith’s sake. He felt certain she would not
be happy with a stiff, proud bastard like this one.

“I am searching for the family of George Montague,
sir.” Morgan refused to offer the obsequious “milord” the man obviously
expected. “I have news of some importance. Have I found the right
household?”

“I am sorry, sir,” the young gentleman replied coldly. “The name is unknown to me.”

Morgan had lived in a world of deceit and lies for
the better part of his twenty-five years, a world created by Sassenachs
such as this one. He recognized their lies when he heard them.

It was no more than he had expected. Faith wouldn’t
be welcomed here. But glancing over the man’s shoulder to the gleaming
tiled floors dotted with priceless carpets, the gilded framed oils of
Montague ancestors, and the heavily polished mahoganies of an earlier
decade, he couldn’t help the suspicion that Faith was being robbed.