Patricia Rice (8 page)

He didn’t know. He didn’t know why one man lifted
his fist in hatred to another. He only knew it had been going on since
time began and was not likely to end anytime in his future. Not if he
could help it. Sighing, Jack stroked her braid.

“Perhaps it was an accident. Men are like that
sometimes. They get all boiled up with anger and don’t think what
they’re doing. I’ve seen it happen too many times, Faith. I’m sure your
father was a good man. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong
time.”

He didn’t want to imagine what she had seen if she
had seen her father’s body. A pistol hole at close range was one of the
ugliest sights he had ever seen, and he had seen many. Jack held her a
little tighter, squeezing out the memories.

“Is there ever a right place and a right time?” she
murmured. Pressing a hand against his broad shoulder, she indicated her
wish for freedom.

Those words were too adult for a child. Before he
could run his hands over her to test his suspicions, Jack let his hold
fall slack so she could slide out of his lap. He watched as she settled
cross-legged in front of him like a child, but her modest gown and
kerchief revealed little of what was beneath. He knew she wore no
corset. Beyond that, he couldn’t say. Child or woman?

“I suppose, if we recognize it, there must be a
right time for everything. But like everything else, it’s difficult to
know opportunity until too late. Hindsight is a marvelous thing.”

Faith nodded her head in understanding but refused
to look at him. “I can’t use a weapon,” she whispered. “I would rather
die than know I killed. I’m sorry, Jack. I’m a coward. I couldn’t do
it.”

If his suspicions were correct, instant death would
be the least of her worries. How in hell had he got caught up in this?
Irritated, Jack climbed to his feet. “You must have relatives somewhere
you can go to. Give me their names and let me take you to them.”

Hope flared in her expression as she tilted her head
back to look up to him. Then she shook her head. “My parents’ families
disowned them when they joined the Wesleyans. I have never met them or
heard from them, though I know my father must have informed them when my
mother died. There is no one. If you wish me to leave, I shall need to
take a position somewhere. Perhaps you could write a reference for me.”

Jack wanted to laugh at the thought of scrawling
“Lord Morgan de Lacy III” across the bottom of a proper reference. It
would have all the good folks scrambling for their genealogies of the
aristocracy.

“Give me the names of your parents. It won’t hurt to try.”

Faith cast his dark features a quick look. “And will you tell me your name too? Must I always know you as Jack?”

She was quick. He would grant her that. Making a
formal bow though she sat at his feet, he introduced himself. “James
Morgan O’Neill de Lacy, milady. I’ll answer by any and all of the above.
May I have the pleasure?”

She smiled at this game and scrambled to her feet to
offer a proper curtsy. “Faith Henrietta Montague, sir. Shall I call you
Morgan? I like that much better than all the rest. I fear my name is
bigger than myself, but yours fits very well.”

Jack chuckled, and the room shifted back to normal.
“Yours is a mouthful, but no more so than my own. Morgan is the name I
was known by most often. Your father was French?”

“A descendant of the early Normans. He once said his father’s title traced back to William the Conqueror.”

Title. That discovery would be almost laughable if
not so close to heartbreaking. He had already figured her father to be
the younger son of gentry, but he had not imagined a title into the
picture. So here they both were, the blue-blooded descendants of the
world’s most civilized countries, living in a hovel with only his sword
and pistol to provide for them. God had a wicked black sense of humor.

“A Lord Montague should not be hard to find. When
the weather clears, I shall look into it. You may have grandparents
looking frantically for you.” And if they found her here, they would
have him hanged. How damned blind could any man be? He was imagining his
twelve-year-old sister instead of recognizing an aristocratic female of
uncertain but quite possibly marriageable age. They would emasculate
him before they hanged him.

She looked disbelieving, as very well she might. If
her relatives were truly noble, he could find them easily enough, but
she had no reason to know that. She did have every reason to believe
that he might hold her for ransom once he discovered them. An excellent
idea that was, too, if he were certain he could keep her safe. With the
return of Tucker, he couldn’t guarantee any such thing.

“Until then,” he announced firmly, “you will need to
learn to protect yourself. This house is not so well hid that none know
of it.”

The terror returned to her wide eyes. “I’d rather die,” she replied almost as firmly as he.

Exasperated, Jack glared down at her obstinate features. “Just how old are you, Miss Faith Henrietta Montague?”

Her bottom lip went out stubbornly as she placed her
hands on her hips. “That’s for me to know, Mr. Jack Morgan de Lacy. Do I
ask you such personal questions?”

He almost laughed at this typically female response
from his normally docile housekeeper, but the matter was too serious to
encourage her rebellion. “If you’re old enough to be taught what being a
woman means, you’re old enough to know that it is not your death a
villain will seek. You might only wish you were dead when he is done
with you, but you will have to live with the black memory of that
humiliation for the rest of your life. And so would I.” This last he
added more softly as he watched first the puzzlement, then the horror,
cross her face.

“Nothing is as final as death,” she insisted,
although she looked pale enough to have comprehended his meaning. “I
could just pretend the gun was loaded, couldn’t I?”

“No!” The word exploded out of him in fury. “If you
point a gun, you had better intend to use it, or you’ll be worse off
than if you had not.”

At her look of pain, Morgan ran his fingers through
his uncombed hair and tried one more argument. “If you cannot do it for
yourself, lass, think of me. I would not have your harm on my
conscience. There is enough there as it is.”

Jack watched her disbelief, understood her doubt that a hardhearted highwayman would even have a conscience.

And then to his shock, she touched his arm and gave in.

“I will try to learn, for your sake. But you must
remember, if it were not for you, I would not be alive today. Whatever
may happen in the future, you have given me more time than I would have
had otherwise.”

That was true, and Morgan tried to comfort himself with that, but somehow it was no longer enough.

Strange, to develop a conscience at this late date. He shrugged and showed her how to load the pistol.

***

“The girl escaped, you say?” The gentleman leaned
back against the rough tavern wall and sipped at his tankard of ale.
Sated by the hours in the wench’s bed upstairs and having just finished a
full meal, he was inclined to be genial. “Didn’t know there was a girl.
Old bastard never tells us anything.”

The rough-looking character seated across from him
shrugged and buried his unshaven face in his own tankard, drinking
deeply of the dark brew. Coming up for air, he wiped his mouth on the
back of his tattered sleeve. “Women don’t count for much. Ain’t likely
she’ll get far in this weather.”

“Quite true. But her father’s dead, you say? You’re
certain of that? I’ll not be having another obstacle placed in my way
when the time comes.”

“Aye, he’s dead, right enough. Bloody great hole
where his heart should be. Shoulda heard the likes of what he was
preachin’. Bloke deserved to be killed, if you ask me. Weren’t no
trouble at all.”

“Ahh, well, he always was a puffed-up bastard.
There’s a certain justice in ridding the world of troublesome creatures,
don’t you agree?”

His rogue companion nodded agreement and signaled
for another round. He let the subject drop and eyed the approaching ale
with hunger.

Despite his relaxed attitude, the gentleman
considered the complication of a female Montague. If she had friends,
she might show up in London at any time. Despite his companion’s
opinion, there was some difficulty in having a female claim to this
family.

He wondered how old she was. A mere child was easily dealt with. A young woman—that was another matter entirely.

He would need more information. Turning his cool
gaze back to the drunkard across the table, he let his thoughts play
over the possibilities.

 A young girl of marriageable age could very well suit his plans nicely. And if not, he could always have her killed.

***

The unusually bad winter kept Morgan in more often
than usual, or so he told himself. But by the beginning of February it
was time to try one of his more audacious plans. It could easily take a
fortnight to carry out, and he had need to carry it off while Faith was
still here to look after his horses. She had some rudimentary knowledge
of guns now. He could not protect her more than that. When he came back,
he would have to start his search for her kin. It would not do to keep
her here much longer.

He ignored his reasoning for that as he strapped on
his scabbard and watched the pale gleam of round bare arms as Faith
scrubbed at the ancient kettle. The bit of chemise ruffle at her elbow
was worn and patched, but she somehow managed to keep it white and
starched, as she did his shirts. Miraculously, she had cured the holes
and frayed edges of all his linen, saving him the necessity of returning
to the tailor anytime soon. He would miss her housewifely attentions,
but it was dangerous to both of them to have her linger.

She looked dismayed, then resigned when he explained
the length of his absence. Ever obedient, she offered no word of
complaint or protest. Morgan almost wished she would, so he could feel
irritation or anger at her nagging presence. Instead, he felt a cloud
upon his soul with his departure.

He left her with more than enough fuel and
provisions for a fortnight, but fire and food could not feed her soul.
Faith pressed her face against the window and watched Morgan go, his
cape billowing around him in the breeze as the stallion galloped into
the night. His absence was like an emptiness inside her, and she did not
know why it should be so. He was only her employer, whatever he might
say.

The days passed in a monotony of tasks. The cottage
was still Faith’s pride and joy, and she kept it scrubbed and
glistening. The animals were her companions, and she secretly named them
all, spending hours grooming and exercising and talking to them. The
nights were longest, when it was too dark to do more than sit by the
fire and wish for Morgan’s vibrant presence. Even when he was silently
mending his tack, the room was always full of him. He would look up and
give her a wink, or grin and call for a piece of her cake, and she would
feel good all over. When he wasn’t here, she was empty.

Faith washed and mended their limited wardrobes and
the sheets upon their beds. With a length of fine cambric Morgan had
brought her, she cut out a new shirt for him, knowing it would never be
as fine as the ones he had, but hoping he could wear it around the
cottage. Carefully she gathered a ruffle from the scraps of the same
material and hoped that would look gentlemanly enough.

For she had decided that James Morgan O’Neill de
Lacy had to be a gentleman, despite his occupation. Even though he wore
no wig or red-heeled shoes, he had the manners and speech of a gentleman
when he chose to use them. Perhaps he had not needed these polite
niceties for a number of years and was out of practice in their use.

But with his dark, rugged looks, he was a danger to any female when he chose to turn on the charm. She wasn’t immune.

Faith banked the fire and climbed into the loft to
undress. Her old chemise was beginning to pull too tight across the
bosom. She cupped her hands beneath the growing curves of her breasts
and wondered if she would ever be half so lovely as her mother had been.
More food than she’d had in a lifetime and the constant exercise of the
horses and her other manual tasks had added some flesh in the right
places, finally, but not enough. She would certainly never have the
bounty of the curvaceous Molly.

Remembering how Morgan had eyed the tavern maid’s
ample bosom, Faith sighed. He would never look at her like that. She
should be thankful for small favors, she scolded herself, but still, it
was a serious blow to her pride. She was tired of being a child.

She put herself to sleep trying to imagine what it
would be like to find her grandparents. Visions of silk gowns and
enormous mansions filled her dreams easier than smiling faces and
welcoming hugs. All of them faded before the picture of Morgan in frock
coat and cocked hat, helping her down from a grand carriage.

Faith woke with a start to a sound in the room
below. Remembering all Morgan’s dire warnings, she felt her heart pound
noisily. Surely any intruder would hear it and know her presence.
Pressing a hand to her chest in hopes of muffling the sound, she groped
around for the pistol Morgan had insisted that she keep with her.

A chair scraped, and a muffled curse or groan
drifted through the open loft door. Fear instantly became panic, and
Faith threw herself face-downward over the opening to see the intruder.

The banked fire gave no light, but she could see his
silhouette framed against the window as he reached for the hidden
bottle of rum atop the cupboard. Morgan!

Without thought to her state of undress, Faith hastily placed her bare foot on the top rung of the ladder and climbed down.