Lady Fugitive (7 page)

Rachel's heart sank. She'd almost
forgotten he planned to marry Pamela. The knowledge hurt. She watched as he
drank his ale, still wondering how his lips would taste, wondering where she'd
lost every shred of common sense.

He set his tankard down and frowned.
"Whose betrothal?"

Rachel nearly choked on her own ale.
"
Yours
, sir."

Morgan silently cursed. Pamela's taunts
came back. Boasting of an engagement when none existed was despicable enough to
be one of her ruses. Rachel indicated their conversation had taken place a few
days after the forged letters to Somersdale…which meant it was also after
Pamela's visit to his room and his warning. Pamela obviously had no intention
of heeding it.

"She maintained I'd proposed to
her?"

"Does that mean you didn't?"
The question was asked so softly, he almost didn't hear it. She couldn't be
asking out of personal interest. Not Widow Cordell. She
couldn't
be. But
her dark eyes studied his face too closely for it to be anything else. His
loins tightened.

He firmly shook his head. "Nay, I
didn't. Nor will I, particularly in light of the Somersdale forgeries and this
new lie. Her appalling lack of judgment doesn't endear her to me."

Rachel glanced out the window.
"It's late, Mr. Tremayne. I need to get home."

He paid the barkeep and led Rachel back
to the wagon. She placed a hand on his arm as she climbed up, but made certain
she sat as far away from him on the seat as possible. Her mind was in turmoil
on the ride back to Crowshaven. Why had she ever spoken so plainly and ever
said a word about his supposed betrothal? Did he guess her true feelings?

They were back inside the village proper
before Morgan broke the silence. "You asked me for a list of suitable
bachelors."

Rachel flushed. "I was taunting
that morning, Mr. Tremayne. I don't actually expect you to write one out."

They pulled up in front of the cottage.
"The question is whether to include myself."

Rachel wanted to drop through the
floorboards. Had he been reading her mind? She tried to sound offhand.
"Well, you
are
a bachelor. Theoretically, there's no reason why
your name couldn't be included. But it's not of any significance, as I'm still
in mourning."

He walked her to the porch and reached
for his set of keys. "There are several reasons why my name should not
appear. I'm your employer as well as your landlord. You seem to prefer the
company of chimney sweeps and wayfarers. Perhaps any man but me. You refused my
offer of supper, lest you be tempted to hurl insults and victuals at me. And
there's the fact that you won't address me by my Christian name."

She slid past him into the house,
grateful for an avenue of escape.

"Tell Mr. Atkinson I'll finish the
posting in the morning. I won't let on you deceived him into meeting with the
masons, though I'm sure Chrissy will want to thank you. Good evening, Mr.
Tremayne."

"Morgan," he corrected as she
closed the door. "Good evening, Rachel."

Long autumn shadows slanted across the
floor of the office. Chrissy's pale hair shone like a halo as she chattered about
the upcoming dance, bubbling with excitement. Rachel wrote out the last page of
the correspondence Morgan had requested to be completed that day. She set the
documents on his desk alongside the sealing wax, then breezed past Chrissy to
collect Boyd's teacup. Chrissy pursued her to the tiny rear kitchen area.

"It sounds like a marvelous
evening," Rachel sighed, "but I really can't go."

"You don't plan to wear black and
sit home alone for the rest of your life, do you? Surely you've been widowed
nearly a year, Rachel."

"Long enough to stop wearing
weeds," Rachel admitted.

"Then what on earth are you waiting
for? Good heavens! The Harvest Dance is the perfect opportunity to rejoin the
living."

Rachel frowned slightly. Rejoining the
living was just what she longed to do, but not here. "You forget that I'm
an American, Chrissy. I needed to get away after my husband died, but my father
will send for me soon. It's better if I wear black until I return to the United
States."

"Pooh! I think you're nervous about
being courted again," Chrissy argued. "So what if you sail back to
America one day? You can still have a social life in the meantime. Pull out one
of your colorful gowns and come along. I've already spoken to Boyd and he's
agreed to bring you as our guest."

A masculine voice came from the front of
the offices. "I did, and I'd be honored, Rachel. Do think about it. Ready,
sweetheart?" Boyd joined them, smiling at Chrissandra. They bid Rachel
good evening and disappeared into the twilight.

Chrissy and her dreaming about
colorful dresses...
Rachel shook her
head. She didn't have one. She'd fled Philadelphia with a single trunk, holding
only the trappings of death. She could sew, of course, but wasn't about to set
foot in the mercantile again to purchase fabric. Not after those horrible
forged letters.

She didn't need to go to a dance.

But the last time she'd been among happy
people at a large gathering had been...too long ago. What could it hurt to go,
and watch others having fun? But she'd have to make a trip to get a gown. There
were dressmakers in Newcastle. Chrissy mentioned that Pamela's gowns were made
by women there. But Rachel didn't have transportation or time for fittings. If
she took a few days off and went to London, she could purchase a finished gown
and see her aunt again. She missed Violet.

And perhaps Violet would have news about
Papa's investigations. The last letter Rachel received from him had depressed
her. His men had located the desk clerk and the land speculator, whose
statements only supported the case against her. The marshal maintained their
testimony proved Richelle Nash had both motive and opportunity for the murder.
She knew it looked that way. Just as she looked like a grieving, penniless
widow. So much for appearances.

She shook her hair back, chiding herself.
She couldn't give up hope. Someone else had killed Grubstake Smith, and somewhere
there had to be proof.

Abandoning her musing, she noticed dark
had fallen. She stacked her journals on the filing cabinets. She'd waited long
enough for Morgan's return. She went about tidying the office and had just
pulled down the window shade when he unlocked the front door.

"Christ, bloody locked out of my
own offices," he grumbled.

"It's very late, Mr. Tremayne. I
don't like staying alone past nightfall. If you'll sign the letters on your
desk and affix your seal, I'll post them in the morning."

"Letters, aye," he mumbled.
Rachel stared. His speech was thick, his lapels uneven. There was a strangely
disheveled look about him. He scrawled his name on the documents. He gaped at
his right hand and frowned. "Where's my signet?"

Rachel stifled a gasp. He'd gotten drunk
and lost his signet! He was never without that ring. Symbol of family integrity
and pride, handed down from five previous generations of Tremaynes. Its imprint
sealed every bargain and appeared on every letter. He never executed a document
without his cachet upon it, reliable as sunset every evening or sunrise each
morning.

"I don't recall if you were wearing
it this morning, sir. Maybe it's still in your room at the inn."

"My name is Morgan," he
growled. "Why do you vex me by refusing to use it? Swear you're out to
rattle my brains."

"They'd more likely slosh just
now," she muttered beneath her breath. "I only pray it wasn't
stolen," she said louder. "I know it's very valuable to you, all but
irreplaceable."

"Aye, eerie-traceable! Got to
think. Had it when I left this morning. Showed Grundy my family crest this
afternoon...Damn, the pub! That's where I left it. Hold here, will you? I'll go
back and fetch it." 

Rachel rolled her eyes heavenward. The
last thing he needed was another visit to the pub. "I'll go with you,
sir."

He blinked. "What?"

She kept her voice smooth. "I
should make certain you reclaim the ring. I know its importance to you and the
company."

"Humph! Wouldn't go to supper when
I asked. Had to twist your arm to get you to Newcastle. Suddenly you're craving
my company. Is this your way of saying I'm besotted?"

She cringed again at the slurred speech.
Beyond besotted. More like embalmed.
"I simply feel it's part of my
duty to make sure you locate the ring. I truly would sleep better knowing you
had it back."

He moved unsteadily to the door.
"You'll dine with me, then. Won't be accused of exploiting the help."
She locked the office and took Morgan's arm. They'd walked less than a block
when he tripped and knocked them both to the ground. Rachel pushed him away and
struggled to her feet. The last of her patience had been knocked out of her too.
Her pride was smarting—both cheeks of it.

"Is it never possible to conduct
business without ale, Mr. Tremayne? Look at you!" He glanced down at
himself in confusion. "Your clothes are a mess," she explained.
"You can't walk a straight path you're so drunk, and this chilly night air
doesn't help."

"Ha! Spent my whole life in the
English damps!" he snorted. "What would you know about it, Colonial?
Was fine 'til you sent me sprawling."

Images rose unbidden in Rachel's mind of
nights in the Oregon Territory. Memories of struggling to drag Cletus inside
their ramshackle farmhouse. Western saloons, English pubs. All one and the
same. She wrapped Morgan's left arm across her shoulders. Curling her right arm
around his waist, she heaved upward and started forward. "Come on,
sir," she sighed. She'd find out what had become of his ring and leave the
menfolk to get him back to the inn and poured into his bed. 

"
Sir, sir, sir
. Never did
like that word on your lips." He tightened his arm around her.
"You've such soft lips, Colonial, but never a kind word for me comes out
of them. I need an ale."

She frowned and kept walking. "You
need food. Ale will only make things worse."

"Always ready to challenge me.
Argue with me, frown at me." His breath was pungent with liquor and too warm
as it tickled her ear. "I'd pay you for a kiss." Her knees started to
buckle as he leaned his full weight upon her. "Just one, Rachel." His
lips moved closer to her face.

She elbowed his ribcage. "Stop this
nonsense! Find your precious signet yourself." She spun free and headed
back along the street.

"Widow, you'll not go alone."
He started after her. "Some churlish lout may be lurking in the shadows to
do you ill."

"
You're
the only lout apt to
do me ill," she tossed over her shoulder. She continued across the
cobblestones. He caught up and pulled her up short, turning her to face him.

"I'm not so muddled I've forgotten
that you agreed to sup with me. Swear I'll be a gentle nun."

Now
there
was a mental image!
"You're impossible, Mr. Tremayne."

There was nothing to do but visit the
pub with him. The village was crowded with itinerant workers in for fall
harvest. These nights they filled both the inn and the pub. Morgan pushed past
the other patrons, banging his fist on the worn bar as he shouted to the
harried barkeep. "Grundy! Where's my bloody ring? Think I left it on
public display?"

Grundy fished in the pocket of his apron
and produced the gold ring. "Here 'tis, Tremayne. Knew you'd be
back." Placing the signet in Morgan's upturned palm, Grundy advised,
"Should have taken that bit of mutton I offered. You're slicker than the
cobblestones in February."

Morgan flopped into a chair seconds
after its occupant rose and moved away from it. Rachel stood nearby, unable to
locate an empty seat herself. Morgan glowered at the pub patron on his left.
The fellow muttered beneath his breath and slunk away. Rachel slipped into the
vacated seat just as Grundy appeared with mutton stew and fresh bread.
"Drinks, Bargainer?"

Rachel spoke up. "A pot of tea with
honey and two large mugs, please."

Morgan feigned surprise. "You hate
tea."

"The ale didn't kill you," she
replied. "I don't suppose a mug of tea will kill me. Eat your supper,
sir." By the end of the meal his posture and speech had improved.
"Was today a holiday or special occasion?" she asked.

"Don't believe so. Why?"

"You drank so heavily for
amusement, then? Or maybe to avoid the office. You'd forgotten the letters you
said were so important this morning."

"I wasn't avoiding anything. Bloody
correspondence just slipped my mind. Anyone might make a—"

"Mistake?" she supplied.
"Morgan Tremayne actually
made an error
? Two, if we count nearly
losing your ring. This date should be entered in the village records."

"Christ, so I got
drunk!
Next holiday I'll close down this bleeding pub."