more
than the iron-clad muscle she abused. “There is a dead man out there,
with family somewhere. They could be left to starve. I could hang for
protecting your worthless life. We should be praying for our immortal
souls. And all you think of is your stomach! How could you?”
She leapt from the comforting shelter of his arms
and fled toward the door. Morgan could not follow so easily. His leg had
grown stiff, and the pain in just sitting up was excruciating. He
cursed himself, he cursed Tucker, and he cursed the little imp from
Satan who made him feel the biggest fool alive.
He had spent nearly a decade denying his conscience,
hardening himself to the kind of life he must lead to win back what had
been taken from him. This little imp would smite him with feelings he
didn’t want or need.
He found his stick and dragged himself to the hearth to start the morning fire.
By the time Faith returned to the cottage, he had
set the fire roaring, burned a pan of bacon, and filled the air with the
aroma of overcooked coffee. He was contentedly scorching toast in the
bacon grease when she entered.
He looked up but said nothing at the sight of her
bedraggled chemise-clad figure. Her braid had come partially undone and
fell across the overlarge folds of her bodice. Her bare legs bore the
scratches of her flight. He noted their length and shapeliness but
politely turned his eyes back to the fire.
He really did need to find out how old she was. She
buried herself in linen and wool, so that it was impossible to gauge her
age. But this glimpse of her in the morning light revealed a perfectly
proportioned filly of small stature, not the gawky child he had
imagined. Perhaps she was not amply endowed, but that did not mean those
weren’t a woman’s curves beneath her threadbare shift.
When she came down, she was properly clothed in her
old brown dress. There was nothing bony about her rounded arms, and
Morgan once more averted his eyes to the fire. He could pamper a child
and send her on her way. A young virgin was quite another kettle of
fish.
Morgan turned his crisp toast with his knife. “Will you have a bite to eat?”
She politely took her seat at the table. “Just some toast, if you do not mind.”
Setting his jaw, Morgan pried a piece of toast loose and dropped it on the table before her.
Faith quivered at the return of the taciturn stranger, but she bravely took her toast.
Swallowing a lump in her throat that had little to
do with the wretched toast, Faith spoke. “The weather is more favorable
now. If your leg does not bother you too much, I had best be on my way.
By the time you are well enough to travel, it will be warm enough to let
the horses loose.”
He shook his head and sipped his coffee. “You’ll not
be leaving until I can go to London and find your family. You would not
even make it safely through the forest on your own.”
Knowing now the kind of men who lived here, Faith
acknowledged the truth of his words, but still, she watched him warily.
He did not meet her eyes. Did he mean to hold her for ransom, after all?
“I have no wish to be a burden to you. I have made
it across the breadth of England without your help. Surely London cannot
be much farther.”
Morgan glared at her. “You will stay and I will hear no more argument. Have the horses been watered?”
Faith blinked, felt a lightness in her chest, and nodded.
She might be three kinds of a fool, but she didn’t
want to leave. Gratefully she offered, “Shall I fry some eggs for you?
You could see to your leg while they’re cooking. The water should be
warm by now.”
She didn’t want her to leave just yet. There would be time enough later, when the weather grew warm.
***
“What do you mean, there is no trace of her? Is the
country so large that a child can disappear into it? Do we harbor red
Indians who will carry her off to their camps? Have the Gypsies declared
her queen and spirited her back to
than the iron-clad muscle she abused. “There is a dead man out there,
with family somewhere. They could be left to starve. I could hang for
protecting your worthless life. We should be praying for our immortal
souls. And all you think of is your stomach! How could you?”
She leapt from the comforting shelter of his arms
and fled toward the door. Morgan could not follow so easily. His leg had
grown stiff, and the pain in just sitting up was excruciating. He
cursed himself, he cursed Tucker, and he cursed the little imp from
Satan who made him feel the biggest fool alive.
He had spent nearly a decade denying his conscience,
hardening himself to the kind of life he must lead to win back what had
been taken from him. This little imp would smite him with feelings he
didn’t want or need.
He found his stick and dragged himself to the hearth to start the morning fire.
By the time Faith returned to the cottage, he had
set the fire roaring, burned a pan of bacon, and filled the air with the
aroma of overcooked coffee. He was contentedly scorching toast in the
bacon grease when she entered.
He looked up but said nothing at the sight of her
bedraggled chemise-clad figure. Her braid had come partially undone and
fell across the overlarge folds of her bodice. Her bare legs bore the
scratches of her flight. He noted their length and shapeliness but
politely turned his eyes back to the fire.
He really did need to find out how old she was. She
buried herself in linen and wool, so that it was impossible to gauge her
age. But this glimpse of her in the morning light revealed a perfectly
proportioned filly of small stature, not the gawky child he had
imagined. Perhaps she was not amply endowed, but that did not mean those
weren’t a woman’s curves beneath her threadbare shift.
When she came down, she was properly clothed in her
old brown dress. There was nothing bony about her rounded arms, and
Morgan once more averted his eyes to the fire. He could pamper a child
and send her on her way. A young virgin was quite another kettle of
fish.
Morgan turned his crisp toast with his knife. “Will you have a bite to eat?”
She politely took her seat at the table. “Just some toast, if you do not mind.”
Setting his jaw, Morgan pried a piece of toast loose and dropped it on the table before her.
Faith quivered at the return of the taciturn stranger, but she bravely took her toast.
Swallowing a lump in her throat that had little to
do with the wretched toast, Faith spoke. “The weather is more favorable
now. If your leg does not bother you too much, I had best be on my way.
By the time you are well enough to travel, it will be warm enough to let
the horses loose.”
He shook his head and sipped his coffee. “You’ll not
be leaving until I can go to London and find your family. You would not
even make it safely through the forest on your own.”
Knowing now the kind of men who lived here, Faith
acknowledged the truth of his words, but still, she watched him warily.
He did not meet her eyes. Did he mean to hold her for ransom, after all?
“I have no wish to be a burden to you. I have made
it across the breadth of England without your help. Surely London cannot
be much farther.”
Morgan glared at her. “You will stay and I will hear no more argument. Have the horses been watered?”
Faith blinked, felt a lightness in her chest, and nodded.
She might be three kinds of a fool, but she didn’t
want to leave. Gratefully she offered, “Shall I fry some eggs for you?
You could see to your leg while they’re cooking. The water should be
warm by now.”
She didn’t want her to leave just yet. There would be time enough later, when the weather grew warm.
***
“What do you mean, there is no trace of her? Is the
country so large that a child can disappear into it? Do we harbor red
Indians who will carry her off to their camps? Have the Gypsies declared
her queen and spirited her back to
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