Face to Face (The Deverell Series Book 2) (2 page)

Furious at being reduced to little more than the brunt of a joke, Merry snapped without caution, “I am not his wife. I demand that you take me to the American authorities.”

The two men only laughed harder. Morgan said, “It is not a crime, my dear, not to permit you your mother. You’ll have to excuse her, Pomfret. As you can tell, she is not American and unfamiliar with our laws here.”

Staring at the innkeeper, Merry exclaimed, “I am telling the truth. I am not his wife. He kidnapped me.”

It was no use. None at all. By the time she finished her tirade, more than a few were staring at her as though she were half insane.

It was then she noticed Morgan’s accent was no longer British. Like his manner of dress, so effortlessly his voice had changed. It had slipped into the slow, drawing tones she heard all around the tavern. It showed on the face of the innkeeper, his wife, and the giggling serving girls that Morgan was a man much revered by the locals. Her claims were merely dismissed as the whimsical ravings of a new bride.

Color crowed her cheeks as fury nipped in her stomach.

Taking her hand, Morgan said, “Every rose has its thorns, Pomfret.”

“Aye. But I’ll trade yours for my mother-in-law any day.”

Once seated at the table, Morgan gave her a small smile. “That showed spirit, Little One. But it would serve you better to trust me.” He finished the charade by touching her fingers to his lips.

That earned her a sheepish smile from the serving girl setting the table with their dinner. Merry jerked her chin away, as she jerked back her hand and focused her attention on the taproom.

The meal was a hearty stew made of venison, though Merry could not find the stomach to do more than pick at it. Their meal complete, the landlady came to show them to their room.

Morgan ordered another ale before lifting his tankard to his lips. His eyes met Merry’s gaze over the top of it. “Go along, my dear. Mrs. Pomfret will see to your needs.”

Merry’s eyes widened in surprise. He was sending her off with the innkeeper’s wife without himself as guard. How confident he was to let her from his captivity. Or, was his mood desirous of something more than maintaining his relentless hold over her.

Of course. They were ashore. He was off to seek pleasure elsewhere.

Morgan arched a brow. “Go, Little One. I will join you soon. There is no need to be distressed or delay the rest you need.”

Temper made her stiffen but, to her greater dismay, she obediently followed behind the older woman.

Her face must look more troubled than Merry realized, because before Mrs. Pomfret opened the door, she said soothingly, “He will not stay angry forever, Mrs. Devereaux. No husband ever does.”

With that, Merry was left in a bedchamber that was clean and old-fashioned. It smelled faintly of the inn-brewed ale used to gloss the fine oak floors and furnishings. It was on the second floor and looking out the window, she realized there was little use in trying to make an escape.

There was nothing to assist her to climb to the ground and beyond the sparse scattering of structures near the inn, there was nothing but darkness and forest here. At least, for this one night, she was forced to participate in Morgan’s revolting farce.

Sinking to the floor, she shooed the pug away from her bag, and reluctantly admitted to herself that even if the whim to run from Morgan claimed her, she doubted her feet would carry her.

Six months and not a single escape attempt had she made. Whatever his strange power over the world, he possessed an equally strange power over her, as well. She had not run from him, not once, and, even now—furious with him over the fiction he expected her to play—the impulse of her heart was only to run toward him.

Pulling on a nightgown, she climbed into bed and glanced toward the whatnot resting against the wall. There, she spied an aged newspaper tucked in the pages of a worn bible. The floors were cool and creaked beneath her feet as she retrieved it. Perhaps focusing on the Richmond Enquirer would push the thought of Morgan from her mind.

The American paper proved a pleasant diversion for Merry. It was several months old, but after months at sea, the news came to her new. The American campaign against British Canada had failed miserably. There were stirringly patriotic stories of local young men having joined the Virginia militia, and the pages were thick with advertisements unlike any she had ever seen. There were editorials advising the citizenry not to purchase smuggled British goods, and others counseling against the recklessness of a growing American debt.

The clock chimed two before Merry rolled over for sleep. It had not occurred to her until she doused the candle that she had purposely stayed awake waiting for Morgan. His absence was more than a little distressing, since she did not doubt he was with a woman. He did not care for her at all. Why else would he bring her to America to leave her? Turning her face into the pillow, she cried herself to sleep.

~~~

Merry came awake slowly to the sound of rain, the heaviness of something around her, and the feeling of something moving slowly beneath her cheek. With disbelieving senses, she realized Morgan had returned in the night, the warmth beneath the sheets came from his body, and the movement beneath her cheek was his chest as he breathed.

Alarmed with herself, she pulled quickly back from him, slipping free of the arm that held her. Climbing from the bed, she took several steps away before she turned back to look at him.

She wondered if the day would ever come when she could look at him without feeling heat rise through her body. He was a beautiful man when the softness of sleep held his face, and she wondered what it would feel like to lay at his side and feel him slowly stir. Brushing her suddenly warm cheeks with icy fingers, she wondered what was wrong with her this day, indulging, what was at best, dangerous fantasies.

A quiet knock on the door sent Merry to find a serving girl. Her manner was friendly, a little overly curious of Merry, and definitely overly curious over Morgan’s slumbering magnificence. But, practical and of sturdy service, she set a large breakfast tray on the table and quickly went to stoke the fire.

Giving Merry a smile, she slipped out through the door with a careful turn of the knob, obviously trying not to wake the Captain. The girl succeeded in making Morgan roll over in bed and he lie now in her spot left vacant.

Taking advantage of Morgan’s sleep, Merry dressed in a cameo-pink satin dress. Cursing herself a fool, she took out the ribbon and, after a thorough brushing, tied back her hair with it. And then to her further exasperation, she pulled out a dainty pair of beaded slippers, never worn, and delicately made calfskin gloves.

The full-length glass showed her the subtly elegant details of the back of the gown, how it hugged her hips and interestingly swayed with her moves. The gown was highly stylish and flattering in every way, and she couldn’t make reason of why she had finally tried it on, on a day like today.

Of all the clothes he had bought her in Bermuda—and it was an impressive wardrobe, and she could not have selected a single gown half as well as he—it was the simpler gowns she preferred and always wore. The gown in cameo-pink was unlike her, but more unlike her was the pleasure she felt in knowing she looked pretty.

Curling in a chair at the table, she poured a cup of tea and began to pick at her breakfast. They were a day’s ride from Richmond. What would become of her there?

Almost in concert with her thoughts, Morgan woke. He rose from the bed and, while she noted he still thankfully wore his breeches, regrettably he was shirtless. Sucking in her breath, she tried not to stare, and tried equally hard to remain composed as he crossed the room to join her at the table.

He said, “Good, I see you’ve dressed.”

Whatever Morgan thought of finding her at the table garbed thusly, did not reveal itself on his face. For some reason, that caused her temper to flare. She snapped, “There was not much to delay me and I seem to have no choice but to travel on with you.”

Morgan gave her a small smile for that. “There is always a choice, Little One. Life is nothing if not endless choices. The question is which choice one makes and where it will take them.”

Ignoring that insight, Merry found herself foolishly saying, “You were very late last night.”
Why had she said that to him?
Trying to recover from that quickly, she added, “Were you not concerned, even a little, if left so long alone I would run?”

His grin told her he was not. “I played cards until nearly morning. And did more than my share of drinking.”

Her gaze lifted to him then, wide and flashing of memory. “Then I should consider myself lucky to have been left undisturbed in your bed.”

The way Morgan’s eyes bore into her made her tremble. “Indeed, you should. You are a vision when you sleep.” His compliment ran her like a caress. He dropped his gaze back to his plate and continued with his meal. “You look very beautiful today, Little One. The perfect image of my wife. You are becoming quite adept at my fictions.”

That did not settle well upon Merry, since she more than half suspected she had gowned herself to do exactly that. She couldn’t imagine why she participated so willingly in this game of his.

As they continued their journey to Richmond, inside the carriage there was silence. This time Morgan sat opposite of her. Merry could feel his eyes on her, but his face was relaxed and his posture unrevealing. She focused on the quickly passing landscape.

He seemed content with the silence and to look at her, though why that should comfort her female heart instead of distress it was a mystery. The silence between them was a pleasant thing, even with the uncertainty of her fate and the burn of his eyes upon her. How odd it was they could sit in a silence that was comfortable, and yet she could feel every part of him through her senses.

Fiction this may be, but it was dangerously so; like those French romance novels she used to read that bespoke the flow of love entrapping a woman both in heart and physically.

To feel the touch of a man not touching her; she had thought that foolish fantasy. But she could feel Morgan now, as surely as if his hands were on her. Sinking her teeth into her lower lip, she chanced another glance at him. Even now she felt him in her flesh, when he was asleep.

The carriage rumbled on and she took turns watching the scenery and Morgan. It was afternoon when Merry first saw Richmond. The bells of St. John’s Episcopal Church were a brilliant thunder that joined the patriotic sounds of celebration that had at its center a parade.

Watching a marching procession of Virginia Militia, she wondered if peace with Great Britain had at last been declared. There was an untamed vigor to the celebration, and she could think of no greater reason than peace to find this festivity here.

The carriage sputtered along the crowded street, and Merry turned her face from the window and asked, “Do you think there is at last peace?”

“No, Little One. I am quite sure the war has not ended.”

Merry paused to study him, wondering why the very obviously British Morgan had all but transformed himself into an American. This was more than one of his clever fiction. This was part of the man. This was where he lived. Who he was by choice, not birth. But why here and where was he taking her? What was his purpose in this?

She asked, “Are we almost to your home?”

“No. It is another half day’s ride from the city.”

They passed a wagon with a press, the printers working with quick movements to make broadsides. Noting her interest, Morgan tapped the carriage ceiling and then sent the aged servant to collect one.

As he watched her study the handbill, he laughed. “You do realize that your father would consider this treason,” he warned, with a grin, before he ordered the driver to continue on.

It was an ode about the British, more cleverly and harshly worded than the rhymes of her radical friends. But it expressed the same sentiment which could be found among the English young of her political mindset.

“It is not treason to want equality. Not even in England,” Merry said spiritedly.

Morgan’s smile was tender and amused. “Still, I would not save that for Kate.”

That statement packed a double punch that made Merry look up to study him. First, it was remarkable to Merry that he remembered her cousin Kate. Second, there was the suggestion that she would see her cousin again.

He had never done that before today, given her hope that she’d be returned to her family. On
Isla del Viento
, he had told her he would never release her. Her anxious eyes searched his face, but all he gave her was a small, enigmatic grin.

The carriage pulled to a stop in front of an inn. It seemed they were staying at least one night in the city. As he guided her through the noisy, shoving throng, she realized he had many friends here. Captain Devereux was a respected and well-known man. Eyes followed him as he moved through the crowd, and women turned their heads to openly stare at him.

This establishment was far more elegant and crowded than the carriage stop had been. Before they reached the stairs, Morgan was hailed by a serious looking portly man who, Merry soon learned, was a representative of the Virginia legislature.

After a quick introduction of her as Captain Devereaux’s wife, the man paid her no notice at all. He launched into a lengthy discourse about the increasing oppression of the British blockade, and those idiots in Washington who had started this damn war, without a thought for the hapless American merchants.

That led to an inquiry of what kind of cargo Captain Devereaux had run in. It seemed even a man of the Government could be flexible with his patriotism when his wife’s wants were at stake. English muslin, English tea, coffee and sugar from the Indies. He was in the market for all, if Morgan had in his cargo run through the blockade those precious luxuries too difficult to find of late.

After several minutes, Morgan handed her off to a maid, who took Merry upstairs to their room while Morgan continued below in his discourse with the American. In their room Merry found hot food waiting in a luxurious bedchamber.