Lady Fugitive (17 page)

She stood at the rail after breakfast
and gazed at the broad expanse stretching before the bow.
How like Morgan's
eyes the ocean looks when it's calm like today
. She glanced around at the
sailors and found none, fit as they were, who could surpass him in build or
rugged yet pleasing features. How could she expect him to understand what being
his wife meant? It was complicated on so many levels, and there was no way to
explain part without explaining all of it.

The familiar deep baritone reached her
ears on the light breeze. She turned and saw Morgan talking to a knot of
sailors. He glanced in her direction and purposely looked away a second later.
She gnashed her teeth. He was out to spite her, of course! Wasn't that always
the way he reacted when thwarted?

Well, two could play at that game. She'd
just find her own amusement. After all, he'd given her the run of the vessel.

For a time she occupied herself watching
the crewmen. They scampered up the rigging like agile monkeys, shouted
nonsensical orders and remarks to one another that left her befuddled but
seemed to make perfect sense to them, and bustled about in various activities.
She stood at the rail letting the sea breeze whip her dark skirts and stared at
the flat expanse of open seas before them, awed by the immense size of the
Atlantic. She spun a mental fantasy that she was one of the staunch seamen, a
rebel and a wayfarer, anxious to see the world and faraway ports of call.
Daydreams in which she might go anywhere, pursue whatever opportunity presented
itself, with no ties to any place or any person.

Instead of her reality, where a dark
cloud of suspicion hung over her head, her father lay in his sickbed seriously
ill, and her handsome husband misbelieved her to be a trustworthy, if not
terribly biddable, new wife.

She retreated back to the galley and
offered to help the cook prepare the midday meal. He handed her a paring knife
and pointed to a mound of potatoes. She tucked her hair into a loose knot and
rolled up her sleeves.

It seemed she peeled a thousand potatoes
in the next hour. By the time she'd finished, her fingers were worn to the bone
and she was completely without appetite. The cook asked that she stay and help
serve.

Rachel hefted a platter of the boiled
potatoes onto her shoulder and followed the cook's helper. A wave of catcalls
and whistles broke out the instant she set foot in the cramped and crowded dining
area. She kept her eyes forward, ignoring the bawdy comments of the men. A
heated flush stained her cheeks as she moved between the tables. She was
chagrined to find a pair of alert gray eyes watching her from a corner. Morgan
sat with the other men, clearly delighting in her discomfiture.

She lowered the platter and began
ladling out servings to the men. She bent to dump a spoonful of the hot
potatoes and felt a hand boldly cup her buttocks through her skirts. She
reacted instinctively, dumping the spoon's contents onto the sailor's lap. The
tar yelped in pain and shot to his feet, jumping up and down to free himself of
the scalding glob stuck to the crotch of his pants. "Bloody bitch! Nearly
burnt my pecker off!"

"Oh, dear! I
am
sorry,"
Rachel responded, the lie in her words revealed by the hard glint in her eyes.
"I was aiming for your plate, but you startled me. Perhaps if you sat
quietly and kept your hands down, my aim would improve." 

A split second of quiet was followed by
uproarious laughter. The seaman grabbed the hem of his shirt and wiped
furiously at the sticky potatoes. "Watch yerself, Thompson," someone
shouted, "Keep rubbin' like that, she'll be pourin' stew on yer head
next!" This brought more snickers. Rachel dropped a glob of potato on
Thompson's plate before stepping aside to continue her rounds. As she reached
her husband, every eye in the room was glued on them.

"Potatoes, sir?" She lifted a
heaping spoonful.

Morgan raised both hands above his head
in submission, inspiring fresh hoots and chortles. She slowly lowered the
spoon, her eyes meeting his in a triumphant glare. She completed serving and
returned to the galley. Emptying the remains from her tray back into the pot,
she looked up to find Thompson blocking the doorway.

"Nasty wench. Harmless little pat.
Didn't mean nothin'."

"I said I was sorry." Rachel
kept her voice level as she glanced past him. No sign of the cook or his
helper.

"High and mighty, like some
bleedin' duchess. I don't think yer sorry 'tall. Little peck on the lips might
console me."

Rachel took a deep breath. Years of
dealing with Cletus' drunken spells had taught her showing fear was the worst
mistake she could make. She picked up the paring knife and held it so the blade
caught the light. She clucked her tongue. "Nasty accidents happen in
kitchens. I'm afraid my husband wouldn't like you asking me to apologize by
kissing you. He might decide to cut your tongue out."

"He might," came Morgan's
steely voice in agreement. He stepped from behind Thompson to put himself
between the sailor and Rachel. "Which would make it hard to explain to the
captain how you came to be here, instead of seeing to your duties. You were
warned about pestering my wife."

"Foul-tempered tease, that one."
Thompson glowered at her, then swung his gaze back to Morgan. "Makes a
bloke all hot with them big teats, then laughs at him for it. My sympathies,
wed to the likes o' her."

Rachel pressed close against Morgan's
side. She slid her arm around his lean waist. Thompson stomped out. Rachel
noticed the tension in Morgan's muscles didn't ease when the sailor left.
"Happy now?" Morgan demanded, snatching the knife from her hand.
"He could have disarmed you as easily. What then, Rachel? When I said move
about the ship, I didn't mean become the bloody serving wench! Jesus, Mary and
Joseph! Why do you think innkeepers and tavern owners hire wenches for serving?
The men sample more of them than the food and grog."

"Well, innkeeper and traveler
Tremayne," she shot back, "You would know, wouldn't you?"

He seized her upper arm and led her out
to the main deck. "You're going back to our cabin. If you haven't eaten,
that's too damned bad. You'll wait until supper, and have that alone in the
cabin with me. You set one foot outside the door and I'll drag you back by your
hair."

Rachel stumbled across the rough
planking. He forced her through the doorway and slammed the door behind them.
"Foolhardy, did I say? This goes beyond that, to a level of stupidity I
cannot begin to comprehend! Sauntering up and down with your rump in their
faces!"

She stared at the floor. "I suppose
you're going to beat me now."

"That suggestion has a certain
merit." Morgan tilted her chin up with one hand. "A bad jest,
Rachel," he informed her stiffly. "I wouldn't strike a woman. I can't
give you the same assurance about the other men, however. That filthy ruffian
looked capable of anything."

"I put him in his place," she
countered.

"And left him no pride when you did
it. The entire crew saw you shame him. His manhood's at stake now. Not two days
out and we've made an enemy." He began to pace and ran a hand through his
loose hair. "You refuse to see the danger from these men is very real.
What will it take to convince you, the crew doubling you over a water barrel
and lining up for a go? That's precisely what could happen! Stay the hell away
from them!"

She sank onto the bunk. "I was
trying to be helpful. Serving was the cook's idea, not mine."

Morgan took a bottle from his trunk and
dropped into the chair. He rubbed his forehead absently and Rachel silently
watched him take a long swallow. He raised the bottle to his lips a second time
when she spoke. "That won't help your headache."

"Won't hurt it, either. You sorely
vex me. I've explained why you must be sensible. Flaunting yourself is courting
disaster. I only let you do it to teach you a lesson."

"I wasn't flaunting anything."

"Don't test my patience!" he
snapped. "Insolence was aggravating in a clerk. It's intolerable in a
wife. You gave your word to adhere to my instructions about safety before we
sailed. You swore before God yesterday to honor and obey me."

She was furious now. He dared speak of
honor after what he'd done? He thought he could trick her, purposely mislead
her, and still she'd blindly obey? She grabbed the bottle from his hand, jerked
open the cabin window, and tossed the liquor overboard. "You drink too
much."

He shook her by the shoulders.
"Don't you ever do anything like that again! I paid dearly for that
liquor. Almost as much as I paid for you. You'll be back in America soon
enough. You can go back to churning butter and flopping the hogs without me, if
that's what you truly want. Meantime, keep your hands off—"

"
Slopping
the hogs,"
she corrected.

Morgan looked about to explode.
"I'll be on deck until supper," he snapped. "Should you need me
for some reason—though God only knows why you
would
, being so hearty and
independent!—holler to the deckhand outside to fetch me. You unbolt the cabin
door for anyone save me, and I swear I'll have you chained to the bunk for the
rest of the voyage."

He arrived hours later with a tray from
the galley. Rachel saw a single serving. "Aren't you eating?"

"I'm not hungry." He pulled
off his boots and undressed without another word. He crawled into the bunk and
closed the bed curtains.

"Are you still upset with me?"
Rachel asked softly. "I'm sorry, Morgan."

"Leave me be."

They'd quarreled often enough in the
village for her to sense something was different now. He could be spiteful, but
he seldom carried a grudge. In fact, a brief separation typically cured his
sour moods. But not now, Rachel silently mused. Now they were married. And
apparently he intended to punish her with silence.

She ate alone without saying another
word. She glanced at the still curtains and decided she'd risk a minor
disobedience by unlocking the door to set the empty tray outside. She'd just
closed and rebolted the door when she heard the scrape of the chamber pot from
behind her and violent retching. Rachel had never been seasick, but she'd seen
other passengers suffer. Morgan's body needed to acclimate to the ship's
movement. Until it did, he'd be miserably ill.

She undressed and put on her robe. She
set the chair beside the stove and curled up to sleep herself, leaving the lamp
burning low. She was awakened by more retching and a deep groan. She opened the
curtains to find Morgan doubled over, both arms clutched across his abdomen.
He'd broken out in a clammy sweat. Her mind was made up in a second. To hell
with his orders, he needed help. She took the chamber pot to the rail and
dumped the contents overboard before scurrying to the galley.

She found a basin and filled it with
fresh water. She met the cook on her way out and quickly learned that most of
the crew was sick, too. It wasn't seasickness. They'd eaten spoiled meat at
midday. She returned to the cabin and forced water between Morgan's lips,
holding the chamber pot as he vomited again. When at last his stomach was
empty, she used one of her handkerchiefs to mop his bare chest and face.
"Sorry, Rachel," he croaked.

"Never mind, Englishman. You and the
men ate spoiled food this afternoon. Thank goodness you didn't let me eat, or
I'd be sick too. Get some rest. I'll be in the chair by the stove if you need
anything."

"No!" he winced. "Not
safe alone. Sleep here with me." She removed her robe and gingerly climbed
over him. She slid beneath the bedclothes, but Morgan moaned as another spasm
racked his body, and she began massaging his abdomen with her fingers to ease
the painful cramping. He groped with one hand and pulled her closer, then
rested his head on her bare left breast. "I could die happy here," he
rasped.

"You're not going to die," she
chided softly. "You didn't sell your granary and trick me into marriage
only to expire over a bit of spoiled beef. You'll be better soon."

His writhing and tortured cries awakened
her some time later. "Annaliese, I would have done anything! I love you.
How could you do this? Don't leave me, please!"

Rachel pressed his head against her
breast again, whispering soothing words until he quieted. He began taking slow,
even breaths. The warmth and nearness of his lips made her nipple pucker. His
hand moved over her bare stomach and muscles deep inside her clenched. She
marveled at her body craving him like this. She'd never lain beside Cletus
burning for his touch, but she wanted Morgan. And the wanting made it a long
while before she fell back to sleep.

Hours later she was seated at the table,
using her sewing kit to patch a sailor's torn shirt when the bed curtains
parted. She glanced up. "Feeling better?"

"It appears I haven't left you
widowed again, after all." He swung his legs to the floor and tried to
stand, but he swayed with the effort. Rachel pushed him back onto the mattress.
She scowled down at him and pulled the quilt up over his chest.

"You're still too weak. I'll get
you some hot tea and have the cook heat water for a bath and a shave."