Lady Fugitive (32 page)

He clasped her hand tightly. "That
child is mine, and I gave you my word to be at your side when your time comes.
Let's go home." He walked Phantom to where Richelle stood and lifted her
crosswise onto the saddle. Her eyes were soft as they searched his face.

"No more riding astride." He
swung up behind her and settled her across his lap, his whole body rigid.
"The hound can come along. But I warn you, if I ever feel his teeth, he'll
find himself back out here chasing squirrels."

Morgan insisted they stop at Dr. Rowe's
house. He stood beside Richelle as the elderly physician examined her. Richelle
blushed when he pronounced everything normal and cautioned the couple against
marital relations after the next few weeks.

Lorella had prepared Morgan's favorite,
beef stew with dumplings. He greeted her stiffly and ate slowly, his eyes on
Richelle. She'd been too nervous to eat most of the day, but was ravenous now.
She downed two helpings of stew with a large glass of milk.

"Appreciate what you've done for
us, Lorella," Morgan announced as he left the table. "We'll discuss
your wages in the morning. Expect you're due an increase. Madam and I are
retired for the evening. Have breakfast ready at eight." 

He started up the stairs without a
glance for Richelle. She obediently followed, but paused when she found him
waiting outside the master bedchamber. He gestured for her to precede him. Her
eyes misted over when she spotted new bedside tables and a pair of porcelain
lamps. Lamps with pink flowers on their upper globes.

"Oh, Morgan!"

His voice was gentle. "I knew how
badly you'd wanted the lamp. The merchant admitted he had a second. I thought
you'd like a pair flanking the canopy bed."

"It's a very nice surprise,"
she whispered. "Thank you."

"Nothing like mine." He sat on
the edge of the bed. Lorella had placed the patchwork quilt across the lace
coverlet. Morgan ran one hand over it. "I never liked this, you know. It's
an eyesore, yet I wouldn't have believed I could miss the thing so much."
His eyes met hers, and she saw his were misty, too.

He patted the mattress and she settled
beside him. He laid a hand gently on her abdomen. "Somehow I assumed a
pregnant belly would feel like a pillow. But it's hard," he marveled.
"Strong, filled with new life." His hand moved higher and cupped a
breast. "This, too. Fuller, plumper."

She made no attempt to move his hand. He
leaned closer until their lips met. He pulled back, then dipped his head to
taste her again. It was like that first tremulous kiss long ago. "Ah,
love, I need you so badly, I can scarcely breathe. I'll be as gentle as I can,
but it's been so damned long." He opened his breeches and freed his
swollen manhood. "Touch me, Richelle." He bent to kiss her again,
sucked in a hissing breath as her fingers reached to curve around him.

"It's been hell, hasn't it?"
she whispered, closing her eyes as his thumb and forefinger tweaked her left
nipple. "I missed you so very much."

She moaned when he took both swollen
breasts in his hands and tenderly kneaded them. He slowly peeled away her
garments, staring at her body. Richelle knew her areolas had darkened and
spread.  Where it had been a dimple before, her navel protruded slightly now.
Morgan bent to flick his tongue against it the spot, tasting her flesh there. 

"That's the most erotic thing
you've ever done," she admitted in a choked whisper, all at once shy and
confused. "I was afraid you wouldn't like the changes to my body."

"I like the way you've changed, and
knowing I'm the cause."

"I love you. So much." She
stroked his length, worshipping him. "Please, Morgan.  Make love to
me."

He quickly stripped and pressed her back
onto the quilt, entering her with a single slow, measured thrust that made her
gasp in pleasure. She made soft mewling sounds that grew louder with each buck
of his hips. Her fevered hands pulled him in deeper and deeper. Richelle cried
out, reaching her climax just as Morgan shuddered with his own release. She was
still lying quietly sated in his arms when a soft rap sounded at the bedroom
door.

"I'm sorry," came Lorella's
hushed voice. "Your partner's downstairs, Mr. Tremayne. Should I tell him
you can't be disturbed?"

 "Have him wait, Lorella,"
Morgan called out. "I'll be down directly." He gave Richelle a look
of reproach. "You and Boyd played a nasty trick on me today. Put something
on and stay here until you hear your true name. Then come down and join
me." He rose and retrieved his pants from the floor.

He descended to the landing, upper body
and feet still bare. His hair was loose around his shoulders. He glanced
furtively toward the kitchen before frowning down at his guest. "What's so
important you had to come here tonight?"

"I wanted to see how you fared this
afternoon. I gather it went well," Boyd winked, grinning.

"You didn't tell me I'd meet a
tempting wench in need of servicing out there! Had I known, I never would have
argued about going. My wife's sent her maid and the luggage ahead. Going to
have to finish pleasuring the wench quicker than I'd like, then get her out of
here."

Boyd visibly paled. "What in the
name of God have you done, Morgan?
I sent you to meet with your wife!
I
can't believe you're dallying with some milkmaid. If Rachel comes home and
finds you tumbling—"

"
Richelle
," Morgan
corrected loudly. On cue, she appeared in the rose silk gown and descended to
stand beside Morgan. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "Most
tempting wench I've ever met." He pivoted slightly and planted a
passionate kiss on her lips. Richelle blushed from the roots of her hair all
the way to her toes.

Boyd almost dropped his hat. "God!
You nearly gave me heart failure!"

"Forgive me, oldest and dearest
friend," Morgan taunted, "but you knew what lay in store for me, yet
purposely had me chafing and distraught. I owed you a little of your own
medicine back for your part in the little deception."

"I'll take that as appreciation for
my efforts," Boyd responded, smiling at the woman in front of him.
"But I want to be certain I heard you correctly. Your name's not
Rachel?"

Morgan started to answer, but she nudged
his ribs gently. "I came here originally under an assumed name, due to a
legal problem. It's resolved now, thanks to your partner. My name's Richelle.
Richelle Tremayne."

"It's been a good many years since
there's been a woman with that surname in this village. Congratulations,
Morgan. You two must come to supper at our place one night soon. Chrissandra
and I insist."

"Aye," Morgan agreed with a
slight bow.

"Mistress Tremayne, I'm firmly
convinced you're the ideal mate for this difficult fellow. I sensed as much
from the first."

Morgan pulled her closer against his
side. "I'll be damned if I let you claim an ounce of credit for this
marriage, Boyd. I had to scrape my knee in front of Squire Martin and the
entire village, then pursue her through hell
and
high water."

"No credit, eh?" Boyd
retorted. "I believe the lady can settle this dispute." He glanced at
Richelle. "Do you recall when we first discussed my business partner and
your new landlord?"

"Yes."

With a smug air, Boyd asked, "When
did he first make a suggestive comment or advance toward you?"

"The afternoon he met me at the inn
and insisted on walking me home."

"What does that prove?" Morgan
carped. "She wouldn't even give me a bloody cup of tea that day! She
practically threw me out of here."

"So you'd already been rebuffed
when you complained about her the next morning at the office. She didn't jump
at the chance for a flirtation. That's the first I've ever heard of that
reaction from a woman where you're concerned. What a
challenge
that must
have presented, Morgan!"

Morgan's features went slack. Then he
released a hearty laugh. "Get out of here, Atkinson."

"Gladly," Boyd grinned.
"Got a new bride and soft mattress waiting at home myself."

Minutes later Richelle and Morgan were
once again nude and wrapped in one another's arms. "It pleases me more
than words can express to have you here with me, madam," he announced as
his fingertip traced around her pliant nipple. "At my side, in this canopy
bed, where I dreamt of loving you for so long."

"It pleases me to hear you laugh
again," she answered.

"Afraid your child would have a
sullen, disagreeable father, were you?"

She shook her head. "He'll have the
most handsome, wonderful, understanding father in the world."

"What if he is a
she
?"

"I won't have a she," Richelle
replied tartly. "I'm not sharing you with another female. Even one who
only weighs eight pounds." Her arms wrapped around his waist and she
kissed him, starting the loving all over again. Morgan forgot the baby, the
loneliness, the separation. There was nothing but Richelle wanting him and
loving him.

Later, when the parlor clock struck
midnight, Morgan's baritone rumbled softly in the darkness. "You know I
can't repay you for the granary, Richelle."

"I don't expect repayment."

"But I told you I didn't want any
part of your inheritance. You've not only disobeyed me, you've left me deeply
indebted."

"Would you rather I'd left you
bankrupt? You sound almost bitter. If you feel you must repay me somehow, do it
by keeping your promise to be with me when the baby comes. And don't speak of
my inheritance again. It only causes friction of the wrong kind between
us."

"Have you had enough of the
right
kind for one night?" Morgan asked, stroking her bottom. She nodded against
his shoulder. "Good, because your rake of a husband is getting sleepy. "

He felt a sudden movement against his
flank. Richelle murmured something, snuggling closer. He realized with a shock
what she'd said. "That was our son?"

She nodded, yawning. The movement came
again, stronger this time. Richelle was completely relaxed. She hadn't made the
abrupt movements.

His unborn child moved inside her.

Only yesterday, even that very same
morning, Morgan had been mentally examining a bleak future. Tonight he held his
wife close to his heart. She'd spent part of her inheritance to restore his granary.
Against his direct instructions. She always repaid her debts, she'd said. He
couldn't tell her how profoundly that affected him. Tonight he had Richelle's
warmth and comfort, the promise of a family. So much more than a simple debt
repaid.

"Richelle, thank you," he
whispered. "For the child…and for coming back to me. For marrying me and
loving me." He realized she'd fallen asleep. He pulled the quilt over her
shoulder and kissed her forehead tenderly. "Good night, Madam
Tremayne." 

It had been long months since he'd
whispered those words in the darkness. Tonight he truly meant their signal of
peace and safety. His arms around Richelle, he closed his eyes, and for the
first time since leaving America, drifted off to sleep without a single drop of
liquor.

Morgan rapidly got commitments enough to
nearly fill the granary, and Richelle signed it over as promised, relieved to
have it off her conscience. She filled in for Chrissy at the holding company
office now and again, but Morgan insisted she spend most of her time resting at
the cottage. She couldn't argue the point. His concern for her welfare and that
of their unborn child touched her deeply.

Still, she needed to get out for fresh
air and exercise occasionally. She enjoyed accompanying Lorella on market days,
although doing so also meant receiving all sorts of unwanted advice from
Crowshaven's matrons and merchants. She was offered cures for hiccups, poor eye
focus, teething, ear tugging, and bedwetting.

"Sometimes I think they'll be
telling me how to find my son a wife next," she groaned to her companion.
But Lorella wasn't listening. She appeared to be getting lessons in how to
select a pumpkin from a young man with a very cocky grin.

"You want a good, firm stem,"
he told her as his fingers guided hers to check the solidity of the squash in
question. He encouraged her to wrap her fingers around the green stump, and
Richelle heard more than a few snickers around them.

But the astonishing fact was that
Lorella actually bowed her head and flushed a very becoming shade of pink.

These villagers had no way of knowing
that Lorella was anything but a timid young American housemaid. Her blush
brought a wave of sympathetic teasing from the local farmers, who enjoined the
young rascal to stop tormenting the poor lass.

Richelle choked down her own laughter.
If the rascal only knew! Lorella had caressed far more than pumpkin stems and
could give him lessons about "solid meat" that would straighten all
his rumpled curly hair. Lorella paid for the squash and kept her face averted
as they crossed the square toward the cottage.