Lady Fugitive (33 page)

"He was a nice looking
hooligan," Richelle remarked with feigned casualness in her tone.
"Strapping young fellow. I think I've seen him before. Out at the Atkinson
farm. Maybe he's one of the masons or laborers. His face looked familiar. Must
live in the general vicinity."

"Mmm," was all Lorella said.

"Your cheeks are red as twin roses,
Lorella," Richelle said, unleashing her suppressed laughter. "I can't
believe you were actually embarrassed!"

"I was, but not the way you're
thinking," Lorella replied with new starch to the set of her shoulders.
"I knew he was taunting me, hoping he could offend my sensibilities. Men
like to shock a girl. But my face was red because I was wondering why it had to
happen with a pumpkin. Where was that fine young stallion when I was at the
butcher's picking out a sausage? That's what I'd like to know!"

* * *

Morgan was home before nightfall most
evenings, and inevitably when he'd step through the front door he'd be
instantly assailed by the mongrel—christened Patrick by unanimous vote, in fond
remembrance of Sheila's burly doorman. The price of admission into his own
parlor was Morgan scratching behind the big dog's ears.

Mornings were decidedly frosty now,
Morgan noted. The bedroom window panes were etched with it. He debated whether
to rise and greet the new day or linger within the cocoon of warmth generated
by his sleeping wife and the bedcovers. But recalling the errand awaiting him,
along with other duties at the company office, he reluctantly pulled on a pair
of breeches, shivering as he tiptoed across the bedchamber to find his boots
and a shirt. He dressed quickly and headed quietly downstairs. But the scent of
brewing coffee assailed him before he reached the kitchen, announcing that
Lorella was already awake.

"You're up early," he
commented. "I thought I'd have to go begging this morning."

"Oh no, sir," Lorella
countered. "I saw Mr. Atkinson in the square yesterday. He warned me you'd
be riding out at dawn this morning. I've already started toast and eggs."
She turned to glower at the big gray shadow at her feet. "And you, you
worthless beggar, how would you like your eggs?"

"Straight off my plate, as usual,"
Morgan responded with a deep chuckle.

Lorella cracked several eggs into her
skillet. "The girls from Sheila's sent a parcel last week. They knitted
some baby clothes, blankets and such. That was nice of them."

Morgan grunted in assent and stirred a
heaping teaspoonful of sugar into Lorella's dark brew. He grimaced and took a
seat at the table.

"Now all we need is that cradle you
keep promising to fetch." The maid's tone was soft, yet carried subtle
reproach.

"Today, Lorella."

"What's today?"

Richelle stood yawning in the kitchen
doorway, her long chestnut hair in tangles. Morgan was startled by his reaction
to the sight. Even many months along with his babe, she stirred his blood. He
briefly considered taking her back upstairs and slowly brushing her tresses, as
he'd done many times since their wedding at sea. But Dr. Rowe advised
abstinence, and they had to be prudent. Which didn't mean his groin had to
agree.

"A last trip to the outskirts of
the district," he answered. "But it won't take long. I'll probably be
back at the holding company office a little past noontide."

Richelle's expression darkened.
"You know how close I am. It makes me nervous to have you away now. Even
for a few hours."

"I do know," he nodded,
helping her into the big armchair beside their hearth, where Lorella had a
cheery fire going. He handed Richelle his coffee mug. "You'll like this. I
put just the perfect quantity of sugar for you."

"That won't sweeten me into
forgetting that you've gone off somewhere, after you promised me you'd stay in
the village."

"This particular outing is an
exception. Something on the order of another promise I made, long before I met
you."

"And this long ago promise is more
important than—"

He smothered her protest with a kiss.
"
Nothing
is more important than you and our child, Richelle. You
know that." He offered a defeated sigh. "I'm going to see Entwistle
this morning."

"Oh, Entwistle. Why didn't you say
so in the first place?"

Lorella arrived in the parlor with a
tray of toast. "Who or what is an Entwistle?"

"David Entwistle's one of Mr.
Tremayne's oldest friends. Almost a father figure."

Lorella glanced over at Morgan in
confusion. "But I thought your father had been innkeeper before you, and
you took over when he died."

"Aye," Morgan replied,
"But I worked on Entwistle's farm as a lad of fourteen. He was the first
local farmer to hire me. Word had passed around the village that he needed
help, even though David Entwistle has a full brood. My father snorted at that,
saying if he himself could provide for his family without hiring chore boys,
Entwistle should as well. None of the other lads were willing to ride out to
Entwistle's farm. He was known as a fierce taskmaster and disagreeable
sort."

"So," Richelle finished,
"with Andrew Tremayne dead set against the idea and no one else willing,
Morgan hired on."

"You must realize," Morgan
qualified, "that of David's five sons, two were merchant seamen and one was
at university. Only one of the remaining pair was old enough to be of any use
at farm work. The youngest was a mere tot."

Lorella had an amused gleam in her eye.
"So, was it as awful as all the other boys thought it would be?"

"I worked until my fingers bled and
the sun went down. Day after day. Mistress Entwistle kept me in tea and scones
with honey. The bank sent a fellow out one day to foreclose on David's
loan." Morgan grinned broadly. "I ran a pitchfork through the
fellow's hat, vowed he'd be paid inside a month, and made certain David kept
that promise."

"And Morgan's word has been
legendary ever since," Richelle said quietly, glancing into her husband's
eyes. "It's good you're going to see David."

She gazed at him with a forgiving
softness in her expression, but Morgan inwardly fretted. The damned place was
too cold. And Richelle looked too pale. He tossed another hunk of wood on the
hearth."Fix Madam Tremayne some eggs, Lorella. I'll be back as soon as
humanly possible."

Richelle declined the food. Morgan
halted, his hand on the doorknob, dismayed by what he'd overheard. Richelle typically
ate like one of Entwistle's strapping sons, with gusto and frequent requests
for second helpings. Peculiar that she'd awakened without appetite.
"Richelle, you're all right?"

"Just tired. I'll eat later."

Morgan strode into the kitchen to seek
out the maid. "While I'm at Entwistle's, I'll ask his youngest son to come
by. He's a chimney mason. I'd been meaning to speak to him about installing a
small stove in the hall upstairs. I also mean to ask the good doctor to look in
on Richelle." He started toward the back door.

Lorella grabbed his arm. "Take the
dog along, sir. He paces so when you're out, he makes the missus nervous."

Morgan opened the door and Patrick
bounded along the bluff, panting with excitement. "Blasted mutt,"
Morgan complained aloud, heading toward the livery. "You underfoot and a
massive crate due at Cramden's farmstead by ten. I've quite the day
ahead."

He checked his watch and calculated he
could make the deadline, even with the extra stop at the doctor's. He wasted
few words with the physician and arrived at the Entwistle farm just after
seven. With his furry companion firmly instructed to stay in the wagon and
wait, Morgan approached David's back door, recalling another frosty morning
like this one.

He ridden out here alone to speak
privately with David and repay him for a favor. Morgan had wanted headstones
carved for his father and sister, but couldn't afford to pay the Sheffield
stonecutter. Arnold Somersdale had refused to loan Morgan the money. David
Entwistle had heard the tale and driven to Sheffield himself to order the
markers. 

Morgan had repaid that debt, even though
David never asked for the money. From time to time he'd see David at the inn.
Once they shared a few pints together and had sworn a drunken oath that should
Morgan father a son, he'd rock his child in the same hand-carved oak cradle
that had rocked all five of David's sons. 

Now Morgan stood gazing at that cradle,
awed of all that had come to pass, the years and changes in both men. "Are
you sure you're comfortable parting with it?" he asked. "You're bound
to have more grandchildren."

"You saved my farm, lad. Only whelp
in the village with balls enough to come work for me. And work hard you did,
for little pay. Take the cradle, but know this. If you don't make me the
child's godfather, I'll take a strap to your back!"

The door blew open, admitting a frigid
blast of winter air and several other men to the big kitchen. Morgan recognized
one chap as Entwistle's immediate neighbor. Behind him stood Joshua Tate. The
others Morgan knew only in passing. "Did you tell him why we want to talk
to him?" a stranger asked. Morgan turned back to David.

"Was getting to it." David
lumbered to his broad oak table and sat down. The other men filed around to
join him. Reluctantly Morgan took a place, as well, nervous at the somber
demeanor of this unanticipated gathering.

Morgan nodded at Tate. "How you
feeling these days? Chasing young Nathan across the fields by now, I
expect."

"I'm well enough." Tate
glanced at the others in turn, clarifying. "He worked my fields for a week
last year when I was laid up. That's the sort he is."

"What's this about?" Morgan
was distinctly uneasy now. Every man in the room sat staring at him.

Entwistle cleared his throat. "Some
of us have been discussing the future, Morgan. Crowshaven's growing, due in
part to your efforts. The others on the council will probably go along.
Somersdale's likely to be a fly in the ointment, but we can set aside his
objections regarding your holdings—"

"Objections? I don't understand."

Another man spoke up. "Your
ownership of the inn could be seen as a conflict of interest, and on that basis
Somersdale could try to block our nomination. You'd be wise to sell it,
Tremayne, and eliminate the sore spot."

"My father built the bloody place! I
don't know what the lot of you have in mind, but—"

"Morgan, listen, lad." David's
voice was firm. "Crowshaven's becoming a proper town and needs a proper
mayor. We're nominating you at next council meeting. Would help the vote pass
if you'd agree to sell. You know council meetings are held in your taproom.
Someone else must profit from our ale and food purchases. Shouldn't be the town
mayor.
That's
the conflict we're speaking of."

Morgan was speechless. David scowled.
"We'll
pay
you a salary, Tremayne! Not much at first, but you'll
still have your fingers in other pies. Granary, warehouse and livery service.
What say you?"

"I agree with the concept of
needing to elect a mayor," Morgan replied slowly. "Same thought's
crossed my mind. But I can't honestly agree that I'm the fellow for the job.
What about Squire Martin?"

One man shook his head. "Too
old."

"And some say not to be trusted,"
grumbled Entwistle's neighbor.

"Then Boyd. He's the administrative
sort and his family goes back—"

"Who do you think suggested you
sell the inn?" David laughed. "We need someone who's not afraid to
look others right in the eye—bedamned, even spit in their eye, come down to
it—for the good of this village. A man with a stiff spine, yet someone who can
get on with one and all."

Tate spoke up. "And we want someone
who won't favor a merchant over a farmer. A man known for his word. You're the
bloke, Tremayne."

"I'm flattered, but—"

Entwistle noisily cleared his throat.
"We discussed this with Boyd while you were overseas. We waited until your
bride arrived and you settled into your new married life. You're about to find
yourself with a new mouth to feed. You want the post or not?" David
demanded. "It
is
me asking." His eyes flicked to the cradle.

So now it's personal
, Morgan realized.
How do I refuse?

"Be forced to sell my inn," Morgan
mused aloud, swallowing the lump in his throat. "No way around that. I'd
demand the same if it were another holding the council meetings in his own
tavern. I've had that place a long while. Lived in it a long while."

The others shrugged. Entwistle gave him
a hard look. "Weren't no way 'round the chores, neither. You did them."

Morgan took a deep breath, trying to
loosen the tightness in his chest. "I can't attend the next council
meeting. My wife's time is very close, and she lost a child during labor in her
first marriage. She needs me with her." He rose and tucked the cradle
under one arm.

He glanced at the table full of men. "Let's
see first if the vote carries. We can meet and discuss this at length
afterward. Thank you again for this, David."