Lady Fugitive (37 page)

He was extremely gentle. He probed
cautiously and a smile broke across his face. "That babe's not turned
wrong, Richelle! I felt the head. You're doing fine!"

"Oh Morgan, honestly?"

"Aye. Now take a sip of the tea
Lorella made you," he directed, bringing the cup to her lips. Lorella had
also provided a sandwich for him. He took a bite and began talking as he
chewed. "Remember the pirates? You were afraid for your very life then,
but you listened to me and made it through. Listen again now. You'll come
through this fine, and so will the babe."

She panted, clinging tightly to his hand
and resisting the urge to bear down. Morgan never winced, never adjusted his
hand, just let her crush his fingers when she needed to and continued to
smile. 

At last the doctor appeared. "How's
she doing?"

"Fine," Morgan grinned.
"Normal presentation, head's pretty low. Won't be long."

Richelle felt her face redden.
"Morgan!" she hissed. "I think the doctor can decide for himself
how matters are progressing."

"Right as rain!" the doctor
pronounced as he examined her. "You're fortunate to have this fellow for
your midwife, you know." Dr. Rowe gave Richelle a wink and grinned at
Morgan. "He's delivered some of the finest animals in Northern England.
Never lost a foal or calf yet."

"When I begin munching oats, I'll
take comfort in that."

"I see I'm no longer
appreciated," Morgan sniffed in mock offense. "I'll go have some of
that brandy, then." He started toward the doorway.

Richelle shook her head violently,
seizing the doctor's arm. "The stairs! He can't make it down alone."

The doctor glanced at Morgan.
"She's got a ways to go yet." He'd left a crutch by the door, and
handed Morgan the padded end. He ran his hand along the damaged thigh.
"Thought I told you to stay off that leg. How's it feeling?"

"Never better," Morgan
replied, staring into his wife's dark eyes. "Might I have a word alone
with my wife before you help me downstairs?"

Dr. Rowe nodded and quit the room.
Morgan eased onto the edge of the bed and spoke in a serious tone. "You
were right about the marriage aboard the ship. Before I arrived at your aunt's
house, I'd already set my mind to do whatever was required to keep you in my
life. I
did
purposely deceive you to get what I wanted. My own goal was
all that mattered."

"I've forgiven you, remember?"

"I longed to make you mine from the
first moment I held you in my arms and kissed you. Even though marriage
terrified me. I wanted you so much." He reached for her hand. "Other
than craving you for myself then, I've never wanted anything as much as I now
pray to watch you suckle a healthy child."

His voice was hoarse, but his words very
clear. "I had a talk with the Almighty last evening, beloved wife. We
struck a bargain between us. I've put up the use of my leg against your welfare
and the child's. I had a long talk with Him. He knows I'm a man of my word. I
know full well the power of His."

Richelle gasped. "You
asked
God to leave you crippled?"

The resolve on his face hit harder than
any contraction yet. "Aye, if that's the price of your dream,
Richelle."

Richelle sat ramrod straight in the
crowded pew as her gaze swept the church. Every row was filled. Morgan was
seated immediately to her left, mustache neatly groomed, the thong gone from
his hair. His mane had been shorn to just grazing the top of his starched collar.
Lorella was on Richelle's right, holding tight to Malcolm's hand. She would be
back in a month to wed Malcolm and move into the Entwistle's farmhouse.

The vicar called Morgan and his wife
forward. Morgan flashed Richelle a look he hoped conveyed the mingled
uncertainty and solemn pride in his soul and rose to his feet. He waited as
Lorella transferred the chubby bundle from her lap into Richelle's arms.
Silently Morgan laid his cane across the wooden pew behind him. He heard
several audible gasps. He ignored them, moving stiffly to join his wife and
David Entwistle in the nave. The vicar asked David a question. 

"Regan Hardwick Tremayne,"
came the resonant answer.

Richelle barely heard the words. She saw
Morgan standing tall with nothing in either hand. Balancing Regan in the crook
of her arm, she reached for Morgan's right hand with the fingers of her left.
Their twin signets came together in one soft, burnished glow. Morgan had
insisted upon naming their son Regan—half Rachel, half Morgan. It was a good
name, she reflected as the baby loudly voiced his complaint at the rush of
water over his brow. A strong name for the son of a strong man.

They stepped into the crisp spring air.
Chrissandra tugged at Richelle's sleeve and whispered something in her ear.
Richelle smiled broadly and nodded in the direction of her husband and Dr.
Rowe. The women moved to where the men stood talking. The doctor cautioned
Morgan about pushing himself and the leg too hard.

Richelle drew her husband aside.
"He's right, Morgan. You're not overtired, are you? You haven't been
without the cane for so long before."

"I'm fine, love."

She gave him her warmest smile.
"We'll be attending another christening before long. Your partner's going
to be a father, if Dr. Rowe confirms what Chrissy suspects." 

Morgan glanced at Chrissandra, then at
Lorella holding hands with Malcolm. He shook his head in exasperation.
"You've positively decimated our village's bachelor population, Richelle
Tremayne," he scolded in mock severity. "We allow one little Colonial
widow into our midst, and look what comes of it."

Thomas and Emily stepped up beside them.
"Aye! Little American's the best thing ever befell this village,"
Thomas declared. "Told Emily for years Swanson was cheating on the ale
shipments. Rachel finally got the figures to prove it. Won't cheat me again,
now that I own the bloody place!"

"Want to thank you again for your
help with the banker, Mr. Tremayne. I'll have the last of your funds to you
next week. We're honored you offered the place to us, rather than selling to
strangers. Know it wasn't easy for you to part with the inn. We'll take good
care of the place for your sake…and Andrew's memory. You're welcome to drinks
on us any time, sir. In moderation," Thomas winked.

Morgan frowned. "What's this 'sir'
and 'Mr. Tremayne' business? When did I stop being Morgan?"

Emily went red in the face now.
"It's not that we're not fond of you as ever, Morgan, but you're the
mayor
now! I mean sir, eh...Your Honor," she stammered. She held up an elegant
silver and ebony walking stick. "And you forgot your cane, Your Honor,
sir."

"Yes, he did," Richelle
answered, reaching for it. "Thank you, Emily."

Morgan signaled for their carriage.
Richelle waved good-bye to Chrissy as Regan yanked on the filigreed silver
handle of the cane. He pulled it in close to his face, infant eyes wide and
intent. He was soon happily gnawing on the handle, gurgling softly.

Morgan reached for his son.
"Richelle, our son is slobbering all over my best cane."

"I know. But seeing you have no
need of it any longer, I didn't think you'd mind,
Your Honor
."

His scowl deepened as gray eyes locked
on hers. "Are you deliberately trying to provoke me, madam?"

She let her hips sway as she stepped up
into the carriage and turned to smile over her shoulder at him. Her wicked,
sultriest smile. "Indeed, sir. Oh yes, indeed."

Shannah Biondine is a former professional resume
writer who is the author of several historical romances and other works of
fantasy. Shannah is an avid and eclectic fiction reader herself. She collects
Venetian masks and the art of Josephine Wall. Shannah also owns big dogs, reads
tarot cards, enjoys both jigsaw and crossword puzzles, and since relocating
from California to Colorado has developed an affinity for shoveling snow. To
learn how to pronounce her pen name or learn more about her titles, please
visit her website: 
www.shannahbiondine.com