Lady Fugitive (5 page)

"Arnold Somersdale is the only
ineligible candidate," Morgan snapped. "Any other Yorkshire bachelor
is potentially acceptable. I shall have a word with Somersdale. I want it clear
he's to leave you alone."

She slammed her finger in the drawer in
her haste to close it. "Ow! Sir, I've told you there's nothing between the
two of us. I'd prefer you didn't say anything to him."

"I'd prefer a clerk who follows
instructions to one who believes it her place to give them." He turned on
his heels and left. She frowned after him, thinking her broken nail and
throbbing index finger were all his fault. Him with his nonsense about
Somersdale!

He came storming back a half-hour later
and threw two sheets of paper in her face. "Just what the bloody hell are
these? Why shouldn't I fire you, Widow Cordell? You lied to me!"

She smoothed the crumpled papers,
wrinkling her nose in disgust. The sheets reeked of perfume. She scanned the
pages and went a deep scarlet. The notes were to the owner of the mercantile,
and contained lurid suggestions that made Rachel's skin crawl.

Somersdale possessed sparse black hairs
on the crown of his head, which he combed east to west in an attempt to hide a
large bald spot. He had a pinched nose and bulging eyes. The man was a human
ostrich. There was no chance she'd
ever
want to engage in the activities
those letters described with him.

"Is this someone's idea of a
joke?" she asked Morgan. "I've never seen these before. I certainly
never sent them! No wonder he thought I wanted more than fabric from him that
night a the cottage." 

Morgan reached for one of the letters,
his fingers brushing hers. She felt a tingling awareness, but he appeared
indifferent to the sensation. He was holding a sheet of the scented paper next
to one from her desktop. She knew the penmanship didn't match. "You didn't
write these," he concluded. "I take it they don't convey your
sentiments?"

She was aghast. "I've never written
a man a personal letter in my life. I can't imagine a woman debasing herself by
writing such things. I don't wear perfume; it makes me sneeze. And I can spell,
sir. The word 'evening' has two N's."

Morgan knew she spoke the truth. She'd
been his employee for a good many weeks. Never once had he caught an error in
spelling. He could call out a word and she'd unerringly rattle off the letters
in proper sequence.

He didn't let himself dwell on thoughts
about feminine perfume. He concentrated on the missives. "Why would
someone forge these?"

Rachel gave a mirthless laugh.
"That's obvious. Didn't you just threaten to fire me? How better to
discredit me than plant a link between me and your sworn enemy?"

"I wonder what else has been
contrived," he said thoughtfully, squinting to peer out the front windows.

She stared at him helplessly. He
couldn't possibly have learned the truth about her.

"I'm afraid some nasty rumors are
circulating about you, Widow Cordell. I've perhaps been too gullible. My
apologies, Rachel."

Words failed her. He'd never apologized
openly before. No matter how rudely he spoke to her, not even when he'd thrown
the stranger out of their offices. He'd also never called her Rachel. He was
looking at her expectantly. She had to say something.

"I suspect Miss Prine wrote the
letters, sir. We got off to a bad start. She warned me that she expected I'd
fail as your clerk. Perhaps she wanted to ensure my failure."

"I'm afraid what you suggest is
entirely possible. The woman's prone to fits of jealousy." He rolled his
eyes. "It's not a pretty sight."

Rachel shrugged. "I can think of no
one else who would purposely do me ill. Unless you yourself wrote them."

"I realize your opinion of me is
less than charitable, but surely you don't believe that."

She offered a weak smile. "I didn't
believe you'd try to have me fired just because I didn't make you a cup of tea
at the cottage, either."

He stunned her by laughing aloud.
"Let me atone. Have supper with me at the inn tonight."

"We've never had a civil
conversation that lasted five minutes, Mr. Tremayne," she snorted in
derision. "I can just see the two of us now. Food and insults flying all
over the place."

"You're mistaken, Madam Cordell.
We've just had a rather lengthy discussion this morning. We might be less
inclined to disagree if we searched for common ground. And I, for one, do
not
throw food."

She groaned as she read over the
forgeries again. "I'll never be able to walk into that mercantile knowing
Mr. Somersdale believes I wrote these salacious notes."

"You have no need to go there. I
made it quite clear he's to avoid contact with you."

"I hope you didn't insult
him."

His expression hardened. "I didn't
call him out into the street with my six-guns blazing, as one of your
countrymen would have done. We Englishmen have more civilized ways of settling
our differences."

"So I've heard. Dueling pistols at
twenty paces. Very civilized."

"I happen to own a set of dueling
pistols. In some circles, dueling is still considered quite the manly
art."

"Only by men," she assured
him. "Few women would see it as artistic. Paint on canvas is art. Blood
spattering everywhere is savagery."

"Was your husband killed in a duel,
Madame Cordell?"

She took down a ledger and opened it,
signaling her wish to end the discussion. "Still probing for background
information to write that newspaper story, sir?"

"You may be correct about supper,
Widow. I might be tempted to fling gravy in your hair, after all." He
abruptly left. 

Rachel watched him stride down the
street and turn onto the main square, noting the angry set of his shoulders.
She tried to push away the suspicion forming in the recesses of her mind. He'd
said he didn't dislike her...He'd apologized for misjudging her. Remarked that
he found her attractive. Even seemed stung when she hadn't accepted his offer
of supper. Did that mean....?

"Oh, don't be ridiculous,
Richelle!" she huffed under her breath. "And don't forget, deep down
that's who you are.
Rachel
doesn't exist, remember? You made her up in
order to hide."

She repeated those phrases over and over
like a Gregorian chant on her way to the cottage, her thoughts in a cadence
matching that of her heels along the cobblestones.
It doesn't matter what
they think of you, any of them. You'll be going back to America soon. These
people don't even know you. Don't let yourself care what Morgan thinks.

The rational, thinking part of her knew
that was the wisest course. But a last little corner of her heart—so weary of
clinging to empty dreams, of trying to do right while everything still turned
out all wrong—that last little part of her, wonderful traitor, refused to
listen.

It was just before three in the
afternoon. Morgan entered his private rooms above the inn to find Pamela curled
atop his bed in a sultry pose. Clad only in her undergarments, she sucked in a
breath. "Morgan! I've missed you." She ran her fingertips along the
insides of her thighs. "You're always busy. Haven't you missed afternoons
here with me?"

He stepped closer to the bed.
"Sorry, I've had other priorities."

She rose onto her knees and reached for
his belt buckle. "Shame on you. I should be your priority, Mr. Tremayne.
You deserve to be punished for neglecting me so. You've earned twenty
lashes."

He caught her hands in his. She glanced
up into his stern face and laughed. "Sweetheart, I promise you'll like
this game! Now take your punishment like a man." Her tongue moistened her
lips suggestively.

"I wonder how you'll take your
punishment, Pamela. You've been busy too. Writing love letters to another man.
Spreading malicious gossip. Exercising your jealous streak. I've told you
before I won't tolerate being manipulated."

"I don't know what you're talking
about. I haven't written any letters." She tried to pull away, but he held
both her wrists, his scowl deepening.

"You forged letters from my clerk
to Arnold Somersdale. You lied to me, claimed they'd been seen together here in
town several times. Don't pretend you don't know what I mean." He released
her without warning, sending her sprawling back onto the mattress.

"I merely passed along what I
heard." She tried her best to look mortally wounded, rubbing both arms.
"I thought you should be told. I never forged any letters. The slut lied
if she claimed I did. You'd take the word of that Colonial?" He'd heard
petulance in her tone before. Today it verged on strident.

He gave her a wintry smile. "I've
spoken to Arnold and seen the letters myself. Rachel didn't pen them. She
doesn't wear perfume, Pamela. A stupid trick, unlikely to succeed under
scrutiny." Her expression barely dimmed. It appeared she still entertained
hopes of seducing him. She didn't understand her wiles weren't having the
desired effect.

She shrugged in feigned indifference.
"You complained that Boyd refused to admit he'd made a mistake and let her
go. I tried to help you. A liaison with Somersdale would give you the ideal
excuse to rid yourself of that unwanted baggage. If she slept with him, she
deserves what befalls her."

"She hasn't." Morgan stalked
out of the bedchamber and retired to his adjoining sitting room. He settled
into a dark leather chair. His head ached. The padded leather upholstery made
coping with this unpleasantness only slightly easier.

Pamela reluctantly dressed, finally
acknowledging defeat. "Well then, no harm done. I don't understand the
fuss." 

Morgan snorted. "You don't
understand simple facts. I've neither interest nor energy for playing games.
You don't grasp the concept that trade and commerce are what matter most in my
life. The American woman is important. She's a capable clerk and provides me
with rental income. She's a decent, quiet tenant. Your little ploy could have
disrupted everything."

"That simpering chit waits on you
like a chambermaid! Everyone in town knows we're practically betrothed,"
Pamela huffed. "It's an insult to me that you'd have that American slut at
your beck and call."

"We're not even remotely close to
any such union, my dear. I have everything I need here." He gestured at
his chambers. "I've no incentive to take on the burden of a wife,
particularly if she demands to be my first priority."

He reached for the liquor bottle on the
low table beside his chair. Finding the bottle empty, he frowned and tossed it
to the floor. "Well, almost everything I need. Out of brandy." Now he
glanced up to meet Pamela's furious glare. "Your scheme failed. Rachel
needs a job. She'll stay on as my clerk and tenant. You did achieve one thing
with this rot of yours, though. You opened my eyes to the liability I incur
having a woman around me with such jaundiced views."

"
Rachel needs a job
,"
Pamela mimicked. "I'm not fooled by that little tramp in her widow's
weeds! And I'm not the only one who mistrusts her. Always butting her nose in
where it's not wanted. Poor Thomas can't pour a pint downstairs without
answering to her for it."

"Indeed!" Morgan shot to his
feet. "Thomas and Emily work for me, remember? I can't let them give a
free pint away to every milksop with a tale of woe. The same's true for Boyd
and his tobacco. Rachel looks after our interests."

Pamela made an unladylike noise in her
throat. "And you look right back. I've seen you measuring her bosom and
hips with your eyes. Don't tell me you haven't thought of bedding that refugee
from the cow town saloons."

Morgan knew he was supposed to
vehemently deny it. This was where Pamela expected him to grovel and patch
things up. It didn't matter that she'd caused the trouble. Pamela wouldn't
apologize. Remorse was virtually unknown to her.

He couldn't resist grinning as he gave
her the last answer she expected.

"You're right, Pamela. I've thought
about it. I've pictured her naked beneath me in that canopy bed at the cottage.
I've wondered how she'd taste and feel. Whether I ever act upon those thoughts
is up to
her
, not you. I'd better not hear more rumors about Rachel or
find you here again uninvited. Your father's loan payments can be
accelerated."

"You bastard!"

He threw a disgusted glance over his
shoulder as he went out. "Take the back stairs, eh, Pam? We wouldn't want
townspeople talking."

* * *

Pamela stood lurking on the cottage
porch, Rachel discovered with dismay.  It was nearly dusk, but even from a
distance she spotted the pale hair and knew it didn't belong to Chrissy.
Chrissy would have rushed forward with a friendly greeting. Rachel thought
about turning back, but it was too late. 

"Evening, Widow Cordell. I've come
for a word with you."

"If you mean you've come to admit
culpability for those awful love notes, save your breath. I know you're behind
them."