Land of a Thousand Dreams (45 page)

“Lest you misunderstand what I am suggesting, lass, I assure you that I would never…force my attentions on you. That is not what I am about. We would live as friends—good friends, companions. I would care for you; I would be a father to the child. You would lack for nothing, I promise you. And I swear to you as well that I would
ask
for nothing.”

He was saying it badly, the words spilling out like worthless coins dropping through a hole in a pouch. Finola seemed to have gone paler still, her eyes red and glazed.

He could not stop now. She would hear it all, every bit and piece of it, no matter how much the fool he might appear.

“I'll not deny that I have…affection for you, of course,” he said, lowering his voice. “No doubt you know that by now. But, Finola, I would never put a hand to you…with the wrong intentions.” Glancing over his blanket-draped legs, he added dryly, “Not that I am considered much of a threat.”

“Morgan—” His name on her lips was little more than a choked whisper. He could not fathom the thoughts behind those wondrous blue eyes, eyes that made all other lights dim in comparison. Yet, she did not let go of his hand. Indeed, she was clinging to it, straining to raise herself up from the bed, her entire body trembling with the effort.

He moved to stop her, putting one hand to her shoulder. “No, lass! You need not say a word in reply. Do not even
try
to answer me yet, please! Just think about what I am suggesting. Take as long as you need. I know this is a selfish thing entirely on my part, but try to understand that I also have your well-being in mind—”

“There is nothing selfish in you!” she cried, again straining toward him. “But you can't possibly think I would allow you to bind yourself to me…and to a nameless child…in such a way—”

He cut off her words by gently putting a finger to her lips. “No! Not nameless. The child—
our
child, Finola—will have a name:
my
name. As for binding myself to you—ah, Finola…if only you will have me, I will exult in it!”

He saw the doubt brimming in her eyes as he gently, but firmly, pressed her back onto the pillows. “Don't look at me so, lass—it's true! Sure, and you do not think I would propose such a thing from any misguided sense of selflessness or nobility?”

He smiled at her, smoothing a strand of flaxen hair away from her face. “I fear nobility is not a trait common to my kind,” he said wryly. “No, lass, this is much more for my benefit than for yours.”

Morgan ignored the quick shake of her head, the soft protest of disbelief. “Now, that's the truth, Finola; don't look at me so! I cannot imagine this gloomy old dungeon without the light of you, I swear I can't! And I would have you understand one thing more, about the child: it will be the same to me as if it were flesh of my flesh. In fact, unless you wish it otherwise, the child need never know but what I am its natural father.”

At her gasp of astonishment, Morgan moved to convince her. “You've seen my affection for Annie, how I delight in the girl, how dear she is to me. Can you believe me when I say she is as much mine as if my blood ran through her veins?”

Her eyes searched his. At last she nodded, saying softly, “Aye, there is no denying it.”

“Then think on this, Finola: Annie, too, is the child of…undesirable circumstances, a child rejected and unwanted. Why would I find it any more difficult to love
your
child than Annie?”

“But, why should you—”

Again he silenced her protest. “They will be my children, Finola, I
promise
you. Annie and your babe—and you—will be my family.”

The weeping had stopped, but she had gone ashen, and so dark were the shadows smudging her eyes that he felt a pang of remorse. “I've exhausted you! I should go now, so you can rest. We will talk more tomorrow.”

Unexpectedly, she grasped his hand, clinging to it with an almost fierce desperation.

“Ah, lass,” he murmured, awkwardly wrapping one arm about her shoulders in an attempt to reassure her. “I don't mean to cause you further distress. I want only to help, Finola.”

“I know,” she said in a strangled voice. “But your kindness…”

“Don't talk of kindness!” he blurted out. “This is not
kindness
! I want this for
myself
—not just for you!”

Again the slender shoulders heaved. Morgan cupped her face between his palms. “Don't cry, lass,” he pleaded softly. “Please, don't cry. You destroy me entirely when you weep. I want to see an end to your tears at last. I want to make you smile again.”

He paused. Then, his voice brisk, he said, “Now, then, you must rest. Tomorrow, when you're stronger, we'll talk again, eh?”

Morgan held her gaze until she gave a small nod. Still, he stayed with her, making no move to leave the room until at last, her hand still clinging to his, her eyes closed in sleep.

He ached to brush his lips over her pale cheek, but he would not take even such a small liberty as this. It was enough to feel her hand in his, to know she was safe beneath his roof and close to him.

God help him, he would never ask for more.

His nerves were far too taut for sleep. Wheeling himself to the lift, he went back downstairs, to the library.

The day had seemed so long that he felt it must surely be past midnight. He was amazed to hear the clock in the entryway strike ten. So early!

At his desk, he tried to read, with little success. He fingered through the pages of Joseph's journal, but quickly gave it up, not trusting his concentration. He was relieved when, after a moment, Sandemon knocked, then entered.

“I sent Lucy Hoy back to Miss Finola's room,” the black man said by way of greeting. “I assumed you would not want her left alone.”

“That didn't seem to make any difference earlier,” Morgan snapped.

Sandemon came to a stop on the other side of the desk. “That was my fault,” he said quietly. “I came to explain. The woman came into the kitchen to get some warm milk and a sleeping potion for Miss Finola. I…detained her with my questions.”

“Don't excuse her! She was negligent.” Morgan was quickly discovering that, although the hour was not as late as he'd expected, his nerves were stretched to the limit, his body as weary as if he'd been up for days. “We'll find a replacement for her. I don't care for the woman in any event.”

When there was no reply, he glanced up to find the black man regarding him with a troubled look.

“Say it, then!” Morgan commanded. “You obviously disagree.”

“It might be a mistake,” the other said carefully, “to send her away just now. She is devoted to Miss Finola—who obviously relies on her. I don't think you should dismiss her.”

Morgan studied the implacable features. “Tell me you've not gone sweet on the woman. You know what she is!”

For the first time since the West Indies black man had arrived at Nelson Hall, Morgan saw a flash of temper. The broad nostrils flared, the midnight eyes went hard.

“Because I am asking you to be fair, you accuse me of such a thing?”

Already, Morgan regretted his rash accusation. “I'm sorry—I didn't mean that. It's just that I want Finola to have someone dependable, that's the thing.”

“I don't mean to presume,
Seanchai
,” Sandemon said quietly, “but I believe Lucy Hoy is altogether trustworthy, at least in this regard. I also think that you might risk doing her great harm if you were to send her away just now.”

Morgan stared at him. He hadn't the faintest notion what the man was getting at—but, then, he seldom did. Nevertheless, he had learned to trust Sandemon's instincts.

“All right, then, she can stay,” he said grudgingly. “But only until Finola no longer needs her.”

The black man inclined his head, then turned to leave the room. Morgan gazed at the broad back, the powerful shoulders. The West Indies Wonder
was
a wonder, and that was the truth. He never ceased to amaze Morgan with his perception—and his compassion. In that instant, as Sandemon walked toward the door, Morgan realized that he should—indeed, that he
must
—tell his friend of his plans to marry Finola.

“Sandemon?”

The black man paused and glanced over one shoulder. “Yes,
Seanchai?”

“Wait a moment, if you please. I have something I would discuss with you.”

Sandemon turned, his expression puzzled.

“You'd best sit down,” said Morgan. “This will not be brief.”

The black man pulled a chair to the desk opposite Morgan and sat down, his gaze fixed intently on Morgan's face.

As Morgan struggled for the best way to begin, it occurred to him that what he wanted most from his friend was not necessarily his understanding…but his blessing.

Once Sandemon was out the door, Morgan turned back to the journal in front of him. Even with his eyeglasses on, however, the words seemed to run together, indistinguishable.

Fatigue, no doubt. He was about to give over and go to his bedroom when a discreet knock sounded, followed by Sister Louisa's appearance in the doorway.

He motioned her in with some reluctance. Obviously, no one else in the house was as tired as he was.

She stopped a respectful distance from the desk. “Sandemon said you had just left the girl. I thought I'd inquire about her.”

Morgan indicated that she should be seated, but she chose to stand. “Finola is…resting,” he answered. “She was sleeping when I left her.”

With a relieved sigh, the nun clasped her hands in front of her. “Poor girl. She's had so much—and whatever is she to do
now
?”

Morgan looked at her. “Because of the child, you mean?” he asked bluntly.

He'd give the woman her due. Most nuns would have gone red and stammered. Not Sister Louisa. She merely nodded and repeated his words. “Because of the child.”

He hesitated only a moment. “I've asked her to be my wife,” he said evenly.

The nun looked about to strangle, but said nothing.

“She hasn't given me her reply yet, of course, but I'm hopeful.”

He was entirely unprepared for what came next.

“You
can't
be serious!” she burst out. “Such a marriage would be—” She stopped, obviously aware that she had overstepped the bounds of propriety.

Removing his eyeglasses, Morgan glared at her. “Would be
what,
Sister?”

He should have known she was far too brash to hold her tongue. Still, she
was
a nun. He would give her the respect her office implied. “Go on,” he said wearily. “You might just as well have your say.”

Bristling, she said, “Such a marriage would be a sin.”

Nun or not, Morgan flared. “Now
just
a moment—”

“Forgive me!” she burst out, obviously flustered. “I understand what you're trying to do, but—”

“Do
you, now?” Morgan grated, clenching his hands on top of the desk to resist pounding it. “Why don't you tell me what it is I'm trying to do, Sister?”