Treasured Vows (12 page)

“Aye,” Mr. Morgan assured him grandly even as Phadra managed to connect her booted foot with his shin. He grunted, his hold breaking, and she pushed away to run after the mail coach, her bonnet tumbling off her head in her haste.

“Wait!” she cried, dismayed to see the coachman swing up into his place. She had to get on that coach. She had to! Suddenly she felt strong arms around her waist, pulling her back to him.

She prepared to fight, balling her hands into fists.
But then Mr. Morgan did something she never would have anticipated in a million years.

Instead of grabbing her arms again, instead of holding her prisoner, instead of any of the dozens of things he could have done that she was prepared to guard herself against, he did the unexpected.

He kissed her.

Phadra didn’t even realize it until his lips came down on hers, and when she started to gasp in surprise, she found her mouth locked with his. His action startled her. She started to struggle until a part of her realized this was actually very pleasant, a far cry from Popov the poet’s wet, sloppy kisses.

Grant Morgan tasted of the night fog, of hidden secrets, and of something so incredible that Phadra found him impossible to resist. She leaned into him, her mouth now exploring his, timidly at first but then more boldly. His hold on her relaxed. No longer did he grip her arms; rather, he caressed her back, bringing her closer into the strength and protection of his arms—and the kiss deepened in magic ways that Phadra had never imagined possible. She wrapped her arms around his neck and held on for everything she was worth.

From the dim recesses of what was left of her mind, she heard the blast of the guard’s horn and a crack of the whip as the mail coach took off into the night without her.

Phadra was only vaguely aware that he had pulled his lips away from hers. She leaned forward, anxious to return to his melting kisses, when she heard him say clearly and succinctly to the innkeeper, “Is the team ready?”

“That it is, sir,” the innkeeper confirmed as a small
two-passenger post chaise and a team of horses rolled forward into the torchlight.

Phadra shoved against his body with all her might. He freed her this time.
And why not?
she thought furiously. The coach to Portsmouth was gone and with it her hopes.

She turned to the innkeeper angrily. “How dare you believe him over me! How dare you let him lie to you? There is no sailor! This man has no rights over me at all.”

“It appeared to me that you gave him a good number of rights a moment ago,” the man replied sagely. “And you should count your blessings. If you were my wife, I would have beaten you.”

Phadra had a few choice words to say about
that
—until a round of guffaws and giggles from the maids and stable hands made her realize that her complete and absolute humiliation had had a rather large audience. Her cheeks flamed. How could she have responded so wantonly to Grant Morgan?

The force of his kiss had shaken her to the very root of her being, but he stood there calm and unruffled. Sweet Mary, she was no more levelheaded than any of the silly women who dropped their gloves for him or flirted openly.

Phadra picked up her bonnet from the dust at her feet. Her head held high, she said, “This isn’t over yet.”

“No,” he agreed soberly, his eyes hard and determined. “We’re not back in London. Back to
little
Miranda.”

Phadra’s palm itched to slap him—but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. “You had better watch what you wish for, Mr. Morgan. You may get your wish.”

With that grim announcement, she squared her shoulders and marched proudly to the waiting post chaise, its coach lamps lit for the dangerous night journey.

Phadra sat as close to the coach door as she could, her bonnet in her lap. That still didn’t mean that her body didn’t touch Mr. Morgan’s after he’d settled with the innkeeper and climbed into the coach. For once she wished that he weren’t such a large man.

She also wished he weren’t such a
masculine
man. The taste of his kiss still haunted her.

After a half hour of traveling he broke the icy silence. “Is something wrong?” She could feel him turn toward her in the darkness.

“Wrong?” Phadra put anger into the word. “Why should anything be wrong? I mean, just because you made a fool of me in public with your lies and your
deceit
—”

“I was acting for your own good.”

“Oh! That’s a rich one.
Whose
good? Be honest, Mr. Morgan. You came after me to save your arranged marriage to a spoiled, petted woman, who has no idea of decency or good manners, so that you can earn a title. Well, you have earned a title in my esteem. Lord of Lies! How do you like that one?”

He snorted. Obviously he didn’t like that one at all, and Phadra felt a small measure of satisfaction.

When he spoke again, the tone of his voice was conciliatory, as if he was negotiating a difficult business transaction. “Miss Abbott, I’m aware of how much you wish to make contact with your father. However, the trip you were planning is dangerous, especially for a young woman alone—”

“It’s my life. My choice.”

“I can appreciate that sentiment. However—”

“Save me from your ‘howevers.’ I’m sick of ‘howevers.’ All my life I’ve had people pretend to agree with me and then tack on ‘however.’ ” Her tone changed to mimic Miss Agatha’s squeaky high voice. “ ‘Yes, Miss Abbott, you are very bright and could study Greek;
however,
it is not an acceptable language for a young woman’s studies.’ ” She dropped her voice in an imitation of Lady Evans’s round tones. “ ‘Hooow becoming that dress is on you, Phadra.
However,
it is not the mooode. We don’t
want
to be
different,
do we?’ ”

She turned to where he sat in the rolling coach. “But you’re the worst,” she said. “I think you genuinely do see and hear me, but still you give me a ‘however’ because you want everything nice and neat. You
know
what Lord Evans is guilty of, and yet you play his game and cater to his daughter because of what
you
want. But the devil take me about what I want! I want to see my father—”

“And you will, when he returns.”

“Don’t pretend with me, Mr. Morgan. You don’t even believe he is alive.
But I do
.” She leaned closer to him in the dark, the better to make her point, conscious of the firm, muscular tightness of his thigh beneath her palm—before she quickly moved it. “I have a
dream,
Mr. Morgan, that is just as important to me as the dreams you hold are to you. I want to find my father. I need to find him. There is no compromise to that dream, no ‘however.’ ” She threw herself back in the seat as far away from him as she could manage. The energy and spirit so necessary to her hopes and dreams drained from her body, to be replaced by an
almost overwhelming sadness. She wrapped the bonnet’s ribbons around her hands before she added quietly, “It’s something I have to do…or I’ll never feel complete.”

He didn’t answer. She wished she could see his face, read his expression. Her open show of emotion embarrassed her. When, she wondered, had been the last time that she had revealed herself so completely to another human being?

She couldn’t remember.

They rode in silence for a while. Then his deep voice came to her through the night: “I’m sorry.”

Well, what did I expect?
Phadra thought ruefully.

He continued, “But I can’t let you go off alone. It’s too dangerous. However—” He paused briefly after the word before he continued. “There are other resources to explore that may help you find your father. Letters, reports from men who have been in that part of the world.”

“I’ve talked to some men with the Royal Geographic Society since I’ve come to London. No one has heard of or from him.”

He said in a measured, thoughtful voice, “Most of the members of the Royal Geographic Society are chair-bound explorers. I have contacts through the bank—merchants, military men and others—who may have had word of Sir Julius during their travels. We could contact them.”

Phadra turned to him. “You would do that? You would help me?”

He made an impatient sound. “Of course. I bear no animosity toward you. I covered the payment for the fake emeralds and chased after you tonight not to teach you a lesson but because I care what happens to you.”

When he said, “I care what happens to you,” Phadra noticed he used the tone of voice one would use to express affection for a sister or other female relative. The sting of hurt surprised her.

“Let’s see if we understand each other,” he said slowly. “I’m here because I don’t want you ruined. Whether you believe it or not, a young woman’s reputation is of value to her. If Mrs. Shaunessy hadn’t told me—”

“Henny! She alerted you to my absence?” Phadra felt betrayed.

“Yes, but don’t hold it against her. She knows what a dangerous world it is out there and was only concerned for your safety.” When she made no comment, he continued, “She’ll be waiting for us at the servants’ entrance of Evans House. If all goes well, we should arrive in London before dawn and be able to sneak you in without the Evanses’ being the wiser. You are going to have to marry, Miss Abbott. I know you are not ready, but you must understand that someday you will want to, just as my sisters eventually wanted to. Unfortunately you must do this sooner than you wish, thanks to Lord Evans and your father’s exploits, but believe me when I say I’m committed to finding a companion who is acceptable to you.”

Phadra leaned her elbow against the door and rested her head on her forearm. He didn’t understand. He didn’t
want
to understand. She felt tired, defeated.

“Captain Duroy is planning to make an offer for you,” he added.

Phadra didn’t answer. What could she say? She demanded her freedom; he attempted to placate her by
telling her she had a serious suitor for her hand. Was he deliberately being obtuse, or was it a trait of his gender in general?

“Miss Abbott?”

“Mr. Morgan?” she answered sarcastically, and then heaved a heavy sigh. “So the emeralds were fake,” she said as if stating a fact.

“Yes.”

“I wondered.”

A long pause drifted between them before he asked, “Aren’t you going to thank me for covering your debt? The goldsmith could have contacted the magistrate instead.”

“Yes,” she agreed, but added, “However, I would have been long gone by then.”

It wasn’t the answer he’d wanted. She could almost feel him staring at her through the dark.

She closed her eyes, wishing she could completely shut out the disturbing nearness of his presence. She forced herself to think instead of the goldsmith. He’d been a kind young man, and she had felt the worst sort of criminal in deceiving him. It had crossed her mind that the emerald pieces she’d received from her mother might also be fake. But she didn’t want to believe that her father could so thoroughly cheat both her and her mother.

The pressure of tears pushed against her closed eyelids.
Not now. Not in front of him.

Why couldn’t she put this behind her? In a sense she knew Mr. Morgan was right. No good would come out of a direct confrontation with her father.

He gave an exasperated sigh, as if annoyed by her silence. “What do you want? I’m doing my best—”

The sound of a pistol shot interrupted him. A cry
of alarm came from outside the post chaise. It sounded as if it came from the postboy, Jim. The loud, gruff voice of a highwayman answered her unspoken question by declaring, “Stand and deliver!”

I
n the dark, Grant Morgan’s hand came down on her arm, and he squeezed as if commanding her to be silent. The human contact quelled the panic she felt rising inside of her. Dear Lord, what had the brigands done to the poor postboy?

“Come out, guv’nor, and bring your lady with that wad of pound notes she has in her pocket, and we’ll let you go with your lives,” the gruff voice commanded.

Mr. Morgan was silent for a moment, as if weighing the consequences. He wasn’t a man who liked to be forced to do another’s bidding. She knew how he felt. She wasn’t about to climb out of the coach and calmly turn over the balance of her five hundred pounds!

“I’m not getting out,” she whispered.

“Do you plan on fighting them off by yourself?”

“I have no intention of just handing my money over to them without a fight!”

“Whose money?” he asked dryly.

“Mine,” she snapped. “Your money purchased fake emeralds from the goldsmith.”

“I wondered how you’d justify that to yourself,” he muttered before reaching across her and placing his hand on the door handle.

Phadra boldly covered his hand with hers. “This is everything I have in the world. I’m
not
giving up without a fight!” She wished she could see his face.

“Then you are free to stay in this coach and let them blow holes in your hide, but I for one value my life over pound notes.” He turned the handle and pushed open the door.

In the dark, foggy night, the coach lamps cast an eerie light over the figures of three masked and hooded highwaymen. One stood holding a brace of pistols aimed at the door. Two others sat on horseback like silent specters. The horses impatiently stamped their hooves, their legs disappearing into the drifting fog along the ground. Phadra raised her hand to her throat, wishing that he’d never opened the coach door.

Mr. Morgan climbed out of the coach first, holding his hands in the air. He then turned and offered her his hand. Suddenly Phadra realized she didn’t want a pistol hole in her “hide,” as he’d succinctly put it. She placed her trembling hand in his. His touch was reassuring and warm. It gave her the courage to climb down the step and onto the hard, fog-shrouded ground.

“I’m pleased that you listen to reason, guv’nor,” said one of the highwaymen, who appeared to be the leader.

At that moment another masked man, breathing
heavily, came crashing into the circle of light. “I couldn’t catch the boy,” he reported between panting breaths.

The leader cut him off with a movement of his hand. “It won’t matter. There isn’t anyplace he can go to around here for help.” He looked at Phadra and the banker. “Give us your purse, man, and remember to move your hands slowly. The light is dim, and I wouldn’t want my friend’s pistol to go off.”

Mr. Morgan reached into the inside pocket of his coat and pulled out a flat purse. He tossed it to the leader, who caught it easily.

“And now you, miss. We’ll be taking that roll of notes.”

Something snapped inside Phadra. How dare these men come and think they could dance off with every shilling she had in the world? She lifted her chin defiantly. “No.”

Mr. Morgan muttered under his breath, “I should have known better than to think this would be easy.”

But Phadra’s attention was focused on the leader. His eyes glittered like hard diamonds at her open show of defiance. “I didn’t ask, woman. I ordered. Give me your money.” For emphasis, the man holding the pistols raised them menacingly.

Phadra gazed at him shrewdly, her mind working quickly. “You know I have money, don’t you?” She didn’t give the leader time to answer but charged on. “The guard on that other coach is working with you. That’s why he ran his hands all over me. He tipped you off to my money. Why, you men were probably in the inn yard.”

She took a step forward and, in a voice filled with righteousness, demanded, “How many other poor
passengers have you robbed? How many unsuspecting women has that poor excuse for a man accosted?”

The leader answered her questions by pulling out a pistol of his own. “You know, guv’nor, you should teach your woman to keep her mouth shut.” He lifted the gun so that its barrel was aimed directly at her and said, “We can’t have her going around telling tales on our friend Watty, can we?”

At that moment Mr. Morgan jumped between her and the leader, exclaiming in a high, shrill voice that didn’t sound like him at all, “Miss Abbott,
how
many times do I have to tell you to keep your mouth shut?” He stepped forward, his manner foppish as he waved his hands in the air. “I have to talk to her and talk to her,” he complained in that amazing falsetto voice. “She never listens to reason. Doesn’t listen at all!”

A handkerchief appeared in his hand, and he fluttered it nervously before using it to dab his forehead. “I think there really is only one thing we can do with her,” he announced in a worrisome voice before breaking into the silliest giggles Phadra had ever heard. She couldn’t fathom what was the matter with him. He acted as if he’d gone mad.

The highwaymen looked at each other and then started laughing, as if enjoying a show. Their leader shifted in his saddle and waved his pistol at Mr. Morgan before asking good-naturedly, “And what is it we can do with her, lad? Or should I say
laddie?
” He guffawed at his pun, and the others joined him.

The man holding the pistols looked up at his comrades. “Watty didn’t tell us about this!”

Mr. Morgan laughed loudest of all. His high-pitched
“tee-hee” annoyed Phadra. He even bent over and slapped his knees with mirth. “That’s very clever!” he said. “Very clever,” he repeated, only this time his handkerchief-wielding hand had turned into a large fist, and it connected with the jaw of the man holding the pistols. With a lightning-fast movement, Mr. Morgan grabbed one of the arms of the staggering man and pointed one of the pistols at the leader just as the man pulled the trigger of his gun.

The barrel spit fire, the acrid scent of gunpowder filled the air, and the ball found its mark, striking the leader with enough force to topple him from his horse. His own weapon discharged harmlessly into the air. The animals reared in alarm.

“Miss Abbott, get down!” ordered the very masculine voice of Grant Morgan.

“It was a trick!” she exclaimed with pleasure, ignoring his command.

Mr. Morgan didn’t answer but quickly turned with the second pistol that the highwayman had been holding and fired it in the direction of the other man on foot, who ran into the darkness. “Miss Abbott, can’t you do anything I tell you to do?” Mr. Morgan roared before his concentration was completely claimed by the man in his arms and a bout of fisticuffs.

Phadra doubled her own fists, wishing to jump into the fray. When the other mounted highwayman moved to help his friend, she stooped down and picked up rocks, throwing them at him. Her pebble missiles weren’t dangerous, but they caused the man’s horse to rear and prance, threatening to unseat the rider.

Suddenly, through the dust and fog, Phadra saw
the man fighting with Mr. Morgan break free and run into the woods. Mr. Morgan didn’t chase him but turned his attention to the mounted man.

Phadra watched open-mouthed as Mr. Morgan reached up toward this new attacker, using brute strength to make the nervous horse back away. The highwayman shouted and reached into his coat.

“Grant, he’s armed,” Phadra shouted, and boldly reached up herself to pull on the man’s coat. Her action startled both the man and the horse, which backed up and reared slightly at this new aggression. The man had to use both his hands to keep his seat on the horse. With a shove of his elbow, he hit Phadra in the chin and pushed her away.

Grant Morgan’s face went livid with fury when he saw her fall back. With murder in his eyes, he reached to grapple the man from his horse.

The explosion of a pistol broke through the chaos. The horse screamed and jumped forward, taking his rider with him. Still lying on the ground where she’d fallen, Phadra watched in shocked horror as Grant Morgan jerked in response to the shot and then fell to the ground.

The leader of the highwaymen sat up slowly, as if crippled by pain, the pistol in his hand still smoking. The rider didn’t waste time but circled back to reach the leader and heaved him onto the back of the horse. Together the two men charged away into the night.

Phadra didn’t care where they went or whether they would come back. She crawled on hands and knees to Mr. Morgan. “Grant? Grant, speak to me.”

He didn’t move. She reached to touch him and then drew her hand back. Blood stained the back of his coat. The shot had gone in his upper back. “No,
Grant, no!” she cried, moving to rip a strip of her petticoat to staunch the flow of blood. “I’m so sorry. This is all my fault. I should have given them the money. I should have listened to you.”

Tears poured down her cheeks as her hand came back with the cloth covered with dark, fresh blood. The stain on the cloth spread—and that was when she realized that it wasn’t only her tears she felt dripping onto her arms but also the start of the steady rain that had threatened all evening and now had begun to fall.

Quickly she pressed the cloth back against the wound and then struggled out of her wool cloak, wrapping it around him to protect him from the rain. Her fingers pressed against the roll of banknotes, and she felt a stab of guilt. She forced herself to keep working, whispering, “I mustn’t panic. I must be brave. I must have courage.”

“Miss Abbott, are you quoting Mary Wollstonecraft again?”

Phadra’s eyes opened wide at the sound of his voice. “You’re alive!” she cried, reaching down for him as he started to turn over and sit up.

He sat for a moment, the rain plastering his hair to his head, before he grumbled, “The next time a man holding a gun asks for your money,
give it to him!
”

Phadra didn’t know whether to laugh or cry—so she did a combination of both. “I will. I solemnly promise.”

“I’ll hold you to that promise,” he said, and got to his feet with her help. Alarmed, Phadra realized that he must be losing a good measure of blood.

“Help me up into the coach, will you?” he grunted.

“You must be in terrible pain,” she said, placing his arm around her shoulder.

His lips twisted into a grimace. “I’ve been better.”

They’d just reached the shelter of the coach when a timid voice called out, “Hello? Is everyone all right?”

Phadra leaned over Mr. Morgan’s body protectively. Her voice a whisper, she asked, “Who is that?”

“The postboy, I imagine,” he said, and then raised his voice to call, “Jim?”

“Aye, sir,” came the answer. A moment later the postboy stepped into the flickering light cast by the coach lamps. He stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of his two passengers. “I’m sorry I ran.”

“No, you were a smart lad and saved your life. Here, come help me,” Mr. Morgan commanded. “I need help getting my jacket off.”

Phadra climbed into the coach and had Mr. Morgan sit on the step, his booted legs hanging out of the door. Working together, she and Jim removed his jacket and his lawn shirt. Mr. Morgan reached around to feel the hole.

“It’s in the fleshy part right under the arm. Damn, it didn’t go through.”

“What didn’t go through?” Phadra asked, busily tearing her petticoats into strips to make a bandage.

“The ball. The shot is still in there. He got me in the back.”

“At least he didn’t hit anything vital,” Jim said. “I can see the hole from back here. You need to have the ball removed, sir.”

“Bind the wound. It’ll stop the bleeding,” Mr. Morgan ordered.

Phadra had removed her cloak so that she could
move freely. Now she reached around his chest and started binding the wound tightly. His blood stained the bodice of her dress. She spoke to the postboy as she worked. “Jim, we must go for a doctor immediately.”

Grant countermanded her order. “We’re not stopping for any doctor. I’ll be all right until we get to London. We must be there before dawn.”

“But your wound!” Phadra protested.

“Get us to London before first light and I’ll throw in five guineas for you,” Mr. Morgan said to Jim.

“Take us to a doctor and I’ll give you five hundred pounds,” Phadra shot back.

“You wouldn’t dare!” Mr. Morgan roared.

“Yes, I would. And you should save your energy. You’re going to need it until we can get you to a doctor and have him look at this wound.”

“It’ll wait until morning after I return you to Evans House,” Mr. Morgan said.

“It will not!” she snapped. “I know little about wounds, but I do know that riding around the countryside in the rain is not a remedy. And you have to get that ball out.”

“She’s right, sir. That ball can only be causing you pain, and may even poison you.”

Mr. Morgan frowned so fiercely, the postboy backed away until he stood out in the rain. Suddenly Mr. Morgan’s shoulders sagged and he leaned back into the coach against the seat. His face looked pale in the darkness of the coach.

“Jim,” Phadra said, “where is the nearest doctor?” She rose up on her knees and with Jim’s help pulled Mr. Morgan into the coach, crushing her bonnet in the process.

“There’s Dr. Blounder, but it would be closer to take him back to the inn. Mr. Allen, the innkeeper, has a good steady hand.”

“Then get us back to the inn,” Phadra ordered. She took another look at Mr. Morgan’s face. He’d closed his eyes. She turned to Jim, angry that he hadn’t started moving yet. “Did you hear me?” The shrillness of her voice spurred the young man to move. She slammed the door shut, protecting them from the rain, and struggled to maintain her composure.

Mr. Morgan’s voice came to her in the dark. “You shouldn’t have yelled at the lad.”

The two of them sat in the cramped space on the floor. Phadra busied herself by wrapping her wool cloak around his shoulders. She kept her voice light. “Why is it that no matter what I do, you always find fault?”

“It’s my role, Miss Abbott. I’m your banker.” She could hear the dry humor in his tired voice.

“Have you ever considered that perhaps you take your responsibilities too seriously?” she teased back, but her voice shook on the last words, and one of the tears she’d been struggling to control escaped and ran down her cheek.