Free Patricia Rice by Devil's Lady Page B

absence was like an emptiness inside her, and she did not
know why it should be so. He was only her employer, whatever he might
say.
    The days passed in a monotony of tasks. The cottage
was still Faith’s pride and joy, and she kept it scrubbed and
glistening. The animals were her companions, and she secretly named them
all, spending hours grooming and exercising and talking to them. The
nights were longest, when it was too dark to do more than sit by the
fire and wish for Morgan’s vibrant presence. Even when he was silently
mending his tack, the room was always full of him. He would look up and
give her a wink, or grin and call for a piece of her cake, and she would
feel good all over. When he wasn’t here, she was empty.
    Faith washed and mended their limited wardrobes and
the sheets upon their beds. With a length of fine cambric Morgan had
brought her, she cut out a new shirt for him, knowing it would never be
as fine as the ones he had, but hoping he could wear it around the
cottage. Carefully she gathered a ruffle from the scraps of the same
material and hoped that would look gentlemanly enough.
    For she had decided that James Morgan O’Neill de
Lacy had to be a gentleman, despite his occupation. Even though he wore
no wig or red-heeled shoes, he had the manners and speech of a gentleman
when he chose to use them. Perhaps he had not needed these polite
niceties for a number of years and was out of practice in their use.
    But with his dark, rugged looks, he was a danger to any female when he chose to turn on the charm. She wasn’t immune.
    Faith banked the fire and climbed into the loft to
undress. Her old chemise was beginning to pull too tight across the
bosom. She cupped her hands beneath the growing curves of her breasts
and wondered if she would ever be half so lovely as her mother had been.
More food than she’d had in a lifetime and the constant exercise of the
horses and her other manual tasks had added some flesh in the right
places, finally, but not enough. She would certainly never have the
bounty of the curvaceous Molly.
    Remembering how Morgan had eyed the tavern maid’s
ample bosom, Faith sighed. He would never look at her like that. She
should be thankful for small favors, she scolded herself, but still, it
was a serious blow to her pride. She was tired of being a child.
    She put herself to sleep trying to imagine what it
would be like to find her grandparents. Visions of silk gowns and
enormous mansions filled her dreams easier than smiling faces and
welcoming hugs. All of them faded before the picture of Morgan in frock
coat and cocked hat, helping her down from a grand carriage.
    Faith woke with a start to a sound in the room
below. Remembering all Morgan’s dire warnings, she felt her heart pound
noisily. Surely any intruder would hear it and know her presence.
Pressing a hand to her chest in hopes of muffling the sound, she groped
around for the pistol Morgan had insisted that she keep with her.
    A chair scraped, and a muffled curse or groan
drifted through the open loft door. Fear instantly became panic, and
Faith threw herself face-downward over the opening to see the intruder.
    The banked fire gave no light, but she could see his
silhouette framed against the window as he reached for the hidden
bottle of rum atop the cupboard. Morgan!
    Without thought to her state of undress, Faith hastily placed her bare foot on the top rung of the ladder and climbed down.

Chapter 6
    A ghostly white figure fly down from the ceiling,
and for a moment, Morgan almost believed in angels again. Then he
staggered against the cupboard, felt the pain rip through his thigh, and
reality returned.
    “Morgan!” The feminine cry pained his soul as he lurched unsteadily for the chair.
    What could he say? Feeling a fool, he lowered
himself to the chair and closed his eyes. He didn’t know why in hell he
had insisted on riding all the way back here. There was a brothel in
London