Page 35 of Barely a Woman
His brow knotted. “You think Morgan is a woman?”
“Well, isn’t it obvious?”
Without a word, he stomped away from the table. As Morgan followed him out the door to their mounts, he remembered that he was still angry with her. He admitted,however, that they made good partners. She had displayed an impeccable sense of timing, reserve, and aggression at just the right moments—as if she were reading his thoughts. He wasn’t sure if that eased or heightened his disappointment in the loss of their friendship.
He stewed on this and other things as they returned to Broad Chalke if for nothing else than to keep from considering her remarkable eyes and what was concealed beneath her tragic suit.
Chapter Ten
Morgan’s first words from Steadman since leaving Prudence’s house were those of complaint as they walked from the inn toward a seedy tavern.
“My level of discomfort is high over our working alone together after dark.”
An afternoon of sleep before nightfall had allowed Morgan to push her shame aside enough to experience pique. “Is that so? How would you gauge your level of discomfort? Cresting the banks or over the sandbags?”
Her retort caught his attention, for he looked her in the eyes for the first time since the interrogation. “Rediscovered you spirt, have you?”
“It was never lost, but merely secluded. But about my question. Bank or sandbag?”
“Definitely sandbag.”
She moved ahead of him to assess his eyes. Though the sun had long since set, Steadman’s expression remained visible through the planes of shadows cast across the contours of his face. He appeared as uncomfortable as he claimed.
“Why?” she asked. “Thus far on this journey, I have mettwowomen with whom you seemed comfortable alone after dark. If so, then why the discomfort now? And me still masquerading as a man.”
The shadows of his eyes cut toward her. “You know why.”
“I do not.” It was the truth. Morgan did not know why and remained bothered by that fact.
He picked up his long-legged pace, forcing her into a near trot. “I should not be compelled to explain the obvious to a woman of your intelligence.”
“Please, do.”
He exhaled with exasperation. “Very well. If you must know, none of those women had become my friend.”
Minor disappointment settled in. “Is that all.”
“Of course. What else would there be?”
The disappointment mounted before Morgan wrestled it down. Why was she practically begging for his regard? He had never seen her as anything but an overgrown boy. Why would she expect him to now notice her femininity? Particularly when she had buried it beneath six feet of mud back in the London slums. And of her own volition.
Steadman slowed as they neared the tavern. He leaned toward her and lowered his voice to a whisper. “We linger here in the shadows until the tavern closes, which it should any moment now. Then we follow Three-Finger Jack and surveil him. Do as I do, and practice extreme stealth. He is a dangerous man.”
“How dangerous?”
Steadman peered at her in the darkness. “No matter what, do not reveal your sex to him.”
She accepted his warning and stewed over it as they waited in silence. Within minutes, the tavern belched forth a knot of staggering, laughing men who clung together for a few steps before falling into a dozen separate journeys toward respective homes. Steadman raised his arm to point at the largest, drunkest, loudest of the lot.
“Three-Finger Jack. Let’s go.”
They followed the giant of a man, maintaining a trailing distance of about one hundred strides and hugging the shadows as they went. As they had suspected, the man did not move in the direction of his house in Stoke Farthing. He instead turned down a side street in the opposite direction. Morgan could not resist wondering aloud.
“Meeting with his crew?”
Steadman shushed her but nodded. Another three blocks on, Jack banged loudly on the door of a narrow, two-story house. Within moments, the door cracked, and he slipped inside, out of sight.
“What now?” Morgan asked.
