Page 42 of Barely a Woman
“Which I will collect now.” Jack leaned toward her with lips puckered, his alcohol-soaked breath invading her senses. Suddenly, though, she was yanked aside by the shoulder. She found herself in Steadman’s arms, staring up at him with alarm.
“Sorry, mate,” he said to the gang leader. “But Miss Brady is here for me.”
With that, his hand pressed to the small of her back and he lifted her into a tighter embrace. His mouth fell toward her upturned face, and he pressed his warm lips into hers. In a flash, Morgan understood his game. The kiss was a ruse to save her from Three-Finger Jack’s advances. However, in a second flash, she forgot even that. What should have lasted but a second stretched into an epoch of time as her lips melted beneath his kiss. Her hands found the stubble of his jaw and held on for dear life to avoid getting swept away by his torrent of passion, playacting or not. He responded by drawing her closer until just the tips of her toes brushed the floor.
“Worm!” Three-Finger Jack’s shout shattered the kiss. Steadman returned Morgan to the floor and glared over her head. She turned to find the giant staring grimly. Then he threwback his head and emitted a gale of laughter. “Now, that’s the way to properly kiss yer woman!”
He slapped Steadman on the shoulder and drew him away from Morgan into a comrade’s embrace. “It seems we could use a man of your, ah, skills, Worm. Meet us here tomorrow if you are interested.”
“Oh, I’m interested.” He glanced at Morgan. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, I believe Miss Brady is weary from a long day.”
“Of course, she is!” roared Jack. “Take her to bed, man.”
With a nod, Steadman practically carried Morgan from the tavern and into the street. They hurried in uneasy silence for several minutes to arrive back at the inn, with Morgan’s head spinning all the way. When they had climbed the stairs, she turned to him, determined to sort out what had just happened.
“Thank you for saving me from him.” She could not lift her eyes up to meet his. “Your ruse was…effective.”
He simply stared at her, uncharacteristically silent. His face wore a mask of bewilderment. He tugged at his collar. “You’re welcome, Miss Brady.”
Without another word or a backward glance, he ducked into his room and closed the door. Left alone, Morgan slipped into her room and locked the door. She settled gently onto the bed with her hands in her lap and stared at the door, reveling in the kiss. Even though it had been a performance, his spontaneous act had sent her hurtling across a great divide into an unknown country. For the first time in her life, Morgan had felt—if even for a moment—what it was to be desired. And the wondrous feeling threatened to consume her.
Chapter Thirteen
For a second straight day, Steadman’s path failed to intersect Morgan’s at first light. Unlike the day before, though, he had planned to avoid her. He rose before dawn from a troubled night consisting of shards of sleep scattered among the ruins of certitude and visions of a woman’s lips. A desire to escape the inn drove him from his small room to his horse and along the road, lost in a fog both physical and mental, heading west. Repetitive memories of what had happened the previous evening circled his mind. His failed surveillance. The appearance of the remarkable woman who was Morgan yet not Morgan. His flaring jealousy. Her imploring call and his ride to the rescue.
And the kiss.
Every mental road led Steadman back to the kiss. The astonishing, soul-shaking kiss. What the devil had happened? Trapped in the throes of an unfolding disaster, he had convinced himself that a reckless maneuver was necessary to save Morgan from Three-Finger Jack’s intentions. Now, however, as his mount wandered along the road, he began to realize the truth. He hadwantedto kiss her. Desperately.Whenhe had decided to do that, he did not know. He knew only that the notion had overcome him even as he strode to her defense. But why? Women of every class had broken themselves against the rock of his unyielding interest for years. He had kissed many and even liked a few. Never, though, had he experienced such a visceral need to hold a woman and taste her lips—not since the heady days of his first love, anyway. And the subject of his desire was Morgan Brady! His associate in an ill-fitting suit. His erstwhile traveling companion and fellow knight of the road. Nota paragon of gentle society. Not a delicate lady of high station. Morgan. Simply Morgan.
Three hours passed before the fog lifted and a familiar sight corralled his attention. The revelation let him understand where he had been headed, even if unintentionally. He reined his horse to a halt and glared into the distance at Prescombe Manor. Baron Atwood’s impressive lair crouched in the clutch of two low hills, a sweeping assembly of stone and gables. He remembered it well, as well as his relief every time he left the place for Longford Castle. The sight of it came as a slap of freezing water to his senses. The heat of anger rose as he stared at the edifice and imagined its lord, malevolent and callous, roaming its halls while conjuring malicious schemes. He gritted his teeth until his jaw spasmed.
“Get ahold of yourself, old boy.”
He wheeled his mount in the road and urged it into a trot back toward Broad Chalke. The sighting of his adversary’s stronghold spurred him to rededicate himself to his mission, his cavalry charge of justice. Confusion over Morgan had temporarily distracted him from his long arc toward retribution. His hand had wandered from the rudder, and that could not happen again. He encouraged his horse forward at a faster pace.
The sun hung at midday when he arrived at the inn, he having made the return journey in half the time as his outbound leg. He took the stairs in twos and threes and strode to Morgan’s door before pausing with his fist raised.Is she here? Or has she slipped away again?He inhaled resolve and rapped a knuckle twice against the door. A moment slipped by, sharp with anticipation.
“Who knocks?”
“I do.”
Another moment, silent as the grave. Then the door whispered open. There she stood, her eyes large with anxious question, her form once again concealed inside the carapace of her rumpled suit. Her hair again hung down to frame a soft jawline. However, Mister Morgan Brady, the beardless boy, was gone forever. He could never again lay eyes on her without remembering the green dress and long neck ofMissMorgan Brady. He blinked rapidly and once more collected his fraying resolve.
“Miss Brady.”
“Sir.”
“I wish to tell you something.”
She drifted backward a step. The anxiety in her eyes mounted as her hands found each other to meet in a clench. “Something?”
“Yes. I wish you to remain safely in your room while I meet with the band of scoundrels tonight.”
Relief relaxed her features, but then they veered toward an altogether different expression. Disappointment. “Is that all?”
He trapped a further response before it could leave his mouth. “Yes. That is all.”
Her regard fell to the floor. “Very well. And you should probably avoid calling me ‘Miss’ for the duration of our investigation.”
