Page 56 of Barely a Woman
She prompted her mount away from the light to watch the road that passed through the tenant village. What would she do if trouble arrived, anyway? Her previous heroics might have gone terribly wrong if not for her fortuitous slip of the tongue and Steadman’s notoriety. She nodded to the blacksmith as he passed with the first of two wagons. He returned the nod, clearly unaware that she was the same person who had charmed his cooperation with a green dress and a bonnet. At that moment, though, the wretched suit brought her the comfort of anonymity. Within minutes, fifteen men of varying ages, professions, and ethics were loading the four haulers with sacks of grain. She wondered what would happen if the blacksmith and his friends learned what was really happening. Fortunately, Jack’s men appeared to remain tight-lipped about the details.
An hour on, each wagon contained a heap of bags, and the barn stood empty. With urgency, the squad of thieves leaped onto their respective wagons and the parade began movingtoward the tenant village. As Steadman passed by at the head of the procession, he offered her instruction.
“Wait until they pass, then guard the rear. At a distance.”
She understood the instruction well. She was to remain a shadowy afterthought, an enigma to the others. As Three-Finger Jack passed by in the first hauler, he tipped his hat. “Ho, there, pistol man. Keep sharp eyes.”
Morgan pulled the pistol from her belt, waved it wordlessly, and replaced it. All the while, she wondered what her father would say about this situation. Alone with a horde of men, half of them criminals, in the middle of the night stealing wheat from a lord while dressed as a man and waving a loaded pistol to mark her participation in the seedy affair. She almost chuckled at the expression that might have overcome his face, just before he fainted dead away. Even his most dire descriptions of her minimal femininity could not have begun to capture the absurdity of the moment. Regardless, she took pleasure in having so comprehensively obliterated his low expectations. She had to laugh. The alternative was too grim to consider.
Her nerves remained alert and on edge as the column of wagons passed through Broad Chalke, as she suspected the constable would intercept them with ranks of armed men. However, when she recalled his tremulous bravado, she decided that if he did know about the operation, he was huddling beneath his bed and praying for the men to pass by like the Angel of Death. The wagons continued along a route familiar to Morgan—the road toward Great Yews—before diverting along a deeply rutted side road. Minutes later, they arrived at another barn, this one seemingly better kept. One of Lord Radnor’s barns, she supposed. She again remained out of the way while the process of taking the grain was reversed and bag after bag disappeared into the new barn. As the last of the sacks weredisappearing inside, Steadman approached her on foot and motioned for her to dismount. She frowned but did as he asked.
“The deed is nearly done and all according to plan,” he whispered.
“You must be very pleased.”
“I am.” He sighed deeply. “But you still judge me for this.”
“Yes.”
He put a hand on her shoulder and guided her around the horse away from the eyes of his accomplices. “I wish you would not. I wish you could recognize the necessity of what I do.”
His deep voice proved tender, pleading. She wanted to pull away, but his presence rooted her feet to the earth, even when he stepped into her until body brushed body. “I want you to understand. Ineedyou to understand.”
She inhaled sharply as his lips found hers with a whisper. They lingered lightly over her mouth before pressing more firmly. Despite everything, she returned the gentle kiss, her arms dangling confused at her side. He pulled away within a moment.
“I cannot get enough of you. You have captured me, it seems.”
“Have I?” Her voice trembled as she weighed declaring her feelings for him. However, reality invaded. He had not abandoned his contemptible plan. She continued to stare at him even while he hovered inches away with a hand on her hip.
“What’s this?” Three-Finger Jack’s voice boomed from nearby. She and Steadman jerked their attention to the big man, who had crept up without either of them noticing. “Have we a pair of mollies in our midst?”
Steadman straightened without moving his hand from her hip. “What is it to you if we are?”
Jack cocked his head. “Ah, I just thought…
“What do you care if my associate and I have tender feelings for each another?”
“I, well…”
Morgan hit her limit of pretending, of trying to be someone she could not. The voice of her father rang in her head as she pushed away from Steadman, plucked off her hat, and walked toward Jack. “I am Miss Brady, from the tavern.”
When Jack’s eyes flared in the flickering torchlight, fear pricked her. This was the reason Steadman had so adamantly concealed her identity from the gang leader. When Steadman appeared at her side and gripped her arm, she reached for her pistol, certain of inevitable conflict. However, the giant threw his head back and bellowed a laugh.
“Miss Brady! You fooled me entirely!” Then he addressed Steadman. “I must admit surprise that the famous Sir Steadman, the passion of every woman in the land, would allowhiswoman to traipse about in such manly attire.”
Steadman released her arm and waved the hand at Jack. “She is notmywoman, sir. Miss Brady belongs to no man.”
As Steadman walked to Jack to exchange good-natured shoulder slaps, Morgan tried to quell the hurt of what he had said with little success.She belonged to no one.And he had made that sad fact clear to the world.
Chapter Eighteen
“Talk to me, Morgan.”
She lifted sullen eyes to Steadman as he approached her through misting rain. Angst had driven his morning-long search for Morgan after the innkeeper mentioned her departure from the inn just before dawn. A quick check of the stables had shown her horse still there. Where had she gone on such a damp morning? And why without telling him? He had walked along the main road eastward, asking those he encountered if they had seen his partner. With no positive reports, he had turned westward. Finally, a milkmaid had described seeing a man wearing an old-fashioned hat walking across a field toward an isolated grove of trees. Within minutes, he had finally spied her sitting beneath those trees with her chin resting in her hands. The hat sat discarded on the turf and her rain-plastered hair hung limply to her shoulders.
“You found me,” she said.
“Not without difficulty. It seems you wish to be alone.”
