Lady Fugitive

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Authors: Shannah Biondine
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widow?"
    "Indeed Mr. Tremayne, and it
ultimately cost his life." She jerked her shawl higher on her shoulders.
"Thank you for supper, sir. You got your ring back. I can see myself
home."
    She left the crowded pub, ignoring the
randy comments behind her back, and stepped into the welcoming darkness. She
never should have started on him, she told herself. He hated to be contradicted
and she had no right to chastise him for drinking. It was none of her concern
what he did.
    A long arm snaked around her waist and
she found herself looking up into troubled gray eyes. "Rachel, please hold
a moment. You helped me retrieve a family heirloom this evening. I should like
to pay you something. That's only fair. I apologize for my rudeness."
    "I didn't come here for
money."
    "You didn't have to come at
all," he observed. "That's my point. This was beyond your regular
duties, though I do appreciate your concern. I must compensate you somehow.
Perhaps the lamp you saw in Newcastle?"
    "You paid for supper. That's
enough. Good night, sir." She tried to pull away, but his arm only
tightened.
    "I'll walk you to the
cottage."
    "No, I don't—er, I'm sure it's
perfectly safe out here. I—"
    "It's not safe anywhere for a young
woman alone past dusk. I said I'll see you home."
    "Please, just leave me alone!"
The last shred of her composure snapped. She stepped back a few feet even as
she burst into tears. Now her humiliation was complete.
    "Blast me!" he swore softly.
"That rotten comment about your husband. I never dreamt I'd hit on the
truth." He gently took her face between his palms and tipped it up so her
eyes met his. "I was thoughtless and you're overtired. Put in a full day
at the office, then this fool's errand tonight. Need to get you home beside a
nice roaring fire."
    She managed a tremulous smile.
"Sounds wonderful, but your hearth doesn't permit a fire to exactly roar.
The best I get is a weak sputter. I'd take even that now, along with some
coffee to wash away all that insipid tea. It worked, though. You've sobered a
bit."
    "Thanks to my insolent little
clerk." He pulled her close against his side and set out for the cottage.
"There's a secret to coping with that firebox. You'll have a roaring flame
tonight." He unlocked the front door and immediately set to building a
crackling blaze. Then he eased beside Rachel on the settee. "The hearth's
always been temperamental in this house. Not unlike its resident."
    "You mean its owner."
    "I apologize, Rachel. You're quite
good at fencing with words. Sometimes I forget that still and all, you are widowed. A man must make allowances. It's only natural you'd find discussion of
your husband's demise painful."
    Rachel stared at the dancing firelight.
For some reason, she thought Morgan might understand what no one else had.
"It's all painful. Not just the end of the marriage. My husband's name was
Cletus. He drank and gambled. If it hadn't been for him, I wouldn't even be here now. He always had the worst luck. Then he died and it seems the awful
luck has come to roost with me. Cletus was crude and selfish and I only hope
he's burning in hell."
    Strong fingers closed over hers, and
when Morgan spoke, it was in a soft tone he'd never used with her before.
    "I know more than a man should
about grief, Rachel. You're resentful. I felt the same when my father died;
worse yet when my sister followed soon afterward. It's not how the person
lived, but that he or she had the temerity to up and die . To utterly
change the lives of those around them by doing something so final and
irreparable. The pain will lessen in time."
    Her eyes were huge as she turned to look
at him. "I can't believe it! A soft heart beats within you, after
all."
    "Shall I tell you something,
Colonial?" He released her hand and moved back to the grate. He prodded at
the burning logs with the iron poker. "I bark and rant and act impossible
because I never wanted you to make that discovery." The smoldering gaze he
turned on her was

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