will only make things worse."
"Always ready to challenge me. Argue with me, frown at me." His breath was pungent with liquor and too warm as it tickled her ear. "I'd pay you for a kiss." Her knees started to buckle as he leaned his full weight upon her. "Just one, Rachel." His lips moved closer to her face.
She elbowed his ribcage. "Stop this nonsense! Find your precious signet yourself." She spun free and headed back along the street.
"Widow, you'll not go alone." He started after her. "Some churlish lout may be lurking in the shadows to do you ill."
" You're the only lout apt to do me ill," she tossed over her shoulder. She continued across the cobblestones. He caught up and pulled her up short, turning her to face him.
"I'm not so muddled I've forgotten that you agreed to sup with me. Swear I'll be a gentle nun."
Now there was a mental image! "You're impossible, Mr. Tremayne."
There was nothing to do but visit the pub. The village was crowded with itinerant workers in for fall harvest. These nights they filled both the inn and the pub. Morgan pushed past the other patrons, banging his fist on the worn bar as he shouted to the harried barkeep. "Grundy! Where's my bloody ring? Think I left it on public display?"
Grundy fished in the pocket of his apron and produced the gold ring. "Here 'tis, Tremayne. Knew you'd be back." Placing the signet in Morgan's upturned palm, Grundy advised, "Should have taken that bit of mutton I offered. You're slicker than the cobblestones in February."
Morgan flopped into a chair seconds after its occupant rose and moved away from it. Rachel stood nearby, unable to locate an empty seat herself. Morgan glowered at the pub patron on his left. The fellow muttered beneath his breath and slunk away. Rachel slipped into the vacated seat just as Grundy appeared with mutton stew and fresh bread. "Drinks, Bargainer?"
Rachel spoke up. "A pot of tea with honey and two large mugs, please."
Morgan feigned surprise. "You hate tea."
"The ale didn't kill you," she replied. "I don't suppose a mug of tea will kill me. Eat your supper, sir." By the end of the meal his posture and speech had improved. "Was today a holiday or special occasion?" she asked.
"No, All Hallows was last week. Why?"
"You drank so heavily for amusement, then? Or maybe to avoid the office. You'd forgotten the letters you said were so important this morning."
"I wasn't avoiding anything. Bloody correspondence just slipped my mind. Anyone might make a—"
"Mistake?" she supplied. "Morgan Tremayne actually made an error ? Two, if we count nearly losing your ring. This date should be entered in the village records."
"Christ, so I got drunk! Next holiday I'll close down this bleeding pub."
"Why wait?" she snapped back. "Men drink when they win a fortune at cards; drink when they lose. Drink in foul weather or because it's balmy and warm. Drink because the moon is round or the sea is blue. There's always an occasion to drink, or a man creates one."
He leaned back in his chair, pinning her with his gaze. "Was your husband perchance an alcoholic, 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.
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.
"Always ready to challenge me. Argue with me, frown at me." His breath was pungent with liquor and too warm as it tickled her ear. "I'd pay you for a kiss." Her knees started to buckle as he leaned his full weight upon her. "Just one, Rachel." His lips moved closer to her face.
She elbowed his ribcage. "Stop this nonsense! Find your precious signet yourself." She spun free and headed back along the street.
"Widow, you'll not go alone." He started after her. "Some churlish lout may be lurking in the shadows to do you ill."
" You're the only lout apt to do me ill," she tossed over her shoulder. She continued across the cobblestones. He caught up and pulled her up short, turning her to face him.
"I'm not so muddled I've forgotten that you agreed to sup with me. Swear I'll be a gentle nun."
Now there was a mental image! "You're impossible, Mr. Tremayne."
There was nothing to do but visit the pub. The village was crowded with itinerant workers in for fall harvest. These nights they filled both the inn and the pub. Morgan pushed past the other patrons, banging his fist on the worn bar as he shouted to the harried barkeep. "Grundy! Where's my bloody ring? Think I left it on public display?"
Grundy fished in the pocket of his apron and produced the gold ring. "Here 'tis, Tremayne. Knew you'd be back." Placing the signet in Morgan's upturned palm, Grundy advised, "Should have taken that bit of mutton I offered. You're slicker than the cobblestones in February."
Morgan flopped into a chair seconds after its occupant rose and moved away from it. Rachel stood nearby, unable to locate an empty seat herself. Morgan glowered at the pub patron on his left. The fellow muttered beneath his breath and slunk away. Rachel slipped into the vacated seat just as Grundy appeared with mutton stew and fresh bread. "Drinks, Bargainer?"
Rachel spoke up. "A pot of tea with honey and two large mugs, please."
Morgan feigned surprise. "You hate tea."
"The ale didn't kill you," she replied. "I don't suppose a mug of tea will kill me. Eat your supper, sir." By the end of the meal his posture and speech had improved. "Was today a holiday or special occasion?" she asked.
"No, All Hallows was last week. Why?"
"You drank so heavily for amusement, then? Or maybe to avoid the office. You'd forgotten the letters you said were so important this morning."
"I wasn't avoiding anything. Bloody correspondence just slipped my mind. Anyone might make a—"
"Mistake?" she supplied. "Morgan Tremayne actually made an error ? Two, if we count nearly losing your ring. This date should be entered in the village records."
"Christ, so I got drunk! Next holiday I'll close down this bleeding pub."
"Why wait?" she snapped back. "Men drink when they win a fortune at cards; drink when they lose. Drink in foul weather or because it's balmy and warm. Drink because the moon is round or the sea is blue. There's always an occasion to drink, or a man creates one."
He leaned back in his chair, pinning her with his gaze. "Was your husband perchance an alcoholic, 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.
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.
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