“This cannot succeed.” Her whisper was offered to no one.
After a brief banishment in the land of self-pity, she wandered downstairs. Clinking metal sounding from the kitchen indicated that breakfast preparations were under way. The sun would soon rise. She stepped through the back door, found the community water pump across the road, and washed up as best she could. Demons of agonized thought plagued her as she returned toward the shared room. How had Steadman not already seen through her ridiculous charade? Was it just further evidence of her father’s critique? That she was barely a woman?
Morgan lingered outside the door of the room, afraid of what she might find inside. After a mental war featuring several stunning defeats, she knocked.
“Yes?”
“May I come in, sir?”
Silence reigned for the space of three heartbeats.
“Morgan?”
“Yes.”
The door flew open to reveal Steadman. Much to her relief, he had managed to don his buckskin breeches, tight as they were. Black hair curling from the neckline of his loose undershirt captured her attention until he grunted.
“Why the devil would you ask to enter your own room?”
“I…” she stumbled. “I did not wish to walk in on you if you were… if you were…”
One of his eyebrows rose above its partner. “In a state of undress?”
“Uh. Yes.”
He rolled his eyes and finished tucking the long shirt into his breeches. She tried not to notice but mostly failed. He shook a finger at her. “You are an odd one, Mr. Brady.”
If you only knew. She captured her chaotic thoughts and remembered that a man would likely return insult for insult. “I am the odd one, says the dandy highwayman.”
“Former highwayman.”
“Is there a difference?”
“Not yet.” He waved her inside. “You appear ready to go, as per your befuddling plan when we retired to bed. Get your baggage, then. Let us be off.”
“Yes, sir.”
He stood watch over her as she packed. Just then, a horrifying thought trampled her uneasy calm. What if Steadman had searched her bag and seen the dress? What if he knew thetruth and simply wished to torture her? Her hands began to tremble as she rolled the bedding.
“Did you sleep well?”
She glanced up at his question. “Well enough.”
“You don’t look as if you slept at all. In fact, you look terrible.”
She began to reach for her hair to put it in place but stayed her hand. A man would not react that way. She stood with the wrapped bedroll in hand while dredging up another insult.
“I seek only to emulate you. Clearly, you have not yet found a mirror this morning.”
Steadman frowned briefly before letting loose a laugh. “I like you. Not afraid to give as good as you get. A superior quality in a man.”
Morgan tried unsuccessfully to hide a smile while admitting that she liked him as well. Steadman was not at all what she had expected. She had anticipated a hardened man barely capable of humor, let alone accepting of ridicule. Instead, he possessed an intriguing depth she wished to explore further—at her peril. Those who traveled to such dangerous realms rarely returned alive and whole.
“Thank you,” she said. “I wish nothing more than to become a man of fine qualities.”
“Then pay no attention to me. I do not wish to corrupt the young. Now, let’s break the fast before pressing onward.”
Having survived the overnight stay, Morgan’s appetite returned. Steadman was right. The Red Monkey was a treasure in disguise, if for nothing else than the delicious fare it served. She savored the meal while willing her little finger to not stray from the fork handle.
