“Of course.”
As Morgan followed Steadman from the chapel and back into the darkness, she chastised herself roundly.
Not for her foolish actions. Not even for the kiss.
But for falling in love with a man she could not have.
Chapter Sixteen
The arrival of morning failed to stop Morgan’s head from spinning like a windmill in a tempest. She had waited twenty-six years for a kiss of passion. Despite her father’s best efforts to maintain her spinsterhood, she had given more than a little thought to what such a kiss might be like. Exciting. Daunting. Perhaps even terrifying. However, her guesses had been mostly wrong. Though startled by the first touch of Steadman’s lips, she had become rapidly consumed by a set of rare and long-lost emotions that swirled in an exotic blend to form something entirely new. During the space of the kiss and for an extended afterglow, feelings of security, appreciation, and unity had swum through her veins, leaving her warm with euphoria as if with the onset of fever.
These thoughts and more drove her from bed to don her excuse of a suit, but this time she paid more attention to its fit. It still swallowed her, but she felt different beneath the layer of constructed masculinity. All because of the kiss. What had felt more of a lark or playacting in the tavern paled in comparison to the moment when Steadman had called her “magnificent” and then so wondrously made his point. How could he possibly harbor such feelings for her when he could have anyone of his choosing? When he could summon the love of the most desirable women in the land? She had tried to tell him about her flaws, her unworthiness, her plainness. But he had flatly ignored her logic.
As she finished tying her cravat into a respectable waterfall knot, dismal explanations came to her, taunting from the abyss. What if his actions were a game? A simple machination to gain her trust and loyalty, or to exact heartless revenge for the lie she had perpetrated? What if the kiss was simply a product of the heat of confrontation and miraculousescape? Or was it just a manifestation of the darkness and the isolation of the candlelit chapel? Before leaving her room, Morgan stood by the door with her fingers dangling from the knob. She closed her eyes and tried to see what Steadman had described after she tallied her failings as a woman.
“That is damnable lie. For you are magnificent.”
He saw in hersomething. But what? In her mind’s eye, she caught a fleeting glimpse of herself as he might see her—tall, sturdy, forthright, companionable. It wasn’t much, but his confidence lifted her. She turned the knob and soon made her way downstairs. Her breath caught when she found Steadman watching her descend the stairs. He lifted his hand with that same wistful smile.
“Mr. Brady. Good morning. Please join me for breakfast.”
For the first time in a month, she truly despised the need for her disguise. With many curious eyes and ears about, they could ill afford to abandon the theatrics of a public hoax. She fought back disappointment and joined him.
“Steadman. Did you sleep well?”
His eyes were merry. “Better than I have in a long time. And you?”
“Barely a wink.”
He laughed. “Then between us, we had a mediocre sleep.”
“It would seem so. I apologize in advance for any incessant yawning.”
“Forgiven in advance. At least your warning tells me that the yawning is not necessarily a result of the crushing boredom of my company.”
She laughed softly. “Never fear. You are a great many things. Boring is not among them.”
They continued to converse with civil coyness throughout breakfast while perfectly avoiding a single word about the previous evening’s events. Morgan told herself that the silence on the matter was necessary due to the public venue. However, she worried that he might never speak of it and just pretend nothing had happened. Those doubts continued to infect her thoughts as they finished breakfast and left the inn. Liberated from eavesdroppers, Morgan saved herself by turning the conversation to the job at hand.
“I remain puzzled, Steadman. How do you expect to steal a fortune in grain from a nobleman who possesses documents validating his ownership of the grain and escape legal trouble in the process?”
He looked toward her as they moved side by side along the main thoroughfare at a leisurely pace. “Are you concerned for me?”
“Yes, I am.”
“I should be flattered but am disappointed by your lack of confidence in my plan.”
She shook her head. “Perhaps I fumble the point, so let me try again.” She let her gaze wander to the fields beyond Broad Chalke. “For fifteen years, you have been a phantom, swooping down to rob the rich unawares and melting back into obscurity as quickly as you came. Now, you propose to steal from a lord in public view and remain to watch his reaction. Can you understand my apprehension?”
He nodded with a grunt. “I can, and I do. However, Lord Atwood must pay for what he has done, and I mean to become the instrument of that vengeance.”
The word “vengeance” struck her as odd, as it was the unseemly cousin of justice that often destroyed the moral high ground. “Can you really make a lord pay for what he has done?”
“Imust.” His response was immediate and firm. “Stealing the wheat is how we make him pay. Because stealing it will ruin him financially.”
Morgan’s eyes began to open. His tone seemed too personal. Too visceral. Ruining Lord Atwood was more than just another stripe on his banner. There was deeper meaning to his mission that he had withheld from her. Disappointed that Steadman had not trusted her with the details, she knew the time to hold him accountable for transparency had come. But how to press him? After brief contemplation, she found a mildly circuitous route.
“I am aware that many noble houses have fallen into financial duress these past twenty years. Lord Atwood, on the other hand, appears to have been amassing land. How can he be in such a tenuous financial position?”
