thought of finding her at the table garbed thusly, did not reveal itself on his face. For some reason, that caused her temper to flare. She snapped, “There was not much to delay me and I seem to have no choice but to travel on with you.”
Morgan gave her a small smile for that. “There is always a choice, Little One. Life is nothing if not endless choices. The question is which choice one makes and where it will take them.”
Ignoring that insight, Merry found herself foolishly saying, “You were very late last night.” Why had she said that to him? Trying to recover from that quickly, she added, “Were you not concerned, even a little, if left so long alone I would run?”
His grin told her he was not. “I played cards until nearly morning. And did more than my share of drinking.”
Her gaze lifted to him then, wide and flashing of memory. “Then I should consider myself lucky to have been left undisturbed in your bed.”
The way Morgan’s eyes bore into her made her tremble. “Indeed, you should. You are a vision when you sleep.” His compliment ran her like a caress. He dropped his gaze back to his plate and continued with his meal. “You look very beautiful today, Little One. The perfect image of my wife. You are becoming quite adept at my fictions.”
That did not settle well upon Merry, since she more than half suspected she had gowned herself to do exactly that. She couldn’t imagine why she participated so willingly in this game of his.
As they continued their journey to Richmond, inside the carriage there was silence. This time Morgan sat opposite of her. Merry could feel his eyes on her, but his face was relaxed and his posture unrevealing. She focused on the quickly passing landscape.
He seemed content with the silence and to look at her, though why that should comfort her female heart instead of distress it was a mystery. The silence between them was a pleasant thing, even with the uncertainty of her fate and the burn of his eyes upon her. How odd it was they could sit in a silence that was comfortable, and yet she could feel every part of him through her senses.
Fiction this may be, but it was dangerously so; like those French romance novels she used to read that bespoke the flow of love entrapping a woman both in heart and physically.
To feel the touch of a man not touching her; she had thought that foolish fantasy. But she could feel Morgan now, as surely as if his hands were on her. Sinking her teeth into her lower lip, she chanced another glance at him. Even now she felt him in her flesh, when he was asleep.
The carriage rumbled on and she took turns watching the scenery and Morgan. It was afternoon when Merry first saw Richmond. The bells of St. John’s Episcopal Church were a brilliant thunder that joined the patriotic sounds of celebration that had at its center a parade.
Watching a marching procession of Virginia Militia, she wondered if peace with Great Britain had at last been declared. There was an untamed vigor to the celebration, and she could think of no greater reason than peace to find this festivity here.
The carriage sputtered along the crowded street, and Merry turned her face from the window and asked, “Do you think there is at last peace?”
“No, Little One. I am quite sure the war has not ended.”
Merry paused to study him, wondering why the very obviously British Morgan had all but transformed himself into an American. This was more than one of his clever fiction. This was part of the man. This was where he lived. Who he was by choice, not birth. But why here and where was he taking her? What was his purpose in this?
She asked, “Are we almost to your home?”
“No. It is another half day’s ride from the city.”
They passed a wagon with a press, the printers working with quick movements to make broadsides. Noting her interest, Morgan tapped the carriage ceiling and then sent the aged servant to collect one.
As he watched her study the handbill, he
Morgan gave her a small smile for that. “There is always a choice, Little One. Life is nothing if not endless choices. The question is which choice one makes and where it will take them.”
Ignoring that insight, Merry found herself foolishly saying, “You were very late last night.” Why had she said that to him? Trying to recover from that quickly, she added, “Were you not concerned, even a little, if left so long alone I would run?”
His grin told her he was not. “I played cards until nearly morning. And did more than my share of drinking.”
Her gaze lifted to him then, wide and flashing of memory. “Then I should consider myself lucky to have been left undisturbed in your bed.”
The way Morgan’s eyes bore into her made her tremble. “Indeed, you should. You are a vision when you sleep.” His compliment ran her like a caress. He dropped his gaze back to his plate and continued with his meal. “You look very beautiful today, Little One. The perfect image of my wife. You are becoming quite adept at my fictions.”
That did not settle well upon Merry, since she more than half suspected she had gowned herself to do exactly that. She couldn’t imagine why she participated so willingly in this game of his.
As they continued their journey to Richmond, inside the carriage there was silence. This time Morgan sat opposite of her. Merry could feel his eyes on her, but his face was relaxed and his posture unrevealing. She focused on the quickly passing landscape.
He seemed content with the silence and to look at her, though why that should comfort her female heart instead of distress it was a mystery. The silence between them was a pleasant thing, even with the uncertainty of her fate and the burn of his eyes upon her. How odd it was they could sit in a silence that was comfortable, and yet she could feel every part of him through her senses.
Fiction this may be, but it was dangerously so; like those French romance novels she used to read that bespoke the flow of love entrapping a woman both in heart and physically.
To feel the touch of a man not touching her; she had thought that foolish fantasy. But she could feel Morgan now, as surely as if his hands were on her. Sinking her teeth into her lower lip, she chanced another glance at him. Even now she felt him in her flesh, when he was asleep.
The carriage rumbled on and she took turns watching the scenery and Morgan. It was afternoon when Merry first saw Richmond. The bells of St. John’s Episcopal Church were a brilliant thunder that joined the patriotic sounds of celebration that had at its center a parade.
Watching a marching procession of Virginia Militia, she wondered if peace with Great Britain had at last been declared. There was an untamed vigor to the celebration, and she could think of no greater reason than peace to find this festivity here.
The carriage sputtered along the crowded street, and Merry turned her face from the window and asked, “Do you think there is at last peace?”
“No, Little One. I am quite sure the war has not ended.”
Merry paused to study him, wondering why the very obviously British Morgan had all but transformed himself into an American. This was more than one of his clever fiction. This was part of the man. This was where he lived. Who he was by choice, not birth. But why here and where was he taking her? What was his purpose in this?
She asked, “Are we almost to your home?”
“No. It is another half day’s ride from the city.”
They passed a wagon with a press, the printers working with quick movements to make broadsides. Noting her interest, Morgan tapped the carriage ceiling and then sent the aged servant to collect one.
As he watched her study the handbill, he
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