Carolyn Davidson – The Marriage Agreement (страница 11)

“I make enough to get along,” Morgan told him, his voice soft but containing a thread of steel that forbade any further discussion.

Ham shot him a speculative look. “I’ve heard that you’re working for someone else.”

“And where did you hear that?” His senses alert, Morgan slid one hand into his pocket and tilted his hat a bit with the other. “You been checking up on me, Ham?”

A quick shake of his head denoted Ham’s denial of such a thing. “Just something that’s been whispered about over the past day or so. Thought you might like to hear the rumor.”

“Well, you can squelch it right now,” Morgan told him as he strolled away. “I work on my own. I don’t answer to anyone but Gage Morgan.”

And wasn’t that the biggest lie he’d ever told with a straight face.

Chapter Four

T he lines were being readied to cast off from the dock as Morgan neared the front of the boat and he gripped the rail tightly, his mind already on the coming evening. A vision of dark curls and even darker eyes swam in his mind and he shook it off. His eyelids flickered, his gaze narrowed, and there before him hung a drawing of the very woman he’d so determinedly cast from his thoughts.

The post was tall, its surface bearing several printed notices, one of them for a stage show in town, another for a man wanted for bank robbery. The third bore a very well-done likeness of Lily Devereaux, and above it were emblazoned the words: Wanted for Attempted Murder and Robbery.

Morgan blinked, sure that for that fraction of a moment his eyes were playing tricks on him. And then dead certain that they were not as he focused again on the poster. Someone who thought Lily’s name was Yvonne Devereaux had offered a five-thousand-dollar reward for her capture.

With one swift movement Morgan was atop the railing, and from there leaped to stand on the dock. He looked up at the poster and snatched it from the nails holding it in place. With a glance toward the gangplank, where Ham was no longer in sight, he folded the paper in quarters and stuck it in his pocket. Then, in a casual manner, he sauntered to where the lines were being cast ashore.

“Hold on a second there,” he called in a jovial tone. And as the accommodating deckhand watched, Morgan crossed the narrow stretch of water to stand on the deck. Offering the obliging fellow a small salute with his index finger, he strolled away, toward his cabin.

The woman is a fraud. All the way around. She’s lied to me.

His fist raised to pound on the door of his cabin, and then as it would have met the wood, he dropped it to his side. “It’s my damn cabin,” he muttered. “I shouldn’t have to knock on my own door.”

The handle turned readily and he stood on the threshold. Before him Lily watched, wide-eyed, her hands holding up the shoes he’d bought with his hard-earned money. Probably gloating over making a fool of him.

He crossed the threshold and closed the door, leaning against it as he lifted one hand to remove his hat. The shoes were lowered, a pair held by either hand until they dangled at her sides, and Lily’s eyes closed tightly, then reopened, their surface glossy.

“Going to try tears on me?” Morgan asked softly. “It won’t work, Lily.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said, her words so quiet they might have been whispered.

He lifted a brow and tossed his hat toward the bed. She jumped as it sailed past her to land on the mattress, and he noted the visible shiver that traveled her length.

“Don’t you?” He reached in his pocket for the folded poster and held it toward her. “Don’t lie to me, Lily. Are you sure you don’t know what I’m talking about?”

She shook her head, and the shoes dropped to the floor. The sound was sharp in the silence, and she looked down to where they lay, then bent to retrieve them.

“Leave them,” Morgan said sharply, and watched as she obeyed, straightening again to stand quietly as he approached. His hand was steady as he lifted it to brush her cheek, and he smiled as she flinched from his touch.

“Are you afraid of me now?” he asked. The poster drew her eyes like a magnet and her mouth trembled as she spoke.

“What is it? What have you done?”

“What have I done?” he asked. “I think the question might be what have you done?”

Her chin lifted and two tears left shiny streaks down the length of her cheeks. “All right, what have I done?” she asked.

“Lied to me,” he said, almost tonelessly. “You lied to me, Lily.”

She shook her head. “No. I didn’t lie. I just didn’t tell you everything.”

“Everything? All you told me was a pack of lies, Miss Devereaux. Apparently beginning with your name—” he made a show of opening the poster and reading it aloud “—Yvonne Devereaux, it says here.” His eyes lifted to meet her gaze. “And ending with your attempted murder of someone in New York.”

“It wasn’t an attempted murder,” she whispered. “I killed him.”

He looked back at the poster. “Not according to this. You robbed him and tried real hard to put him six feet under, but the man is alive, lady. And he’s after your hide.”

“He’s dead,” she wailed, and then covered her mouth with one hand as if she could somehow stifle the words that resounded between them.

Morgan snatched at her hand, his fingers gripping her wrist as he drew her up to her tiptoes and pulled her against himself. “Shut up. Just shut the hell up, and for once in your life, tell the truth.”

Her knees sagged and he circled her with his other arm, the poster falling to the floor at his side. “Talk to me, Lily, or Yvonne, or whatever the hell your name is. Who did you think you’d killed?”

“Stanley Weston,” she gasped. “The Yankee colonel who took me with him when he left our plantation.”

“When he left your plantation.” Morgan repeated her words aloud, then watched her skin turn pale, as her eyes closed and her head rolled back. “Damn you, don’t you dare faint now.” He shook her once, a violent movement that snapped her eyes open. They were black, so dark he could not see the division between the pupil and the color surrounding it. “Do you hear me?” he whispered.

She nodded. “I hear you.” She stiffened in his grasp and with a tremendous effort, her legs held her upright and she caught her breath. “I hear you,” she repeated.

“From the beginning now,” Morgan said through gritted teeth. “Who are you?”

“Lily. I’m Lily Devereaux.”

His hands moved to her shoulders and his grip tightened. “One more time. The truth this time, Lily.”

“Yvonne Devereaux died when I left New York,” she whispered. “I became Lily. I’ve told you that already.”

“That’s not quite the way I recall it, but we’ll take your word for it for now, and call you Lily. After you left New York—hell, before you left New York. Did you try to kill a man?”

“I hit him with a poker. I saw him fall to the floor, and there was blood all over the place.”

“And so you robbed him?”

She shook her head. “No, I never took anything from anyone. I ran. I left in a pouring rain and walked until I found a place to stay for the night.”

“Where?” he asked, feeling her pain even as he strove to inure himself to the emotions she brought to life within him. “Where did you go?”

Her eyes were listless, as if they beheld a time so fraught with peril, so frightening she could not bring herself to deal with it. “To a pawn shop. I had a brooch from my mother and the dealer gave me cash for it.” She inhaled, a deep breath that seemed to give her strength. “I stayed that night in a hotel, a place where there were men sleeping in the hallways, because they didn’t have enough money to pay for a bed.”

“And you had a bed?”

“A man felt sorry for me and gave me his. He spent the night sleeping in the hallway.”

“And from there?” Morgan asked, noting the flicker of awareness that told him she heard his query. “Where did you go from there, Lily?”

“I took a train west, toward Chicago.”

His voice was a low growl as he repeated the query that was uppermost in his mind. “What did you take from Weston?”

Her eyes focused on him and once more she stiffened, trembling in his grasp. “I took nothing from him. I thought I’d killed him, and I ran.”

“Well, according to this poster, you’re accused of robbery.” He watched her closely, saw the ashen cast to her features and felt a moment’s pity for her.

“Why did you hit him, Lily?” Morgan lowered her to sit on the edge of the bed and she shot him a grateful glance.

“Thank you,” she whispered, placing her feet carefully side by side, her hands folded neatly in her lap. “He offered me a house to live in.”

“And you took offense at that?”

She shook her head. “No, I was angry because he’d promised to marry me when we left the plantation, and when we got to New York he kept putting me off and he…”

“He what, Lily? What did he do?” And even before she spoke the words, Morgan knew the story she would tell.

“He said he’d never marry a girl who couldn’t even speak proper English. He was already engaged to a society woman in the city, but he’d like to keep me as his mistress.” As though the word were poison, she spat it from her lips, and then bowed her head.

“Proper English? He said that?” And for the past days Morgan had enjoyed the soft phrases that slipped past her lips, the slurring of letters that proclaimed her heritage. “The man was a fool,” he said harshly, then knelt at her feet. It was time to make a major decision here, and not much leeway to do it in.