Page 28 of Barely a Woman (Bow Street Beaus #1)

As Morgan and Steadman rode with caution toward the barn under cover of darkness, she said little even as he explained what would or could happen.

Morgan remained deeply conflicted over his contradictory position of fighting for justice while wounding innocents in seeking that justice.

His desire for vengeance was appropriate, natural, human.

His manner of seeking it was not. It was like setting fire to a field to kill a snake.

The plan to ruin his entire family was discordantly out of step with everything she had learned of him, both before and since their first meeting.

As they turned off the main road toward the empty tenant village, Morgan could hold her tongue no longer.

She glanced back over her shoulder to find the blacksmith and his associates driving a pair of wagons along the road some distance behind, as planned.

She loosened her suddenly constricting cravat and glared sidelong at him.

“I am not pleased with you, Steadman.”

“I am aware.”

She huffed a breath. “You plan to take revenge on a man who destroys innocents by, in turn, destroying innocents. You claim that sacrifice is necessary for justice, but you are choosing for others to sacrifice instead of you. Should not the sacrifice be yours?”

“It has been.” His response erupted with pique.

In the ensuing pause, his expression melted again toward calm resolve.

“I left behind a title, an estate, a high social station. For fifteen years, I have been running, hiding, planning, acting, only to run and hide again. I have denied myself every luxury, lived in hovels and caves and forest shelters in search of justice. I have gone hungry every winter until my clothes hung limp, denied myself every meaningful friendship, and set aside any opportunity for family.” He paused for several heartbeats.

“I have sacrificed, Morgan. Every day for my entire adult life. And now, the reward for my sacrifice is in sight. I cannot turn back now.”

As his declaration washed past Morgan, empathy for his difficult journey and the sorrow he had suffered surged through her soul like the mighty Thames.

However, she could not agree with his assertion that more suffering was necessary to justify his sacrifices.

With nothing to say, she focused her attention ahead as they entered the village until a pistol appeared in her peripheral vision.

She found Steadman extending it to her, butt first.

“Take this. I have loaded it with two shots. Keep it close.” When she failed to accept it, he added, “Please. For your sake, not mine.”

She grudgingly collected the weapon and threaded the twin barrels through her belt. He grunted approval, but she said nothing. He leaned toward her and grabbed her horse’s bridle near the bit, bringing both animals to a stop. She shot him a disapproving glare.

“Why did you stop me?”

The minimal moonlight left his face mostly a canvas of shadows.

“I fail to understand why you insisted on joining me tonight. Though Three-Finger Jack appears to have become an ally, all manner of disaster could befall us. He could turn against us. Lord Atwood could send other men. Other law enforcement might attempt to stop us. Did I not explain the multitude of dangers?”

“You did, repeatedly and thoroughly. However, I will take my own stand. You are not the only one allowed to lay claim to lofty principles, sir.”

He nodded slowly. “Although I greatly prefer that you remain out of harm’s way, I admire your good intentions and abundant resolve. Just another reason I hold you in such high regard.”

“If you hold me in such high regard, why not consider my misgivings over your plan?”

“I have done nothing but consider your misgivings since this morning. But if I turn aside now, who will I be? Fifteen years of my life will have been for naught, as if I had never existed.”

She heaved a deep sigh of defeat. “You are wrong. Lucy would certainly disagree that her time with you was for naught. The poor people you fed over the years would certainly take exception to your claim. And if not for you, I would never have known the joy of having been desired by a good man.” Unwelcome and inconvenient tears filled the wells of her eyes.

“Nothing you have done has been for naught, Steadman. I am living testimony of that.”

He failed to offer a reply, remaining inscrutable in the cloying darkness.

How she wished to know his expression! But he remained a cypher.

He turned his horse away, and she followed.

As they cleared the village and approached the barn, Steadman pulled up his horse and motioned for her to do the same.

Three torches illuminated the door and a pair of wagons.

Three-Finger Jack’s men were already loading the vehicles.

With the other wagons Steadman had assembled and the young men Morgan had recruited, they expected to empty the barn in one trip. She eyed Steadman, waiting.

“Will you do one favor for me.” His question bordered on pleading.

“Perhaps.”

“Will you at least remain at the periphery, out of the torches’ reach, and watch for uninvited guests?”

“Because?”

“Because I still fear what Jack might do if he learns that my Bow Street associate and Miss Brady are one and the same. He is a dangerous man, and I might not be able to protect you from his entire gang.”

His concern touched a nerve. It must be difficult for the great Beau Monde Highwayman to admit his limitations, his vulnerability. She dipped her chin.

“Very well. I will remain on the periphery.”

“Thank you.” He spurred his horse toward the barn. “Gentleman! Wonderful to see you here tonight and already the model of industriousness!”

She prompted her mount away from the light to watch the road that passed through the tenant village.

What would she do if trouble arrived, anyway?

Her previous heroics might have gone terribly wrong if not for her fortuitous slip of the tongue and Steadman’s notoriety.

She nodded to the blacksmith as he passed with the first of two wagons.

He returned the nod, clearly unaware that she was the same person who had charmed his cooperation with a green dress and a bonnet.

At that moment, though, the wretched suit brought her the comfort of anonymity.

Within minutes, fifteen men of varying ages, professions, and ethics were loading the four haulers with sacks of grain.

She wondered what would happen if the blacksmith and his friends learned what was really happening.

Fortunately, Jack’s men appeared to remain tight-lipped about the details.

An hour on, each wagon contained a heap of bags, and the barn stood empty. With urgency, the squad of thieves leaped onto their respective wagons and the parade began moving toward the tenant village. As Steadman passed by at the head of the procession, he offered her instruction.

“Wait until they pass, then guard the rear. At a distance.”

She understood the instruction well. She was to remain a shadowy afterthought, an enigma to the others. As Three-Finger Jack passed by in the first hauler, he tipped his hat. “Ho, there, pistol man. Keep sharp eyes.”

Morgan pulled the pistol from her belt, waved it wordlessly, and replaced it.

All the while, she wondered what her father would say about this situation.

Alone with a horde of men, half of them criminals, in the middle of the night stealing wheat from a lord while dressed as a man and waving a loaded pistol to mark her participation in the seedy affair.

She almost chuckled at the expression that might have overcome his face, just before he fainted dead away.

Even his most dire descriptions of her minimal femininity could not have begun to capture the absurdity of the moment.

Regardless, she took pleasure in having so comprehensively obliterated his low expectations.

She had to laugh. The alternative was too grim to consider.

Her nerves remained alert and on edge as the column of wagons passed through Broad Chalke, as she suspected the constable would intercept them with ranks of armed men.

However, when she recalled his tremulous bravado, she decided that if he did know about the operation, he was huddling beneath his bed and praying for the men to pass by like the Angel of Death.

The wagons continued along a route familiar to Morgan—the road toward Great Yews—before diverting along a deeply rutted side road.

Minutes later, they arrived at another barn, this one seemingly better kept.

One of Lord Radnor’s barns, she supposed.

She again remained out of the way while the process of taking the grain was reversed and bag after bag disappeared into the new barn.

As the last of the sacks were disappearing inside, Steadman approached her on foot and motioned for her to dismount. She frowned but did as he asked.

“The deed is nearly done and all according to plan,” he whispered.

“You must be very pleased.”

“I am.” He sighed deeply. “But you still judge me for this.”

“Yes.”

He put a hand on her shoulder and guided her around the horse away from the eyes of his accomplices. “I wish you would not. I wish you could recognize the necessity of what I do.”

His deep voice proved tender, pleading. She wanted to pull away, but his presence rooted her feet to the earth, even when he stepped into her until body brushed body. “I want you to understand. I need you to understand.”

She inhaled sharply as his lips found hers with a whisper. They lingered lightly over her mouth before pressing more firmly. Despite everything, she returned the gentle kiss, her arms dangling confused at her side. He pulled away within a moment.

“I cannot get enough of you. You have captured me, it seems.”

“Have I?” Her voice trembled as she weighed declaring her feelings for him. However, reality invaded. He had not abandoned his contemptible plan. She continued to stare at him even while he hovered inches away with a hand on her hip.

“What’s this?” Three-Finger Jack’s voice boomed from nearby. She and Steadman jerked their attention to the big man, who had crept up without either of them noticing. “Have we a pair of mollies in our midst?”

Steadman straightened without moving his hand from her hip. “What is it to you if we are?”

Jack cocked his head. “Ah, I just thought…

“What do you care if my associate and I have tender feelings for each another?”

“I, well…”

Morgan hit her limit of pretending, of trying to be someone she could not. The voice of her father rang in her head as she pushed away from Steadman, plucked off her hat, and walked toward Jack. “I am Miss Brady, from the tavern.”

When Jack’s eyes flared in the flickering torchlight, fear pricked her.

This was the reason Steadman had so adamantly concealed her identity from the gang leader.

When Steadman appeared at her side and gripped her arm, she reached for her pistol, certain of inevitable conflict.

However, the giant threw his head back and bellowed a laugh.

“Miss Brady! You fooled me entirely!” Then he addressed Steadman. “I must admit surprise that the famous Sir Steadman, the passion of every woman in the land, would allow his woman to traipse about in such manly attire.”

Steadman released her arm and waved the hand at Jack. “She is not my woman, sir. Miss Brady belongs to no man.”

As Steadman walked to Jack to exchange good-natured shoulder slaps, Morgan tried to quell the hurt of what he had said with little success. She belonged to no one. And he had made that sad fact clear to the world.