Cachet by Shannah Biondine

and horse-drawn carts jostling to deliver or receive goods from the skiffs and barges.
    Morgan had told her Newcastle was a direct trade point leading north into Scotland, but she was still surprised to see knobby knees poking out beneath plaid kilts worn by a group of young ruffians. They engaged in a verbal debate about ancestry and a possible blood tie to a herd of sheep with a pair of Yorkshire farmers.
    Reddening at the coarse language, she ventured a sideways glance at Morgan to see his reaction, but he appeared to be staring off at a large wagon being unloaded near a warehouse doorway. Suddenly he turned back to her. "What was that you said about Pamela?"
    She'd forgotten she'd blurted the woman's name in her fit of pique. "It's not important."
    "It is to me. I don't like conspiracies, Widow." He led her back to the pub and took a table by the front window. A pitcher of ale and two tankards were plunked down by the barkeep, who winked at Morgan as he hustled past.
    Rachel's cheeks began to stain as she realized the significance of that wink. She noted the facial expressions of the other patrons. Her relationship to the handsome man with her had been misconstrued. They think we're two lovers who've had a quarrel. The little traitor inside her had taken over the citadel and was shouting from the parapet. Admit it, you wish it were true! You wish you were lovers...who could kiss and make up . She glanced at his lips. Oh God!
    The truth plowed over her like a runaway stagecoach. How and when had she let this catastrophe befall her? She'd fallen in love with him! Abruptly she jumped to her feet. "This isn't—It's not proper for me to be here. I should wait outside while you have your ale."
    He poured ale into both tankards without glancing up at her. "Sit down and answer my question. What exactly did Pamela offer you and when?"
    She eased back onto the edge of her seat. "She offered traveling expenses back to London. Or even America. But that was when—" She went a deeper scarlet.
    "When what?"
    She couldn't admit Pamela's suspicion that they'd slept together. "After I found out about the letters. She came to the cottage and I accused her of writing them. She wouldn't admit she had. I wouldn't take the money she offered, so we reached a stalemate. She told me about the betrothal."
    Rachel's heart sank. He was going to marry Pamela. The knowledge hurt. She had no chance with him, no business wanting him. She watched him drink his ale, still wondering how his lips would taste, wondering where she'd lost her common sense.
    "I haven't heard any announcement. Whose betrothal?"
    Rachel nearly choked. "Yours, sir."
    Morgan silently cursed. Pamela's taunts came back. Boasting of an engagement when none existed was despicable enough to be one of her ruses. Rachel indicated their conversation had taken place a few days after the forged letters to Somersdale, which meant it was also after Pamela's visit to his room and his warning. Pamela obviously had no intention of heeding it. "She maintained I'd proposed to her?"
    "Does that mean you didn't?" The question was asked so softly, he almost didn't hear it. She couldn't be asking out of personal interest. Not Widow Cordell. She couldn't be. But her dark eyes studied his face too closely for it to be anything else. Christ!
    "Nay, I didn't. Nor will I, particularly in light of the Somersdale forgeries and this new lie. Her appalling lack of judgment doesn't endear her to me."
    Rachel glanced out the window. "It's late, Mr. Tremayne. I need to get home."
    He paid the barkeep and led Rachel back to the wagon. She placed a hand on his arm as she climbed up, but made certain she sat as far away from him on the seat as possible. Her mind was in turmoil on the ride back to Crowshaven. Why had she ever spoken so plainly? Did he guess her distant manner hid her true feelings?
    They were back inside the village proper before Morgan broke the silence. "You asked me for a list of suitable