The Highwayman (Rakes and Rogues of the Restoration Book 3) (30 page)

“Tonight, I wished I’d thought to bring my walking stick. Could you teach me to use a sword? I expect it would be more useful.” She gave a yawn and a little sigh, and rested her head against his shoulder.

“A sword takes a great deal of training and years of practice to master. It’s meant for dueling or fighting in close quarters. It’s wiser by far to avoid both situations. Quick thinking saved you tonight, not pistol or sword. Still...if you really want to learn I could probably teach you some rudimentary skills sometime. Allen has been after me, too.”

“Allen, the handsome red-headed lad I spoke to in York? He seemed a very nice young man. I think Caroline was quite smitten.”

“He used to be a fine biddable lad, but of late he’s grown sullen and surly.”

Jack sounded so put out Arabella had to choke back her laughter. She coughed and leaned across him, bracing her hand on his shoulder as she reached for the wine. He put his hands around her waist to steady her.

“Do you remember what I told you about wiggling, squirming virgins?” His voice sounded rough and strained.

“Yes, Jack. I do,” she said, settling back down until she was comfortable in his lap again. His arousal pressed hard against the curve of her buttocks and thighs and she felt a thrill of delicious excitement. “Will you have some wine?”

“Bless you, Bella. You’ll make some lucky man a fine wife.”

There was a moment’s awkwardness, as the world they’d left behind on the rooftops threatened to overtake them, but Jack rallied quickly. “What do you say to a cup of the creature instead? It warms the belly, replenishes the spirit and gives a man courage when the nights are long and cold.”

“I can’t imagine you needing courage. I can’t imagine you afraid of anything.”Arabella accepted the whisky he offered and tore him off a hunk of bread.

The fire had taken hold quickly, warming the room, drying their clothes and creating a cozy ambience, but Jack’s innocent compliment had subtly changed the mood. Men who lived for adventure, braved the noose, avoided encumbrances and were a law unto themselves, seldom married. Countesses didn’t marry highwaymen, and spinsters who valued their rights and independence never married at all. Where did that leave them? Someplace neither of them wanted to think about.

They were both ravenous and they turned their attention to the food, devouring the bread and washing it down with brandy. Jack had set aside the blanket as the room warmed up. He lounged on the floor beside her, with one knee bent, his chest partly bared and his shirt loose around the shoulders. They joked and chatted, reliving their adventure and avoiding anything uncomfortable, passing the whisky back and forth, their voices and laughter a quiet counterpoint to the rain that pattered steadily against the windows and the wind that moaned outside.

“
Are
you ever afraid, Jack? Tonight, before you came, I was terrified.”

He eyed her contemplatively as he smoothed her hair. “Yet you tried your pistol, you bit that scarred bastard and nearly took his eye, and you had the presence of mind to know when to run and when to hide. I’ve heard it said that bravery is being the only one who knows you are afraid.”

“But you seem almost lighthearted. I can’t imagine you ever being afraid.”

“It wasn’t always so. There was a time I was, and then I wasn’t anymore. I haven’t known fear for a very long time now.”

“I am afraid of heights, or so I thought. But after the tower and now jumping off the roof, perhaps I’m not anymore.”

Jack nodded. “I’ve always found it works that way. To face your fears is to defeat them. Perhaps not always with one battle, but each one emboldens you, so the next is easier.”

“When I was a little girl I was afraid to go to bed for the longest time after my mother died. My father told me she had been taken in her sleep and I feared whatever took her might come for me. He meant it to be a comfort, but I am not a good sleeper to this day. What did you fear as a boy, Jack?”

He reached for the whisky and poured half a cup, downing it in one swallow. “Everything.... To move, to speak, to sleep, to wake, to die…my father…myself.”

He was almost as surprised as she was by his candid answer. It had slipped out before he had time to think. He had to learn to be more guarded around her. A sudden chill seized him, and Arabella wrapped her arms around his chest, as if somehow she knew.

She hugged him tightly, not sure how to respond. The way he had spoken, so matter of fact, was almost as chilling as what he had said. She wasn’t used to thinking of him as vulnerable. He was always so capable, so sure of himself, so lighthearted, that even in York when he had spoken of his childhood, it was as if he described some other young boy.

“You said your father was a brutal man. But you are not someone who is easily frightened. Won’t you tell me about it?”

He lifted a strand of her hair and let it run, like a silken stream through his fingers. “Some things are best left alone. ‘Here be demons,’ as they say.”

“We all have demons, and angels too.”

“There was nothing of the angel about my father. He was a truly evil man, Bella.”

“But you are not.”

His eyes met hers, guarded, assessing. “You know me better than anyone. I am only ever myself with you. But it is a harsh world I came from, and parts of me are darker than you could imagine. And darker, I suppose, than I really want you to know.”

“But you just described a lonely, frightened child—”

“I’m sorry. I should not have. The whisky. The—”

She placed her fingers over his lips. “You said you used to be frightened, and then you weren’t anymore. If you don’t tell me, the rest it will haunt me forever.”

“It is not a pretty story.”

“What nightmare is?”

Jack sighed, and motioned for more whisky. “Understand that what I tell you is in the past, and has no purchase on me now. I tell you only because you ask. There is so much that separates us, I don’t want there to be more.” Privately, he hoped it wouldn’t send her fleeing from the room.

“I don’t either. I want you to know you can tell me anything.”

He chuckled and flicked her ear with a finger. “You already know enough to hang me several times over.

“I mean that I accept you, Jack. Exactly as you are. Just as you do me. Even if I was a fool about Peg, I don’t—”

“Shhh.” He touched a finger to her lips, and followed it with a soft kiss. “We are past that now. “As for young Jack Nevison…you know most of it and can guess the rest.”

“Nevison, not Harris?”

“Never Harris. As I told you, I’ll claim no part of him. Nevison was my mother’s name. I am sure I told you my sire was a violent drunk, but he was much the same when sober. He took pleasure in terrorizing others. It was almost as though he needed it. Every parent is a god to their child, but mine was the devil––and my mother and I his property. Anything might set him off. Young Jack tried to be a good lad when he couldn’t be invisible. To anticipate and please, rather than to anger. It never worked. The poor lad didn’t understand that Harris didn’t do it for a reason. He did it because he could.”

“Why do you talk as though he, I mean you, were someone else?”

“Because sometimes it seems that I was, and it is my story and I shall tell it as I please.” He brushed a knuckle across her cheek, as if to take the sting from his words.

“Young Jack…
I
…lived in constant fear. One day he sold me, just like he sold my mother, to pay for a gambling debt to someone it wasn’t wise to disappoint.”

“Dear God!”

Jack shrugged. “The world is a rough and violent place for many, love, where children have to work to earn their keep. He did it often after that. Usually it was for things only a child could do. To crawl through a small space to unlock a door for example, or stand watch amidst a gaggle of children playing hoops. It wasn’t so bad. I learned many useful things. But one time, when it was for something no child should endure, I ran away and soon I was lost in the city. I had no money, no food but what I could steal, and no shelter or place to sleep for almost two weeks.

I have never been so hungry. It was the only time I can remember wanting my father. It was then I first climbed Shooter’s Hill, just to get my bearings though I didn’t know its name. I could see the whole city. The river, the grand houses, the streets and parks were laid out before me like a map. It fired my imagination. I felt safe, watching in the dark. I liked the night, the moon and stars, and it was my first taste of freedom. The next day I made a crude shelter and I caught a rabbit. The day after, a fellow gave me a shilling to carry his torch and light his way home, and I began to realize that I could survive on my own.

“I went back home in the end, because I feared for my mother. I couldn’t just leave her with him. Harris greeted me with a blow that knocked me flat and I got back up and spit in his face. He did it again and again and I started laughing. Really laughing. I found it comical. The pain meant nothing. It always passed, but the fear was always there and just like that, it was gone. I didn’t care if he killed me for it. All that mattered was that I had bested him. It was a thrill, a triumph. Big bad John Harris, and me, an ten-year-old boy, laughing in his face.

“I never felt it again, that fear. It disappeared as if by magic. It was as though I had crossed into a different country where he was lost and I knew the way. I went from frightened boy to angry youth in a heartbeat, and all I felt for him was hatred and contempt. I tried to convince my mother to leave him. That I could care for her and keep her safe. But she was too frightened and broken, or perhaps she felt that I was too young. I tried everything I could think of to get her away, and when it failed, I began to think about killing him. I had some notion that doing so might save her.”

“But you didn’t kill him,” Arabella said quickly. Her hold on him had grown progressively tighter as he told his tale, and now it was fierce, as if she was determined to keep him where he was, her Jack, safe with her by the fire drinking whisky in her room.

“No. Fate doesn’t change her course for the whims of unhappy children. I didn’t kill him, and I didn’t save my mother.”

His heart beat slow and steady beneath her cheek, and she sighed against his chest. “I am so sorry, Jack. I wish there was something I could say or do.”

“It was a long time ago. I have flourished, as you can see. And I do feel lighter for speaking of it. That is something I was not expecting. ”

“Will you tell me the rest of it? How did she die?”

“It was an accident I think. We were at an inn not far from Leeds. Harris had some scheme afoot. He always did. She was clumsy. He backhanded her as he had done a thousand times before and she just…crumpled. She didn’t even try to turn from the blow. I think her spirit had departed long since. I filched a dagger. I was a skinny lad, no match for him sober, so I kept bringing him drinks and waiting for a chance to spring. But the stranger I told you about came that evening. He was seeking revenge, something about his sister, but it all unraveled when the bastard held a sword against my throat and used me as a shield.”

“The stranger did?”

“No! No, my father did. He, the captain, Nichols, chose to save me, his enemy’s son, instead of taking his vengeance. I can’t say I was appreciative at the time. My hatred was fierce. I wanted him to kill Harris, or to let me do it, but he dragged me out of there and took me to an inn miles away. He left me a purse and he left me locked in a room. I was a prisoner there for days before I managed to escape. I went after Harris then, but it was too late.”

“The man had killed him?”

“No. It was poetic really. Nichols snared him in his own trap. John Harris, proud as Lucifer, was tried for treason and transported. He was led away in chains to spend his life as a slave in Jamaica. I watched him go. I had so much rage, and nowhere to spend it, but in time, I came to appreciate that my life, the life of a lad he didn’t know, meant more to Nichols than his vengeance did.

“I think that’s why, over time, other things, Bess, Allen…you…even helping a lost soul like Peg became more important to me than my anger. I can’t find it anymore. It no longer matters. Nichols made me a better man, and Harris made me a stronger one. I wouldn’t say I was lighthearted, but I
have
learnt that if you aren’t shot, bleeding, on fire or on the gallows, you can relax and enjoy a pint, and I really thought there was nothing left that could scare me until I met you.”

“You have said that before. Why should I frighten you? Surely you can manage one angry spinster.”

Jack chuckled and tapped the end of her nose. He felt as though he had just completed some onerous chore that had turned out to be far less difficult than expected. Arabella was a constant surprise. Nothing seemed to shock her. You couldn’t tell just any woman that your mother was a prostitute and you had wanted to kill your father. Her easy acceptance moved him in ways he didn’t know how to express.

“I fear you might injure yourself as you ramble about the countryside climbing through caves and over fences—or trip and break your neck while ogling bare-arsed men. But I never felt true terror until you almost tumbled from that roof.”

“Thank God you didn’t let on or I might never have attempted the next one. As easy as scotch-hoppers you said.”

“I lied.”

She burst out laughing and gave him a hard shove, then gasped and drew her hand back, her fingers slick with blood. “You’re wounded!”

“Am I?” He sounded mildly surprised.

“You didn’t notice?”

“Neither did you,” he said defensively, pulling his shirt from his waistband and twisting to examine a three-inch gash in his side just below his ribs. “Oh that? That’s just a scratch. Probably from the brawl in the street. Your carpet is in more danger from it than I am.”

“Then I shall clean and bandage it and save you both.”

He wasn’t accustomed to fussing over such trifles, but mindful of her carpet, he lifted his arm dutifully, waiting for her to proceed.