He might have been happy to amble along, but the colt he rode danced beneath him, frustrated and impatient. He clearly wanted to have his head, to run free and fast. Jack deliberately held him back, knowing he had to show the young animal who was boss.
Overall, he was pleased with how the new colt was working out. He’d managed to wangle a good price for the young buckskin stockhorse at auction a few weeks ago, despite the bidding war with Lionel Bridgewater. The battle had caused great excitement at the auction yards that day, drawing in a huge crowd. Jack had enjoyed himself immensely, watching his opponent, red faced and sweating, as he challenged each bid. Eventually, old Lionel had backed down and Jack had taken the colt, to the crowd’s enthusiastic cheers.
Handing over the pounds, Jack led the colt away from the auction house and to the holding yard behind the Fairweather Transport office.
He spent some time acquainting himself with the animal. Choosing to groom the horse himself instead of letting one of the stableboys handle it. Nothing cemented the relationship between man and horse better than a good brush down.
‘What shall we call you then, eh?’ he asked, running the brush across the colt’s flanks.
The horse let out a snort and stepped back, directly onto Jack’s foot.
‘Ouch! You little terror.’
Jack removed his booted foot from beneath the horse’s hoof and scrunched his toes to release the pain.
‘You’re a feisty young thing, aren’t you?’
For some reason, Prudence jumped into his head at that moment. More than a little feisty herself, he knew she would adore this beauty, with his dark mane and tail and the distinctive tan hide.
Frowning at the direction his thoughts had taken, he recalled their interaction at the Christmas Ball. He was quite sure that by the end of the ball she would have been promised to Frederick Grantham, especially if her grandmother had had anything to do with it. Even now, she might already be engaged to the man. She was a beautiful and vivacious woman. Her love of adventure stories, and the sparkle that came into her green eyes whenever she spoke of them was intoxicating. The idea of Frederick Grantham smothering that spark was indigestible. His remorse that she was forever out of his reach was deep and unnerving.
Bringing himself back to the colt in front of him, Jack remembered Prudence singing the praises for Alexandre Dumas and his story of The Three Musketeers. He’d picked up a copy at the book exchange in the city and was about halfway through it. Despite his elementary reading skills, he was enjoying the story, and could see how Prudence had drawn comparisons between the unconventional king’s guards and bushrangers.
‘D’Artagnan,’ he said out loud.
The colt turned his head to look at him. If Jack had been a fanciful man, he might have said the colt smiled at him.
‘D’Artagnan, hey?’ Jack said again. ‘Well, I guess it fits.’
Now as he rode D’Artagnan alongside the grassy plains, he thought of Prudence again. Would she ever get the chance to meet D’Artagnan? Of course not. He had to shake this fascination he had with her. No good would come of it. He needed to go to town and find a willing woman—a willing, available woman—to clear his mind of Prudence Stanforth.
The colt’s ears pricked up and Jack’s own senses went on high alert. Hoof beats. Fast, and coming closer by the second. He turned in the saddle to see a horse racing across the open paddock at an incredible speed. As it neared, he recognised the chestnut Arabian mare and its rider.
Prudence.
‘Prudence!’ he called. But she didn’t stop. She just kept riding, dangerously fast across the plains and into the craggy bushland, dodging trees and jumping the horse over rocks and downed logs. Kicking the colt with his heels, the flighty young animal happily leaped into action. They did their best to match Prudence’s speed, but damn, she was a skilled rider, and fast considering she rode without a saddle. Terrified she’d fall and break her neck, he urged the colt to go faster.
Finally, as they both broke through the scrub and out into open fields again, he was able to ride up alongside her. She only seemed to notice him when he reached for her reins and slowed both their horses expertly.
Puffing with his exertions he grinned, impressed by her ability on the horse. ‘You’re a hard woman to catch, Miss Prudence.’ But his pleasure at seeing her again gave way to concern as he saw that tears tracked down her cheeks.
‘Prudence? What is it? What’s wrong?’
Holding onto the reins, he dismounted his horse and reached up to pull her from hers. She fell into his arms as her legs buckled beneath her. His concern took a rapid turn to panic at her near collapse and he held her against him. Her head fell against his chest and he heard the sobs, felt her shuddering breaths.
‘Please, talk to me. Are you injured? Did someone hurt you?’ he demanded fiercely. He’d never killed a man in his life but he would gladly kill whoever had caused Prudence such obvious pain and grief.
‘Prudence, please, what’s happened? At least tell me if you’re injured.’
He felt the shake of her head against his chest, but she sobbed again.
Taking her under his arm, he led her away from the horses to sit on a downed tree log in the shade of a large eucalypt. When he would have moved away, she clutched at him, held him close to her.
‘Prudence, sweetheart, talk to me.’ Her sobs were clawing at his heart, but he decided she needed to cry it out before she could be coherent enough to speak to him. He asked no more questions, his imagination running wild as he waited. When he’d left the ball in Melbourne, he had no doubt that Prudence would be engaged to Frederick Grantham by the end of the evening. Had Grantham said something, done something to hurt her? The thought of the man laying hands on her had his fury rising once again.
Stroking her hair with one hand and her back with the other, he tried his best to comfort her. Having her warm body pressed to his was delicious torture. The soft strands of her hair tickled his nose, the perfume of it intoxicating.
His protective instincts, usually reserved for himself and his bushranging cohorts, were now on high alert for this exquisite creature in his arms. Whoever had made such a sweet lady sob so heartbrokenly would pay for it.
After a time, he felt her hitching breaths decrease and then finally subside on one last heavy exhale.
Pulling away, she looked up into his eyes for a moment before she stood, turning her back on him. He felt the loss immeasurably. She wiped her wet face on the sleeve of her dress, prompting him to stand and hand her his handkerchief.
‘Don’t you need this to cover your face?’ she asked and he smiled, marvelling at her ability to make jokes in her upset state.
‘I have others,’ he said with shrug. ‘Besides, I’m having a day off.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, mopping at her tears. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. I’m only glad I found you and was able to assist.’
She made a move to mount her horse, but he reached her first, took her hand and led her back to the downed tree trunk. Then he removed his water canister from his saddlebag and handed it to her.
She took a sip.
‘That’s water.’
He frowned confused. ‘Yes.’
‘Don’t you have anything stronger?’
He chuckled and lifted the canister to her lips. ‘Drink.’
She did so and heaved a large sigh.
‘You have a new horse.’
He looked across at the colt, nibbling contentedly at grass beneath a wattle tree.
‘He’s young,’ he said. ‘But he’s learning. The gelding was getting too old.’
‘Your other horse?’
‘The one I was riding the day we ran into each other along the roadside,’ he said. ‘Zeus. He’s enjoying a quieter life now. I ride Persephone when I am … on the highway. But I can’t exactly be seen on the same horse as Jack Fairweather that I ride as Jack the Devil.’
He hoped that his light conversation would give her time to pu
ll herself together, but he was impatient to know what was wrong, to put his wild imaginings to rest.
‘He’s pretty. What’s his name?’
She was doing her best to not talk about whatever had upset her and he humoured her a while longer.
‘D’Artagnan.’
She blinked at him through still damp eyes. ‘From the Musketeers?’
‘Yes.’ He brushed at a strand of hair that had fallen across her forehead. ‘You inspired me. It seemed a good name for him.’
She managed a weak smile before her face crumbled again as whatever upset her returned.
‘Pru, what happened? Are you alright?’ It was a pointless question. It was obvious she was not alright.
‘No. I’m not.’
She’d said it so honestly and it hurt him physically to see her looking so forlorn.
‘Did someone harm you?’ he asked again.
‘Yes.’
The anger rising in his chest was fit to burst. ‘Was it Grantham? Did he … assault you? Did he …?’ He didn’t want to put words to his fears.
‘No, no. Frederick has been nothing but a gentleman since he arrived at the manor.’ She waved it off, reaching out to touch him, to comfort him. Her hand was warm against his forearm and he had to struggle to concentrate on her words as the truth sunk in. Grantham was staying at the manor. That could only mean one thing. She was engaged. Lost to him for good. And the thought was agony.
‘I am not injured physically,’ she went on. ‘Although it feels as though someone reached into my chest and ripped out my heart.’
He exhaled a relieved but shaky breath and gathered his out of control emotions. She needed him. His own pain could be dealt with later.
‘It was my grandmother.’
Jack was so surprised at her admission he was uncommonly lost for words.
‘The woman who raised me,’ she continued. ‘The one person in this world I thought loved me unconditionally, the one person I thought could never hurt me, just shredded my idea of what it is to have family. My life is a lie.’
‘Do you want to tell me about it?’
She took a deep unsteady breath, looked as though she might start crying again, but she exhaled the breath slowly and began.
‘My grandmother always told me that she and my grandfather took me in when my mother, her daughter, died when I was just a baby.’
The devastation of having been abandoned as a child. Jack knew it only too well.
‘But now I find out that it’s all a big fabrication,’ she said.
‘What do you mean a fabrication?’
‘A lie,’ she said, and pulling a letter from her coat pocket, she held it out to him.
He looked at the letter but didn’t take it from her.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I’ll read it to you.’
Mildly offended, he snatched the letter from her hand.
‘I may be but a lowly thief, Miss Prudence, but I am also a businessman. I can read,’ he said, and was relieved when she smiled a little. He’d let her insult him all day long if it turned her frown into a smile.
Opening the letter, he began to scan the words quickly.
‘This says your mother left you some personal belongings upon her death that are being shipped to you,’ he paraphrased. ‘It’s taken a long time for this letter to reach you.’
‘No it hasn’t,’ she said. ‘Look at the documents attached. Look at the date of her death.’
Jack read on. ‘December twenty-eight … 1860?’
‘My mother didn’t die in a fire when I was a baby,’ Prudence said, the tears coming again. ‘She died last year.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Jack admitted.
‘Neither did I,’ Prudence said, her voice raised. ‘And when I asked my grandmother what it meant, she told me it was a mistake at first, an error. But the letter has been notarised.’
She pointed to the signatures on the letter and the documents.
‘That’s when Gran gave in and told me the truth.’
Prudence stood and Jack watched her pace the ground before him.
‘My mother met a man when she was sixteen. It was during her coming out season in London. She fell in love with him and she went to bed with him. Discovering she was pregnant, and being naïve and young, she believed the man would marry her. But he’d been betrothed to another woman since childhood. He and his parents refused the marriage that my grandmother proposed.
‘Apparently, to save face, my mother was sent to the country to hide her pregnancy and wait out the birth. And when I was born my grandmother removed me from her. To avoid scandal, Gran told everyone that my mother had been married when she had me but that both my mother and my pretend father had perished in a fire. Only I survived and she had decided to bring me to London and to raise me herself.’
Jack listened intently as Prudence continued with the story of her life. A story she had only just discovered. How close she had come to meeting her mother when she’d turned sixteen and how her grandmother had so callously stolen that opportunity from her. She was putting a lot of trust him, and it made him want to be a man worthy of her trust.
She was crying again, so he stood and walked towards her, taking his handkerchief from where she was twisting it in her hands so he could wipe her cheeks gently. She looked up at him through sorrow-filled eyes. The brightness that usually put emeralds to shame had been dulled, snuffed by her pain. Seeing that light gone from her eyes, the colour drained from her pretty face, increased his dislike for her grandmother. Regardless of what she thought she was doing to protect a grandchild, he had no doubt the old battle-axe had been less than sympathetic or sensitive when she’d finally told Prudence the truth about her mother.
‘Thank you,’ she said quietly.
‘For what?’
‘For listening to a silly girl and her sad story.’
He shrugged and lifted a red tendril of hair that had fallen across her cheek, tucking it back behind her ear. ‘You’ve had a shock. It’s not silly to be upset. Your grandmother is a formidable woman. Frightening even.’
Prudence laughed a little and his heart soared at the sound.
‘Jack the Devil is frightened of a seventy-year-old woman?’
‘It’s my one Achilles heel in life,’ he said, with a faux grimace. ‘Seventy-year-old ladies, and the beautiful women they make cry. And you are a beautiful woman, Prudence. And strong. So much stronger than you think you are. Despite your current distress, you will rise above it and come out on top. I have no doubt about it.’
She smiled shyly at his words and again his heart jumped about like a plague of grasshoppers were bashing at his ribcage to get out. He had to be sensible. She was promised to another man.
‘No doubt your grandmother thought she was doing the right thing,’ he said, putting some distance between them.
Prudence huffed. ‘She did it to save the family’s reputation.’
‘But you’ve had a good life, haven’t you?’
‘Whose side are you on?’
‘I didn’t know I was supposed to choose a side.’
Shaking her head, she walked away from him. But she didn’t leave. He was grateful for that.
‘Now you’re being silly,’ he said.
She spun back, her face a picture of anger and shock.
‘Prudence, I didn’t know my parents either.’
The fury in her expression softened a little.
‘I was dumped at a home for the poor in Surrey, where I lived until I was fifteen,’ he explained easily, as though it had all happened to someone else. ‘Terrible conditions. Not Kensington or Belgrave Square, I can tell you. At fourteen, I ran away to London after having been sold to work at a piggery.’
‘And that’s how you became a thief?’
He winced. His past was his past, and he would normally not give a damn about it. But just now he didn’t like being reminded of the fact that she was a lady, and he was just a common thief. Well, not commo
n perhaps. Jack the Devil was not your average bushranger.
He moved to her, took her trembling hands in his. She tried to pull away, her face wary, but he held tight.
‘I do not deny your pain, or that learning about your mother being alive all this time is heartbreaking and a definite betrayal by your grandmother. All I’m saying is that you had a comfortable life regardless. It’s not all bad. And you have grown into a kind and beautiful woman. Your grandmother must take some credit for that.’
‘I suppose,’ she agreed reluctantly, relaxing her hands in his. ‘You really think I’m beautiful?’
She’d asked him that once before, and he had dodged the question for fear that he would give in to feelings he had no right having. But stripped of all his armour in the wake of her distress, his hand went to her cheek.
‘Devastatingly,’ he said, marvelling at the softness of her skin.
‘Will you kiss me, Jack? Please?’
Every fibre of his body screamed Yes. But he had to be sensible.
‘You are promised to another man. It’s not right.’
‘Since when do you do what is right?’
She had a point there. He lifted his hand to her other cheek and held her face between his palms. The crackle of tension between them intensified.
He searched her eyes. There was no fear, no hint that she would fight him off if he tried to kiss her. He dipped his head and pressed a chaste kiss to her mouth before leaning back, just the tiniest distance, to gauge her reaction.
Her eyes were glassy, affected. And the emotions swirling in them gave him all the encouragement he needed. But still he held himself in check.
The kiss he gave her at the ball had been forceful and reckless, fierce and passionate. This time he wanted to savour her lips, savour every moment as though it was his last. He kept his kisses light. He tasted, teased and he promised himself that after this kiss, he would convince her to go back to Carrington Manor.
***
She didn’t pull away. Didn’t want to. Out here in the bush, there was no one to see them, to judge her. His mouth was pure magic against hers. His lips feathered lightly across hers. Soft, but powerful. Her body leaned into his like a magnet drawn by powers unexplainable. She wanted him to touch her, but his hands stayed resolutely on her cheeks. It was obvious he was trying to be gentle with her, but she didn’t want gentle. His kisses had opened up a new world to her and she wanted the mind-blowing, thought-exploding passion he had displayed at the ball.
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