The Rebel

by C. J. Archer

  "Oh, Cole, it's beautiful and much too precious to give to a baby to play with."

  Too precious for a baby? Cole frowned. "If you don't like it, I can get you another one."

  "No!" She cradled it against her chest. There were tears in her eyes. "I didn't say I don't like it, just that a baby might lose it, and it's much too valuable to be lost somewhere out here. I mean, look at the fine carving on the handle. And how did those tiny balls get inside? It must have cost you a considerable sum."

  "Cole doesn't give a whit for the cost of things," Orlando said, sounding pleased to be imparting some knowledge about Cole. "He gives away money as if it were as freely available as water." He cocked an eyebrow at Cole, challenging.

  "Hughe pays me too much," Cole said. "I have no need of it all."

  "Thank you," Susanna said. "You may not value the rattle, but I do."

  Cole hadn't said he didn't value it. He did, just not in a monetary sense. He'd spent three weeks making it after not finding anything in the London shops that he'd liked. Most had floral patterns on their handles, which was much too feminine if the babe were a boy. More important, all the rattles he'd seen had balls or bells dangling on tiny chains or leather strips that seemed too easy for little fingers to remove and little mouths to swallow. His design was sturdier too, not easily broken, and would last several generations. He rather liked the idea of his gift becoming a family heirloom.

  It wasn't necessary to tell Susanna and Orlando any of that, of course. Let them think he'd bought it. It made no difference to him.

  "It's very sweet of you to deliver it in person," Susanna said.

  Orlando squatted at his wife's feet. She handed the rattle to him. "You were sent here by Hughe, weren't you? Or not here, precisely, but nearby."

  Cole said nothing. He wasn't allowed to discuss his work, even with a former Guild member, and he certainly didn't want to discuss it in front of a woman. He was surprised Orlando didn't consider his wife's feelings, although Cole knew she was aware of what her husband used to do for a living, and what Cole still did. Orlando had made that clear when they'd all been together back in November.

  It was the last time Cole had seen them. Hughe had returned once to check on their former colleague and to attend the wedding. Cole had not. Orlando was no longer a part of their crew. He'd chosen a new life away from his friends, and Cole wasn't one for dwelling on the past. Better to cut ties, move on, and not drag that anchor around.

  Nevertheless, it seemed a pity to be so near and not come to visit. Besides, he had a rattle to deliver.

  As if she sensed Cole's discomfort, Susanna rose and walked as elegantly as a lady in her condition could down to the last of the saplings—out of earshot, if Cole and Orlando spoke quietly enough.

  "Why didn't you tell her you made this?" Orlando asked.

  "What makes you think I did?"

  "You use this leaf pattern on a lot of your work."

  Cole shrugged. "You can tell her, after I'm gone."

  "She'll be annoyed that I didn't mention it while you were here. She'll want to thank you."

  "She already has."

  Orlando turned the rattle over and appeared to be inspecting the bird perched on the top of the branch carved into the handle, but then he said, "You killed someone, didn't you?" He set the rattle on the chair his wife had vacated and stood.

  There was no point hiding the fact. Orlando wasn't a fool, and he would find out sooner rather than later. "In Larkham."

  Orlando swore. Larkham was very close to Sutton Grange, after all. It was likely he'd seen the man on market days. "What for?"

  "He said he didn't like the look of me."

  Orlando grunted a laugh. "I don't like the look of you, but you've never killed me."

  "Never say never."

  "It was Hughe's orders, wasn't it? What was the man's crime?"

  "I can't tell you that."

  Orlando sighed. "Have it your way. At least you were discreet? No one saw you?"

  Cole watched a yellow butterfly dancing in the air near one of the orange trees, flitting around as if it couldn't decide which lush green leaf to settle upon. It was peaceful in the garden, cut off from the world by the high brick wall. He could see why Susanna liked it so much.

  Orlando swore under his breath when Cole didn't answer. "You'd better tell me what happened. And don't insult me by speaking untruths." When Cole hesitated again, he added, "I can deflect questions away from you if someone happens to mention a stranger passing through."

  The persistent wench in the meadow came to mind. At first Cole had been bothered by the fact he couldn't remove his hat in her presence. Long-entrenched manners were hard to break, and many years of living the rough life of an assassin had not destroyed the habits drilled into him as a boy, but by the end of their blessedly brief conversation, he was glad he'd kept his hat on, if only because she'd been so determined that he should remove it.

  And because she could indeed identify him if he had.

  "I didn't mean to kill him." The words slipped out of their own accord and took Cole by surprise. He hadn't meant to tell Orlando anything. He had no right to know. "Not then and there."

  "How can you not mean to kill someone?"

  "His throat got in the way of my knife. I was aiming for his shoulder, but he lunged."

  "Is that a joke?"

  "Have you ever known me to jest about death?"

  "I've never known you to jest about anything. Your sense of humor is as black as your hair."

  And my soul.

  "So now everyone in Larkham knows you're an assassin," Orlando said.

  "No. Everyone knows I'm a killer."

  "You realize the village is only ten miles from here." It wasn't a question, so Cole didn't bother answering. "Someone from Sutton Grange may have been there yesterday and seen you do it."

  "Then I'd better not show my face around here for long."

  "You'd better not show your face around here at all." He sighed heavily. "I'm sorry, Cole, but I don't want trouble brought into Susanna's life. Not now when everything is going so well."

  Cole conceded the point with a nod. He picked up his pack. "I was just passing through."

  Orlando bowed his head, heaved a sigh. "Wait. I didn't mean for you to leave right this moment. Come inside, eat. Cook will pack you some provisions for your journey and you can be off before nightfall."

  "I'll accept the provisions with gratitude, but I'll leave immediately." Orlando was right. Cole didn't belong in the peaceful little valley with its dancing butterflies and promise of new life.

  He didn't belong anywhere.

  "Did anyone see you come here?" Orlando asked as he watched his wife inspect a leaf on one of her young trees. His eyes were half closed, the smile never far away from his lips as he followed her every languid move.

  Cole's stomach clenched into a tight ball. The domestic scene was so tranquil, so pure, it hurt to witness it. He looked away. Three people in a walled garden was one too many. "I met a woman in a meadow just over the way," he said. "She asked—ordered—me to remove my hat."

  Orlando turned his attention away from Susanna and focused on his former colleague. A frown scored his forehead. "And did you?"

  "No."

  "Why weren't you in disguise?"

  "I was. In Larkham. I changed out of it when I left."

  "You didn't hear her coming? You're slipping, Cole."

  "I heard her. We avoided each other until she fell into a hole. I wish I'd kept walking. She was a very meddlesome woman, and foolish."

  "In the meadow you say. Was she pretty with pale red gold hair and freckles?"

  Cole hadn't seen her face properly, not with his hat pulled so low, but he'd seen enough of her figure to know her bodice fit snugly over her chest. Very snugly. "Who do you think it was?"

  "Lucy Cowdrey. She left here not long before you arrived." He chuckled. "I disagree with your description of her. She isn't foolish or meddlesome. Lucy is a
good woman, gentle natured, always helping others. She takes food to the poor and visits the sick with no concern for her own health."

  "Sounds foolish to me."

  "Foolish, no, naïve, yes, and a little too eager to make amends for her cousins' actions."

  "Cowdrey. She's related to that brother and sister who tried to kill you last autumn?"

  "Distantly. She and her brother have taken over the farm. I assure you, they are nothing like their cousins, although she left her previous home under something of a cloud."

  He didn't elaborate, and Cole didn't press him. If anyone understood another's need to keep a secret, it was him. Besides, he cared nothing for the Cowdrey woman's problems.

  "Susanna adores Lucy," Orlando went on. "She's been an excellent companion for her in this latter part of the pregnancy. My wife would have gone mad with boredom if it weren't for Lucy, and Heaven help us all when Susanna is bored."

  It couldn’t have been the same woman Cole encountered. That shrew had a sharp tongue and a blunt mind. "Is she likely to mention she saw a stranger passing this way if someone asks?"

  "She may." Orlando's mouth twisted in thought then he nodded. "Indeed, I think it likely. Lucy would consider it her duty. The fact you refused to remove your hat will make her remember you all the more."

  "Ill-mannered people bother her that much?" Cole was glad he wasn't staying to meet her again. She sounded exactly like the sort of woman he avoided. Not that well-bred gentlewomen with soft hearts and high morals were throwing themselves at him. They seemed equally happy to avoid him as he them.

  "Have you been into Sutton Grange?" Orlando asked. "Can anyone there identify you?"

  "No, and I've met no one else."

  Orlando picked up the rattle. The balls tumbled inside the larger one, and Susanna looked around at the sound. She smiled and approached, slowly, brushing her fingertips over the leaves of each tree as she passed. "Good," Orlando said, watching her.

  "Worried about me?" Cole asked.

  "A little."

  "I can take care of myself."

  "In that case, I'll have you know I'm more concerned for the virtue of the ladies of Sutton Grange than your neck. You have a habit of leaving broken hearts in your wake, and we have friends in the village. I wouldn't like to hear how you'd kept their beds warm only to disappear before dawn without saying goodbye."

  "Goodbyes aren't always necessary. And I don't break hearts."

  Orlando rolled his eyes. "Yes you do."

  "You're mistaken. Heart breaking is your area of expertise. The women of England and half the Continent went into mourning when they heard you'd wed."

  Orlando slapped him on the back, hard, then took his wife's arm as she joined them. He kissed her forehead and rested a hand on her round belly. If she'd heard Cole's comment, or knew about her husband's previous reputation, she made no sign of it.

  "Come," Orlando said to Cole, "let's go stock that pack of yours so you can be on your way."

  ***

  The afternoon sunshine was as potent as the strongest wine. Cole felt drowsy after walking most of the night. The fast pace had been relentless, but at least he'd gotten far enough from Larkham by dawn that he would be ahead of a vigilante pack, if one were after him. It was possible that the villagers didn't particularly mind having their local rapist murdered by a stranger who'd managed to slip out of the tavern in the ensuing commotion and disappear into the night before they could raise a hue and cry. Renny, the target, had made two young women from the village his victims, but they and their families had been too frightened of the influential alderman to confront him publicly, hence the letter to the Guild of Assassins.

  The man would not be missed, except perhaps by the family he'd left behind, who presumably had no notion of the crimes their husband and father had committed. It was why Cole had deposited a leather pouch full of coin on their doorstep before he went to the White Hart to watch Renny. They may not have been poor if their grand house was any indication, but without Renny to provide for them, their situation would quickly deteriorate.

  Cole had wanted to stop only long enough to rearrange his pack when he left Orlando's house, but the lure of the sunshine was too much. He lay down on a soft bank of grass in the shade of a hedgerow, yawned, and closed his eyes.

  He woke up to the sound of a woman humming. Through the gaps in the hedgerow foliage, he could see her bending over in the meadow beyond, collecting wildflowers. The basket over her arm was filled with cress and primroses. She would see him if he stood up, so he rolled onto his side, propped his head on his hand and watched.

  Bending over like that, it was difficult to tell how tall she was, but her voice was light and warm like a summer's breeze. It suited the day. It was as if this woman was exactly where she should be—collecting flowers in the sunshine.

  Cole ought not to watch. It was wrong. It made the innocent activity sordid. He wanted to leave, but that would draw attention to himself. He was about to lie back down and close his eyes, block out that voice, when she straightened. God's blood! Even with her back to him, he knew it was the woman he'd encountered earlier. She wore the same tight gray bodice, had the same trim figure.

  Lucy Cowdrey, according to Orlando. It must be her. Tendrils of pale red-gold hair had worked free of the pins and her hat and fell in delicate wisps past her shoulders. The ends curled and bounced as she moved. He wondered how long her hair would be if those curls were teased out. Probably down to that slender waist.

  He remembered the way her breasts had filled out her bodice and wished circumstances were different and he'd met her in the village at another time when he wasn't in haste. If she wasn't a virgin, he'd happily take her for a tumble in those wildflowers. If she could keep her mouth shut, that is, and keep her questions to herself. Would she let him leave his hat on?

  He snorted softly. His fantasy would have to go unfulfilled because Lucy Cowdrey was most likely a maiden in every sense. Her sort always was. If she had any secrets, they would be buried as deeply as her sense of fun and adventure.

  In which case, she would be very much like Cole.

  The irony amused him, but he didn't smile. He just watched and wondered what her face looked like. Orlando said she had freckles. With hair that color, it wasn't surprising. But freckles on just her nose, or did they cover her entire face? What about her shoulders?

  The image of her smock slipping off one shoulder, revealing a smattering of freckles across pale skin, came unbidden into his mind. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't dislodge it.

  Damned woman. He was going to have to walk away with that itch unscratched.

  He closed his eyes and listened to her humming until it faded into the distance.

  He must have fallen asleep again because he didn't hear the footsteps until they were surprisingly near. He felt for the blade strapped to his forearm, more out of habit than concern. Judging from the lightness of the steps, it was a woman for certain. Lucy Cowdrey. She wasn't a danger, merely annoying. He opened his eyes and sat up, twisting to reach for his hat to hide his face.

  The blow hit him hard. Pain exploded through his skull. Everything blurred, but not before he got a glimpse of his attacker's boots. Sturdy boots. Men's boots.

  Cole swung his fist, but his movements were sluggish, and he connected with nothing but air. Only one punch hit something solid. It felt like a stick and was probably the weapon that had been used to crack his head open. Warm, sticky blood seeped from the wound, into his hair, onto the grass.

  He couldn't keep his eyes open. Couldn't stop the blackness as it rolled in like an Arabian dust storm and swallowed him whole. He was going to die behind a Hampshire hedgerow with only his killer as witness. No mourners nearby. No family.

  Odd that he should think of them now when he hadn't thought about them in so long. Would Hughe bother to tell his father of his youngest son's death?

  The last thing Cole knew was more white-hot pain, this time in his ribs and stoma
ch. He couldn't even fold up to protect himself from the kicks.

  Then he didn't even feel those.

  CHAPTER 3

  Lucy had been gone longer than she'd intended, but the day was so beautiful and the flowers so pretty down by the stream. After briefly dipping her stockinged toes into the cool water then drying them in the sun, she'd finally set off home. The warmth made her drowsy, her mind slow, which explained why she failed to see the man until he sat up.

  She gasped and dropped her basket, scattering flowers and cress over the grassy mound. Embarrassed at her skittish reaction, she bent to collect them, keeping one eye on the man. He looked at her. He wasn't someone she recognized. She should ask him what he was doing on her brother's land. Or perhaps she should just walk off in the other direction and hope he didn't bother her. One encounter with a stranger per day was quite enough. Her fingers tightened around the handle of her basket as she watched him surreptitiously. He didn't seem in any state to harm her. His gaze was unfocused, blank, and… he was bleeding!

  She approached, albeit carefully. "Are you all right?"

  Dried blood covered the side of his face and the grass next to him. He continued to stare at her with that unsettling blankness. A small furrow creased his brow. "I'm sorry. I don't think I know you." He spoke with the round, crisp accent of the upper classes, which she hadn't expected based on his simple country clothing.

  "We've never met." She knelt beside him and inspected his wound. It had stopped bleeding, but the gash above his ear was long and deep. It must be painful. "What happened to you?"

  He shrugged, then winced as if that small movement hurt. He undid the top buttons of his jerkin and edged the collar of his shirt aside. A dark bruise shadowed his shoulder.

  Lucy gasped again, but not because of the bruise. She'd spotted a hat half hidden in the hedgerow. It had a distinctive black feather tucked into the band. It was the same hat worn by the stranger she'd met after leaving Stoneleigh. On closer inspection, he also wore the same jerkin, and had a chest and shoulders equal in size to the man she'd met. His mouth, however, confirmed her suspicion. It was curved like a bow, the lower lip full.