Jayne Fresina

by Once a Rogue

  The memory flashed through her, startling, inconvenient and unpreventable as a chain of hiccups: the heat of her mystery man’s skin, the perspiration on his back, the ale on his lips, the stiff bristles of his cheek against hers and the hard lines of his chest under her hands.

  As he scratched his head, she noted the soft hairs on his arms, remembering too, how they’d felt against her naked body.

  So he was once a rogue, but now reformed. Or he liked to pretend. She knew otherwise, of course. Interesting. Not that it should, or could, matter to her. He’d already gotten her into enough trouble, hadn’t he?

  Her heartbeat was uneven, too hard one moment, too faint the next.

  If Captain Downing was this man’s cousin, why had he sheltered her for two months without letting her know the truth? Perhaps he hadn’t realized his cousin was the man she sought at Mistress Comfort’s, or else there was something about John Carver the captain wanted to save her from knowing.

  He was married too. That must be it. He was married with a half dozen noisy children and a put-upon wife.

  Finally dismounted, he walked around the cart, checking over the other contents.

  “Captain Downing promised you’d take me,” she exclaimed. When he didn’t look up from the list, she added, “Of course, if your conscience will allow you to leave me here alone, in the rain, a friendless woman with no food, no shelter and no coin, well…so be it.” She turned away, chin high, blinking against the rain as it fell harder now, fat drops splashing in the puddles around the cart. “I daresay any villainy might be committed against me. But pray, don’t feel guilty because you left me here. Alone.”

  “I don’t need a wench,” he muttered, still reading down the list, “not for Friday or any other day.”

  “But Captain Downing promised–”

  “I’m certain he did. My cousin’s notorious for promises he can’t keep.” He petted the goats until, after complaining steadily all morning, they fell quiet, soothed..

  Lucy remembered that too, the skill in his hands. Realizing he might catch her staring somewhat wistfully, she snapped, “So you mean to leave me here, abandoned?”

  “I very much doubt you’ll be abandoned. You’ll soon find some other man.”

  “But you must take me. I insist!”

  He exhaled a quick snort, eyes wide. “Insist all you want. I can’t take you. I’ve nowhere to put you. Everything on my farm serves a purpose.” Folding the list, he tucked it away inside his jerkin. “I don’t keep anything purely decorative.”

  Gesturing at her to climb out of the cart, he stood back, clearly expecting no further argument. Frustrated, needing a moment to compose herself, she covered her face with her hands, but he must have thought her reduced to tears, for he stopped tapping his foot impatiently and a series of gusty, exasperated sighs followed in quick succession. Peeking slyly through her fingers, she found him frowning and troubled, scratching his head.

  “Have you nowhere else to take shelter?” he asked with a softened cadence. Once again he glanced at her crimson gown. His eyes were just a little too bright to be disinterested, no matter what came out of his mouth.

  She lowered her hands. “I will be forced,” she said slowly, “to beg in the street if you leave me here. But don’t fret.” With one shrug of her shoulders, she looked away over his head. “I’m sure my safety is of no consequence to you.”

  “You don’t look destitute to me, madam, or friendless.” He leaned his forearms on the cart, his restless perusal licking over her person and then her face. Again she worried he might recognize her. Surely one little leather mask wouldn’t make such a difference. However, his expression showed no sign of recognition.

  Typical man. He’d probably forgotten everything about their night together already.

  “I’m a very poor fellow, you know. I could never keep a mistress in such frills and finery. You’d not be content with me for long.”

  “But I…”

  “Until my cousin returns, you should stay here in Yarmouth. Find another gent with deep pockets and vanity to be preyed upon.” This last was said with a slight harshness, his speech concluded in a sharper tone than it was begun, and he stepped aside again, waiting for her to climb out.

  She remained seated, lips set firm, raindrops flicking from her eyelashes as she shook her head, determined. He took one step closer and she quickly grabbed hold of her wooden seat, gloved hands clinging tight.

  When he saw she wouldn’t be moved, he flexed his shoulders, complained softly, and then fetched his horse around to the front of the cart. Clearly he wouldn’t put himself out to quarrel with her further, or waste his energy trying to eject her bodily from his cousin’s pile of belongings. Instead, he calmly fastened his beast to the cart. She stayed quiet, but followed his movements warily with her gaze.

  Leaping up beside her, gathering the reins in his callused hands, he warned, “Last chance to change your mind, Friday wench. If you come with me, I’ll expect you to work for your keep.” He shot her fine gown another questioning look from the corner of his eye. “Like I said, I’ve no place in my life for a purely decorative woman, even one on loan.”

  She protested. “I can be many things, as well as ornamental.”

  Snatching her hand, he tore off her glove and examined her palm. “As I thought.” He sneered. “Soft hands.”

  “They may be soft, but they’re quite capable, I assure you!”

  “Soft as a babe’s backside!” Even as he mocked her, he took up the reins again, urging the horse forward. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Friday wench.” The cart wheels rolled over the bumpy yard and splashed through puddles, gaining speed.

  Whatever perversity had made him decide to keep her that day, she was grateful for it.

  * * * *

  John Carver glanced sideways at the silent woman. She seemed far away in her thoughts. A daydreamer. Just what he didn’t need. In fact, everything about her was inconvenient. He was a busy man with no time to waste keeping this fancy piece of petticoat fed and watered. Just as he’d told her, she’d earn her keep if she meant to stay with him.

  Evidently this was one of his cousin’s little jests. Nathaniel would think it all most amusing. Another trial for John’s recent attempt at a celibate, reformed life. ‘Attempt’ being the operative word.

  Again he considered the shapely woman at his side. Her lips were full and pursed. She was thoughtful or disgruntled, he wasn’t sure which. Her eyes were a disturbingly bright shade of green, like a summer meadow. He counted five freckles across her nose. At least she didn’t wear a ghostly white concoction on her face to hide them, the way some fine ladies did. He’d witnessed the oddities of fashion while visiting his exceedingly well-married sister at her husband’s estate in Dorset, and in London, where she had a home beside the Thames. But John didn’t visit her often. Surprisingly enough, he got on well with her husband, the Earl of Swafford, but John usually didn’t mingle well with the nobility. He stubbornly refused to dress up in the fancy clothes his sister wanted to put him in every time she saw him, and since she was always matchmaking, trying to get him to pay attention to one of her ladylike friends, he found it easier on his temper if he stayed in the country. Where he wore what was comfortable and no one expected him to mind his manners.

  Nathaniel’s Friday wench was very clean, her skin fresh and dewy, daisy-white and lightly tinged with blush. Too clean. If she thought she could stay like that for long in his company, she had a nasty surprise in store.

  He sniffed, stared ahead and flicked the reins. The horse picked up speed and the cart bumped over ridges in the lane, jostling her along the narrow seat, until she leaned against his arm, her leg touching his thigh. Ready to frighten her off, he stabbed a fierce scowl over his shoulder, but saw it wasn’t her fault. She clung to the seat with great concentration, trying hard to keep a discreet distance between them.

  A little hair was visible under the hood and cap she wore. It was very dark, contr
asting almost too severely with her pale skin.

  She turned her head to look at him, her lighter brows raised in a silent question. Had he met her before? No. He would’ve remembered those eyes, the strange coloring and the soft hands, the lips. And he would have remembered the little white scar under her right eye. It looked like a healed cut.

  “What?” she demanded sharply.

  “Have we ever…ever…?”

  One brow tipped higher than the other. “Have we ever…what?” Did he detect a slight sauciness in her tone?

  “Ever met?”

  She shifted a few inches to her left and wrinkled her freckled nose. “Not likely!”

  No, indeed. Just what he’d thought. As her cloak fell open, he looked at her white neck, then her bosom, which bore resemblance to a couple of well-fed, newborn piglets, nestling together, breathing excitedly. He quickly turned his head away. Not likely.

  Two years ago might have been a different story, but since his father died he’d worked hard to reform his wild ways. He certainly didn’t have time for women like this one. Not now. He didn’t have much time for any woman, in fact, unless she made herself useful on the farm. Knowing he must marry one day, at thirty he was in no particular hurry. Alice Croft would surely wait for him. She wasn’t going anywhere, was she? So he kept putting it off, this idea of settling down with one woman, of having babes, growing fat, losing his teeth and his hair, getting aches in his knee on damp days…

  In that moment, his thoughts were even less inclined to settling down and growing old with Alice Croft, because the cart bumped over another rut and Nathaniel’s Friday wench slid helplessly along the seat again, the side of her leg inadvertently pressed to his. He thought transiently of slowing the horse and giving her a chance to sit upright. Instead, betaken with a mischievous desire to watch her struggle, he drove the horse onward even faster, until she was obliged to grip his arm, just to stay in her seat.

  He thought there was a quiet murmur of protest, but since he was whistling loudly he couldn’t be sure and he didn’t bother pausing his tune to find out.

  Friday winch (on loan–handle at own risk)

  The ‘handle at risk’ part he understood, but did that mean she was on loan to Nathaniel, or on loan to him?

  * * * *

  Curling her fingers slyly in the damp linen of his shirt sleeve, Lucy pressed her nose to it, briefly, just to inhale his scent. Her heart skipped a beat. At once she slid away again, putting a safer distance between them.

  Lucy Collyer, she admonished herself briskly, you’re a very wicked, wanton woman to have used this poor man. It’s a good thing he doesn’t remember you!

  “Why don’t you slow down?” she called out anxiously, teeth rattling.

  “Can’t,” he bellowed back, quite inexplicably.

  Another bump sent her several inches into the air and it was lucky he had quick reflexes. He grabbed her arm, jerking her back onto the seat, almost into his lap. “Hold onto me,” he shouted. “You’ve no weight to you, that’s your problem.” And he clicked his tongue against his teeth, shaking his head.

  There was nothing else for it but to hold his arm. He would make no gentlemanly allowances for his passenger, it seemed. She changed her tentative grip to a bruising hold, but he made no complaint, as if he barely felt it.

  The rain stopped at last and the sun, finally recognizing it was summer, struggled to peer out through leaden clouds.

  “Is it much further?” she asked.

  “A fair distance.”

  Good. The further the better. Not having much knowledge of geography, when she first ran away she’d had the hazy idea of going to Scotland, but with Captain Downing’s kind help, she’d managed to hide away without going too far among savages. She’d written to Lance in London, only to let him know she was safe, giving no clue as to her whereabouts.

  “It is a farm then, where you live, John Carver?”

  “Aye, Lucy Friday.”

  Good. No one would look for her on a farm. “Do you live alone?

  “With my mother.”

  Slight pause. Her heart thumped heavily. She felt it even in her fingertips as they pressed into his thick arm. “No wife then?”

  “None.”

  She exhaled with relief.

  “What are you smiling at?” he demanded curtly.

  “My thoughts.”

  “And what are they?”

  She shook her head. “A lady’s thoughts are her own.”

  He disagreed, plainly, surveying her with a vexed, peevish countenance. “How long have you known my cousin?”

  “Not long.”

  “Months, years, weeks….days?”

  She sighed. “Does it matter?”

  “Suppose not.” And then he added gruffly, “But you’re too young for Nate.”

  “Too young?”

  “I’m surprised he has the will at his age, but then again he always was easily tempted and had eyes bigger than his belly, as my mother would say.”

  “And you’re not easily tempted?”

  He wouldn’t look at her. “Better not get any ideas of tempting me, Friday wench. Leaning all over me…”

  She realized how glad she was to see him again, no matter how dangerous it was. It had a dizzying effect, like leaning too far from a window, or spinning around with her eyes closed.

  “I’m only holding your arm because otherwise I’d be killed at this pace,” she pointed out. “If I had anything else to hold, I would much sooner cling to that, believe me.”

  He stared down at her again, full of suspicion, but he didn’t say anything.

  They rode in silence for the remainder of the journey and soon she was absorbed in the beauty of the countryside. The sun, fully out now, showed off with pride, drying John Carver’s sleeve and warming her face.

  Captain Downing had often talked about the place where he was raised by his aunt and uncle. He considered John Carver as much a little brother as a cousin and had spoken of him often, but his words had conjured a very different picture, far from the reality. The small, thatched farmhouse she’d expected was actually a large, somewhat cumbersome old building, coated with ivy and topped by a jumble of crooked chimneys rising up into the sky like dark, rooky elms. Surrounding the front yard there were stables and other smaller buildings, all captured within a flint and pebble wall, guarded by impressively ornate iron gates. It was no palace, but it was no humble dwelling, either, and with little beads of rain caught on the ivy, winking in the sunset, it seemed almost alive and breathing.

  “Welcome to Souls Dryft,” he said.

  Already down from the cart, he raised his hands to help her out. Too overcome with nerves, she chose to make her own way, shoving his hands aside. “I can do it. Mind my gown. Your hands are dirty.” She realized the redundancy of her caution almost immediately when she remembered her earlier escape on a dung cart, but it was too late to take it back. Out of habit, she’d brushed him aside, a woman who preferred folk to keep their distance. Sitting too close to him on that cart had already done enough damage, now at least she was in control again of her own body.

  A deep frown darkening his face, he watched her clamber awkwardly to the cobbles without his help.

  Giving her no time to look around or tidy her wind-blown dignity, he herded her onward, sweeping his arms at her as if she was a stray sow, driving her down the step and through the entrance, where ivy hung thickly, mingling with fragrant, twisty strands of honeysuckle. “Make haste, Friday wench,” he declared. “I’m hungry for my supper.” So she stepped down into the house for the first time, entering another new chapter in her life.

  “I’m home, Mother,” he yelled. “Hope you made a good supper. We’ve got a guest tonight and she needs a good feed to put some fat on her bones.” And then he laughed, as she flung a scowl over her shoulder. “Looks like hunger puts her in an ill-temper too, but I’ll soon spank that prissiness out of her with my filthy hands.”

  Chapter 8


  Snoring loudly, a huge hound stretched out across the warm hearth, but hearing John’s voice it woke, scrambled up and let out a deep, excitable bark. It galloped across the flagstone floor and John made a great fuss of the beast, rubbing its big head, kissing its nose, while it stood on a huge pair of back paws, thrusting its full weight into his chest.

  “This is Vince,” he introduced his dog proudly. “Short for Invincible. And this, Vince, is Lucy Friday, apparently a stray wench no one else wants and so falls to our care. Much as you did, fool beast.” He grinned wryly. “Though she’s more particular and remarkably proud for a mutt.”

  The dog turned its attention to her, sniffing the dung on her skirt and whimpering in excitement. Lucy inched away, sliding around the long trestle table, almost backing directly into an old woman who stood there, watching.

  “What’s all this then, John? What have you brought home this time?” The woman’s eyes were very dark, but keen and sharp as a blade, cutting her up one side and down the other. Despite her evident age, those eyes were surprisingly youthful, holding the same spark of wit Lucy detected in John Carver. More than simple good humor, it was a lusty, mischievous curiosity in the unusual.

  “This, Mother, is the Friday winch, of Nate’s listed possessions,” John explained. “He meant to write ‘wench.’”

  There was barely a glimmer of surprise to change her expression. “Friday wench indeed. He’s never so organized with anything as he is the women in his life!”

  “She claims to have nowhere else to go,” said her son, still petting his dog, “I couldn’t very well leave her there could I? If he ever returns to find her lost, he’d never forgive me. No, he left her to my care, so I suppose we must take her in and feed the wretch.”

  “I’ll not be a burden,” Lucy blurted. Hungry and overly tired, her manners were drawn very thin and brittle. “I shan’t stay long…”

  Abruptly his mother took hold of her chin, examined her face and, after a moment, duly proclaimed her a “well-favored” young woman with good color and very fine features. “Where did he find you, then?”