https://www.patriciarice.com
Also by Patricia Rice
The World of Magic:
The Unexpected Magic Series
Magic in the Stars
Whisper of Magic
Theory of Magic
Aura of Magic
Chemistry of Magic
No Perfect Magic
The Magical Malcolms Series
Merely Magic
Must Be Magic
The Trouble With Magic
This Magic Moment
Much Ado About Magic
Magic Man
The California Malcolms Series
The Lure of Song and Magic
Trouble with Air and Magic
The Risk of Love and Magic
Historical Romance:
Dark Lords and Dangerous Ladies
Love Forever After
Silver Enchantress
Devil’s Lady
Dash of Enchantment
Indigo Moon
American Dream Series
Moon Dreams
Rebel Dreams
The Rebellious Sons
Wicked Wyckerly
Devilish Montague
Notorious Atherton
Formidable Lord Quentin
The Regency Nobles Series
The Genuine Article
The Marquess
English Heiress
Irish Duchess
Regency Love and Laughter Series
Crossed in Love
Mad Maria’s Daughter
Artful Deceptions
All a Woman Wants
Rogues & Desperadoes Series
Lord Rogue
Moonlight and Memories
Shelter from the Storm
Wayward Angel
Denim and Lace
Cheyennes Lady
Mystic Isle Series
Mystic Isle
Mystic Guardian
Mystic Rider
Mystic Warrior
Mysteries:
Family Genius Series
Evil Genius
Undercover Genius
Cyber Genius
Twin Genius
Twisted Genius
Devil’s Lady
Dark Lords and Dangerous Ladies
Copyright © 1992, 2012 Patricia Rice
First Publication: New American Library, New York 1992
Book View Cafe, 2012
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Devil’s Lady
Excerpt - Devil’s Lady
Faith refused to cry. The tears would freeze, in any case. She would make it to London somehow. Surely, in all that great city, there would be room for one small girl willing to work her fingers to the bone for a right to live. Perhaps, when she was strong again and could buy good clothes, she might inquire about the families she had never known. Perhaps. They had turned their backs on her parents, so there seemed little hope that they would acknowledge her, but she so desperately wanted a family again....
The tears were gathering beneath her lids, and Faith forced them away with images of the rabbits in their burrows. Mayhap London was just the other side of the woods.
The rattle and creak of the mail coach racing dangerously over the frozen, rutted road jarred Faith back to wakefulness sometime later. It must be earlier than she thought for the coach to still be abroad, but the darkness of the storm had the same effect as nightfall.
She curled tighter in her cloak and wished she could be squeezed on the wooden bench between all those warm bodies packed into the lumbering vehicle on its way to London. Undoubtedly there was an inn down the road where they would stop for the night. The innkeeper would bring them big mugs of hot toddy and steaming bowls of soup and seat them before a roaring fire. She could almost feel the heat of the flames, and her eyes closed drowsily at the warmth creeping through her veins. Tomorrow, perhaps, she would reach that inn and apply for a position....
The sound of gunshots and screams, neighing horses, and violent curses jerked her awake once more. Fearing the nightmare had returned, Faith forced her groggy senses to search the darkness.
“Stand and deliver!” roared through the wind’s wail. Highwaymen!
Voices carried on the wind: the whining complaint of women, the angry and helpless protests of men, and the resonant commands of the thief. She had known these woods concealed the dregs of society, but she had thought herself safe enough, since she had nothing they could want. It had never occurred to her that she might act as witness to their illegal acts.
Faith gulped as another shot rang out and a woman screamed. If only there were something she could do, but she knew there was not. Her fingers wrapped in the wool of her cloak as she tried to shut out the sounds. They could not be too far away. There could be thieves all along this wall, just waiting for some movement to betray her presence.
She had no gun, no strength, no means but prayer of fighting their depredations. She prayed fervently, if not coherently. Please, God, do not let those poor people be harmed, deliver them from their enemies, let me live another day.
The sound of racing hoof beats came closer, and Faith stared wildly at the wall, praying its shelter would conceal her from the horrors of the road. The wind rattled the barren branches of the trees, and the icy sleet began again, pelting her with tiny shards that pierced like knives where they hit her face.
The coach rumbled off, and she began to breathe once more. Only then did the hoof beats seem to pound just beside her head, and a huge beast flew over the wall mere inches from where she lay.
She curled inside her cloak like a frightened hedgehog. She couldn’t shut out the sight of the black cape billowing like a thundercloud behind the alarming giant beast, half-man, half-horse, as it flew over her head.
The hoof beats thundered into the distance, but she still feared to breathe.
The horse had to be huge, bigger than anything she had ever seen in her life. If it had breathed fire, Faith wouldn’t have been surprised. And it had been blacker than the night sky, so black the man on its back had blended in until they had seemed one heaving, flying projectile of muscle and blood. She would remember the sight of them lunging over that wall until the day she died.
And that day could be today, should the highwayman discover she had seen him. Huddled in her cloak, Faith tried to discern the sound of hoof beats on the forest floor, but she heard nothing. She would have to leave this haven from the wind and hurry on as soon as she knew it was safe to scamper from hiding. The idea of walking a dark road infested with thieves and murderers held no peril compared to the possibility of the highwayman discovering her presence. Better the evils of her imagination than the very real terror of that beast bearing down on her again.
When she finally raised the courage to lift her head from her hiding place, she looked blindly through the icy sheets of rain, and at the sight revealed, screamed until insensibility overcame her.
The huge beast loomed overhead like an avenging god. The icy, masked visage glowered with eyes of fire. His curse was deadly as he reached for the miscreant who dared witness his nighttime depredations.
Jack lifted the lifeless body from the ditch, shocked by the slightness of her weight. She scarce weighed more than a sack of flour. The sleet had turned to snow and she would freeze to death before morning. He shouldn’t have terrified her into fainting. He could have sent her on her way then.
His little sister must have been this size when she died. He hadn’t been there to protect her. No one had been.
Conscience warred with logic. Conscience seldom won, but he was weary this night, and cold, and the memory of his family broke loose shreds of heart he hadn’t known in years.
Jack hoisted her into the saddle and gave the stallion the signal to move on. He couldn’t linger longer to argue with himself or he’d have the sheriff to argue with too.
The child moaned, and he felt the rumbling in her belly. The road to London crawled with beggars but he seldom encountered little g
irls. It did not relieve his hatred to know the British system was as unkind to its own as it had been to his.
When he reached the cottage, he dismounted with the child under one arm. He felt her stiffen into wakefulness, but apparently one glance at his fearful visage was sufficient to send her into the vapors again. Patting the stallion, he carried the child’s limp form into the darkness of the hut and deposited her on the bed. His horse came first.
When he returned and lit the lantern, Jack discovered his unwelcome guest had curled into a ball in the center of his bed and fallen sound asleep. He was hungry, cold, and impatient for his supper, but he raised the lantern just for a moment to examine his hostage from this night’s evil deeds.
He was no judge of age, but her pale face was very young. The hood of her cloak had fallen back to reveal a tumble of tangled brown hair that offered a hint of red. The high, almost aristocratic cheekbones reminded him painfully of his sister, and the knotting in his stomach was not entirely from hunger.
Jack turned away. Memories did not sit easy on an empty stomach. He resisted the urge to reach for the bottle of rum on the shelf. He knew the dangers of drink.
The child had not stirred by the time the fire had warmed the room and his supper boiled in the pot. He wondered if she were dead and wandered back to check the pulse at her throat. Her skin was icy to the touch, but he could feel the thread of life still beating beneath his fingers.
He wasn’t a man who cared about anything anymore. The child could die and he would dig a grave and bury her out back and not think about her again. But as long as she was alive, he supposed he ought to do something to keep her that way.
The fire cast flickering shadows over the wattle plaster of the walls and the rough-hewn beams as he sought a spare blanket and prepared a pallet by the hearth. A single table, chair, and bed made up almost the entirety of the room’s furniture. The wide plank floor had room enough to spare for one small pallet. Removing the child’s muddy cloak, Morgan covered her with an old one of his own.
He studied her tiny form beneath the enveloping material and wondered what in hell else he was expected to do to keep her alive. He had never taken care of another soul besides himself, unless he counted his horses.
Adjusting the pallet a little farther from the stone hearth and the fire’s menace, he scowled and went to check on his horses. He had been a damned fool idiot to bring her here, but as the snow hit his face, he knew he could have done nothing else.
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