by Trisha Telep
An angry babble broke out from the assembled travellers. Francis shot a nervous glance around her. At any moment now, Jared might wake up. What was she going to do?
She confronted the coachman. “You can’t just leave us stranded here!”
He looked down his nose at her. “You’ll have to hire a convenience yourself, or spend another night at the inn. The coach isn’t going anywhere today.”
Francis wrung her hands. “What can I do?”
The curate looked as if he had tasted something sour. “There won’t be anything in this forsaken spot. I suppose we’ll have to walk into Wells proper and see if we can hire a gig or cart or whatever they have on hand.” He pulled out his watch fob and shook his head. “The rector was expecting me yesterday. He’ll be right put out if I don’t show my face this morning.”
Francis thought the rector’s feelings were nothing to how put out Jared would be when he woke to discover the Panchamaabhuta was gone. The other gentlemen talked over their plans. A few of the travellers elected to stay another night at the Horse and Hounds. But the curate, Mr Pickering, and the farmer, who introduced himself simply as Samuel, decided to walk to Wells in search of a convenience. Francis ran after them, fairly twitching with anxiety. Her fear of what Jared would do if he caught her gave her a burst of strength she hadn’t known she had. She ploughed down the winding country path, striding through the long grasses until she was in the lead of the two other gentlemen.
But by the time they reached Wells, her legs felt like rubber. Panting, she collapsed on to a bench at the Stag Hostelry and ordered a cup of coffee while the two men went to look for a carriage.
Mr Pickering appeared in the doorway just after she had gulped down her hot brew.
“Did you find anything?”
He gave her a disgusted look. “Nothing for a lady to ride in, I’m afraid. The smithy offered a gig that looked to be on its last legs, and in the end we settled for a wagon.” Francis went to the doorway, and he waved his hand at a sturdy-looking four-wheeled vehicle. There was no top to the wagon, and only two seats in front.
“You’d better wait for the stagecoach,” Samuel said, lifting up his baskets of apples and heaving them into the back of the cart.
Francis swallowed and shot an apprehensive glance down the road she had come. “I must get to Bath without delay. If you don’t mind taking me with you, I will ride in the back.”
“Nonsense,” Samuel said. “It’s a mucky farm wagon.”
Francis peered inside. “I see nothing but straw at the bottom,” she said.
Samuel shook his head and made for the back of the carriage, but Francis took his arm. “Please,” she said rather breathlessly. “I hardly have any money, and I have to get out of town right away. I don’t mind.” Ignoring Mr Pickering’s outraged hiss, Francis clambered up the wooden side of the wagon. The skirt of her dress snagged on the iron fastenings of the carriage and the gentlemen averted their eyes as she tugged it free. Years of travel in all kinds of conditions had inured Francis to superficial proprieties. She squatted down Indian style next to the basket of apples. “I’ll keep an eye on your fruit baskets. Likely, if the road is as rough as it was back there, the apples might fall out and get bruised.”
The farmer gave her a shrewd look. “Help yourself to a few, if you like. Happen you didn’t have time for breakfast this morning.”
Mr Pickering pinched his lips together, but apparently he was too much the gentleman to voice his thoughts about Francis’ hoydenish behaviour. He climbed into the wagon next to Samuel, who took up the reigns and whipped the phlegmatic horses forwards.
Francis seized one of the rosy apples from the basket and sank her teeth into it. The sweet juice exploded against her tongue. It had now been three days since she had had a solid meal, and her stomach was burning with acid from the cup of coffee she had drunk. She ate every bit of the apple, including the core. Then she leaned her swimming head against the baskets. The gruelling run to Wells, on top of her exertions of the past two days, had left her in a stupor. She closed her eyes, trying to ease the stabbing pain in her head, and then she knew nothing more.
“Miss?” Francis awoke to the sound of an anxious voice. “Miss, can you hear me?” She cracked her eyes open to find a man in livery standing over her. She blinked at him, aware of the sounds of hooves and men’s voices. She was lying sprawled in the straw at the bottom of the wagon. She struggled upright, but there was no sign of Samuel or Mr Pickering. The wagon was standing in the stable yard of what looked to be a large inn.
“Where am I?” she asked the liveried man who seemed to be a groom.
“In Bath. Your friends tried to wake you. Eh, you did give them a fright. One of them went to see a rector or somelike, but the other went for a doctor.”
“Doctor?” Francis repeated, dazed.
“Samuel asked me to keep watch. Pale as a ghost, you were. I thought for a minute you weren’t going to wake up. But that blond fellow who felt your pulse said you was all right.”
“Blond fellow?” Francis struggled upright, and winced. There was a cramp in her leg, and her head was throbbing. She ran her hand across her eyes, and then froze. She had missed the cold pressure of the Panchamaabhuta. “My ring!” Francis looked wildly down at her hand. “The ruby! It’s gone.”
“Well, I’ll be jiggered.” The groom let out a low whistle. “That gent who felt your pulse must have been cutting a sham.”
“He was blond, you said?” Francis whipped around to face the groom. “Was he very tanned?”
“That’s right. Looked like a traveller from foreign parts. Dressed like a nob, with buckskins and all.”
Francis drew her breath in a hiss. “Where did he go?”
The groom gestured at the inn. “He went in there. Said he was getting himself a bite.”
Francis didn’t hear the rest. She was running to the doorway of the inn, and then she burst into the dining room, her heart hammering in her chest.
Jared sat at a table by the window, sipping at a mug of ale. He was freshly shaven and he looked disgustingly handsome in a grey silk waistcoat and white linen shirt. A smug smile played over his lips as he leafed through The Times.
Francis clenched her jaw. “I’ll serve him trick or tie for this.” She charged towards his table. “So!”
At the fierce sound of her voice, Jared’s head jerked up. But if he was shocked to see her, he gave no sign. He waved at the bench across from him. “Dinner should be here any moment.”
Francis stamped her foot. “I don’t give a fig about dinner. I want the ring.”
His eyes narrowed, but he didn’t answer.
“My ring was just stolen and, by a strange coincidence, I find you here!” Francis shot an accusing glance at Jared’s right hand, and then froze. The Panchamaabhuta was not on his finger. She looked at his other hand, puzzled, but there was nothing there. Was it possible that she had been mistaken, and some other man had taken her jewel? She looked around the room, but Jared was the only tanned man present. This was not surprising, considering that it was the dead of winter in England. It must be the very reason the groom had remembered Jared so well. The thought made Francis look him up and down suspiciously.
Jared stood up from the bench and moved close to her so that their bodies were almost touching. His masculine scent, mixed with smells of exotic spices, set her pulse racing. He brushed his hip against hers, sending a crackling current between them. “I, too, lost something valuable this morning. When I woke up, I discovered she was gone.” There was a sincere note of regret in his baritone voice.
Francis bit her lip. Jared had actually missed her. And the intent look he was giving her now told her that he wanted her still. When he slipped an arm around her waist, she forgot about the ruby. His hypnotic jade eyes and the gentle touch of his hand cupping her cheek made her sway a little on her feet. She reached out to steady herself, resting her palm against his chest.
“You didn’t even leave me yo
ur name,” he murmured in her ear. The low purr of his voice and the heat from his body were stirring Francis into a state of heightened arousal. The pressure of her hand against his chest increased, and she stiffened. There was a small, hard lump beneath her palm. Francis’ breath caught, and she darted a glance at her hand. The lump beneath it felt suspiciously like a ring in the inner pocket of Jared’s silk waistcoat.
“Come, have dinner with me.”
“Very well.” Francis forced her lips into a smile. She would play his little game, matching guile with guile. Jared didn’t know yet that she had discovered his treachery. She settled herself on the bench across from him. “I won’t say no to a hot meal.”
“I took the liberty of ordering you some ham. I got the impression last night that you had a taste for it.” There was a devilish glint in Jared’s eyes.
A portly server bustled over with a plate of hot rolls. Jared thanked the ruddy gentleman and held the basket out to her. “May I tempt you with a roll, Angelica?”
“What?” Francis had already closed her hands over a warm roll, but she stopped with it halfway to her mouth, giving him a startled look.
“No, that is not exactly right. I think Theodora suits you better.” He waved the butter plate at her.
She snatched the plate from him. “My name is Francis,” she said crossly, slathering the roll with butter and practically stuffing it into her mouth. It had been almost a week since she had eaten freshly baked bread, and it was more delicious than she could have imagined. Jared chuckled, but Francis didn’t mind, lost only to the blissful sensation of the hot, buttered roll melting against her tongue.
“Mmmmm,” she moaned, dispatching it in a matter of a few bites. Some of the butter had dripped on to her hand, and she swiped at it with her tongue, forgetting her surroundings.
Jared made a strangled noise in his throat. Francis looked up to see an expression of pure lust in his eyes. So his seduction of her had not been feigned, after all. She was struck suddenly with an idea for getting the Panchamaabhuta back. Watching Jared, she slowly, deliberately, dabbed her tongue against the base of her wrist, as if there were still butter there.
Jared stiffened against the bench, and she noticed his face had flushed, the red sheen visible even beneath his tan. Francis straightened up, flexing her shoulders in a catlike gesture, and he shifted restlessly in his seat. She smiled to herself. She had found Jared’s weakness, and she would use it to her advantage.
“I’m glad to see you’re all right.” Samuel appeared at her elbow, startling her.
Francis rose to her feet, feeling embarrassed by all the trouble she had caused the kindly man. “I’m so sorry. The stable man told me you had gone in search of a doctor. I should have sent word to you right away.”
Samuel beamed. “Doesn’t look as if you’re in need of one now.”
Jared was studying Samuel from under furrowed brows. “Will you join us, Mr . . . er . . .” There was a sharp note in Jared’s voice that startled Francis. She gave him a sideways look. He had moved to stand between her and the other man. Francis could almost have sworn he was jealous.
“Samuel.” The two men stared at each other, as if they were taking each other’s measure. “Thank you, but I’d best be getting along.” Samuel tipped his hat to Francis and turned away.
“Thank you for everything. What do I owe you for the ride?” she asked.
He chuckled. “It wasn’t nothing.”
“Please, I insist.”
But the kindly farmer had already reached the door. Francis sank reluctantly back on to the bench.
“A friend of yours?” Jared sat down across from her, and this time she was sure she had not mistaken the harsh timbre of his voice.
“We met on the stagecoach,” she said.
The furrow on Jared’s brow had grown more apparent. “You shouldn’t be so trusting of strangers.” He took a swig of ale.
Francis gave him an ironic look. “How true.”
Jared choked on his drink. His dancing eyes met hers, and suddenly the two of them were shaking with laughter. Francis collapsed against the bench, wiping her streaming cheeks. The last thing she should be doing was laughing with the rogue who had stolen the Panchamaabhuta, but somehow she couldn’t help it.
His white teeth flashed in a devastating grin. “When I stayed in Calcutta, an old woman told me a story about the hazards of meeting strangers on the road.”
“Indeed?” Francis said, crossing her arms. So Jared had been living in India.
He leaned his broad shoulders back against the bench. “The story is that the beautiful Kamalakshi journeyed to Shimla, where she was to marry a wealthy merchant. But she was waylaid by a road bandit who plundered her dowry jewels.”
Francis stiffened. There was a mischievous gleam in Jared’s eyes that told her there was more to his story than a simple diversion.
“Harmendra stole the ruby comb Kamalakshi wore in her hair. It was a priceless heirloom, each of the rubies as large as a cashew fruit. Kamalakshi couldn’t bear to part with the comb, and she resolved to steal it back.” Jared pressed his knee against Francis’ beneath the table and gave her a sly look. “But Kamalakshi’s schemes led her into Harmendra’s bed.
The story reminded Francis all too much of her encounter with Jared. She realized that her palms were sweating. “What happened then?” There was a husky note in her voice.
“Three times the ornament was stolen back and forth between the lovers. Kamalakshi’s nights of passion with Harmendra led her to break her betrothal vows. She pledged herself to Harmendra instead, and gave him the ruby comb as her bridal gift.” Jared entrapped Francis’ hand. He lifted it to his lips, pressing an ardent kiss into her palm.
Francis gave a panting breath. The ruddy tinge was back in Jared’s face, and the pupils of his green eyes had darkened to the colour of coal. The morning light cast a golden glow over his chiselled face, and the sensuous movement of his lips on her fingers was reducing her to a quivering bundle of nerves. Was Jared making her an offer? The exotic syllables of the Indian names had spilled effortlessly from his tongue. India was his country, Francis was sure of it. Would Jared take her back with him as his consort, to share his life of banditry and adventure? Her heart threatened to beat out of her chest. Francis realized she would almost be willing to abandon her principles to be with him.
The server dropped a plate nearby, and the harsh clatter shattered her daydream. Francis shook her head. The truth was that Jared was nothing but a tavern thief, trading on his good looks and charm to prey on unsuspecting female travellers. Perhaps even his tales of India were a hoax, invented to cast an air of exoticism around him that women would find appealing. She pulled her hand away. “I’m afraid I’m not in a position to give the Panchamaabhuta to anyone. It was a gift from my husband.”
Jared sat up. His face was suffused with crimson. “You’re married?”
His outraged expression surprised the truth from Francis. “I was. Robert died at Waterloo, along with most of his friends.”
Jared sank bank on to his seat. “He was a military man?” His face was still red, his voice not entirely steady.
Francis found it impossible to meet Jared’s eyes. She might have shared his bed, but talking about Robert made her feel achingly vulnerable. “He was a rifleman with the 95th.”
“The Light Division?”
She nodded, relaxing a little.
“I never heard of a Robert Taylor in the 95th.”
“Not Taylor, Spencer.”
Jared jerked his hand, almost upsetting his mug of ale. He gave her a perplexed look. “You gave your name as Taylor at the Horse and Hounds inn. Why?”
Francis was uncomfortably aware of Jared’s curious eyes boring into her. She opened her lips to tell him it was none of his concern, but blurted out something else instead. “That was my family name. Robert’s parents live nearby. I don’t want them to know I am here.”
“Why not?”
; Francis looked down at her hands. “The Spencers threw us off after we married. My father was a small-time lawyer in London, with no connections.” Francis’ hands clenched. She had never been good enough for Robert’s parents and, as a result, he had been forced to choose between her and his family. It had been a devil’s bargain. Francis had never reproached Robert for his love of gaming in the years that followed, for she understood it was driven by his need to recapture the inheritance he had lost. In the end, Robert’s debts of honour had swallowed up what was left of his military pay, leaving her with nothing but the ruby.
The server provided a welcome interruption by arriving with a tray of food. Francis busied herself with a piece of mutton pie, and the heavy food exercised a calming effect on her. By the time she had made short work of the pie, the rigid tension of her body had relaxed.
“Have some ham,” Jared said, heaping her plate with thick slices of the roast pink flesh.
Francis sighed, inhaling the savoury aroma of the pork, and then she attacked her plate. Halfway through her second piece of meat, she looked up to see Jared frowning at her.
“When’s the last time you had a decent meal?”
Francis shrugged. There was an angry look on Jared’s face that warned her not to answer his question.
He crossed his arms. “Spencer seems to have done a poor job of providing for you.”
Francis fired up. “Don’t you dare criticize Robert! He left me the Panchamaabhuta.”
“What about his arrears of pay?”
Francis toyed with a slice of ham, her appetite suddenly deserting her. “He had a run of bad luck before he died. He would have come round again if it hadn’t been for Brussels.” Francis closed her eyes and leaned back against the bench, trying to block out the picture of the French troops cutting her husband to ribbons on the battlefield. It was an image she had pieced together in her mind from the stories of the survivors. Her breathing went shallow as she battled the disturbing vision, forcing herself to come back to the present.
Jared’s breath against her cheek startled her. “You look unwell.” He chafed her wrists. “Your pulse is rapid. Let me take you upstairs, so you can rest.”