by Gina Black
She waited and watched from the doorway. Could he be dead? Her nose would have told her so. Perhaps he slept, a vagrant having found a dry spot, as she had, to wait out the storm—or even a drunkard in a sodden stupor.
Katherine took a cautious step toward him. He rested on his back, one leg bent at the knee, the other stretched almost to the wall. She knelt down and sniffed. He did not smell of spirits, but of something foreign and aromatic, like an exotic spice. Gingerly she placed a hand on his chest.
He groaned and turned to face her.
She snatched her hand away and stepped back. Her heart pounded as the storm raged behind her. She waited but he made no further movement. His eyes remained closed.
Could he be ill?
The small pox?
Plague?
Was she safer outside, braving the elements, or inside with him?
As the rain pounded on the roof, a new question formed. If he was in need of aid, could she leave him?
Katherine heaved a sigh. No, she could not go without a fair effort to provide help.
Who was he? Dark hair lightened on one side by a streak of gray—or was it white?—framed a tall forehead over a pronounced aristocratic nose. A strong jaw, with perhaps a day’s growth of beard, held a wide, full-lipped mouth and a cleft chin. Not a handsome face, really, but a distinctive one, and not one she recognized.
Perhaps he was a nobleman who had been set upon by outlaws. Dressed in unrelieved black, he wore no jewels. Might he be a Puritan?
She trailed her fingertips across the heated skin covering his cheekbone, brushing away strands of hair and revealing dried blood crusted at his temple. Matted hair clung to his ear.
Katherine frowned. Head wounds could be serious, sometimes stealing a man’s wits. Although she tended the minor ailments of the Ashfield tenants, it was possible this man required a surgeon.
Ruing the lack of light, Katherine probed the wounded area.
His eyes popped open. Her heart jumped. He grabbed her hand, holding it in a powerful grip. The raging storm faded. All she could feel was the heat radiating from his fingers. He spoke, but his words were drowned out by a crack of thunder. His eyes were dark, glassy, and unfocused. Katherine doubted he saw her. She leaned closer.
He shifted position but did not release her. Unbalanced, she grabbed his shoulder to keep from falling. He bellowed and jerked away, relinquishing her hand. Katherine rocked back on her heels.
“Will not die. Get it back for you,” he said to the darkness behind her.
Katherine tossed a quick look to see if someone was there, but saw only the rain pouring down outside the open door.
The man thrashed about again, and she stroked his forehead as if quieting a babe. Gradually he stilled, and Katherine stopped.
His eyes popped open. “Mother?”
The word was plaintive, a boy’s cry, not that of a man full grown. A rush of sadness overwhelmed her along with an overpowering urge to comfort him. She touched his brow again.
“Hot…so hot…Hell?”
His eyes, focused now, looked straight into hers. Katherine felt a jolt of connection.
“Angel…” His lips curved, and he sighed. “Heaven.” His eyes closed, releasing her.
As the intensity of the moment faded, some of Katherine’s tension eased. The man breathed evenly and lay still.
Katherine eyed his shoulder. There was not enough light for her to make anything out so she used her hands to explore his arm for clues. The fabric was rough and hard. Even without illumination, dark stains stood out on his hands. Blood? She ran her fingers lightly over his upper body pulling back the heavy wool cloak.
The highly polished metal of a gun glinted from the waistband of his breeches. Her heart dropped.
Perhaps he was an outlaw. And perhaps she should know more about him before she ran off to get help. He must carry identifying papers or other items.
Awkwardly, and with full knowledge that she transgressed against a helpless man, Katherine began her search.
His finely stitched linen shirt revealed no information besides its obvious quality. An inside pocket attached to his cloak contained a powder horn, a pouch of bullets, coins of various denominations—some foreign, and an odd cylindrical item, wider at one end than the other, with glass at both ends. She’d never seen anything like it.
Was he foreign like his money? He’d spoken without an accent.
Katherine’s eyes lit on a piece of shiny, black satin tucked next to the pistol in his waistband. She tugged it out, almost dropping it when she realized it was a cowl.
Realization hit her like a shot.
The Raven!
He’d robbed three coaches in as many weeks, causing a furor of gossip and speculation by stealing clothes off the backs of gentlemen and sending their coaches off without them. He apologized to the ladies for “exposing them to the company they keep,” and told the affected men, “Now you can be seen for who you really are.” Her neighbors had been outraged, yet Katherine had silently approved the Raven’s choice of victims, thus far all sanctimonious prigs.
Had that been by design? Or by chance?
She shook her head. Either way, she could not understand why anyone would behave as the Raven did. Was it perversity? And even if it was, could she leave him wounded and alone?
She sighed. For certain, if she went for help, his whereabouts would become known. She might as well turn him in to the King’s justice. That meant Richard Finch.
Katherine brushed aside a lock of hair on the man’s forehead.
His frown eased at her touch.
Her heart softened. Criminal or no, she could not let him die. Not if it was possible to save him.
She placed a quavering hand over his chest, and began a silent prayer. Not a Puritan prayer, as practiced in secret by father and grandfather. Nor the kind publicly professed by Charles II, or even the kind, it was said, he practiced in private. Katherine did not know if the man before her was Roundhead or Royalist, Protestant or Catholic. In the months since the death of her brother, she had come to doubt God favored one over the other, so she made a devout and impassioned plea for strength, and for guidance to save this man’s life.
CHAPTER TWO
THE RAIN STOPPED as suddenly as it began.
Katherine returned to Ashfield chilled, soggy, and determined. She might have a week before acquiescing to her father’s wishes, but she had mere hours to save a man’s life.
Heedless of the water trailing in her wake, she crossed the stone floor of the great hall into the antechamber containing their meager library. Pausing before the bookshelves, she noted the accumulation of dust and added another item to the mental list of tasks requiring her direct supervision. Cobwebs hung from the corners. A mouse had breakfasted on the spine of Edward’s Latin primer.
Removing her sodden cloak, she laid it on the stone window seat. The heavy tome she needed perched on the top shelf. Written by a French surgeon, it had been useful when she’d treated tenants with injuries beyond her skill. Fortunately, it was in the King’s English and not Latin, of which she had only rudimentary knowledge.
Rising on tiptoe, she reached for the book.
“You are certain you shot him?”
Katherine fell back on her heels at the sound of her father’s voice and the approaching footsteps. The small room offered no place to hide. She wished she could disappear into the floor.
“Indeed.” She heard the smug satisfaction in Richard Finch’s voice. “I winged the Raven on the Melbury road.”
“What of the rest of his gang?” Asked her father just outside the doorway.
Katherine shrank back.
“Gang?” Finch cleared his throat. “Cowards all. As soon as I shot the leader they ran off.”
Deserted him? Left him to die? Or did they go for help?
Katherine frowned and tucked a strand of hair back into her cap. Why did they not take him with them? And how would they find him now? He lay a good dista
nce from the Melbury road.
Finch spoke again. “Quite foolish for him to attempt a holdup on a full moon. I could see him quite clearly. Although with that cowl I could not get a look at his face. Nevertheless, I expect he shall trouble us no further.”
Gerald coughed.
“I have Jakes searching for him,” Finch said. “Better I had killed the blackguard, but likely he will die from the wound.”
He will not, Katherine vowed. I will not let him.
A vision of the man came to her. Even wounded and in pain, he had seemed strong and vital. But bullets carried noxious powder. She must get back to him and remove it before the poison spread.
“Mistress Welles,” Richard Finch’s voice pierced her thoughts. “What a surprise to find you here.” He looked her up and down boldly. She ran her hands over the damp folds of her fustian skirt and wondered if Father’s slap showed. Taking a deep breath, she raised her chin to meet Finch’s gaze while her stomach tightened.
A perfectly coifed brown periwig sat above a handsome face. Refined, if diminutive, features joined with cheeks and chin as finely chiseled as a marble statue. But his appearance held no attraction for her. Lips—perhaps a shade too thin—fell into their usual sneer, the straight nose tilted up too high, and cold blue eyes stared back at her.
Katherine suppressed a shiver.
“I was concerned to hear you had gone out in such dangerous weather.” Finch extended an elegant hand. “’Twas most imprudent of you, Katherine. But I shall not chide you now, instead I shall rejoice with you on this happy day.”
His well-manicured fingers hung in midair but Katherine did not take them. A very un-Puritan ruffle ran along his cuff. Like so many others, had he shifted his religion with the return of the King?
“Knowing your father apprised you of our betrothal this morn, I but awaited the storm’s end to join you.” Finch stepped forward, reaching for her hand. Katherine stepped back and pressed herself flat against the bookshelves.
Gerald stood across the small room, holding a sheet of paper close before his face. He paid no mind to their interplay.
Finch moved forward again. Eyes glinting, a smug smile played across his mouth. He pulled her fist from its hiding place in the folds of her skirt, and raised her knuckles to his dry lips. His nails bit into her fingers.
Katherine clenched her teeth, restraining the urge to grab her hand and flee.
Finch lowered his grasp, but did not release her or ease his grip. A challenge flickered in his eyes, and she knew he dared her to resist.
If she did, would he stop, or would he hurt her all the more? With vivid clarity, Katherine realized that marriage to him would consist of endless moments like this until he broke her will entirely.
But she would not scrap with him now. She must hasten back to the cottage, to the man Finch had tried to kill. She had no time to waste. The outlaw’s need was urgent.
“I pray you will excuse me. I shall catch my death unless I seek my maid,” she said in what she hoped was her most lady-of-the-manor voice.
Finch smiled, squeezed her fingers cruelly, and let them drop. “But of course. I await your return.”
Katherine clasped her hands behind her back. “Then you shall abide overlong.”
“Look to yourself, girl,” Father said, waving her off, a petulant scowl marring his countenance. He brandished the paper at Finch. “We will see her soon enough. For now, we have business to attend. I believe this jointure is less than we agreed.”
As the two men fell into a heated discussion, Katherine snatched her cloak from the stone bench and slipped from the room. With determined strides, she crossed the great hall and took the stairs to the first floor, moving at a rapid pace until she arrived at her mother’s room. Once inside, she began to tremble. She hugged her cloak to her chest as shivers wracked her frame and a sob rose up her throat. The fear she had held at bay through the confrontation with Finch now hit her full force. She felt ill with reaction.
Dropping her cloak on the bed, she stepped to the casement window and pulled back the heavy drape. The storm had returned in all its fury. Rain poured off the eaves in a steady stream. The sky was dark and ominous. Her teeth chattered. Drawing in a shuddering breath, she rubbed her fingers where Finch had so cruelly clutched them.
Her mother’s familiar and comforting scent of rose still hung on the air. Katherine leaned against the cold windowpane as her heart ached anew.
A flash of light reflected off the glass. At first, she thought it was lightning, but there had been no warning thunder. She turned to see her maid entering the room. The girl held a candle.
Katherine’s hand came to rest on her pounding heart, and she heaved in a sigh. She had no wish to attend to some trifling domestic crisis right now. The kitchen staff should be able to complete washday without her. Or perhaps Lucy was here to tell her Finch would be an overnight guest because of the storm.
Despairing over that possibility, Katherine shuddered and turned back to the window.
As Lucy approached and the flickering light grew stronger, a face appeared on the glass. At first, Katherine didn’t recognize herself. How could she? There were no mirrors at Ashfield; mirrors encouraged vanity. But it was not vanity she felt as she viewed her own likeness.
The face looking back at her carried such sadness she found it shocking. Below the white cap, the skin was pale and colorless. The eyes held a dull misery. The mouth seemed to have lost the ability to smile. The face was undoubtedly her own, but Katherine felt no kinship to it.
Perhaps she merely wished none.
Instead, she longed for a face that showed joy and happiness. A pretty face, and, dare she think it, a pretty dress made of a colorful shimmering fabric. The black dress she now wore disappeared into the shadows, hiding her body as effectively as it was intended.
Thunder cracked. A moment later lightning rent the sky, obscuring her likeness and taking with it her fanciful thoughts. Then her reflection returned along with that of Lucy who now stood behind her.
Katherine turned to her maid, noticing that something was moving in the fold of her apron.
“What have you there, Lucy?”
“Ah, mistress.” The maid scooped a hand into her apron and pulled out a small ball of fur that wiggled. She held it out to Katherine. “I looked for you first in your room. Then I thought you might be here. ’Tis a wee cat I’ve found. In the garden. Cook sent me for sage and I found it instead, all wet, so I brought it inside. Cook was angry I forgot the sage. An’ she said I should put the cat back. But I dried the wee thing off, ye see. I know’d I caint keep it. But, I thought…?”
As Katherine took it in her hands, the fur ball developed legs, a tail, and several very sharp teeth. “Ouch! ’Tis not a kitten you have found but a hellcat!”
She raised it up to her face. In the dim light, she could see it was gray with black stripes and white paws. Short white whiskers sprang from a white muzzle. The kitten stopped teething on her thumb long enough to look back. Its dark eyes twinkled as it sniffed her. Then it raised a paw and batted at her nose.
Katherine pulled it from her face and stroked behind its ears with her finger. Loud purring burst forth from the small kitty.
“It likes you, mistress,” said Lucy. “You wiln’t make me put it back in the rain?”
“No,” said Katherine. Today was her day to rescue outlaws and orphans. “It shall stay with me.” As the kitten stretched and snuggled, relaxing into her hand, her heart swelled. It would be so nice to have something to love again. She cradled it against her shoulder, and it melted into her warmth.
Lucy smiled at her. “Can I tell cook to give me some food for it?”
Katherine nodded. Since her mother’s death, cook had become altogether too autocratic. “Tell her I wish it.”
Lucy bobbed a curtsey and left, taking the candle with her.
With the warm kitten at her shoulder, Katherine did not feel so miserable. Gazing out the window, she saw the s
ky grow lighter. The storm appeared to have spent its wrath, and the rain had reduced to a drizzle.
The kitten yawned and began to purr again. Katherine scratched one of its little ears. “What to call you?” Should she name it in honor of her mother or brother? She didn’t even know if it was a boy or a girl so she tried to pull the kitten from her shoulder, but it clung tight to her dress with its little claws.
“Well never mind then, it matters not—at least not yet. In any case, I shall give you a strong name.” She let it snuggle back into her shoulder. “A man’s name, I think. Even if you are female, ’twill serve to make you strong. What shall it be?”
The little cat purred instead of answering.
“Mayhap a big name, because you are so small. A name to grow into.” Katherine leaned her forehead on the cold window and looked down into the courtyard. There were several big mud puddles on the ground below. She prayed Finch would leave soon so she could tend the wounded man. If he still lived.
He must live.
But she must get to him soon. Time was passing. Now that the rain had stopped, she should go, even if Finch did not leave. Even without the book. The kitten mewed in Katherine’s ear as if in agreement. Her eyes searched the room, coming to rest on her cloak where she’d left it on the bed.
That’s when she thought of what to call the kitten.
“Montford,” she said. “I shall name you after the family who lived here, the family who owned the book I need. They owned most everything we have, probably at least one of your ancestors as well. ’Tis a good and noble name, and it belongs here, even if they do not.”
A sudden flurry of activity below grabbed her attention. The Finch coach rolled into view and stopped. The coachman jumped down just as Richard Finch appeared. Right before attaining the coach, he misjudged his step and landed in a big puddle.
Katherine smiled.
Montford purred in her hands.
* * *