“Thank you!’’ she said with just a hint of sarcasm.
He grinned, and moving his hand from his chest to his jaw, said, “Tell me, my dear. In addition to keeping a supply of nightshirts on hand for your male guests, do you also provide them with shaving gear?”
“The nightshirt belonged to my late father, Mr. Sebast,” she said a trifle stiffly, “and as to the shaving gear, I shall have Melrose bring it to you.”
She then did the only thing she could. She made a hasty retreat, taking the gawking Elsie with her.
Jane had dismissed Elsie and proceeded towards her own chamber before she realized that she was smiling. She stopped in the middle of the hallway and touched her lips with her fingertips in wonder.
She had actually enjoyed much of her most recent encounter with Mr. Sebast. Yes, and what was even more amazing, and rather exhilarating, too, was the knowledge that she had not suffered the paralyzing awkwardness which usually afflicted her in the presence of strange gentlemen.
Was that because he was a highwayman? But no, she decided in the next instant. Although she could not have said why, she rather thought that he had at least been bred a gentleman, and therefore, perhaps he was not beyond redemption.
She had taken several more steps, but now she stopped again to consider that notion.
Common sense told her that she ought only to be concerned with getting him well to the point where she could be rid of him. Still, that might take several days, and there could be no harm in trying to reform him during that time, could there? In fact, was it not her duty at least to attempt to turn him from the disastrous path he had chosen to follow? One might almost say that it was fated.
CHAPTER FIVE
“What drivel!” exclaimed Jane’s patient, interrupting her in the middle of a sentence.
It was the following afternoon. Jane was once more alone with him in his chamber, but by now it had happened so frequently that it no longer seemed such a breach of propriety. Repetition had gradually quieted her conscience, and she told herself that to continue baulking would be to make a mountain out of a molehill. After all, Mr. Sebast was in no condition to harm her, and in any event, he would soon be gone.
At his remark, Jane looked up from the book she had been reading aloud and declared, “Really, Mr. Sebast. I should scarcely stigmatize Shakespeare as drivel!”
“If that is Shakespeare,” he asserted, “then I am King George.”
A smile curved her lips and she replied, “Then you must certainly own to being our poor, mad king, sir, for this is indeed Shakespeare.”
Triumphantly, she held the book up so that he might read the title.
“The Family Shakespeare, by Thomas Bowdler,” he muttered, then rolled his eyes. “As I said before, it is drivel. Worse than drivel, in fact, and if you had ever read the original version, you would know it.”
“Well,” she admitted, “I must own that I am finding this to be rather dull reading. Is the original really so very different?”
“As night is to day,” he assured her. “When I am on my feet again, I shall obtain a copy for you.”
Alarmed at the prospect of how he might obtain such a copy, she said quickly, “That is very kind of you, but it is not at all necessary....”
“No,” he agreed, “and I am seldom kind. Nevertheless, I shall do so. I cannot allow you to continue thinking that Shakespeare would write such bland stuff. This idiot, Bowdler, has managed to take all the fire and passion out of it.” Seeing her blush at his mention of fire and passion delighted him, but he resisted the urge to tease her and merely added, “Now, what is that other book you have there?”
“Oh,” she said, “it is called Pride and Prejudice. Have you read it?”
“No. For a good many years, I was out of the country. Except for the classics, I fear that I have fallen far behind in my reading.” He did not mention that his time in England had been spent in less admirable pursuits than reading. Instead he said, “I daresay that book cannot be any worse than The Family Shakespeare, however.”
“Oh, it is a great deal better, I assure you. I like it excessively, and I think you will, too.” Then she added, a little uncertainly, “But, perhaps not. It is a romance and was written by a lady. However, she is very witty and clever, and she pokes fun at Society, which you will no doubt appreciate.”
“Touché,” he acknowledged with a grin. “But I promise you, I have nothing against female authors, especially if they are clever and have a sense of humour.”
“Then we have something in common,” she replied archly, “for I have nothing against male authors.”
He laughed and told her, “Now, that’s landed me a facer!”
Jane smiled, then paused, fingering the book in her lap, before beginning tentatively, “Mr. Sebast...”
He held up his hand and said, “Please, surely such formality is unnecessary between patient and physician. I wish you would call me Jon.”
He could no longer endure being called ‘Mr. Sebast.’ And although he was not fond of the name and never used it, at least Jon was not an alias. He answered to Sebastian when necessary, but that was too close to ‘Sebast’ for comfort.
She had been curious as to what his given name was, and, forgetting propriety for the moment, she said, half testing, half questioning, “John?”
Good God! he thought. John and Jane. How alarmingly appropriate they sounded together. Making haste to correct her, he said, “No, it is J-o-n, with a soft J. I fear my mother was of a romantic nature.’’ He paused before adding, “But if you prefer, you might call me Saint, as many of my acquaintances do.”
At that, Jane could not suppress a peal of laughter, and she said, “Heavens! What an inappropriate name for a highwayman. I think I should prefer to address you as Jon.” Then a frown creased her brow. “But if I were to call you Jon, then you would be free to call me Jane, and that would not be—”
He stopped her again. “I know. I know. It would not be proper. But, my dear Jane, I thought we had already established the fact that I am not in the least proper.”
She shook her head at him with a rueful smile. “Do you know how very difficult it is to defeat you in an argument?”
“Then do not attempt it,” he recommended. “Besides, we are not having an argument, we are having a discussion.” Seeing that she was not entirely convinced, he continued. “If you are worried over what others will think, I have a solution. In private I shall call you Jane, but when others are present, I shall address you as Miss Jane. Will that answer?”
In her mind, she was already thinking of him as Jon, and after a moment of arguing with her better judgment, she said, “Yes, I suppose it might.” She spoke firmly enough, but lowered her eyes modestly.
“Excellent!” he said. “And now that we have that settled, what is it that you were about to say to me when I so rudely interrupted you?”
She looked up, and suddenly her mind was blank, but this was not entirely due to his interruption. It had more to do with where her gaze became fixed, as though it had a will of its own.
He was sitting up, leaning back against the headboard, his pillows behind him, and he was wearing one of her father’s nightshirts. Regrettably, however, her father had been neither as tall nor as broad of shoulder as her highwayman. As a result, the garment was, of necessity, left unbuttoned from mid-chest to throat. Until now, she had studiously avoided looking at the exposed portion of his chest Now, she was not only staring at it, but found herself wondering if the hair there would feel soft to her touch or crisp.
“Jane?” he asked quizzically. Recalling herself with a slight start, she raised her eyes to his face and said quickly, if a trifle breathlessly, “Oh, yes, I was curious about those years you spent out of the country. Were you with the army for the whole of that time?”
“Good God, no! I only fought in the war for the last two years of it, until after Waterloo. I spent nearly half of the ten years before that in America.”
“A
merica!” she said. Her curiosity ran rampant. She wondered what had happened to make him leave England in the first place, and for so long a time. But when she heard where he had been, one question took precedence over all others. Leaning forward, she asked eagerly, “Did you meet any Indians while you were there?”
He laughed, then teased, “Why, Jane, I would never have taken you for one of those bloodthirsty females, eager to hear tales of barbaric savages.”
She waved a hand impatiently, dismissing such a notion. “No, no! It is not their savagery I am interested in.” Then, before she could stop herself, she asked, “Are they truly as savage as they are said to be?”
This time he laughed even harder before saying, “Despite your lack of interest in the matter, I shall tell you that, indeed, they are.” In a more sober voice, he added, “But I can also attest to the fact that they are among the most noble and admirable people who ever walked this earth.”
“How strange that they should be both,” said Jane with wonder. “But what I started to ask about is their knowledge of herbs and medicine. I have heard that their experience with such things is considerable. Did you meet any of them? You must have done, since you seem to know so much about them.”
“I did,” he told her. “As a matter of fact, I lived for several months with a band of the Sioux. That is the name given them by the Americans and the French, but they call themselves the Dah-ko-tas.”
“Good God!” she exclaimed. “Were you captured?”
“No. Had I been, it is unlikely that I would be here to tell the tale. As it happened, I was in a position to do a service for the chief’s son. Little Fox had been wounded by some American cavalry who were chasing him, and I was able to hide him until the danger had passed.” He shrugged and added, “The chief was so grateful that he adopted me into the tribe.”
“Oh, my,” she breathed. “I should love to hear all about your time with them. But first tell me, please, about their healing practices.”
“I shall be happy to tell you what little I know, but I fear it is not much. Healing among the Indians is done by medicine men—or in some cases, medicine women—who guard their secrets most jealously. But you must first answer a question for me. How in the world did you become so interested in herbs and healing?”
“Oh, there is no mystery to that. Even as a young girl, before my mother—that is, before I lost my mother, I used to visit our tenants and try to help them when they were old or in need. I always felt so helpless, though, in the face of illness, until the vicar gave me a book on healing, and it has fascinated me ever since. But now, if you please, do not keep me in suspense any longer.”
Pride and Prejudice was forgotten as Jon told Jane all he knew of herbal healing among the Indians. Although it was something of a disappointment to her that he could not give her the English names for many of the herbs used by the natives of America, she did not really mind. What he did tell her was so very interesting that she lost all track of time.
At last, however, her gaze fell upon the mantel clock, and she jumped up, saying, “Oh, good heavens! I shall be late for my meeting with Mr. Phillips, my estate agent. I must go at once.”
He grasped her hand before she could turn away, and said, “Come back to me when you are done.”
She looked down at her hand, which had never looked so dainty and feminine as it now did, clasped in his own larger, stronger one. She swallowed before saying doubtfully, “I don’t know. I have already spent hours with you, and...” Her voice trailed off.
“But there is so much more I wish to tell you about my life with the Indians. For instance, there are their courtship and marriage customs, which I know will fascinate you.”
Heat rose in her cheeks, but she gave him an indulgent smile as she said accusingly, “I believe you delight in making me blush, sir.”
“I do,” he admitted, “for it is vastly becoming to you.”
“I must go,” she said again, attempting to pull her hand free.
He retained it, saying, “I’ll not let you leave until I have your promise to return. You cannot know what a dead bore it is to lie here with none but my own company.”
“Well,” she conceded, “perhaps later, after dinner. But you must promise not to put me to the blush with your stories.”
He grinned. “You make it very difficult for me, my dear, but I shall do my best.”
Daringly, Jane cocked an eyebrow at him and asked, “Your best to make me blush, or to refrain from doing so?”
“You are too clever by half, sweetheart,” he answered.
Jane quickly left the room to the sound of his laughter. But she did not mind that in the least, for her heart was singing. He had called her “sweetheart.” Of course it meant nothing. But no one had ever called her that before and, foolish as it might be, she could not help but treasure the sound of it. Nor could she help wondering how it would be if he were ever to say it and mean it.
* * * *
After Jane had gone, Jon lay back, reviewing the past hours spent with her. He grinned as he recalled some of their conversation and her reactions, especially her blushes, which he indeed delighted in provoking. He wondered if she even realized that, at one point, she had used the phrase, “Good God,” which was one of his own habitual exclamations. Yes, she was definitely becoming more relaxed with him. Perhaps achieving the goal he had set himself would prove to be easier than he’d at first believed.
At that, he felt a momentary twinge of guilt, but was able to banish it almost instantly. After all, what he was doing was not simply for his own amusement; it was for her benefit as well. It could not be good for anyone to be so bound up in propriety. And it was not as if he meant to seduce or compromise her. He would not go beyond the line.
Glancing at the clock, he saw that it would be more than an hour until dinner and wondered how to spend the time. Surprisingly, he was not at all tired, which ruled out the possibility of sleep. Then be noticed the book Jane had left lying on the bedside table. He reached for it, but after a brief hesitation, he changed his mind and left it there. He preferred to wait until Jane could read it to him. She had a remarkably pleasant voice, rather low and musical, and he had discovered that he enjoyed listening to her.
He shifted his position and looked at the clock again. Good God! The damned hands had scarcely moved at all. It was truly amazing how quickly the hours with Jane seemed to pass and how slowly they went when he was alone. He even found himself resenting the unknown Mr. Phillips for having taken her away.
At last, however, the dinner hour came and went, and he began to wait impatiently for Jane to return as she had promised. But when darkness had fallen and still she had not come, irritability was added to impatience. She had likely gone out on another of her damned missions of mercy, he decided, and was a little ashamed and surprised to discover that he harboured so possessive an attitude. But, devil take it, he should be her first priority now.
He was considering shouting her name until she was forced to make an appearance, when he was distracted by a sound at the window. It was not until the sound was repeated that he realized what it was. Someone was outside, throwing pebbles.
With a swift glance at the closed door, he pushed the sheet aside and gingerly slid his legs over the side of the bed. Then he slowly stood—and immediately sat down again as a wave of faintness threatened to overwhelm him. Damnation! He had not realized that he was still so weak.
Another handful of pebbles hit the window, and he stood even more slowly and carefully, and this time managed to hobble to the aperture. He gave vent to a few more choice curses as he neared it, for some of the missiles had landed inside, on the floor.
Peering down into the darkness, he at first saw nothing, but then a shadow moved away from under the deeper blackness of a tree, and his suspicion was confirmed. He recognized Kearny, his man of all jobs and perhaps his only real friend. Though the former American fur trader would never have admitted to any of the softer emotions, he had
proven his devotion to Jon by following him back to England and had even remained with him throughout his army career.
“I got yer message. Saint,” said Kearny in what was no doubt meant to be a whisper but might as well have been a shout. “I got to tell you, though, it took me a spell to figger out who the hell Mr. Sebast was.”
“Lower your voice,” hissed Jon. “And if you got my message, and ‘figgered out’ it was from me, why did you not remain at the inn as I directed?”
Kearny scratched his nose and lowered his voice a fraction. “Well now, I might have, only it seemed to me that’ somethin’ smelled kinda rotten in Denmark, if you know what I mean. Not quite up to snuff, as you Englishers say.”
Jon laughed softly, and said, “Well, as it happens, I am glad you are here. I haven’t time now to tell you the whole, but suffice it to say that I have been wounded and shall be laid up here for several days.”
“That’s what I was afraid of,” growled Kearny. “Tell me who done it to you and I’ll take care of him.”
“Unnecessary,” Jon quickly assured him. “It was an accident. But there is something you can do for me. I have decided to remain in the neighbourhood for a time—”
“Ha!” interrupted Kearny. “That don’t surprise me, bein’ as how you been doin’ your damndest to shake off that woman what’s been chasin’ after you.”
It was Lydia Cathcart’s relentless pursuit of him which had driven Jon into the wilds of Yorkshire, but, having no wish to discuss the tenacious lady, he ignored Kearny’s comment. Instead, he quickly told his henchman what was required of him and had scarcely finished when he heard a sound outside his door. With a quick gesture be sent his man away, then turned just as the door opened and Jane entered the chamber.
She stopped abruptly when she saw him, obviously shocked. Then starting toward him again, she exclaimed, “Oh! You foolish man! What are you doing out of bed? How do you expect your wound to heal at this rate?”
“My wound is healing quite nicely, thanks to your excellent care. And as for being out of bed, I thought a bit of exercise might help me to regain my strength more rapidly.” He took several limping steps, then stopped, and with a rather sheepish smile said, “But I find that I am weaker than I thought. I fear I shall need your help in returning to bed.”
The Highwayman Page 5