Devil's Lady

by Patricia Rice

  Confident in her ignorance, Faith poured the hot water into the large pan she had found tucked under the bed. She added snow to cool it off and picked up the sliver of soap that she had found in the pan. He might protest if he discovered she had used the last of his soap, but she would have the satisfaction of being clean.

  As she scrubbed, Faith produced visions of scavenging for soapwort plants and doing his laundry, or if she saved the ashes and he could provide some lye, she could make a year’s supply of soap for him. There were so many ways she could help.

  She should have fought for her right to stay weeks ago, and then she wouldn’t be at the mercy of strangers now. But she had never been forced to fight before. When the adults around her urged her to do something, she did it. She was beginning to understand that that was a mistake, but it was too late to go back.

  As the day grew darker, Faith threw anxious looks at the window and hurried. Once clean, she couldn’t bear to don her dirty clothes again. Without her bundle, she didn’t even have a change of linen. That thought gave her pause, but, determined now, she rummaged in Jack’s trunk for an old shirt and wore it while she scrubbed her clothes.

  She wrung them out and hung them over the mantel and chair to dry before the fire. Her comb had been lost with her other possessions, but she had found a brush in Jack’s chest. It was old and elaborately engraved with the initials JML, and her fingers lovingly traced the etching as she drew the brush through her hair. Someone rich and aristocratic had once owned this brush. Could it be Jack? The first initial fitted, but nothing else did.

  She had seen very few nobles, but she rather suspected they didn’t sport three-day beards and unkempt black hair. As a matter of fact, if she recollected rightly, they wore powdered hair and silk and red heels with clocked stockings.

  She smiled with her daydream of elegant gentlemen, ladies in wide, sweeping skirts, each making polite bows and curtsies to the other. She had never owned an elegant skirt with hoops and panniers, but she knew how to curtsy in one. Her mother had taught her all manner of frivolous things such as that, to the amusement of both of them. She missed her mother dreadfully, but there had been years to become accustomed to her death and learn to live with her absence.

  Not so her father. That had been too sudden, too violent, and Faith could not face it yet, might never face it. It had been senseless. Her father was a sternly religious man, a scholar, a gentleman who had forsaken his heritage for his beliefs. What manner of madman would hate him enough to kill him?

  He had been so cold and still when they carried him in; she had known he was dead without asking. They hadn’t even allowed her to stay for the burial, but hurried her off with her small bundle of possessions and the collection of coins they had gathered. So many coins in a community where they were sparse had stunned Faith into belief when they insisted she go find her family, and set her out on the road.

  The sound of a horse neighing outside returned her from her reverie, and Faith leapt from her seat and hurried to add fuel to the fire. Jack would in all likelihood be home soon. She didn’t know what she would feed him, but she would think of something. She was accustomed to making do.

  With her hair still damp from washing, she donned her own mud-splattered cloak and went outside to dispose of her washwater and draw fresh. She checked on the horses and found Jack had fastened a pail to the stall of each one and given them fresh hay. She rubbed their noses and murmured soft words in their ears, petted the cat and scratched behind his ear, then hurried back to the warmth of the fire.

  With the flour and lard she rolled out unsweetened biscuits and set them to bake in the heavy Dutch oven over the fire. She had found a square of hardened cheese in a dark corner of the cupboard and scraped some of that into the dough before she set the biscuits to bake.

  Now she fried more of the bacon and added flour to the grease for gravy. She wished she had some onion root or even a potato, but he would have to settle for what she could find. Perhaps he would bring back a rabbit. The thought stirred her empty stomach into growling. The slice of cheese she had eaten for lunch was scarcely sufficient to last all day.

  While the bread baked, she braided her long hair into a single length, then tied it with a broken shirt string she had found in Jack’s trunk. Then she tested her clothes, and finding them sufficiently dry, she scurried into them, apologetically stacking Jack’s shirt and stockings in a pile to be washed another day.

  As the room grew darker, she lit a lamp and waited. The tea steeped and the biscuits finished baking and the bacon—cut thick—was good and crisp. And still he didn’t come.

  Faith looked longingly at the steaming hot food, went to the window and searched the darkness, and wandered restlessly back to the fire. It didn’t seem right to let it go to waste. She didn’t know what time he would return. She could always cook more.

  She rationalized herself into the chair with a plate of biscuits and gravy and broken bits of bacon. The tea needed sweetening, but she gulped its strong warmth gratefully and gave the proper blessing for the meal. She had forgotten to do that this morning, and she apologized in her prayer now.

  Perhaps she had no right to be here. Perhaps Jack would put her out in the morning. But for right now, right this minute, she was warm and dry and clean and sitting before a plate of hot food. She was learning to appreciate each minute as it came.

  When she was done, she cleaned up and put everything neatly back in its place. The tea kept warm at the back of the spacious fireplace. The remaining biscuits stayed in the pot at the edge of the fire. They would dry out some, but the gravy would soften them. It was time to let the fire die down anyway. She shouldn’t rashly use all Jack’s fuel.

  She wrapped a few warming bricks in flannel from his trunk and placed them at the foot of his bed. They would stay warm for quite a while. If she had more soap, she could wash his sheets, but that was a subject she would broach another time. First, she must convince him to let her stay.

  When she had done all she could to make Jack’s home welcoming, Faith removed her newly washed bodice and skirt and spread the blanket she had used the prior night out on the hearth. Jack had taken his old cloak, but she had found a fine black one in his bed cupboard when she made the bed. It was of a rich, thick wool and lined with a lovely satin. She wondered why he hadn’t taken it.

  She snuggled beneath the warm wool and rubbed her face appreciatively against the sensuous satin. Were she rich, everything she owned would be of such fabulous material. She closed her eyes, and within minutes she was dreaming of satin sheets and wide gowns and laughing gentlemen.

  When Jack entered the cottage some hours later, he knew instantly that he was not alone. Instead of being greeted by the icy cold of a long-dead fire and the stench of his dirty dishes, warm air and the scent of something delicious welcomed him. He had stopped at an inn to eat earlier, but his stomach still rumbled with hunger for the bread he had desired just this morning.

  Dropping his bundle, he cautiously approached the hearth, finding the bedding just where he had left it the night before. He frowned at the sight of his black cloak wrapped around her small figure. Had she made the connection yet? If so, his hiding place could be in danger. This was the best billet he’d had in many a year, and he was reluctant to sacrifice it for one wayward wench.

  His frown didn’t last long as he discovered the bacon and gravy waiting for him and opened the black pot on the fire to find the biscuits. He would wager all his wealth that the chit went to bed hungry so that she might leave him his fair share of the meal. He felt guilty as hell for having enjoyed that meat pie earlier.

  Jack tried to maintain his irritation at this unwarranted interference, but the smell of the bread made him grin. He helped himself, piled the biscuits on the plate with the congealing gravy, and scooped up the delicious mess with his fingers. The taste of cheese intermingled with the bacon startled him, and he savored the flavor.

  He sat down in the chair beside the warm emb
ers of the fire and cleaned his plate, then poured a mug of strong tea. He preferred coffee but hadn’t bothered to buy the grounds lately. Tilting the chair back and sipping the hot beverage, he studied the bundle of bedding on his hearth.

  She must be exhausted not to hear his clumping boots and his ungentle clanging of the pots and plate. Apparently she had done something with her hair, since none of the rebellious strands crept around her face. Instead, he watched the thick length of her dark lashes curled against her velvet-soft cheeks and wondered at the innocence of such sound sleep.

  He hadn’t slept like that since his youth. Military life had taught him to sleep with one eye open, and his occupation now relied on it.

  If he were not careful, he would drag her down with him. He’d have to send her on her way, perhaps when the weather grew warmer. It would be convenient to have someone available to look after the horses while he was gone.

  With that decision made, Jack removed his boots and encountered another problem. Glancing from his bed to the hearth, he scowled. He hadn’t slept in nightshirts since he was a callow youth, but he couldn’t very well sleep in the raw with a child under his roof. Cursing that unforeseen development, he crossed the room to his bed and unfastened his breeches. He’d be damned if he slept in them. Her modesty would simply have to suffer the indignity.

  He left the breeches on the floor where they fell, and rolled up in his bedcovers. The lingering warmth from the bricks was a pleasant surprise, and he stretched wearily to fill the bed. The shirt and stockings were a damned nuisance, but having his stomach full for a change almost compensated for it. Leaning his head back against his arms, Jack closed his eyes and slept.

  Faith jumped awake with the first light of dawn. Her gaze instantly traveled to the bed, from whence soft snores could be heard, then to the dirty plate on the table. He was back, and he’d eaten her meal.

  Smiling, she jerked her bodice on under the covers; then, throwing a surreptitious glance to the sleeping man on the bed, she hastily scrambled into her skirt.

  She hastened to do her chores as quickly and quietly as possible. She nearly stumbled over the heavy bundle by the door. Fear pumped through her veins as she imagined the contents torn from their rightful owners. She had never known a thief before. Perhaps she was making a desperate mistake by wishing to stay here.

  But when she walked out into the icy cold, she knew she was not yet ready to travel on. The snow seeped through the holes in her shoes, and her ungloved hands reacted with pain to just the brush of the wind. If she had the choice of dying for pride or living with the devil, she would have to choose the devil. Her father might be ashamed of her choice, but she had discovered a deep desire to live.

  Carrying the pail of water back to the house, she straightened her shoulders and prepared to face the devil. He was still asleep, and she tried to be as noiseless as possible. She set the kettle on to heat and rummaged through the larder for something edible. The hens had produced no new eggs, to her disappointment.

  The sound of a deep voice behind her caused Faith to jump and swing around.

  “Why don’t you use what’s in the sack? It’s at least fresh, and I would rather have the coffee.”

  He emerged from the bed still tucking his shirt into his breeches. It was the same shirt he had worn the day before, Faith noted. The hole was in the same place. Her tongue froze in her mouth. All the fine arguments she had practiced disappeared, and she could only stare at his imposing figure.

  Jack gave her an impatient glance, then lifted the sack onto the table. He produced the pouch of coffee beans and threw them at her. “Do you know what to do with them?”

  He had shaved and had his hair trimmed, although it still hung loosely instead of being bound in a queue. Faith caught the pouch and tried not to stare. He was much handsomer than she had imagined, albeit in a rough fashion. Broad cheekbones jutted to shadowed cheeks and a straight, thin nose that did not quite match the rather sensuous curve of his lower lip. When the square chin beneath that mouth tightened, she jumped and stared at the beans helplessly.

  “I...I don’t know what they are, sir.”

  “Jack. Call me Jack.” He grabbed the pouch, rummaged about until he found the flatiron she had neatly set in his barren cupboard, and proceeded to crush the beans with a few vigorous hammers between iron and table. Then he handed her the flattened but more savory-scented pouch. “Just cook them like tea.”

  Wide-eyed, she nodded and accepted the pouch. She sent a sidelong glance to the large sack remaining on the table, and her stomach rumbled. Jack grinned.

  “Take what you need. I’m seeing to the horses.”

  The grin almost made him human. It was lopsided and gleaming white and it deepened the little dent in his cheek. Faith stared blankly after him as he went out the door. Highwaymen weren’t supposed to be human.

  Fearing for her almighty soul, she dived into the bundle of goodies and nearly crowed with delight at each discovery. Far from being a highwayman’s stolen bounty, the sack contained all the ingredients of a well-stocked larder. She nearly cried at the package of scented soap, and her imagination jumped recklessly to the immense cake she would make with the sugar.

  She hastily whipped together a quick batter to cook in the skillet, set some of the smoked sausage into another pan, and put the coffee on to boil. It was a rather crude breakfast, but better than she had known for some while. With the pot of honey Jack had brought, it would fill their stomachs. Tomorrow, when she had more time, she would try porridge and muffins.

  Jack returned with a barrel from the barn and set it on the opposite side of the table from the chair. Without questioning, Faith set out the newly cleaned plate he had used the night before, placed the fork and mug beside it, and poured his coffee. Jack gave a sigh of appreciation as he sipped the strong liquid.

  He took the barrel, and after setting the food on the table, Faith reluctantly took the chair. He made her uncomfortable, and she tried not to look at him as she tasted the bitter brew he preferred. She made a face and pushed it away and began to tackle her bread, when his big hand caught her cup.

  “Try it with sugar.” He cut off a small chunk of brown sugar and dropped it into the hot liquid before pushing it back to her. “I didn’t think to get milk. Children ought to have milk.”

  Faith lifted her eyebrows at this assertion, but she took another sip. The sugar was an improvement, but coffee was an acquired taste, she feared.

  “I have seen children die of the fever after drinking tainted milk. I’ll only drink what is boiled first.” It was a daring thing to say to this big man who could snap her in two, but his insulting reference to her age demanded some response.

  Jack’s mouth tilted. “Remind me never to feed you fine wine, then. Eat, or I shall finish this all myself.”

  He seemed quite capable of doing just that, and Faith hastily began nibbling at the honey-smeared pan bread. Jack finished his bread and sausage and sat back from the table to finish his coffee.

  “You say you’re looking for work.”

  Faith watched him warily, but nodded.

  He gave her a scornful appraisal. “You’re scarce big enough to do much. Those horses out there would pull your arms out of the sockets. Can you ride?”

  Not as he did, but she could stay in the saddle. She nodded again.

  He looked skeptical, but continued his interrogation. “I’ll not have some family after my neck for corrupting and abducting their precious darling, will I? This is no polite place for a proper lady to be, and you have a lady’s speech about you.”

  “My parents are dead and there is none other to know of my existence. My parents were gentry, but we did not live any differently than this. I can cook and clean and sew and tend your animals. I can read and do sums, if you have need of that.”

  Jack squinted warily at her after this precise speech. “I can read and do my own sums. I need someone to water, feed, and exercise my horses while I am away. Can you do that?
”

  That caused her a moment’s consternation. She knew nothing at all about horses but how to stay on one if necessary. She wasn’t afraid of them, by any means. So couldn’t she in all honesty answer yes? To avoid lying outright, Faith nodded.

  Satisfied, Jack set his mug down and stood up. “Then let us begin. I have need to be in Kent tomorrow. You will start your chores immediately.”

  Faith looked down at the dirty dishes, up to the man striding impatiently toward the door, and hurried for her cloak.

  Her mother’s precepts of cleanliness would have to wait. It seemed she was about to learn to be an ostler.

  Chapter 3

  It didn’t take long to discover that the chit knew the next best thing to nothing about horses, but Jack had fastened onto the opportunity and refused to let it go. She would learn, and he would ride farther afield and they would both be the richer for it, come warm weather.

  He laughed at her horror when he insisted she ride astride. He showed her how to pull the back of her skirt between her legs and tuck it in at her waist. She was the most squeamish child he had ever met, but then, he had already decided she was a useful oddity. And in addition to the truth of her claim that she was hardworking, he discovered she had a natural affinity with animals that was nothing short of miraculous.

  Faith walked the smallest mare through her paces as directed. Her skirt was torn and muddied from the falls she had taken trying to mount on her own, but she hadn’t complained. Precisely.

  “Only a man would be fool enough to take a housekeeper and cook and turn her into a groom and ostler,” she muttered. “Your priorities are all cock-a-hoop.”

  “And you’d not be fainting with exhaustion had you been riding, would you now?” he countered.

  There was little enough area to exercise the horses in, and with the snow, they could not be walked long. By the time they had been unsaddled and rubbed down, the lass looked as if she’d been rode hard and put up wet.

  Faith grabbed the stall door and Jack was instantly at her side. He took in her white face, her desperate grip on the wooden stall, and the expression of pure exhaustion on her thin features. With a disgusted curse he lifted her nearly weightless form into his arms, and tramped through the snow back to the house.