Devil's Lady

by Patricia Rice

  He dumped her on the chair before the fire and began systematically rubbing her chapped hands between his to bring the blood back into them. “You’ll need gloves and something warmer than that gown. Did you come away with nothing at all against this weather?”

  “Only my bundle, and I lost that the night...” She hesitated.

  “The night I found you?” He gave her a sharp look and saw her face draw tight with fear. So she knew. Or suspected. He nodded curtly. “In the ditch? I’ll find it. I don’t suppose it has gloves or a warmer gown, does it, now?”

  Faith shook her head and tried to draw her hands free. Even kneeling, he was nearly of a height with her, and his magnetic energy made her feel smaller. She had seen and heard John Wesley speak, and thought him to be the most powerful and impressive man she knew, but just this highwayman’s physical presence could overawe a company. Should he ever take to the platform, the world would be his.

  The thought of what a waste he made by devoting his life to crime instead of religion returned a small part of Faith’s equilibrium. Stiffly she managed to straighten in her seat and take command of her hands again. “I traded what I did not need for food. This gown will be sufficient. Now, if you will excuse me, I will prepare your luncheon.”

  “Sure, and you do that, lass. I’ll be seeing after that bundle of yours. I won’t be long.”

  He rose abruptly, giving her a close glimpse of legs like young tree trunks encased in tight buckskin as he strode away. Faith closed her eyes and prayed for deliverance from evil as she heard him rustle around the room. When the door shut firmly behind him, she slumped in her chair, then forced herself to rise and start the meal.

  He knew she had witnessed his crime. She had seen it in his face. What would he do with her now? Would he hold her prisoner? That was absurd on the face of it. She had begged him not to let her leave. She was a prisoner by her own words, her own weakness. What did that make her? An accomplice to crime?

  Short of running away to find someone in authority, there was nothing she could do but feed the fire and put on the kettle. Whatever Jack’s occupation, he was the first person on this road to offer her food and shelter and a place to work. Surely God would excuse her this once for turning her head at his crimes.

  Not for the first time, Faith glanced down at her reed- thin seventeen-year-old figure and sighed. She had no vanity. She was perfectly aware that because of her diminutive height and undeveloped figure, she looked thirteen or less.

  Upon occasion she had looked with envy at the more buxom dairy maids and flamboyant village girls with their strings of beaux, but her parents had made it very clear that she was not for the likes of them, even had she the looks to attract their eye. She was educated far beyond the means of a farmer’s life.

  That was small consolation to a lonely female adolescent, but she had been kept too busy to worry about it more than in those few minutes of darkness before sleep claimed her after a hard day’s work. The Lord would provide, she had always been taught, and so she had believed. Until now.

  It was becoming quite apparent that the Lord wasn’t going to provide her with breasts anytime soon, and for that she ought to be properly grateful. She had the certain feeling that had Jack realized she was more than a child, he would never have taken her in.

  By the time Jack returned with her muddy bundle of meager possessions, the cottage had filled with the rich aromas of boiling coffee, barley soup, and a cheese pie she had created with the one egg she had found and her memory of a recipe a sailor’s French wife had taught her.

  Faith was quite proud of how well it turned out, and smiled to herself as she took it out of the old Dutch oven. The smile spilled over to include Jack when he entered, bringing with him the outdoor scents of cold air and horses.

  The smile startled Jack, but he returned it gladly. The solemn child had been unnatural, and a friendly face was always welcome.

  The white evenness of her teeth revealed as much of her upbringing as her other habits. There was no doubt she came from gentry. A vicar’s daughter, perhaps.

  Satisfied that he had found the source of her solemnity and origins, Jack threw the tiny bundle on the table. “There you be, milady. It cannot contain much, but then, the faeries are said to make much of nothing. Let it not be said that I deprive you.”

  The smile wavered, but the eagerness in her wide gray eyes was sufficient recompense. A vicar’s daughter would have difficulty thanking a popish thief, but at least she did not express her disdain. On the contrary, he could gather from the aromas greeting him that she was grateful for his humble abode.

  While her fingers flew on the knot in her bundle, Jack inspected the source of the aromas. He gave the pie a skeptical look, but he had to admit he had given her little to work with.

  When she gave a small cry of triumph and produced a little leather case from the large handkerchief of her worldly goods, he turned to see what had so excited her. The realization that it was no more than a sailor’s mending kit made him snort with surprise. A child should crow over sweets and baubles, not sewing kits. Mayhap she was a changeling, after all.

  “Is this ready for eating or shall I go mend my tack?”

  As if reminded of his presence, Faith guiltily dropped the case and removed her possessions to the corner by the hearth where she had folded her bedding. “It is ready, sir. I thank you most kindly for fetching my bundle. If you will take a seat, I shall serve you immediately.”

  Jack caught her frail arm, his hand easily wrapping around the wrist almost twice over. “I’m not a ‘sir.’ I think you know what I am, so we need not enlarge on it more. I have no need of servants to wait upon me. I’ll provide the food. You prepare it. Together, we’ll share it. Is that understood?”

  Faith nodded, and he released his grip.

  Jack watched her with curiosity, wishing he knew her thoughts. It grew lonely out here, and he was by nature a gregarious man. It would be pleasant to have someone with whom to converse, but he had no notion of what girl-children thought or spoke about. He shrugged and brought the coffee to the table and served himself from the pans she set before him.

  “I’ll bring you some meat for the stew pot this evening before I leave.” He broke the silence casually.

  Faith glanced up. “Is that not poaching?”

  Jack flashed her solemn features a look of surprise, but he answered with a grin. “This patch of land here is mine. If the creatures choose to come to me, who am I to deny them?”

  She dropped her gaze back to the plate. “Shall I bake some bread for you to take on your journey?”

  “That would be agreeable,” he replied and continued eating.

  He left that night after dark, taking his massive stallion, wearing his satin-lined cloak and a dazzling white jabot of lace. He buckled on a sword and scabbard Faith had not discovered in her housecleaning efforts. She tried not to stare at his imposing figure as he strode to the door, but her heart was in her throat the entire time.

  Only when he grabbed up the parcel of bread and meat she had prepared for him and tipped her a jolly wink did she relax to any degree. She lifted her hand in farewell, but she wasn’t certain he noticed as he walked out, slamming the door behind him.

  The cottage felt colder without him, and she shivered at the sound of hoofbeats disappearing into the distance. For the first time, but not for the last, she wondered what would happen should he not return.

  Not wanting to contemplate that flashing smile going to the gallows, Faith turned back to the fire and began to scrub pots.

  * * *

  It was three nights later before Jack returned. Lying on her pallet beside the hearth, Faith heard him whistling as he brushed down his stallion. She was glad she had left the barn in pristine condition, all the horses well fed and groomed despite the fact that it had taken her the better part of the day and the ache of every muscle in her body. She hadn’t minded filling the loneliness with work, and the hope that she had pleased him kept
her awake as she waited for him to enter.

  He did so quietly, trying not to wake her. When she sat up, wrapping the blanket around the chemise and petticoat she wore to bed, he grinned and flung his cloak across the chair. It felt good to have someone waiting for him.

  “Hello, bean sidhe. Did you miss me?”

  A tentative smile slipped across her face, almost hidden by the shadows of the dying fire. “Shall I make some coffee for you?”

  “That won’t be necessary. I have my own brand of fire right here.” He reached up to the top of the cupboard and brought down the bottle of rum. He ignored the disapproval on her face and poured a fingerful, gulping it down to ease the chill from his bones. Then, carefully corking the bottle, he returned it to its hiding place. “That will do till morning. Would you like to see what I brought you?”

  Jack lit the lantern to better watch the glorious expression on the child’s frail features. Her face lit with such amazement and eagerness that it could have warmed his bones without the rum. Perhaps that was the reason people had children. He reached for the sack he had thrown down by the door.

  Those wide eyes grew fearful and wary, but he had nothing to hide. He was no fool to keep his stolen goods on hand. She would learn that soon enough. He drew out a string-wrapped parcel and tossed it to her.

  Faith fumbled and caught it, relieved at the gift’s wrapping—bought, not stolen. With trembling fingers she tore at the paper, aware that Jack watched her as he moved about the room, discarding scabbard and pistol and removing his boots.

  She drew out a bodice and skirt of deep green wool of so fine a weave that it felt like soft fur beneath her fingers. Even her best Sunday dresses had never been so grand.

  She didn’t dare look at him. It was highly improper for him to have bought this for her, but she knew he thought he was pleasing a child. Yet the gown had obviously been bought from stolen funds, and she could not balance the wrong and right of it.

  Apparently observing her hesitation, Jack ordered, “You will wear it before the other falls off your back. There’re some frilly things in there to go under it. And stockings. And shoes. I’ll not be carting you to a quack if your toes freeze off.”

  Faith gripped the gown against her. He was given to ordering her about, and she was accustomed to obeying orders, but she felt the first vague stirrings of rebellion. She glanced down to the rest of the contents of the package, and her heart ached to try them on, but her conscience reminded her of her Christian duty.

  “I thank you very much for thinking of me,” she offered, “but I don’t think I should accept. I have repaired my gown while you were gone, and I am quite healthy now, thank you.” At the dark look forming between his black brows, she hastily added, “Perhaps you could give these to someone who needs them more than I do.”

  Jack stared at her with incredulity, then stalked toward her, his shadow drowning the flickering lamp.

  Faith met his gaze without flinching, although it took effort.

  He grabbed the remainder of the package and shoved it into her arms. “You’ll wear it and not be ashamed of the source, or you’ll leave. I’ll not waste my time on a creature so self-righteous she’d freeze before accepting what’s offered her. Those kind weren’t meant to live in this world, but the next.”

  He walked out, slamming the door after him. He hadn’t even taken his cloak. He would freeze. Setting aside the gift and the decision until the morning, she took the tongs to the heated bricks in the fire, and wrapping them in towels, carried them to Jack’s bed.

  He had tried to do the Christian thing. Shouldn’t that count for something?

  When the lamplight caught on the silver of a papist crucifix nailed in the high corner of his bed cupboard, Faith nearly dropped the bricks. Then, turning to glance in the direction of the door through which Jack had left, she wondered if she had not underestimated the highwayman. Perhaps he had some code by which he lived, and she had not yet understood it. She would very much like to know his story.

  Chapter 4

  “It’s been three bloody weeks, bigawd! Why the deuce did no one come to me before this? I know you for zealous idiots, but I did not think you to be inhumane! Where the hell is she?”

  The man screaming his curses as he paced the elegant library was very much a creature of this time and place. His ramillies wig was powdered, his brocade waistcoat came to his knee and glittered with gold buttons and embroidery, and his buckram-stiffened scarlet frock coat had the sheen of silk.

  He wasn’t wearing powder on his face, but it would have been useless against his current choleric coloring. Lord Mountjoy’s lined features still bore the harsh angles of his youth, and with temper, his visage was formidable indeed.

  The soberly garbed man in broadcloth long coat and round uncocked hat, held respectfully in his hand, maintained his silence until he was certain he could be heard without shouting.

  “I personally traveled to Cornwall to determine the true events of what I read in the paper,” the sober man replied into a break in the ranting. “If you have any familiarity with that area at all, you know it is cut off from the rest of the world by centuries of suspicion and distrust. They took it into their own hands to handle matters. That goes against my methods, as surely you must know, but your son could not change centuries of behavior in a few short months.”

  “I know nothing of your methods, nor do I care to hear your heresy!” Mountjoy shouted. “You are a scandal to the name of your parents, a revolutionary, a destroyer of the church and society! I want to know what happened to my son, and I want to know the whereabouts of my granddaughter!”

  The man in black very much feared the older man would suffer an apoplexy, and he tried to ignore his own anger at the ignorance of his lordship. This was not the time to explain that his teachings were within the framework of the Anglican church, meant to strengthen and not to destroy.

  That he chose to preach to the poor and encourage them to rise from the mire invoked the wrath of the upper classes more than any damage to the church. Or perhaps it was the spontaneous emotion evoked by their meetings which revolted the blasé ton, but he suspected fear was behind it all.

  Satisfied the nobleman was prepared to listen, he replied, “Your son behaved with exemplary fortitude. He had developed a goodly sized following in those few short months, not an easy task in the face of the odds. He preached to the miners before they went to work in the early hours of the morning. He was a good speaker, and they listened.”

  The man in scarlet silk lifted a crystal paperweight from the table and heaved it at the cold stone hearth. The glass cracked and shattered, and his shoulders slumped. “What happened?” he demanded without emotion.

  “The usual fear of anyone or anything different. My methods and those of my followers are not generally accepted by the local clergy. They are offended and revolted by the emotion generated by our speakings. They preach their disapproval in their churches, and it falls on ears eager to hear it. Forgive me, but the landed gentry are none too pleased to see their servants and tenants band together. It breeds fear and distrust. The riots are nothing new. You have read of them before. It’s just in Cornwall... Well, the level of emotion rose higher than elsewhere. It was foreseeable, perhaps, but your son insisted that he could deal with it. He was a strong man, a fighter. He could not foresee that they would attack him with more than fists.”

  Lord Mountjoy turned a shade grayer, and his fists clamped the library table as if he would tear it in two. “Do they know who did it? Have they been caught yet?”

  “It was a riot, milord, an early-morning riot, before dawn. Undoubtedly there are those who know the men responsible, but they are a closemouthed lot. To keep their families safe, they will say nothing. It is a great tragedy, but that is the way of the world.” There was nothing he could say to the gentleman to ease his pain. Mountjoy had cast his younger son aside years ago. It was too late to mourn what might have been.

  “And my granddaughter?�
�

  This time, it was not the elegant man in scarlet who spoke, but a frail woman in black sitting in the far corner, almost out of sight. She was so pale and dainty and immobile as to be easily mistaken for a valuable porcelain doll clothed in silk.

  The man in broadcloth bowed in her direction. “The villagers feared she would come to harm and smuggled her out of town. She was given money and directions, but we are having some difficulty locating her. She seems to have missed the road she was to have taken.”

  “She could be no more than seventeen, sir.” There was reproach in her soft voice, but her fingers remained still in her lap, unlike those of the man who now stalked the floor again.

  “Lettice, go home. Let me handle this. There is no use in your making yourself ill.” Mountjoy stopped before her and held out his hand.

  She ignored it. “I want my granddaughter, Harry. She is all I have left. You and my late husband drove our children away. I’ll not be content until I have my granddaughter back. I hold you responsible for this, Harry. You knew where they were, and you never told me.”

  Mountjoy rubbed his eyes and turned away. “I had no idea where they were, Lettice. I never looked for them. I had thought it better that way.”

  She turned paler, if that were possible, and then she rose with dignity. “I should hate you for this, Harry, but I can see that it is my own fault for relying on you. I’ll not make that mistake again. Mr. Wesley, if you’ll excuse me?” She nodded and walked out.

  The stricken man in scarlet stared at the broken crystal on the hearth and spoke almost as if Wesley were not there. “Her daughter was just seventeen when she married my son. She was an only child. We’ll have to find the girl.”

  “She knows her daughter has been dead these last three years?”