Soldier of Fortune: The King's Courtesan (Rakes and Rogues of the Retoration Book 2) (44 page)

He had bonded with Charles, not only as king to subject, but man to man. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for him and no task more important than seeing him safe to France, but none of them had expected their exile to last for years. When they had crossed the channel to France, he had been filled with hope and pride. He would help his king fulfill his destiny. They would reclaim the throne that Cromwell and his ilk had stolen from him in an unimaginable act of regicide. But when they had arrived in Rouen, bedraggled and spent, they had to borrow money and clothes before an innkeeper would rent them a room. It was a theme that had characterized their years in exile.

Despite his charms and graces, Charles had become the poor relation who embarrassed everyone, and no one knew what to do with. He lived on credit, charity and promises, until the goal was no longer to raise an army, but simply to pay for their bread. William had been sent repeatedly to different places in halfhearted efforts to gain support. It was a humiliating and dispiriting task, one for which he was ill suited. So when he tired of being kept waiting in the great halls of Europe, or seducing women and playing cards, he left for England and took to the roads. It was a welcome distraction at first. One that provided himself and his grateful king with some much-needed funds, but lately he had grown as weary of it as he had of everything else. The sense of purpose he’d felt as a fugitive cavalier protecting his outlawed king was with him still, but the idealism and sense of exhilaration had long since waned.

This time, though, there was news. The Old Pretender Cromwell was rumored to be gravely ill and his son ill equipped to grip the reins of power. There was talk of rebellion, offers of support, and a very important missive from a man who could help put Charles back on his throne. His pursuers thought they were chasing another of the hundreds of disgruntled cavaliers turned highwaymen who bloomed like wildflowers along England’s roads since the end of the civil wars. If they had known what he carried, they would have—

“Here. Take this.” Gentle fingers brushed back his hair.

He blinked up at her in surprise and reached out to accept a tumbler full of brandy. She had snuck up next to him, bearing gifts, and her casual touch suggested she might offer more. I need to rest and regain my strength. I’ll stay the night, and be on my way by morning. He grinned and nodded his thanks, then tossed back the sweet liquor. It tasted of apples and warmed his insides, spreading through him like liquid heat, and he handed her the glass, motioning for more. She refilled it and watched in silence as he emptied most of it in one swallow.

His gaze quickened with interest and his lips curved in a slight smile as he noted a stray tendril of hair that had escaped its bonds to tumble down her cheek. It gleamed in the lamplight in fiery hues. Something stirred within him, akin to faint remembrance. Mesmerized, he reached a finger to tuck it back but she stepped abruptly away. His smile widened to a grin. Fire and ice, bound tight in a plain brown wrapper. How intriguing! I wonder what she’d look like clothed only in jewels. I am grown fanciful. It must be loss of blood.

He tugged the blanket aside, baring his leg, and she lifted the dressing, probing gently, her fingertips brushing his naked flesh as she checked the wound. He hissed on indrawn breath and she looked up, concerned.

“I am sorry. Am I hurting you?”

He reached for her hand and held it a moment, his fingers stroking her palm as his thumb caressed her knuckles. “I am swollen and aching, little bird, but I feel certain your touch can relieve me.”

She looked at him uncertainly, tugging her hand to free it.

With a knowing smile, he let it slide from his grasp.

“That is some very fine stitch work. You are skilled at nursing, madam. You did it while I lay sleeping?”

“I tended the sword wound while you were unconscious, yes. You were very lucky. You’ve lost a fair bit of blood but ’tis not as bad as I feared. The cut missed any major arteries and it appears to have bled clean. Provided there’s no infection, you should be fine. I will tend to the swelling soon.”

He choked on what remained of his drink, covering it with a cough. When he had recovered himself, he raised his empty glass and gave her a charming grin. “Won’t you join me in a toast first, to my speedy recovery and your formidable skills?”

“I don’t think that would be wise,” she said primly.

“Come, lass. Share a drink with me. It’s a bitter night and just the two of us here, cozy by the fire. There’s no one to know,” he coaxed.

She snatched his glass away and set it on the mantel. “I’ve seen to your leg. I’ve yet to attend to your arm. There’s a bullet to be removed and more stitches, I’m afraid. Surely you would prefer I attend to it with a steady hand.”

“Yes, actually, I would. But one wonders why you didn’t complete the task whilst I slept…instead of darning my shirt.”

She pursed her lips; a little put out by his ingratitude, but managed a patient reply. “Attending to your leg took longer than expected, and I was afraid you would regain consciousness while I worked on your arm. Any sudden move would be…well…best avoided. Now that you are awake, we can start. This may sting a bit, but I need you to cooperate and stay very still.”

He nodded, holding out his hand for his glass. She refilled it and waited while he took another swallow. He closed his eyes and offered her his arm, nodding again for her to begin. She knelt beside him, the soft curve of her breast brushing his shoulder, and his lips curled in a smile as he settled his head against her bosom. He could feel her heart beating, slow and steady beneath his cheek, and he thought he detected a faint scent of lavender. Perhaps it was her soap. She stiffened, and he opened one eye to see her regarding him suspiciously.

“What? If you had put me someplace proper I could sprawl out in comfort, but I am stuck on this flimsy thing, and I need you to balance me lest I tip over the edge. How did you manage to move me here anyway?”

“With the help of my servants. You were too heavy to carry far, and are lucky we didn’t leave you lying on the wet floor.”

“I am most grateful, madam. And where are they now? These servants of yours?”

“Hiding.”

“A cowardly lot, are they? But you are not afraid.”

“No. I am not afraid. Now please be quiet and make no sudden moves.” Biting her lip in concentration, she began working on his arm, probing carefully for the bullet. She labored in silence for several long minutes. His body clenched tight from his teeth to his toes and a cold sweat beaded his brow, but other than a few muttered curses, he obeyed her.

“Aah!”

He turned his head to look. She waved her tweezers triumphantly, the fugitive bullet clamped tight within their grasp.

“All of that with naught but your sewing kit,” he managed between tightly gritted teeth.

She gave him a broad smile, her eyes sparkling, and patted his shoulder making him flinch. “You did very well! The danger is past and we’re nearly done.”

He replied with a weak grin, grateful that his hostess was a capable country lass rather than one of the decorative dolls he had grown accustomed to, but when she set to cleaning and stitching, he couldn’t stifle a groan. He held his breath, eyes closed, one hand gripping his glass, clenching and unclenching as she worked a neat and tidy cross stitch on his arm.

“Why aren’t you afraid? Don’t you think you should be?” he managed hoarsely, desperate for any distraction.

“Think you so?”

The thought occurred to him that she had never asked his name, nor where he came from, how he got his wound, or what he had been doing outside her door. In fact,…she was curiously incurious. He continued clenching and unclenching his fist.

“You are out here by yourself. It is lonely and dangerous in the woods, little bird. Do you feed every wolf that happens upon your door?”

She pulled the stitch tight. He winced and swore under his breath.

“There! All done. You can relax now.” She grasped his fisted hand and unclenched it, removing the glass from his grip and placing it on the floor. She massaged his palm briskly with her own to bring back his circulation. Holding his hand in her lap, she traced a faint scar that patterned the base of his thumb, and then looked up with a pensive gaze. His eyes, as green and layered as the forest depths, gleamed feral in the firelight. “Is that what you are? A wolf?”

His breathing was ragged. “Perhaps. A tame one though, madam, I assure you.”

She released his hand abruptly; as if only now aware she held it. “Meaning you will not piss on the furniture and chase my chickens?”

He gave a bark of laughter. His abbess had a salty tongue. Perhaps she wasn’t the cloistered innocent she appeared. This day had gone from bad, to better, to promising indeed. “Meaning I will not bite the hand that feeds me.”

“Good! Marjorie will be glad to hear it.” She rose to her feet, abandoning him abruptly. He watched in amusement as she straightened her apron and adjusted her slightly skewed cap, returning her stray curls to their prison before tugging on a bell cord and bustling about the parlor tidying up.

He closed his eyes and listened to her soft humming. The brandy had dulled his senses as well as his pain, but there was something vaguely familiar about the tune. He felt a pleasant ache, a yearning sense of melancholy, but though the melody teased at his memory he was unable to place it. His ponderings were interrupted by the arrival of a stout, white-faced maid carrying broth and bread, and a posset of milk, herbs, and spices. Despite her considerable girth, she seemed as skittish as a mouse, and when he caught her eye and grinned she squeaked like one too.

“There’s no need to fear, Marjorie. He’s as weak as a kitten and harmless for now. I am going to need your help to move him once he’s eaten, so please stay close.”

He grinned at the maid again and licked his lips, as if reminding her that kittens ate mice too. Finding her courage, she lifted her chin and glared back.

“Pease don’t tease my servants. They’ve been through an ordeal and it’s kind of them to share my exile.”

“Your exile?”

“Never mind. ’Tis none of your concern. Drink your broth. All of it. And the posset Marjorie has made you too.”

He wrinkled his nose, but directed a nod of thanks towards the older woman who stood poised by the door ready to take flight. She nodded back, giving him a careful look he found somewhat disconcerting. He pulled his gaze away and returned his attention to his hostess.

“I should rather have more brandy.”

“That was for the pain. I should think you well insulated by now. You’ve lost a good deal of blood and you need your liquids. You can have more brandy with your posset once we have you tucked into bed.”

He gave her a wicked smile, diverted by the thought of her wrestling his naked body into bed, and obliged her by drinking the broth and tearing into a hearty loaf of bread. He hadn’t eaten in two days and he devoured it all, even the warmed milk. It was laced with tincture of opium as well as honey, herbs and spices, and the pain from his wounds quickly faded to a dull memory.

His hunger eased and his thirst slaked, his appetite was whetted for other things. Unfortunately, the abbess insisted, along with maid Marjorie’s determined help, on slipping him back into his long shirt before assisting him to his feet and down the hall to a proper bed. It appeared he really was as weak as a kitten; or at least too weak to protest.

She sat beside him a moment, and drew the blankets up to his chin. “Sleep now. We are deep in the forest. No one ever comes here. It’s safe.”

It worried him that she asked no questions. It was clear from his clothing what he was, and her kind were no friends to royalist cavaliers. He was also mightily annoyed by the smug and watchful presence of her maid by the door, precluding any attempt at seduction. There seemed little point in fighting the effects of brandy, fatigue, and the old woman’s posset. Waving them both away with a yawn and a languid hand, he allowed their ministrations to do their work, and slipped gently into sleep.

***

Elizabeth sat in the parlor wrapped tight in her shawl, feeling cold and strangely hollow inside. His coming had been so unexpected. She had feared at first it was Benjamin at her door until she remembered that he was dead. Perhaps it was shock that left her feeling numb. She laid her head back and listened to the rain, softer now, pattering on the pane. The fire had died to coals; its merry crackle now nothing more than the occasional hiss and pop. She blew out the lamp, and as darkness engulfed her, her loneliness did too. She turned her head as if she could see through wooden door and plaster wall to where he lay sleeping, and then she stood and started down the hall.

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The Highwayman

Some call him Gentleman Jack; others know him as Swift Nick. The only name Jack Nevison never uses is the one left to him by his abusive sire. Jack wants nothing to do with his heritage; instead, he preys on the wealthy, stealing coin (and the occasional kiss) on England's darkest roads. Jack's dangerous deeds are legend, yet the thrill of a highwayman's life is growing cold. Beautiful and bold, Arabella Hamilton may come from the world Jack despises, but she's a kindred spirit at heart. When circumstances bring them together the sparks ignite, yet they remain on opposite sides of society and the law, and with each encounter, they risk more. To be together, one of them will have to give up their world forever.

The adventures and exploits of real-life highwayman Swift Nick and the observations and writings of 17
th
century travel writer Celia Fiennes are woven throughout this tale, which takes the reader from the privileged world of London’s aristocracy to the highways and byways, inns and hunting grounds of some of England’s most celebrated rogues. I hope you will enjoy it, and think it worth the wait.

If you are a blogger or reviewer interested in an advanced copy for review, you can contact me at
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