Read The Highwayman (Rakes and Rogues of the Restoration Book 3) Online
Authors: Judith James
The Highwayman (Rakes and Rogues of the Restoration Book 3)
Praise for
JUDITH JAMES
“Judith James fearlessly bursts through the ceiling of the historical romance genre and soars to astounding heights. Her writing is intriguing, daring, exquisitely dark, and emotionally riveting.” ~ USA Today bestselling author, Julianne MacLean
“Upscale historical romance at its best!” ~
Historical Novels Review
Rakes and Rogues of the Restoration
The Highwayman
"Rooted in an authentic historical setting, this thrilling tale of passion and adventure will leave you breathless."
~Sabrina Jeffries,
NYT
bestselling author
“A sensual romance with history leaping off every page...so very well done...a stirring adventure...The love scenes are moving and tender...quite unique and splendid..
~Regan Walker, Regan’s Romance Reviews
Libertine’s Kiss
“Fueled by sizzling sensuality and sharp wit, James’ refreshingly different historical deftly re-creates the glittering, colorful court of Charles II while also delivering an unforgettable love story.”
~John Charles,
Booklist
starred review
“Judith James juggles poetry, Restoration court culture, and fairytale references with an almost perfect sense of timing...There is really nothing out there quite like this.”
~Lynn Spencer,
All About Romance
Desert Isle Keeper Review
“Readers will find this poignant love story enthralling and unforgettable.”
~Kathe Robin,
Romantic Times
top pick
Soldier of Fortune
(The King’s Courtesan)
“James’ fully realized version of naughty, bawdy Restoration England is the ideal setting for her marvelous characters to play out their sensual and romantic love story. The quick pace, strong dialogue and high degree of sensuality added to the lush backdrop will have readers enthralled.” ~
Romantic Times
top pick
“This is one really hot delicious book that you won’t be able to put down...a tale you won’t want to miss just for this last sentence alone.”~Terra
Yankee Romance Reviewers
Available from
JUDITH JAMES
Rakes and Rogues of the Restoration
Libertine’s Kiss
Nominated RT Best British Isles Historical
AAR Desert Island Keeper
Booklist starred review
Romantic Times Top Pick
Soldier of Fortune
(Enhanced version of The King’s Courtesan)
Romantic Times Top Pick
The Highwayman
~~
Previous Works
Broken Wing
Winner of Independent Publisher’s IPPY Gold
Romance Novel TV Best Debut
Historical Novels Review Editor’s Choice
AAR Desert Island Keeper
AAR Honorable Mention Best Book
AAR Buried Treasure
Highland Rebel
A Barnes and Noble book of the year
Historical Novels Review Editors Choice
One of the best of 2009 Dear Author
The Highwayman
JUDITH JAMES
Halfpenny House
Digital Edition
Copyright © 2014 Judith James
Halfpenny House
Digital ISBN: 978-0-9920504-1-2
Print ISBN: 978-0-9920504-5-0
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions
The license to use this book is granted through its purchase via legitimate retail avenues, or with the express written permission of the author. The purchase of this book licenses it for your personal use only. All rights to this book and the text there-in are reserved and non-transferrable including the right to reproduce, lend, download, transmit, decompile, resell or reverse engineer any part thereof in any form without the express written permission of the copyright holder. The reverse engineering, uploading and/or sale or distribution of this book without the express permission of the copyright holder are illegal and punishable by law. This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and events are solely the product of the author’s imagination.
Cover, image, design, styling, modeling and clothing by Rob Lucas
Copyright © Rob Lucas Pimpernel
Cover Rob Lucas
Photo credit: Fiona Bennett
Formatting: L.K. e-book formatting
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I would like to give a very special thanks to my dear readers. I know it’s been a long wait and your unflagging patience and support have meant so much.
I would also like to thank some folks who have been very generous with their time and expertise in helping prepare this book for publication. To my beta and proof readers, Cindy Coulombe, Sandra Mackenzie, Linda Todd, and Regan Walker, bless you for your eagle eyes, incisive comments, and great suggestions. A special thanks to Bev Pettersen, and editors Pat Thomas and particularly Janet Bank for a super catch and for all their help with the early edits.
Once again, I would also like to thank blogger, photographer, model, re-enactor, weapons consultant, and period clothing designer, Rob Lucas. When the opportunity came to launch this series it was the black-and-white photo Rob uses for his
Rakish Highwayman
blog that was the inspiration for all three covers.
Although The Highwayman is a work of fiction, the character of Arabella Hamilton is based on the 17th century travel writer and journalist, Celia Fiennes. The quotes, journal entries (and spelling) at the head of some chapters and in the text are hers.
I hope you will forgive me for using Alfred Noyes’
The Highwayman
to start this tale. It is one of my favorite poems and although it was published long after the events of this story, it was surely inspired by the romantic appeal of men such as Swift Nick. It is also, what first inspired me to write this tale.
If you would like to know more about Celia Fiennes, or the real-life highwayman known to history as Swift Nick, you might enjoy reading the historical note at the end of this story. Thank you for joining me on this adventure. I hope you enjoy the journey!
‘The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding--riding--riding--
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.
’
~Alfred Noyes
(1680)
The Highwayman stopped his mount outside the Talbot Inn at Newark. It was one of several inns he thought of as home. Some men knew him as John Nevison, a useful name for business or when he wished to be discrete. Those who braved the Great North Road called him Gentleman Jack, a well-mannered rogue who stole their goods with courtesy and charm. The pamphleteers preferred the sobriquet Swift Nick, given him by King Charles, likening him to the devil, claiming his mount was black as pitch, a demon horse with flaming hooves that barely skimmed the ground. The only name he never used was the one left him by his aristocratic sire. He allowed no man to call him Harris, and his friends and associates called him Jack.
“Easy, Bess,” he murmured, calming his restive mare with a gentle hand to her withers. She snorted and pawed the ground. She had carried him far this day and had more than earned her oats and ale. He slid easily to the ground and surveyed his surroundings, ignoring the impatient butting of her head against his back. “I’m hungry too, lass. It’s well fed and cozy we’ll be soon enough.” His voice, pitched low and soothing, was laced with a tinge of amusement.
It was a fine late summer’s night, lit by a warm glow from the inn and a silvery quarter moon. The smell of cooked sausage drifted on the breeze and a burst of music and laughter spilled through an open ground floor window, but he clung to the shadows. He’d not survived this long without learning a little caution.
His eyes flicked carefully over the inn yard. A stage from London and one from York, barrels of ale and wine, and several crates, empty but for a few stray feathers. Tethered horses belonging to locals whickered back and forth, including Ned’s roan and Billy’s bay gelding. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary. His stomach grumbled and Bess nudged him again. He stepped from beneath the arched coach entrance and into the light.
A redheaded freckle-faced boy posted near the door rushed forward, as thin and awkward as only a lad halfway between boy and man could be. Awestruck and stammering he reached for the bridle. “I’ll…I’ll see to her, Jack…Oat’s and ale and a fine bed of straw. I’ll rub her down good. I…” The lad caught Jack’s pointed look and reddened, dropping his hand. The mare dipped her head and whickered, letting the boy caress her broad forehead and finely tapered muzzle before Jack gently pushed his hand away.
“I’ll see to her myself, Allen. As I always do. Here.” He tossed him half a crown. “Tell Ned and Billy to make room at the table and order me ale and a meal. And for God’s sake fill your belly. A gatepost has more flesh.”
He watched the boy hurry away, and then he led Bess to the comfortable stall reserved as hers. Allen reminded him of himself at that age.
Without the bruises and anger
. Once he grew into himself he’d be a broad-shouldered well-made man, provided Ben Winslow the innkeeper kept him fed. He’d done right to bring him here. What better home for an abandoned bastard with a bottomless pit where his stomach should be?
It suited me well enough.
Like the boy, he’d known hunger and the taste of fear. He also knew that children had an immense capacity to hate…and he knew what power there could be in the indifferent kindness of a stranger.
The mare rested her head against his shoulder as if sensing his darkening thoughts. A desert princess she was, clean-limbed, swan-necked, and coal-black without a speck of white. She was a combination of spirit, intelligence, and surefooted grace and speed, with all the beauty and endurance characteristic of her breed. If not for her, he would have met his maker years ago, by pistol, sword or noose. If not for her, he would have grown to be a bitter hate-filled man.
No one could have blamed him. At the age of seven, his father sold him for a shilling for the day. At ten, he’d been left for dead after a brutal beating. He used to lay awake at night dreaming of revenge. It was the only thing that kept him warm. But a stranger came and stole that dream, leaving in its stead, freedom, a purse, and for the first time in his life...a choice.
Johnny Harris, his sire, as base and ignoble a brute as any in England, had been born an aristocrat. John Nevison, having disowned and abandoned any connection to his father, was free to invent himself. He’d chosen his own name, and after honing his skills and fattening his purse on the battlefields of Flanders, he’d chosen to join the aristocracy of the road. A proper knight of the highway needed a suitable mount, so he’d guarded his money until he found Bess. She was worth more than the purse he’d been given, even as a surly, half-broken filly, but the ham-fisted colonel who owned her had outlived his luck at cards and had his back, quite literally, to the wall.
