The Highwayman (Rakes and Rogues of the Restoration Book 3) (40 page)

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Libertine’s Kiss

1658

Night had descended hours ago. He wandered a dark wilderness that was almost void of form. The sound of musket fire and the shouts of his pursuers had faded in the gathering storm. Now a mounting wind moaned and whistled, snapping off branches and rattling trees as thunder rumbled in the distance. The ice-cold rain, driven by angry gusts, fell in stinging sheets that raked his cheeks and turned the ground beneath him slick and treacherous. Thick oily mud squelched under his feet, gulping greedily at his ankles and clutching at his boots, and the torn bits of cloth wrapped tight around gashes in his arm and thigh were heavy with water, mud and blood.

He labored forward, fighting the elements and his own fatigue. His ragged breath strained in his ears. He clasped his injured arm tight against his chest, protecting it and the battered leather pouch strapped snug beneath his shirt. It was an unconscious act. For the past hour, all his attention had been fixed on a lonely flicker of light, wavering in the distance. Friend or foe, for now it was his only beacon. His exertions had opened his wounds. He was losing blood and heat and soon he would lose consciousness.

He limped to a halt at the edge of a small clearing. The rain had eased a bit, though the wind still battered in sudden whooping squalls. The feeble light had resolved itself into a warm glow that cast just enough illumination to coax shape and substance from the shadows. It emanated from the windows of a substantial cottage. His eyes flit here and there, coolly assessing. Isolated, two stories tall, built of brick and tidy stone; it was fitted with a solid slate roof and bay windows, and was too fine to belong to a simple farmer. A wealthy merchant or a gentleman’s hunting retreat perhaps, and potentially dangerous depending on whom was at home.

He listened intently. The house was quiet. No shouts, no laughter, no sounds of brawling or signs of horses, supplies or armed men. No signs it had been commandeered by Cromwell’s forces. His teeth flashed in a predatory grin and the fingers of his good hand twitched, then reached to caress the hilt of his saber. He needed shelter. Weapon drawn, keeping to the shadows, he crept forward.

There was no watchman, not even a mutt to raise an alarm. The only thing guarding the place was its solitude and a heavy wooden door. The latch seemed simple enough. He tried it with his free hand, but there was no strength in his arm and his numb fingers could barely feel to lift it. Cursing under his breath, he sheathed his sword and began working the latch with both hands as he pushed with his shoulder. The damned thing would not budge. His exertions were taking their toll. A wave of dizziness assailed him and he leaned back, letting the door take his weight as he waited for it to pass.

He lost his balance anyway, whirling to right himself, scrambling for his sword and fighting to stay on his feet as the door swung open suddenly on its own.

"Most people use the knocker or pull on the bell."

He gaped in astonishment. Her voice was calm with a hint of irony, her demeanor self-possessed, but her fine gray eyes were as wide and startled as if she had just seen a ghost. Straightening and swallowing his own surprise, he looked carefully about the room as his heart steadied.

"Other than a handful of servants, I am here alone."

Leaning against the doorjamb for support, he examined her as thoroughly as he had the room. She was a tiny thing, dressed in drab woolens and wrapped in a shawl she hugged close to her breast. Her hair was drawn into a severe bun hidden tight beneath a linen cap, accentuating a pale face that looked worn and tired. Her gaze was probing and wary. She reminded him of a brave little bird, torn between curiosity and the impulse to take flight. Collecting himself, he removed a wide-brimmed hat with a rain-soaked plume, and performed a courtly bow. "Good evening to you, madam. My apologies for the rude intrusion, but I’ve traveled as far as I may this day, and ''tis wicked cold outside."

She noted his height, his disheveled appearance, his sodden bandages, and his cavalier’s clothes. Her eyes met his…searching…and then looked pointedly at his sword.

He sheathed it as if at her command.

A gust of wind slammed the door against the wall and sent a sheet of water spattering across the flagstone floor. She took another step back and motioned with her hand. "Come inside. I’ll give you shelter from the storm." He let go of the doorjamb, took one step, then another, and toppled into her arms.

He awoke sometime later resting precariously on a dainty settee that was all but dwarfed by his length. Covered in warm blankets and settled in front of a cheerful fire, he was no longer cold, but his arm throbbed in time with his pulse. His leg burned like the fires of hell, and he ached all over. Grimacing, he tugged at his coverings, pulling them back to survey the damage, only to find he had been stripped of breeches and shirt, and other than a clean dressing and his boots, he was naked underneath. His lips quirked in amusement and he scanned the room, searching for his nurse.

She sat in the corner in a well-appointed chair, haloed by candlelight, frowning in concentration as she stitched his shirt. He watched her unobserved, smiling when she bent her head, lips parted, and snipped the thread with sharp little teeth. Though her hair and clothing made her appear severe, that unguarded gesture made her seem younger than he had first imagined. I doubt she’s any older than I am.

She was not so plain as that, either. Long a veteran campaigner in the lists of love as well as the field of battle, he was somewhat of a connoisseur. Sometimes the quiet ones burned brightest. The little abbess had full lips, a becoming pout, and a mouth that begged to be kissed. Fine cheekbones would serve her well in old age, and he was fascinated by her eyes, intent now on her sewing. They changed in the light when he tilted his head, from a smoky gray to hints of stormy blue. Siren’s' eyes. A daughter of the sea. He smiled, wondering what she would look like with her hair unbound.

His sex stirred and he grinned, forgetting for a moment the gnawing pain in his bicep and the angry stinging in his leg. What is she doing here by herself? No father. No husband. She can’t be married. No man would be so foolish as to leave her unprotected in these dangerous times. Perhaps she’s been widowed by the wars. Perhaps he should release her stays, loosen her hair and pull her down for a tumble. How long had she been alone? What depths of fire and passion simmered beneath that prim exterior, just waiting to ignite? He chuckled to himself and shook his head. He must be jaded indeed to imagine a houri from his tight-bound little wren. Still…there was something about her—

His heart lurched in his chest as he suddenly remembered his mission. Tossing blankets and pillows aside, he began a frenzied search for the pouch that could mean so much to his king. He subsided in relief as suddenly as he had started, when he found it still strapped to his side, but his movements alerted the little wren, who looked up curiously from her stitching.

"I am not in the habit of rifling the belongings of sleeping guests. Your secrets are your own."

His secrets. She had no idea. He thought back to the chaos and fury of the young King Charles’s stand at Worcester nearly seven years ago and the mad scramble as Charles’s loyal cavaliers and Scots strove to defend him, then fought to give him time to escape. The king was amiable, informal and an easy man to love, but at six foot three he had not been an easy one to hide. Dependant on the help of royalist supporters and a network of Catholic sympathizers versed in moving wanted men, they had lived as commoners for six weeks, eluding Cromwell’s ferocious grip. They had experienced life in a way kings and courtiers never did, and grown close in a way only those who shared adventure and danger ever could.

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?”