The Rebel

by C. J. Archer

  "Are the owners of this fine farm at home?" Oxley asked.

  "The mistress is in the bakehouse. Her brother is in the fields."

  "Another brother and sister Cowdrey?" Oxley wrinkled his nose. "How repetitive."

  A burst of red flashed before Nick's eyes. He grabbed the dandy's pretty silk doublet at his throat and shook him. Nick was only an inch or so taller, but he was much broader in the chest and shoulders. Oxley didn't look like he could swat a fly. On the other hand, he didn't look particularly worried about having his nose smashed either. He simply raised a lazy eyebrow as if impatiently waiting for the next act of the show.

  "You will keep your thoughts about the previous owners of this farm to yourself," Nick snarled. "Understand?"

  Oxley put his hat back on his head, casual as can be. "Well, well. Developed an affection for the little wench, have you?" He spoke so quietly that no one outside their immediate circle would have heard.

  Nick's grip tightened. He must have been almost choking Oxley by now, but he didn't care. The rage inside him could not be dampened. It consumed him like a blistering, hot fire. He'd only ever felt such anger once before that he could recall—when his father had found him at his mother's cottage.

  "It's good to see you're still with us, Cole," Oxley went on as if this sort of thing happened to him all the time. "Orlando had me worried there. I thought perhaps we'd lost you too. Now, would you mind letting go? Your hands are filthy, and I'd rather not break your fingers."

  "I'd like to see you try, my lord."

  "Don't tempt him," Monk said idly.

  Oxley sighed loudly. "I really have missed you, and breaking your fingers wouldn't do either of us any good." He fixed that pale, otherworldly stare on Nick. Nick stared right back, but instead of meeting aloof, cold eyes, he saw warmth and a depth of feeling he couldn't even begin to fathom.

  His fingers sprang apart, and he stepped back, rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand. Where had that overpowering anger come from? And how did Lord Oxley dissolve it with a single stare?

  "So you know about her family," Oxley said. The silk of his doublet was still creased where Nick's fingers had curled into it. For someone who seemed to care a lot about his appearance, it was odd that he didn't straighten it out.

  "Those people were not her family," Nick growled. "Not in the real sense of the word. Have a care in her presence. If either of you utter a single word to upset Lucy, I'll thrash you."

  Monk looked to Oxley, but Oxley merely sighed once more. "Let's go inside and see if we can't dig out some of your memories," he said. "Everything might appear different then."

  Nick washed up in the pail of water near the stable entrance, then led Oxley and Monk to the house. Brutus bounded up as they approached the kitchen garden, Lucy not far behind. She paused when she saw them, her eyes wide.

  "My apologies," she said, quickly removing her apron. "I didn't hear anyone arrive. Brutus usually barks, but for some reason he didn't."

  Upon hearing his name, Brutus sat at his mistress's feet and looked up at her through adoring eyes. He gave a small whine, as if he knew she was displeased with him.

  Nick performed introductions as he rubbed the dog's back and ears.

  "My lord," Lucy said, giving an awkward little curtsey. "I apologize for the state of the house. We must enter through the kitchen for now, until the renovations on the front porch are complete."

  Oxley smiled and showed no sign that he found the arrangement distasteful. Nick wasn't sure what he'd expected the earl to say or do. The man was a difficult one to pin down based on what Nick had seen so far.

  "You're friends of Nick's, aren't you?" she asked.

  "Indeed, although he doesn't seem to remember just how close we are." Oxley rubbed his throat, but his smile didn't waver.

  "Orlando mentioned you," she went on. "He and Susanna are good friends and neighbors of ours."

  "And Lord Lynden?" Monk asked. "Is he a good neighbor too?"

  "I see him but rarely. Are you and he friends, Mr. Monk?"

  "Acquaintances."

  Oxley cleared his throat and offered his arm to Lucy. She glanced at Nick before taking it. "We thought we might stay at Sutton Hall while we're in the area," Hughe said.

  "Lord Lynden isn't at home. He'll be returning with his ladies shortly, I believe."

  Monk's head snapped round. "Ladies? What ladies?"

  Lucy shrugged. "I'm not sure. Perhaps you can tell us, since you know him. Does he have sisters or cousins who might come to—? Mr. Monk, are you all right? You've gone quite pale."

  Indeed he had. Even his lips were white. "Cousins," he muttered. "He has always been fond of his female cousins."

  "It must be they," Lucy said, letting go of Oxley's arm and taking Monk's. "I think you'd better come inside and sit down."

  Lucy and Monk walked in together. Nick glared at their backs. She'd hardly even looked at him since the arrival of the two gentlemen, and now she had a new patient to fuss over, it was as if he wasn't there.

  It was his fault for pushing her away. He couldn't blame her for being angry with him after he'd rejected her the night before. He may deserve it, and it was definitely for the best, but he didn't like it.

  "Bloody hell," Oxley said softly. Nick glanced at him, but the earl was gazing at the doorway through which Lucy and Monk had just walked. With a heavy sigh, he followed them in.

  ***

  Lucy found the two gentlemen to be delightful company, yet entirely different from one another. Monk was friendly enough, but there was a reserve to him and steeliness behind his carefully chosen words. She wondered if it was wholly to do with the news that Lord Lynden was bringing home his cousins, or whether it was just his nature.

  Lord Oxley, on the other hand, was like an exotic bird, all bright feathers and twittering chatter with very little conversation of any depth passing his lips. Why men as interesting as Orlando and Nick would be friends with him was beyond her imagination. Even Monk seemed not to want to engage in Oxley's conversations and stood quietly by the parlor window, staring into the distance.

  "Lord Oxley," she said when he paused in his retelling of their long journey to Cowdrey Farm. "Can you tell Nick anything about his past? There is a significant gap in his memory, and it would be helpful if you could fill some of it in."

  It was no less than the third attempt at bringing the conversation back to Nick and his lost memories, and the third failure. Oxley laughed and waved his hand in the air. "There's little to tell. He has poor sense of style, as you can see, and he's decidedly moody."

  "Moody?" It was something that Orlando had mentioned in regard to Nick, but she was yet to see any real proof of it. She glanced at him, sitting on her right, but he was as stiff as a statue. No doubt he hated being the object of discussion, but surely the need to learn more about himself would override his feelings. So why didn't he help her and question Lord Oxley instead of acting like a disinterested bystander? "I wouldn't describe him as moody," she said.

  Lord Oxley twisted a large sapphire ring on the middle finger of his left hand. "How would you describe him, Mistress Cowdrey?"

  "Kind. Amiable." She glanced at Nick again out of the corner of her eye. He swallowed hard and stared down at his feet. "That must have been what he was like when he was eighteen."

  "Hmmm. Eighteen, eh?" Oxley chuckled. "I'd wager you got up to all sorts of mischief, as we all did at that age."

  "I doubt it," Nick said.

  "So it's true then? You can't recall anything that happened to you in the last eleven years? That must have been one nasty blow to the head." He winced and patted the pale hair at his temple. "Do you have to wear that bandage, Cole? It's not the most fetching headgear."

  Nick's gaze slid to Oxley's. "The name's Nick or Coleclough."

  Oxley made a miffed sound through his nose. "See what I mean? Moody."

  Nick wouldn't hit the earl, would he? Surely not. It wasn't in his nature. Lucy didn't think this moros
eness was in his nature either, yet there he sat like a grim statue glaring at his so-called friend. "My lord, is there anything you can tell us about the time you two spent together?" she asked. "It might help trigger his memories. How did you meet, for example?"

  Oxley twisted his ring again and scrunched up his handsome face in either thought or distaste, it was difficult to tell which. "It was so long ago." He pressed his hand to his stomach and apologized for the rumbling. Lucy hadn't heard anything. "It's been hours since we ate."

  "It is close to dinnertime," Nick said, rising. "I'll take Monk and Oxley into the hall if you want to see to the servants," he said to her.

  She narrowed her eyes at him, but he was already striding away to the door. Well!

  "Thank you, Mistress Cowdrey," Monk said, moving away from the window. "We appreciate your hospitality at such short notice."

  "You are a kind, dear lady," Lord Oxley said, bowing. "My stomach thanks you, as do I."

  She swept past Nick in the doorway. Her arm brushed his. She looked up and saw the same deep sadness in his eyes that had been there that morning. Their fingers touched ever so lightly until he pulled away. His jaw hardened. His eyes darkened.

  "Come with me," he said to their visitors.

  She left them without being entirely sure she was doing the right thing in leaving Nick alone with those two. She didn't trust them, although she didn't entirely distrust them either. It's just that they were odd, and their connection to Orlando and Nick was shrouded in secrecy. Oxley in particular had avoided answering her questions.

  She would leave them alone for a while and let them talk about whatever it was they didn't want her to hear. Hopefully Nick would confide in her later.

  ***

  "We only have a few minutes until she returns," Lord Oxley said, rounding on Nick as soon as the door was shut. "So talk. What in God's name happened to you?" He crossed his arms and set his feet apart. Suddenly, he didn't look like the limp dandy anymore, but an earl in command of an army.

  "I told you," Nick snapped. "I don't remember."

  Oxley's eyes narrowed. "Truthfully?"

  "Yes."

  "You thought Orlando was mistaken?" Monk asked the earl.

  "I thought his messenger got confused." Oxley blew out a breath. "Bloody hell. Of all the things to go wrong, I didn't plan on this being one of them."

  Monk gave a grudging laugh. "Nice to know the mighty Lord Oxley is human after all. I have been wondering."

  "Very amusing," Oxley muttered. "Cole—Nick—is there nothing you remember about the attack? A sound or—"

  "No. Holt has already grilled me, and my answer to him was the same as my answer to you. I don't remember anything. Not a voice, a footfall, nothing. The last thing I recall was… was being eighteen. Then I woke up in a meadow with my head feeling like it had been cleaved in two."

  "It's just a crack," Oxley said.

  "Thanks for your sympathy."

  "The Cole I know would have shrugged it off."

  "The Cole you knew has disappeared. I'm not sure he even existed."

  Monk and Oxley exchanged a glance. "He existed well enough," Monk said. "I spent from sunup to sundown for an entire month in his company while he trained me. You trained me."

  "At what?"

  "Killing."

  Bile rose to Nick's throat, and the world tilted. He gripped the edge of the large dining table to steady himself.

  Monk lifted one shoulder. "We're assassins. What did you think you taught me?"

  "It's a little too late to let it bother you now," Oxley said. He pulled out a chair near Nick and gripped his shoulder. With far more strength than Nick thought the wiry man possessed, he forced Nick to sit.

  Nick blinked up at the men who were supposed to be his friends. It seemed so unreal, as if they were talking about someone else. Orlando Holt had told Nick they were assassins, but he hadn't really believed him. Yet here were two more saying the same thing.

  "Was I… am I good at… killing?" Nick asked.

  Oxley sat on the chair beside him and fixed him with that peculiar ice-blue gaze. "Yes." One side of his mouth lifted in a wry smile. "You were—are—bloody good."

  "You're an unforgiving, cold-hearted prick," Monk said. "I thought you'd kill me on more than one occasion during my training. Hughe assured me you wouldn't, but I don't think he'd ever looked into your eyes when you wielded a sword."

  Killer's eyes.

  "Holt told me we only assassinate the deserving." It was the one redeeming quality of those missing years that Nick could hold on to. Perhaps he wasn't all bad. Perhaps he could take something good from those lost years, before he left them behind forever. "Tell me about the Larkham man I… killed."

  Oxley sat back in the chair and stretched out his long legs under the table. "He forced two young women to… well, let's just say the acts were despicable. Unforgiveable. They were virgins both. Nice girls from nice families. He disfigured them horribly but not on their faces, not where anyone can see."

  Nick's stomach rolled again, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Monk shake his head slowly. Oxley, however, spoke with detached candor. If the horror of Renny's crimes bothered him, he didn't show it.

  "Surely the people of Larkham would bring justice down on the man if they found out," Nick said. "Why not let them take care of their own?"

  "That would mean the girls would be identified. They and their families don't want that. This way, our way, they keep their anonymity, and justice is done."

  Nick closed his eyes, drew a deep breath. He was right. It was the only way. Those girls had to be protected at all costs. A public trial would only have hurt them more and would probably have amounted to nothing if the man held influence.

  "So I killed this man Renny in the local tavern," Nick said.

  Oxley drew his legs under his chair and sat up straight. "How do you know that? Did Orlando tell you?"

  "Two Larkham men were here last night. They're looking for Renny's killer."

  Monk swore softly. "You didn't give anything away, did you?"

  "Of course not," Nick said.

  "And they didn't recognize you?" Oxley asked.

  "No. Apparently I wore a disguise. I only know it was me because Holt told me. He said I'd somehow made a mess of it. That I shouldn't have done it in public view."

  Oxley looked to Monk. "No, you shouldn't have," he said. "The disguises are always an extra precaution, but we never kill where we can be seen. It's not like you to make such a mistake."

  "Maybe it wasn't a mistake," Nick ground out. "But I don't know."

  Oxley held up his hands in surrender. "You're probably right. So the Larkham men didn't suspect you? This is important, Cole. Was there any recognition in their eyes? Any doubt as to your innocence?"

  Nick nodded slowly. "Some. They found the timing of my arrival in the area too coincidental, and both said I was about the killer's size."

  Oxley muttered something under his breath. "Did you give them your full name? Your real name?"

  "Yes."

  "Fuck."

  Nick was beginning to see the problem. If the men knew his name, he couldn't slip quietly away from Cowdrey Farm. Not if they came to realize he was the killer in disguise, and not if he wanted to keep his family out of it, or Lucy for that matter.

  "They may never make the connection," Monk offered.

  Oxley shook his head. "Someone already has." He indicated the bandage with a single nod.

  It did seem the most likely reason behind the attack. "But why didn't they kill me if they knew I was the one who killed Renny?" Nick asked.

  Oxley shrugged. "They were disturbed or changed their mind. Perhaps they never intended to kill you, but just wanted to teach you a lesson."

  "Why didn't they inform the authorities?" Monk asked.

  Oxley lifted his hands and Nick shrugged.

  "I need to leave," Nick said. He glanced at the closed door. Lucy would be returning soon.

  "
You can't," Oxley said. "Not yet. Stay and you appear innocent. Go, and you'll look guilty. If they brand Nicholas Coleclough as a murderer, you can never return home, never speak to your family again or be yourself."

  "You don't understand. I have to see my brother. Something happened when I was eighteen, but I can't remember how it turned out. I have to know if… if everyone is all right."

  "That was eleven years ago. A few more weeks won't matter."

  "Perhaps Oxley can help with that particular memory," Monk offered. "Perhaps you confided in him. Or, knowing him, he probably investigated you."

  Oxley fixed that cool glare on Monk. The man lifted a brow in question.

  "Well?" Nick prompted. "Did I confide in you?"

  A few beats passed before Oxley sighed. "A little but not everything. All I know is something happened between you and your family that made you want to leave Coleclough Hall. You never told me what."

  "But you investigated me?"

  Oxley nodded. "After we met. I already employed Orlando and Rafe Fletcher and wasn't particularly looking for another to join us, but when I met you, I knew I needed you in the Guild."

  "Why?"

  A few more beats passed. Nick steeled himself for the answer.

  "You were—are—the darkest man I've ever met. I'd seen you fight in organized brawls and knife fights, the sort that don't get advertised on handbills but are only whispered about among certain circles. I heard about you after your first fight. They were already saying you were the best ever. So I went along to watch the next time. Four times, as a matter of fact. You beat every opponent, and easily. But your skill meant naught to me if you were a madman or devoid of morals. I don't want thugs working for me. So I followed you."

  Nick rubbed his knuckles. There was a scar on his right, and more scars on his face and chest. None of them were like the ones on his back, but he knew with certainty that he'd got them brawling.

  "It was after following you one afternoon that I realized I was wrong. I had thought you didn't care about anything or anyone, but I discovered you had a deep sense of justice running through you. It was yourself that you didn't care about."