The Rebel

by C. J. Archer

  "What happened?" Monk asked.

  Nick wiped his forehead. He felt as if he were in a fever, or perhaps a living nightmare. He didn't want to hear anymore, but he knew had to. If he were to have any future with Lucy, or with his family, he needed to know everything about his past.

  "You started a riot in a London inn." Oxley gave a short, sharp laugh. "A playwright was having a quiet drink with friends when a big fellow came up to him. He said he'd just come from the Rose Theatre and seen the latest play by the playwright's company. He claimed that one of the characters was based on himself. It must have been the villain or the fool because he was deeply offended. The playwright said the characters weren't real and that he'd never even met this man. It was clear the big fellow was drunk as a sailor. He took offense to everything about the playwright—his clothes, his manner, and particularly his wit. By this time, the playwright was looking very worried. I was sitting near you at the time, but you didn't take any notice of me. You watched the two men arguing, and when the drunk grabbed the playwright by his ruff, you stood and ordered the drunk to leave, or you'd break his jaw. It was at that point I knew you had no care for yourself."

  "Why? One against one isn't so dangerous."

  "The drunkard had a group of about twenty others with him. All angry looking beasts."

  "Ah. Not such good odds then."

  "It was lucky for us that the playwright had some friends capable of wielding swords too."

  "Us?"

  "It had been a long time since I'd been in an affray, and I was up for some sport."

  Sport? The man must be a little mad himself.

  "Before long, stools and tankards were flying about the taproom. You fought with great skill, sometimes four at a time, with only a dagger for a weapon. I was impressed. Of course I had to speak to you."

  "I decided to join you? Just like that?"

  "You took a little convincing. In the end it wasn't the money that won you over."

  "I'm not surprised," Monk said with a shake of his head. At Nick's arched brow, he added, "You spend or give away almost every penny Hughe pays you."

  "So once I joined the Guild, and we became friends, did I tell you about my past?" Nick asked.

  "You told me you'd worked in various counties, mostly as a farmhand, but just before we met, you'd been working in Newcastle coal mines. Hellish work, fit only for the mad and desperate."

  "It pays well," Monk said.

  "That's because nobody wants to do it," Oxley said. "Nobody who wants to live, that is."

  Nick ignored that. Of course he wanted to live. Oxley couldn't know him at all if he thought that. "But what about before? When did I leave Coleclough Hall and why? Did I tell you that?"

  Oxley shook his head. "You were very closed about your upbringing, but I did manage to get your name out of you. I conducted my own investigation, but learned surprisingly little considering you're the son of Lord Coleclough. I see him at court from time to time, although we've never spoken. I keep my distance on purpose. As far as I know, he's a widower with one son, Thomas. There was talk of another son, but no one had met him, and it was generally thought that he was deformed or soft-headed. Your father is considered a good, solid man who dislikes court life and only attends when he needs to. He prefers to farm his land and live quietly."

  "You speak of him as if he's still alive. Is he?"

  "As far as I know. I saw him at court last autumn. Your brother too."

  So Nick hadn't killed him. Then what had he done? Why was there a terrible foreboding in his gut that worsened with each nightmare?

  CHAPTER 13

  Eleven years ago

  Nick didn't know how long he'd been slipping into and out of consciousness. It could have been days, or perhaps weeks. He would awake only to throw up, even though his stomach was empty. With every grind of his belly, he curled into a ball and prayed it was the last time. But it seemed to go on forever.

  Sometimes Thomas was in his room, his forehead scored with worry, his hands clasped as if in prayer. Once, Nick's father stood by the window, silently watching as Nick folded himself in half and waited out the surge of pain. He left soon afterward without saying a word.

  When he was well enough to get out of bed, Nick tried to leave, but his bedchamber door was locked from the outside. He banged on it until someone came. That someone was Carter, his father's man. Nick swung at him and landed a punch on the oaf's jaw, albeit a weak one. Carter barely moved. He simply grunted, walked out, and locked the door again.

  Later, his father returned.

  "Where is she?" Nick snarled. "Where's our mother?"

  "Her old apartments," he said. "I'll keep her there until I know what to do with her."

  Nick's stomach churned but he didn't throw up. Whatever illness had befallen him was finally subsiding enough that he could function again. "She's not a thing, Father, she's our mother, your wife. Does that mean nothing to you?"

  His father sighed and signaled for Nick to sit down. He remained standing, but his father sat heavily on the chair beside the bed. He rubbed his hand down his face and when he removed it, he looked older, wearier. "Your mother is mad, Nick. I removed her from this house years ago for… safekeeping."

  Nick put a hand to the tester to steady himself, but the world still felt unbalanced. "If she's mad, it's because you drove her to that state."

  "I've done my best."

  "Your best? You've kept your sons and wife prisoner, you've had me whipped to the bone, or maybe you did it yourself. If that's your best, God help us when you're at your worst."

  "You don't understand—"

  "No, you don't understand."

  His father rose slowly, his mouth twisted in anger, his eyes flashing with that glare that Nick knew all too well. But he would be ready for the fist this time. He would not let his father hit him ever again.

  "You do not speak to me like that. I am your father. Show me some respect."

  "Show it to our mother."

  His father swung his fist. Nick easily dodged it. The momentum of the missed punch sent the baron careening forward onto the bed. "She's not deserving!" he spat over his shoulder. "She's not deserving of your—"

  A scream cut off his words. Nick ran, his father on his heels. Another scream, female and frightened. It came from his mother's apartments.

  Then a male shout: "Stop!" Thomas.

  Nick streaked ahead of his father and crashed through door after door until he reached the inner chamber of his mother's rooms. A sobbing maid flew past him, blood smeared down her apron. Thomas stood in the middle of the room, facing their mother. She clutched a knife, raised to strike. Thomas turned to see who had entered.

  It was the wrong thing to do.

  She struck Thomas. He roared in pain and crumpled to the floor. She raised the knife to strike again.

  "NO!" Nick slammed into her, shoving her backward. He wrested the knife off her as they fell, but he need not have worried. She lay limply on the rushes, her eyes closed. "Thomas?"

  Their father leaned over his oldest son, blocking Nick's view. Thomas. No! Nick was going to be sick.

  "I'm all right," Thomas said. His voice shook, and he needed help sitting up, but at least he was talking.

  Nick knelt at his side and embraced him briefly before tearing off his own shirt sleeve and pressing it to the bleeding wound on Thomas's shoulder, alarmingly close to the base of his throat.

  Their father knelt on one knee beside them, his head bowed, his breathing uneven. Nick ignored him and glanced at his mother, still lying on the floor.

  "Mama?" he whispered.

  No answer.

  Thomas gripped his arm, but Nick pulled away. He crouched at her side, and that's when he noticed the blood. So much blood. It soaked into the rushes around her head, darkened her gray hair. He sat on his haunches and stared at her face. She looked so serene, almost beautiful.

  Someone came up beside him and checked her pulse. "Dead." His father's voice. "Her
head hit the corner of the trunk as she fell."

  Thomas gripped Nick's shoulder, no doubt trying to reassure him. "It's not your fault," he said.

  Not my fault. Not my fault.

  "She was mad," his father said. "She would have killed your brother."

  Nick's stomach heaved, and he threw up where he knelt. He could tell himself a million times over that it wasn't his fault, or that she was mad, but the fact remained. His own mother had died by his hand.

  ***

  Lucy was alert to any sounds coming from Nick's bedchamber, but she heard none. Perhaps his nightmares had ceased. Perhaps he was asleep. As should she be. She wouldn't succumb to slumber until she knew if he was all right.

  She lit a candle and slipped quietly to his room. She was about to knock when she heard a low groan coming from the other side of the door. He sprang off the bed as she entered.

  "Lucy!" His ragged breathing filled the room. "Christ." He sat down and bent his head. He was naked.

  "Who did you think it was?" She set her candle on the table and touched his shoulder. The muscles rippled with tension. "Did you have another nightmare?"

  "Not quite."

  "Care to tell me about it?"

  He shook his head, but still he didn’t look up. She touched his jaw and gently forced him to look at her. It was difficult to make out his expression, but he seemed different somehow. Harder.

  Perhaps it was simply the way the candlelight played across his cheekbones.

  She was about to prompt him again but decided not to. Something held him back, and the more she asked, the more he would push her away. Instead, she kissed him.

  He kissed back and for a brief moment, he seemed to relax.

  Then he pulled away and bent his head again.

  "Why won't you kiss me?" she said. When he didn't answer, she added, "Am I too forward?"

  "No."

  She looked down at her hands in her lap, but soon she couldn't even see those through her pooling tears. Why wouldn't he talk to her anymore? Had he begun to change when she'd told him about Edmund? She tried to recall exactly when Nick had first pushed her away, but she couldn't. It seemed to happen so slowly.

  "Well." She sniffed. "Good night."

  He caught her hand and pinned it to her lap. "Don't cry," he whispered. "Please, don't cry."

  His gentle plea only made her feel worse. This wonderful, clever, handsome man cared about her, yet not enough to be with her. "Let me go," she said. "I understand."

  He touched her face, as she had done to him only moments ago, and gently made her look at him. His thumb wiped away the tear that had traitorously leaked from her left eye.

  "Ah, Lucy. What am I going to do with you?"

  She had no idea what to say to that, and it didn't matter anyway because he kissed her. It was soft and slow, so excruciatingly slow. He clasped either side of her face gently, as if he were holding something precious. He groaned low in his chest and tipped her backward onto the bed.

  He gave another groan as he freed her breasts from the laces of her nightgown. She wrapped her leg around his waist and drew up her hem to above her thighs. She wanted to feel skin on skin. Feel his heat, his need. Wanted him to enter her.

  He pressed himself to her opening, but hesitated. She thrust up her hips, and he slid all the way in. She gasped at the thickness. He froze and broke the kiss.

  "Don't stop," she said quickly, not wanting to give him time to have second thoughts.

  "Lucy," he muttered on a breath. "This is… "

  He ended the sentence with another hot kiss that set her body on fire, made her nipples tingle, and her nether region ache with longing. She was going mad with desire, and something deeper. It surged and swelled inside her chest, filled her heart.

  "Nick." There was too much too say and the words wouldn't come, only tears. Don't leave me. Love me the way I love you.

  She wrapped her other leg around him, her arms too, so that they were as close as they could ever be. As one.

  Did he feel it too? Or was she alone on the precipice, looking down into the swirling ocean?

  His rhythm quickened, his breathing too. It came in short, sharp bursts and he stopped kissing her to bury his face in her throat. She pressed her ankles in harder at the base of his spine, but he didn't stay inside her. With a deep shudder, he pulled out of her and spurted his seed on the bedcovers.

  He rolled off and lay on his back, pulling her with him. She nestled into his side and breathed in the scent of her man. There were so many questions, so many things to say to him, but already his breathing had softened. She didn't want to keep him awake, so she closed her eyes and let sleep take her too. Words could wait until the next day. For now, she would enjoy being in the arms of the man who'd captured her heart and soul.

  ***

  Cole was a bloody fool. One suggestive kiss from a girl in a nightgown, and he was throwing his newly made resolution to keep his distance out the window.

  Yet it wasn't just any girl in a nightgown. It was his Lucy. From the moment she'd touched him, he'd never stood a chance. He was weak where she was concerned. The iron will he now remembered he possessed in abundance had failed him.

  Fuck.

  Lucy was light, and he was dark, through and through. He would not dim her brightness, not for anything. He cared too much for her to do that.

  Loved her too much.

  He would make sure she understood they had no future together. Not now that he remembered who he was, and worse, what he'd become. He was Cole, a cold-blooded killer. Hopefully, one day, she would realize he had done the right thing by leaving and would forgive him.

  But that was tomorrow. Tonight, he was going to hold her one last time. No way was he going to fall asleep and miss a moment of her warm breath on his throat, her smooth breast pillowed against his chest. He was going to commit the feel of her to memory. A memory he'd never, ever lose, even though he knew he would one day want to, if only to keep his sanity. Loving her and not having her was going to drive him to madness.

  If he wasn't already there.

  He kissed the top of her head and drew in her scent. I love you, Lucy Cowdrey. Forgive me, because I can never forgive myself.

  He squeezed his eyes shut, but it was no good. Sadness welled so deeply inside him he felt like he was drowning.

  Yet even through the sound of the blood swirling between his ears he heard it: the click of a door opening. His door.

  Henry? Hell, now he had to contend with her brother too.

  No, not Henry. Lucy's candle had flickered out, but he could just see the shape of the intruder. It was shorter than Henry but fat. Then, the shadow split into two thinner ones.

  Bloody hell. Why couldn't they just let him enjoy these few remaining hours alone with Lucy?

  She still slept in his arms. If he remained silent to draw the intruders closer, she would be at risk of getting hurt. But if he let them know he was aware of them, they'd have a head start in getting away.

  It was no real choice.

  "What do you want?" he whispered. The attackers—for it must be the same ones who'd made a mess of him in the meadow—froze, then turned and ran. One grabbed Cole's pack from where it sat by the door.

  Lucy stirred as he slipped out from beneath her. "Get dressed," he ordered as he ran to the door.

  "Nick? What's wrong?"

  There was no time to answer. He raced out of the bedchamber and down the stairs, treading as lightly as possible so as not to wake anyone, but he felt sluggish compared to the two small men. They were fast. He caught sight of them at the bottom of the stairs where they split up. One headed for the kitchens, the other through the parlors.

  Lucy! If he followed one, he risked the other doubling back and going after her. He couldn't be sure they wouldn't take out their anger on her since she'd saved the life of the man who'd killed Renny. Cole had no doubt that this was another attempt at getting revenge for the alderman's death.

  Panic seized h
is limbs, but he pushed on, ran faster, back up the stairs to his bedchamber. Lucy was alone, thank God, standing by the door with a large candlestick clutched in both hands. She lowered it when she saw him.

  He suddenly felt giddy and light headed and so fucking relieved. He wanted to take her in his arms and hold her, kiss her all over just to make sure she was unharmed. Instead, he strode past her and picked up his shirt. He couldn't face her interrogation without clothes on. Thankfully she already wore her nightgown again, thin as it was.

  Lucy set the candlestick down on the mantelpiece and watched Nick dress as calmly as can be. Her heart thumped wildly although she hadn't been the one who'd chased after an intruder. Two, if her eyes hadn't deceived her. How could Nick be so unaffected?

  "Did you see them?" she asked.

  "Not their faces."

  "Have they gone?"

  "Yes."

  He padded across the floor in his bare feet, but instead of meeting her, he walked straight past and opened the tinderbox beside the fireplace and removed the flint. She watched as he lit her candle and two others, throwing some light around the bedchamber. He placed the three candlesticks on the mantelpiece, but didn't turn around.

  She came up behind him and slipped her arms around his waist. He sucked in air and slowly turned.

  "Lucy." He stepped out of her embrace and lowered his head. "We need to talk."

  Ominous words, and all too familiar. It was how Edmund had begun his pretty speech that ended their betrothal. She folded her arms against a sudden chill and stepped back.

  He glanced up through his long lashes. "Don't."

  His whispered plea clenched her heart like a vise. "Don't what?"

  "Don't look at me like that. I… " He shook his head. "There's no easy way to say this, but I'll be leaving Cowdrey as soon as possible."

  The vise tightened. "When your head is better. Yes, I know." She didn't tell him that she thought they'd be leaving together, had hoped they would. It seemed irrelevant now. She bit the inside of her lip but still her eyes welled with tears.

  His face seemed to change somehow, and the softness disappeared. The bones re-set into hard, unforgiving angles. "It's for the best."