by Jane Godman
Jack spurred his horse into a gallop, and Rosie followed close behind. Although he stayed slightly ahead of her, she sensed he remained mindful of her whereabouts throughout the ride. Taking care of me. The thought brought a lump to her throat. It was what he had once promised to do forever.
Rosie was reminded of a similar ride on their way to Scotland, when they had paused and viewed Jack’s beautiful Northumberland country house. With their horses side by side, he had slid an arm about her waist, and they had dreamed of the day when their lives were no longer ruled by the ambitions of princes. Even such a simple matter as a ride in the country was a reminder of all they had lost. Shaking away the memories, she tried to concentrate simply on the enjoyment of the ride.
When they reined in, Rosie was flushed and breathless, and for the first time in a long time, she knew her eyes shone with pleasure. Slower now, they rode across verdant farmland, and a group of labourers doffed their caps at them, reminding Rosie painfully of her home.
“Will you tell me something, Rosie?” She stiffened. If this was about Clive… He shook his head in answer to the expression on her face. “’Tis a simple enough question. One you will be able to answer easily.”
“Then of course I will answer you.”
“How old is your son?”
He’d caught her unawares. Perhaps Rosie started nervously. Or possibly Firefly shied at the field of sheep. Whatever happened, Rosie—her grip on the reins loosened and her concentration on Jack and the intent look in his eyes as he asked the one question she had dreaded hearing from his lips—tumbled from the saddle and landed hard on the grass.
Leaping from his horse, Jack was at her side in a flash. He slid an arm about her waist, holding her against him while he removed her bonnet and brushed her hair back from her forehead. His face was ashen, and Rosie, more shaken by the tenderness in his expression than by her fall, leaned her cheek gratefully against the unyielding muscle of his shoulder.
A young farmhand, running over and acting with remarkable speed, went to Firefly’s head and calmed her. Jack’s horse viewed the scene with a superior eye, bending his head to snatch a few mouthfuls of grass. Before long, a small group of interested onlookers had gathered around them. The spectacle of a well-to-do young couple, together with the drama of an accident, proved to be more of an attraction than labouring in the fields. Several felt the need to offer advice.
“You want to rub mustard on the bruising, sir.” This was the advice of an elderly woman who sported a lone tooth at the front of her wide mouth.
“Where are you hurt?”
Glowing scarlet with embarrassment, she whispered so that only he could hear. “My backside. And I do not want any mustard rubbed on it, thank you.”
“No indeed. From what I remember, it is far too pretty to be accorded such treatment.” The reminiscent smile in his eyes made Rosie gasp, her injuries momentarily forgotten. “Can you stand or shall I carry you?”
“I can stand.” The memory of that kiss was too fresh. Any further proximity, for whatever reason, was best avoided.
Supported by Jack’s arm, she got slowly to her feet. When she was fully upright, however, she staggered slightly, and Jack, ignoring her protests, swept her up into his arms. The observers seemed to consider this action a cause for congratulation. A spontaneous ripple of applause broke out, with one rather exuberant gentleman going so far as to shout out, “Give ’er a kiss, guv’nor!”
The old woman—who, it emerged later, was the mother-in-law of the farmer—gestured helpfully towards the farmhouse. Jack followed her, ignoring Rosie’s objections that she really could walk unaided. When they arrived, the farmer’s wife was somewhat overawed at the invasion into her kitchen of a gentleman of obvious quality, bearing in his arms an elegantly dressed young lady. Her spouse, who had come to investigate the cause of the commotion, touched his forelock deferentially and muttered something unintelligible before swiftly disappearing back to his fields.
“Lady Sheridan is hurt, she needs to rest.” Jack ignored Rosie’s murmured protests and carried her up the shallow staircase after Mary Scoggins, as the lady of the house introduced herself. Mrs. Scoggins made her bedchamber available for her unexpected guest. Rosie was relieved to note that, although somewhat basic, it was clean and comfortable. Backing out of the room while dropping a series of curtsies, Mrs. Scoggins left them alone, and Jack placed Rosie on the bed.
“Indeed, there is no need for this fuss,” she assured him, trying to sit up, but biting her lip as she did.
Jack pushed her back down again easily. “You are going to rest here for an hour. I will remain downstairs while you do.”
“Yes, nurse,” she replied with a trace of mischief in her voice. She was instantly transported back to Jack’s convalescence and the laughing conversations they had engaged in as Rosie nursed him back to health. He had called her “nurse” then. If Jack was remembering it too, he gave no sign, but there was a warm light in his eyes as he helped her remove her shoes and bonnet and drew the coverlet over her.
Resting was not exactly the word Rosie would have used to describe what she did for the next hour. She was uncomfortable because of the bruising to her posterior, worried about how she would get home, and concerned to think Xander might be missing his mama. These cares faded to nothing when compared to the shock of Jack’s question. How old is your son? When she first knew Jack was alive, she had braced herself for it. Because it was uppermost in her mind, it was almost as if Jack couldn’t not be thinking of it too. When the question didn’t come, she had foolishly relaxed.
Her mind went back to that time. The nightmare jumble of days and weeks after Culloden. The bitter agony of Jack’s loss had been like a huge stone pendant tied around her neck, weighing her down with pain and grief. Martha had done her best to support her, but at the same time, her cousin was dealing with Fraser’s catastrophic physical injuries. When Tom arrived at Lachlan to tell them of Mr. Delacourt’s heart attack, Rosie had been glad to leave Scotland to travel south and nurse her father. It gave her something to do other than cry.
Once they were back in Derbyshire, it became clear that Mr. Delacourt would never regain his former strength. Indeed, if he survived at all, he would need constant nursing. In addition to caring for her father, Rosie was deeply concerned about Harry. Their father’s illness had hit him hard, and her brother seemed almost to have gone into a decline. With her days spent caring for the living and the darkness of night given up to the even darker pit of her sorrow over Jack, it was little wonder that she barely noticed the early changes in her own body. She ascribed her loss of appetite and sickness to fatigue and grief.
Sometimes, during the bleak, lonely nights, she had wondered if losing Jack might have been her punishment for the death of Captain Overton. She hadn’t meant to kill the redcoat. But, when she had pointed that gun at him, she had set a chain of events in motion that meant the poor man’s blood was on her hands. The guilt was hers and she must forever live with that. The only thing that had held her feelings of despair and remorse at bay had been Jack’s presence. With him gone, they had surfaced, stronger and more persistent than ever. She was sinking into a pit of depression and knew that Tom was watching her with real concern.
Gradually, as she realised that there was a legacy from that single, magical night she and Jack had shared, Rosie had found a renewed energy. Jack’s child—their child—needed her. She had shaken off her gloom and planned for the future.
Something good came out of Culloden, after all. She smiled as she thought of the little bundle of joy and mischief who had restored some of the gladness to her heart. It was a constant source of joy to her that Xander resembled Jack in so many ways.
Clive had been so desperate to get his hands on her fortune—and his bigger plan of eventually finding a way to access Harry’s money—that he had agreed almost casually to name Xander as his child. It had fel
t like the ultimate betrayal of Jack, to have his son raised by the man who had tried to have him killed. But you weren’t here, Jack. You don’t know what we went through, me and Harry…
So how would she answer that question when Jack asked it again? Because he wouldn’t let it go, that much was for sure. She could lie, but Jack would see right through her. If she told the truth, the whole world would explode around her. Around all of them. One thing was certain, Clive was most unlikely to deal with the situation rationally.
The sun was fading to late afternoon and she was no closer to an answer when a knock on the door brought Jack to her in reality instead of in her thoughts. Rosie grimaced as she sat up. Riding a horse again today was not going to be an option.
“How do you feel now?” he asked, coming to stand beside the bed.
“Foolish,” she replied, sliding cautiously to her feet. “And badly bruised around my tail end. How my father would have scolded me for taking such a tumble.”
Carefully—wincing with each step—Rosie followed Jack down the stairs to the kitchen, where Mrs. Scoggins begged her to be seated. Rosie, having examined the hard wooden chair, explained that she would rather stand.
“Would you like me to examine your injuries?” Jack’s air of innocence would have fooled a lesser woman.
Rosie cast him a blistering glance and turned to apologise to Mrs. Scoggins for the intrusion into her home. “I am sure I will be able to set off soon.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t have thought so.” Jack’s words did nothing to reassure her. “You are most unlikely to be able to ride for several days.”
“But what is to be done?” Rosie felt the colour drain from her face. She couldn’t risk drawing Jack’s attention back to Xander by mentioning him by name, but she couldn’t bear to stay away from her son overnight. That was before they considered the proprieties. “We cannot remain here.”
Mrs. Scoggins, with a clumsy curtsy accompanying her words, assured them they were welcome to stay as long as they needed to. At that moment, her second son, a young lad of about sixteen summers, peeked into his mother’s kitchen. He appeared to be hoping to catch a glimpse of the gentry who had unaccountably descended upon it. Upon spying Rosie, who was trying to smooth her ringlets back into some semblance of order, Master Jed Scoggins—as his mother fondly introduced him—became struck with a sudden inability to breathe properly, and his jaw developed a worrying tendency to drop. His fond mother eyed him in amusement but, beyond making him blush by calling him a “great gormless gaby”, made no comment. Heartened by her words, he lumbered into the room and took up a position at one side of the capacious fireplace. Content to sit and gaze adoringly at Rosie, he looked away in embarrassment whenever she happened to smile in his direction.
Jack, in Rosie’s opinion, was not being helpful. Seated at the wide wooden table, with a tankard of ale and a plate of bread and cheese in front of him, he appeared impervious to the urgency of the situation. Smiling at Rosie, he pointed out that, if she was forced to stay for a few days, Mrs. Scoggins might show her how to bake some of the delicious pies that were currently reposing in the oven.
“You may have need of such housewifely skills, given the rumours currently circulating about your husband’s financial straits.” He softened the words with a reassurance. “I doubt it will come to that. When Farmer Scoggins returns, I will see what can be done about getting you home. Until then, I’m afraid we must make the best of things.”
It was almost completely dark when Mr. Scoggins, with two more sons, returned and crowded into the already full kitchen. Rosie, having been made comfortable in a chair by the fire, reinforced with pillows, was becoming increasingly agitated. Jack asked if there was a conveyance to be hired so that he could drive Rosie back to London.
“There is the old gig that Mary uses for market,” Mr. Scoggins said, regarding the fine attire of his visitors dubiously. “But it’ll not be suitable for Lady Rosie, here. And how will you get your fine horses back to London if you are to drive the gig, my lord?”
After a protracted and—from what Rosie could see—unnecessarily detailed discussion, it was decided that Jack would convey Rosie back home in the gig while Jed rode Jack’s horse and led Firefly. Jed would then be given a room overnight at Jack’s home and would drive the gig back early in the morning. This arrangement prompted Jed’s older brother to grumble under his breath. The gist of his complaint appeared to be directed at parents who made their favouritism obvious by allowing mere stripling youths to go on visits to the metropolis ahead of their elders. When his mother rapped him sharply across the knuckles with a wooden spoon, he slouched moodily out of the room.
Jed’s face, when he was informed of the treat in store for him, went a brick-red colour, and he bobbed his head gratefully. There followed a flurry of activity during which Mary bemoaned the shabby nature of the gig and set about arranging a stack of sacks covered by a blanket on the seat to cushion Rosie’s injured posterior. It was pitch-dark by the time Jack took the reins, and the vehicle creaked reluctantly into life.
“It will be close to midnight by the time we get back to Lady Drummond’s house,” Rosie fretted.
She was tired, aching and irritable. Lady Drummond and Harry would be worried about her. Xander would be fretful if she wasn’t there to put him to bed. And what would Clive’s reaction to her apparent disappearance be? It was unlikely to be sympathetic…or reasonable.
“I regret that I will be unable to break any records for speed in this old bone-breaker,” Jack informed her. “This horse has, I believe, been brought out of retirement especially for the occasion.” There was enough moonlight to permit her a glimpse of his heart-stopping smile. “Don’t worry, I will get you home safe.”
His words, and the tone in which they were spoken, brought an unexpected lump to her throat. Jack was that sort of man. For the brief time they had been together, she had been wrapped in the comforting mantle of his love. He would take care of the woman he loved. He would cherish and protect her as though she was the most delicate, precious object in his life. It hurt to know she would never again experience that devotion. The man with whom she must spend the rest of her life was… Her tired mind searched for an adjective. She shied away from the first which occurred to her, settling instead on “unstable”. There was something in Clive’s nature which precluded the possibility of him caring for or cosseting another human being.
It had been a fine, sunny day when Rosie set out, and her riding habit had been warm enough. Now that night had descended, the air was crisp and chill. There was very little space on the gig’s seat, and Rosie was glad of Jack’s long thigh pressed close up to hers and the pressure of his upper arm against the side of her breast. The warmth of his body against hers was comforting, and before long, overwhelmed by tiredness, she leaned wearily closer to him, with her head eventually flopping onto his shoulder.
Shifting position and slipping an arm about her shoulder, Jack drew her closer. His warm, familiar scent took her mind back to that highland April night when she lay in his arms and wished the rest of the world would leave them in peace forever. As her eyelids drifted closed, she couldn’t help wishing the same thing once more.
* * *
It was some time later when Jack reined in the gig outside Lady Drummond’s tall, narrow townhouse. Sheridan appeared on the doorstep, obviously having been on the watch for his wife’s return. His expression resembled a lowering thundercloud. Rosie, who had been awakened when they first reached town by the cart clattering noisily over cobbles, stretched sleepily and smothered a yawn. Jack sprang down from the cart and came to assist her to alight. She smiled gratefully at him, her expression changing to one of apprehension as she glanced up and saw her husband.
“Thank you for bringing me home safely,” she murmured, and made to pull away from him. Her movements were slow, as though she had stiffened from her injuries after the journey.
Instead of letting her go, Jack retained possession of her hand, tucking it into the crook of his arm before leading her to Sheridan. Only when they stood on the top step, in the light of the twin flambeaux either side of the doorway, did he release her. He took a moment to register the presence of a footman who stood impassive in the shadows. It was not Benson.
“Lady Sheridan took a nasty tumble from her horse.” Jack bowed courteously before her husband, despite the effort the gesture cost him. “And I was fortunate enough to be on hand to offer my assistance. You must have been most concerned as to her welfare, Sir Clive. As you see, she is safe and sound, if somewhat bruised and a little shaken.”
Sheridan, his lower lip thrusting out sulkily, appeared to fight a brief battle with his emotions. “You are most kind, my lord, to concern yourself so closely with my wife’s welfare.”
Jack heard Rosie catch her breath, and he glanced down at her in concern. In the golden pools of light, he could see her face was ashen. “Please go now,” she whispered. “I would not expose you to this mood for anything.”
Before Jack could respond, Sheridan continued. “The lateness of the hour confirms that she will already have thanked you most generously. And in the unique manner she reserves exclusively for you.”
Jack’s hand made a gesture to his hip, as if reaching for an imaginary sword hilt. “Your meaning, sir?”
Sheridan sneered. “I think you know it, my lord.”
“Then, by God, you shall answer for it! Name your friends.”
“Jack.” Rosie’s quiet tone penetrated the fog of his anger, and he paused. “You cannot do this.”
“Husband or not, this brute will not speak so of you without being called to account for it.” His words were terse, forced out through lips set in a hard, cold line.
“You must listen to me.” She spoke gently. It didn’t make it any better that the words obviously caused her pain. “You have no right by which you can challenge my husband to a duel.”
