Soldier of Fortune: The King's Courtesan (Rakes and Rogues of the Retoration Book 2)

by James, Judith

  As he finished off a meat pie, he wondered how she’d gotten herself into such a mess. You’re the one who delivered her when she begged you not to, a nagging voice reminded him. He drowned it with a brandy, set his hat upon his head, and went to collect Bess. He’d agreed to deliver a package and he’d done so. It was barely past midnight. There was nothing left to stop him from making some entertainment of his own.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Arabella Hamilton paced back and forth like a caged animal, testing the confines of her room, noting again and again the same rough stone walls, the same bare cot bolted to the floor, and the same ledge and aperture, ten feet above her, impossibly out of reach even with the aid of an overturned bucket. A part of her knew there was no escape, that she might circle this tower a thousand times and nothing would change.

  She’d thought that by leaving for her mother’s home in Ireland, her troubles with Robert would end. Setting out alone she’d felt such anticipation as she ignored years of rules and strictures about what well-behaved women should and should not do. She’d inherited her father’s inquisitive nature, but until recently, she’d shared his curiosity about the world outside her home from the safety of his library. His increasing reclusiveness after her mother’s death had left her little choice. Beyond her country estate, local farms and markets, and their London townhouse, her adventures had unfolded in the pages of books.

  Following his death, her cousin’s arrival at her secluded country home in Wiltshire seemed overly intrusive, almost aggressive, and his initial attempts to court her made her wary. She held him in no great esteem and sensed something unsavory behind his frigid blue eyes. Fortunately, as a single woman, never married and over the age of twenty-one, she had the legal right to her own property. What she did or did not do with herself and her father’s inheritance was no concern of Robert’s, but her rejection of his suit had quickly led to stalking and threats.

  The kidnapping of heiresses was not unheard of amongst morally and financially bankrupt gentlemen. She was concerned enough to appoint a reliable steward and move to the London townhouse, thinking it safer to be surrounded by relative strangers than to rely on the aid and protection of elderly servants and neighbors who lived miles away. But Robert had followed close behind.

  When people began referring to her as his betrothed, regardless of her protests to the contrary, she’d thought it prudent to escape him. Still, she would never have taken her fate in her hands so precipitously if Robert hadn’t forced her, and if she hadn’t had a place in mind to go.

  As a child, her father, then Earl of Saye, would sometimes tell her stories as she sat upon his knee, of the beauty of Ireland and his love for her mother, Brigid Claire—a woman as wild and soulful as Ireland herself. He’d lost his heart to her whilst serving on one of Cromwell’s Irish campaigns.

  Not all who followed Cromwell were religious fanatics. Some, like her father, were levelers and free-thinkers. Basing their opinions on scientific inquiry and logic rather than authority and tradition, they held a general belief in equality for all. It was a popular movement among many in the New Model Army, including some who argued that Irish Catholics had a claim to freedom and equality just as valid as their own.

  It didn’t matter to her father that Brigid Claire was Catholic. As a second son, he’d not expected to inherit and he’d married her with every intention of making Ireland his home. But when significant elements of the army refused to embark for Ireland and Cromwell decided they had to be crushed—he had wisely decided to retire his commission, claim his inheritance, and spirit his wife away to the relative safety of his quiet English home. She died while Arabella was just a toddler, but her father’s tales brought her vividly to life, and as Arabella grew older, she wrote them down in a leather-bound journal that she carried with her everywhere she went.

  ‘She was a bold lass, Arabella,’ her father told her, ‘and a proud one too. Proud of her people, proud of her heritage, but not so proud of anything as she was of you. We’ll go there one day, to claim the lands she set aside for you. And a grand adventure it will be, too.’

  But the adventure had never happened. It was Brigid Claire that had charmed her father, not Ireland itself, and with her death and the brutal suppression of the ideals that inspired him, he had slowly begun to fade, first his spirit and then his health. As he retreated from the world, many of his duties had passed on to her. She carried his keys, became his representative with the servants and the tradespeople, and by the time she was fifteen she was mistress of the house.

  On her sixteenth birthday, he gave her a carved wooden box brimming with letters. A gift from a mother to daughter nearly grown. They contained magical tales, proud stories of her heritage, and lyrical descriptions of the land she had loved. Every page was filled with love and pride for her daughter, and with her own stories too. Stories of mischief, exploration, daring and adventure, and of course, a story of falling in love. Reading them stirred longings deep within her, for a life beyond the confines of the one she knew. Through those letters, she had come to know her mother, and to feel a kinship for a place she’d never been.

  She had wanted to visit for as long as she could remember and now had seemed the time. She had never considered that Robert might know to follow her. But he must have suspected she was up to something. He had known enough about her comings and goings to arrange to have her intercepted, and to arrange to have her brought to him.

  Arabella stopped walking and leaned tiredly against the wall, resting just a moment, wincing at the sharp sting as her back touched rough stone. Her instincts about her cousin had proven correct, though she’d never expected he might go to such extremes. She was no longer sure he was sane. After tonight, she suspected he might kill her out of spite if his plans didn’t succeed.

  But she had inherited her father’s commonsense and steady nerves as well as her mother’s independent spirit, and she’d had the foresight to write her own will. If she should meet an untimely end, Robert would be sorely disappointed. It was the widows and orphans of her parish who would benefit, and not her greedy cousin. Surely, he must know that if he’d known of her plans to leave. He needed her alive and he needed her to marry him in order to take what he wanted, and that she would not do.

  But now he threatened rape. Bile rose to the back of her throat. She shuddered to remember how he had handled her in front of his men and the highwayman. To punish her? To humiliate her as he felt she had done to him? Yes. But more to the point, to weaken and frighten me and force me into marriage. And if I don’t give him his way, he wants me to be seen in London big with child. He seemed to think it would help his cause somehow. Perhaps, he believes that if I am deemed unworthy, he might change the terms of my father’s will.

  He might even be right. If she were paraded through London pregnant and unmarried it was doubtful any court would uphold her claim should it be challenged. So who was it to be? One of his guards? The hulking brute who’d watched her hungrily as she was led from the room? One of the footmen? She hugged her hands across her chest to still her trembling.

  But not the highwayman. He, at least, had refused. He had been kinder to her than anyone else had these past few days, even stepping between Robert and his whip. There had been a moment on the road when he had stopped to see to her comfort. His touch had been careful and his voice had soothed. She had almost dared to hope he meant to aid her. But he was a criminal and no hero, a fact he cheerfully acknowledged. He had accepted payment to deliver her, and then abandoned her to her fate. She had received all the help she was going to from him.

  She returned to her pacing. Trying to stay calm. The situation called for clear thinking. Now was not the time for panic. It seemed the dire warnings about the fate that befell women who flouted the rules might be true, though she was hard-pressed to accept it. She was a Hamilton—a free thinker, a nonconformist. A philosophy her father had been at pains to warn her was still dangerous to speak of, even in these enlightened times
. ‘Learn, question, think for yourself,’ he’d said, ‘but in all ways be practical, and in all ways discrete.’

  Perhaps she hadn’t followed his maxim to the letter, but in marrying her mother, neither had he. She had been kidnapped, manhandled, beaten and nearly suffocated, but at least she had fought back rather than meekly accept her fate. A thing wasn’t finished until you stopped trying. She might not have a father or brother or other champion to defend her, but she was her father’s daughter and her mother’s rebel blood ran through her veins. She would defend herself. There had to be a way to escape. Something she had missed. Something she had yet to notice. But what?

  She tripped over the bucket, wincing as it caught her shin, and retaliated by kicking it with all of her might. A white-hot thrill of pain shot through her, radiating in an instant from her toes to her teeth. She fell in a heap, gasping and cursing, and finally gave way to bitter tears.

  “I’ve done that before. Not the crying part…but the toe. It hurts like the devil, doesn’t it?” The husky, slightly amused voice came from right above her.

  She looked up, openmouthed with astonishment. It was the highwayman, crouched on the ledge, peering down at her.

  “But....What...? How...? You....”

  He stood up, removed a dashing wide-brimmed feathered hat with a flourish, and gave her a deep bow. “Gentleman Jack, at your service, Lady Hamilton. But you may call me Jack.”

  “You are the one who brought me here?” But she already knew the answer. Blindfolded and bound most of the way, her only connection with him had been his voice. She had refused to look at or acknowledge him when the blindfold was removed, but she would recognize that amused inflection and soothing tone anywhere. Now, seeing him for the first time, she thought he looked just as he sounded.

  If things go as planned, you shall never see what a handsome fellow I am, he had said to her in the forest, and perched above her now, clad head to toe in black leather with his great cloak spread about him like black wings, she knew it for the truth. Half in shadow, he looked like one of Lucifer’s dark angels—dangerous and beautiful.

  Self-conscious, unwittingly, she raised her hand to hide her marred face.

  “I am the one who delivered you to your cousin. Yes.”

  Her heart was thumping wildly in her chest. She had heard of him of course. His exploits along the North Road were spoken of often in London. Some even claimed he was really Swift Nick, the legendary highwayman who had earned his sobriquet from King Charles himself. She’d had no idea such an infamous rogue was the man in whose lap she’d been seated, who’d held her in his arms half the night. She’d had no idea he was so tall and handsome! She could feel the color stain her cheeks even through the swelling, and she reminded herself sternly that he was nothing more than a well-dressed brigand.

  “I thought you had left. What are you doing here?” Though her voice was curt, she couldn’t stem a rising tide of hope.

  “The job is done as promised. I’ve been paid.” He hefted a purse, tossing it and catching it so it jingled, before stuffing it under his shirt. “But there’s not an inn or tavern for miles. As I’ve nothing else to do, I thought it might prove amusing to deliver you home. A bit of a challenge, eh? Are you game?”

  “I….You mean to rescue me?”

  “Unless you’d rather I didn’t.”

  “No! No! I mean yes, please!” She scrambled to her feet, ignoring screaming muscles, throbbing bruises, and the burning pain that seared her back.

  ~

  Jack looked into hope-filled eyes and grinned, feeling right with himself for the first time that night. Then he leaned over and extended his arm. “Grab hold then, Miss Hamilton. We are going for a ride.”

  ~

  She supposed it would be proper to tell him to address her as Lady Saye, but as a free-thinker herself, she wasn’t enamored with propriety or titles, and to correct him seemed unbearably rude. Wincing, she reached for his hand.

  He hefted her halfway up the wall, and then grasped her wrists with both hands as she used her feet to help her scramble the rest of the way. When she was almost to the top, he slung an arm around her waist and rolled sideways, pulling her the last few inches. They collapsed in a heap.

  “I…had not…thought you so dainty,” he said, catching his breath.

  Arabella could feel his heartbeat, steady beneath her palm. Shoving against his chest she loosed herself, and began busily adjusted her skirts and bodice. She could have sworn her fingertips had slid beneath his collar to touch warm skin and they burned as hot as her face. She had never in her life experienced so much physical contact with a man. He had carried her, held her, lifted her, and now hauled her on top of him. Doubtless, there were many flighty foolish women who would swoon at the thought.

  He rose easily to his feet, eyes alight with mischief, and extended his hand. “Are you all right, Miss Hamilton? You seem a little shaken.”

  “It has been a trying day.” She allowed him to help her to her feet, but as soon as he let go of her she tripped on her skirt and almost toppled over. He caught her with a hand to the back of her dress and she bit off a muffled scream.

  “Damnation! My apologies. I wasn’t thinking. How badly are you injured? Here. Let me see.”

  “You most certainly will not!” She slapped his hand away. “I assure you, I am fine. A little tired and hungry. A few aches and pains. Nothing fresh air, supper, and a good night’s sleep won’t cure. Besides, what could you do for it here?”

  “I can see if you’re fit enough to make the climb.”

  “And if you judge I am not, will you leave me here?” There was a slight tremor in her voice.

  “No, sweetheart. I always keep my word, and I give it to you now. I will see you safely home.”

  She didn’t know why the words of a notorious bandit should warm her so, but they did. After days of facing terror, unaided and alone, she finally felt protected and safe.

  “Now let me have a look at you so I can tell what I’m dealing with. I need to know if you’ve any broken bones or a bump on the head.” He brushed her tangled hair back off her face with careful fingers, mindful of her bruises, then lifted her chin and turned her head from side to side.

  His touch sent shivers along Arabella’s spine and she couldn’t tear her gaze from his beautifully sculpted mouth, just inches from her own. No man had ever kissed her. Would he? What would she do if he did? But even as she thought it, he drew back with a frown. Mortified, she made an awkward attempt at humor. “I’ve never been accounted a great beauty. I must look ghastly now. I hope I don’t frighten you.”

  She touched her face self-consciously, annoyed and uncertain as to why she cared what a common criminal might think. She wasn’t one to swoon over highwaymen, even if others did, but here she was, worried about her plain rumpled dress, her swollen features, and her tangled and matted hair. Robert’s blow must have addled her brain.

  “Don’t be foolish,” he chided. He took her hand and drew it to the bridge of his nose. “Do you feel that?”

  It was barely noticeable, more easily felt than seen, but there was a bump where his nose must have been broken before. She looked closer, searching his face, noticing the marks and scars that mapped a rough and adventurous life. She nodded.

  “I was just remembering how it feels when someone strikes you. I’m sorry you were hurt.” He brushed her cheek lightly with his thumb. “Once I saw the way things were, I had no intention of abandoning you.”

  “Thank you…Jack. And I suppose, under the circumstances, you might call me Arabella.”

  He grinned, and suddenly changed his tone. “Bruises disappear and scars fade, Arabella. I promise, you’ll soon look good as new.”

  “That is easy for you to say. You are a man. A well-placed scar here and there only makes you look dashing.”

  “Think you so?” His eyes gleamed with something she didn’t quite understand, but it made her heart beat faster.

  He placed his hands
on her shoulders and turned her around, and then lifted a thick coil of hair up and off her back. Her breath caught as his finger brushed her neck and collarbone, easing the material of her now tattered gown down far enough to see her injuries. He cursed under his breath, but was relieved to see it was not as bad as he had feared. She had several welts, but her skin had not been broken, and with luck, there would be no scars. Still, he knew how it must sting.

  “You seem fit to travel. All we have to now is hop to the ground and Bess will see us on our way.”

  Arabella took a deep breath and peeked over the outer ledge. They were three stories up and there was a drop of at least thirty feet to the ground. As Jack came to stand beside her, she tugged on his sleeve. “I don’t see the rope.”

  “What rope? This tower is barely as tall as a good-sized tree. Did you not climb trees as a lass? Perhaps you were too busy with embroidery,” he teased.

  “I did climb trees!” Stung…she told the lie with great conviction. “But trees have branches.”

  “Yes. Like steps,” he said in a soothing tone. “Stone walls like this have them too. Look you there, just below us. That jagged piece of rubble. It is a foothold. There are handholds and footholds all the way to the bottom. How do you think I climbed up?”

  “I had hoped with a ladder.”

  “I don’t need ropes or ladders,” he scoffed. “I am an excellent climber.”

  “But I am not.” Her words were barely a whisper.

  “That presents no problem, love. You will stay between me and the wall. I can hold us both, so long as you don’t panic and overbalance us. I will step down first, and when I’ve secured my hold, you will slide down into my arms. After each drop, keep your feet on my boots and your hands tight around my shoulders or waist. Close your eyes if you like, but don’t look down, and I’ll have both your feet on the ground before you know it.”

  She took a tremulous breath and nodded. Jack eased down the wall about two feet, his feet braced wide and his hands still clutching the ledge.