by Jo Goodman
He visibly shook himself out of bitter memory's trance and glanced about the tavern. His own inner clock had never failed him, and he knew without hearing the crier that it was nearing nine. He could not completely quell his disappointment. When he had offered to take the ailing Kroger's place this evening, it had been with the hope he would see Ashley McClellan. He knew it had been possible there might be no reason for her to come tonight, but he had allowed himself to hope, and now he chastised himself for being a fool.
He had not seen Ashley since she had given birth to Trenton, and he could not help but wish to see how she fared. Although he had talked to Salem and was assured she was doing nicely, thank you, he had a need to talk to her himself. He always felt cleansed in her unaffected presence, as well as something of a kinship with her.
Ashley Lynne McClellan, niece of the powerful Duke of Linfield, had perceived early on that much about Jericho Smith was a fraud. And it rarely bothered Smith that she knew, because he could trust her to guard his secret as dearly as if it had been her own. On occasion it frightened him, the things she suspected. He would see her look at him expectantly, willing him to share a part of himself with her and Salem, but he could never oblige her, and she seemed to understand. At least, she accepted it, never badgering him to answer the question in her eyes.
It was his accent that had given him away. Most people found nothing remarkable about Jericho Smith's lazy drawl or unrefined patterns of speech. It was generally believed he hailed from Georgia, and everyone knew the penal origins of that colony. Jericho Smith was plain folk. It was hardly a cause for embarrassment. The services that were required of Jericho did not demand that he mingle with the Tory elite or rub elbows with British commanders. Ashley alone understood the risk he would be taking if he had to do such a thing. For beneath the carefully mannered drawl were the unmistakable tones of an education rooted in an English public school. Everyone knew Jericho Smith was no fool; only Ashley suspected the extent to which this was true.
For reasons of his own, Jericho had turned his back on his country of birth and now fought for his adopted homeland. It was this kinship he shared with Ashley McClellan. And that Ashley never pressed him to explain was a result of the natural respect she had for his privacy rather than gratitude that he had once saved her from her obsessed uncle. In truth, he hoped she had forgotten the incident, because she did not deserve to be plagued by unhappy memories. He would have killed Nigel Lynne if it had been in his power or his place to do so. Such things were better left to Ashley's husband, and Jericho knew Salem McClellan was equal to the task. There were no men Jericho respected more than he did Salem. Or envied. Sometimes he did not like himself much for it.
She wasn't coming, he decided. He reached for the tankard of heady ale that Red had slipped onto his table and drank deeply. Preoccupied with thoughts of Ashley, he had missed the wench's return. A pity—he had a mind to tease her again. He shrugged and eased himself more comfortably in the booth, stretching out both legs on the bench. If Ashley wasn't coming, he was free to share the space, yet he coveted his solitude. Waving one of the serving maids over—a blousy woman who heaved her bosom with each breath—he ordered a meal. He found himself looking for the skinny wench with the sharp tongue. Perhaps he would amuse himself with her before he took his leave. He had already engaged the room, and he thought he could do worse than the slight handful she presented.
He grinned when he caught sight of her across the room. She was weaving through the crowd with considerably more skill than she had first shown. There was a fine sheen of perspiration on her face and throat, and strands of hair clung wetly to her cheeks. She was certainly earning her meager wages this evening, he thought. He wondered if she would accept continental paper money in exchange for a toss. His last coin had bought the room.
As she wove her way among the tables nearing his own, he saw her eyes dart about the room. She was discreetly taking the measure of every man in the tavern. Probably looking for a bit of sport heavier in the pockets than he was, Jericho warned himself. The thought was oddly annoying. It was only because her eyes were nearly the color of Ashley's. Of course, Ashley's were clear and guileless. This wench's were jaded. Ashley was emerald. The serving girl was green glass.
Jericho swore softly under his breath, angry at his harsh judgment. He was no diamond to Ashley's jewel. The Ashleys of the world belonged to men like Salem, men of honor and position. For him there would always be women who could not afford to discriminate, women like this young wench, who was no better than she ought to be.
His dinner arrived and he applied himself to eating the thin slices of roast mutton. A sauce of unknown origin covered two thick slices of bread, and there was a baked apple to one side. It was better fare than he was used to with the troops. He considered taking some of the meat back to the encampment, but hunger turned him against it. He drank steadily while he ate, and because he wanted to believe he retained a measure of will power, he ate slowly and therefore drank far more than was his wont. He knew he must be drinking too much because the serving wench was looking better to him all the time.
Over the rim of his pewter tankard he watched Rahab fend off the amorous attentions of an unsteady soldier. The man had coarsely jammed his hand down the front of her blouse while she was pouring his ale. She slapped it away, but the action only seemed to amuse him. He laughed loudly at her show of resistance and reached for her slender arms just above the elbow and shook her. Her breasts threatened to escape the low neckline of her saque. Twice she had managed to escape his lap, yet was being resolutely pulled back a third time. Neither the besotted soldier nor his equally drunken companion appeared to notice that she was not playing, but fighting in earnest. She had spilled most of the contents of the pitcher she still clutched in her arms, and the slippery floor made it difficult for her to get her footing each time she pushed herself upright.
Rae gasped as the gap-toothed soldier gripped her waist and brought her backside down hard against the bulge in his breeches. She felt his hot breath close to her ear and only guessed at half of the guttural crudities he muttered. She would have liked to scream at his rough handling, but had not the voice nor the hope that anyone would respond to her cries for help. Instead she twisted in his grasp and flung the pitcher at his head. It missed and connected with the hard sloping forehead of his friend. The man was stunned for a moment, yelled a harsh obscenity, and grabbed for Rahab's throat.
Rae kicked backward at her captor's shins, and he released her in time for her to elude the thick fingers hungry for her vulnerable neck. She had not the luxury of a moment's rest as she scrambled to her feet and slid out of arm's reach. Her thwarted captor stood and lunged for her. Rae agilely stepped to one side, leaving the fellow to flail at the air and fall inelegantly at her feet. Peripherally aware that she was providing a spectacle for Wolfe's regulars, and thoroughly disgusted by the knowledge, Rae tossed the heavy pitcher at the man who still desired to test the strength of her neck.
Startled, he caught it, giving Rae enough time to yank up the hem of her skirt and reach for the dagger sheathed against her thigh. The tavern became uncommonly quiet as Rae met her attacker unflinchingly. Her knife glinted like blue ice in the dull smoke of the room. The soldier paused at the intent in Rahab's eyes, yet the expectant hush that surrounded them prodded him forward. He would not be made a fool in front of his friends. He'd take the wench right here on the floor and show them all who would prick whom.
His face ruddy with anger, he slammed the pitcher against the edge of a table. It smashed easily, and he chose one of the jagged pieces of pottery as his weapon. Crouching slightly, his weight on the balls of his feet, he advanced slowly on Rahab. Without a word's passing among the spectators, a circle was cleared for the combatants. Money exchanged hands quietly as bets were tallied.
Dear God, Rae cried silently. How had she let this happen?
She should have left Wolfe's as soon as it was clear Kroger was not going to show up
. Instead she had thought it would make a good story to tell Ashley if she brought home her small wage for one night of serving drinks. At the very least, she thought, she should have allowed the soldier to paw her. What difference did it make, these impersonal hands on her body? She was never going to see these people again. But a shudder had wracked her as the man's cruel and calloused fingers had pinched her breast. In truth, she felt violated by the liberties that had been taken on her person during the course of this evening. She wanted to scrub her skin raw and doubted even then that she would feel clean.
Now there was nothing for it but to protect herself against a further violation, one that she did not know if she could live with. She grasped the heavy folds of her skirt in her right hand and lifted the hem away from her feet. In her left hand she held the lethal dagger and understood more clearly than her opponent the advantage left-handedness gave her in this situation. No doubt he was used to right-handed opponents. The same could be said for Rae. She knew how to protect herself, but this man could be vulnerable to a quick thrust to his blind right. Rae's major concern was quelling her own fear of the sharp and uneven shard of pottery the soldier waved in front of her. What that crude weapon could do to her face did not bear thinking about.
Rae stepped lightly on her feet, eluding the jabbing motion of the soldier's thrusts. Her eyes darted to take in the whole of the man, and she knew that if he were more her size he would be no match for her. His drunken condition made him clumsy, but also dangerously unpredictable. Rae's own bout with alcohol earlier in the evening made her more sluggish than she wished. Heaven knew, she reminded herself, if she had practiced a bit of temperance none of this would be happening.
There was a harsh gasp as the soldier's ragged weapon passed within inches of Rahab's face. Belatedly she realized it was her own protest that she heard. Her eyes glittered as she advanced on the ruddy redcoat, teasing him with the deadly point of her dagger. She dodged and feinted, jabbed and pricked. She was too quick for his leaden movements. Rahab had no intention of mortally wounding him. She wanted only to disarm and incapacitate him. But as her feet slid on the wet floor, the outcome of the combat was changed.
It was meant to be the slightest scratch on his chest. A mark that would remind him in the days to come that he should be easy with his liquor and less free with his hands. Perhaps he would even come to be amused by the light scar and learn to have a nodding respect for barmaids. That was what Rahab hoped for as she lunged forward to deliver her last thrust.
She cried out, a low, guttural sound of misery, as her feet went out from under her and she felt the point of her weapon slice flesh and snap bone. She fell against the soldier, and the weight of her combined with the driving force of her jab sent him to his knees. Rae's hand slipped from the hilt of the knife, and it was her own body that drove it fully into her attacker's chest. There was a muffled groan, then sounds of surprise and pain.
Rae reared back, dazed. She reached for the dagger and pulled it from his chest. The feel of the tempered steel sliding wetly against weaker muscle and sinew was sickening. Rae turned her head, wanting to retch. She did not see the blood blossoming darkly against the soldier's white shirt and crimson coat.
She could feel the circle of spectators closing in about her. She glanced up, and their accusing and angry faces merged as one threat against her. She could not even voice her innocence had they wanted to hear.
A hand grabbed her roughly by the arm and jerked her to her feet. It was a man. His features were distorted as if she were seeing him through a rain-spattered pane of glass. Yet she knew her eyes were peculiarly dry. She made no protest as he dragged her through the crowd and up the narrow stairs to the tavern's second story. He offered some explanation to the customers bent over the body of the bleeding soldier, but Rae did not understand his words. She allowed herself to be pulled into a small room, lighted by a meager fire in the hearth, and neatly pushed into a cane chair. Her head was rudely shoved between her knees, and while she submitted to the ignominy of this position she heard the scrape of the bolt being drawn. She looked up questioningly, only to have a hand pressed sharply against her nape and her face thrust again between her knees.
"I doubt that we have much time," Jericho drawled, his voice curiously slow given the pace of his recent actions and the urgency of his statement.
Rae smiled giddily at the contrast. She received a less than gentle squeeze on the back of her neck for her efforts.
"Give me the knife," he commanded. He watched her stiff fingers attempt to open their grip on her weapon. In the end he had to pry it from her. Jericho pulled a soiled handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the blade clean. He examined the workmanship and knew the wench had paid a neat sum for her protection. More than likely she had stolen it. He doubted she had bartered her body for it. He placed more value on the dagger.
His face expressionless, Jericho lifted her and laid her on the narrow bed. She made only the briefest of protests, and he stilled it by lightly slapping her cheek. When she was perfectly quiet he seated himself at the level of her waist and trapped her with one arm. "If you have any thought of getting out of this situation with your skinny neck still intact, you'll do what I tell you. I won't ask and I won't tell you twice. Do you understand?"
She nodded and concentrated on keeping his face from disappearing. She recognized him now as the man who had studied her so insolently. He was as cold and unfeeling as she had at first thought, in spite of his timely rescue.
The pads of Jericho's fingers swept across the cheek he had slapped. The action seemed to take the sting from his sharp words. "Good. The moment you have ideas contrary to mine, I'll leave you to test the waters yourself." His lips curved in a hint of a smile as she nodded again. "I've noticed in our short acquaintance that you don't have much to say." She opened her mouth, but he put a narrow finger to her lips. "And it's the thing I like best about you. That, and the way you fight, of course. Damn, but you know how to handle this piece." He held up the dagger, examining it thoughtfully. "I'd like to meet your instructor sometime." With no warning, he tossed up her skirt and slipped the dagger in its leather sheath. "Your legs are nice," he said conversationally, grinning as she sputtered and tried to right her skirt. "You're a touchy thing, ain't you? Can't figure out what you're doing in Wolfe's when you object so violently to being petted." She jerked as if burnt, but Jericho went on as though he hadn't noticed. "You must be used to the fondling of strangers by now. Or is it only some of us you object to?"
Rae watched him warily, wondering if she had escaped at all. Had he only brought her to this room for his own amusement? Was she supposed to yield to him to gain his protection? Something of her fears must have shown in her eyes, because he laughed shortly.
"I'm not interested, ma'am. Not at the moment, anyway. We can discuss price later. And before you get yourself all worked up again I want you to look at this." He stretched his left leg in front of him and withdrew a blade every bit the equal of the one she carried. He held it in front of her, permitting her to examine it, then he lightly touched the point of it to the hollow of her throat. He could feel her swallow hard. "Don't ever think you can take me, because you can't. I can dispatch a left-hander as easily as I can a right one. I can fight with my knife in either hand. Can you say the same?" She shook her head. "I didn't think so." He put the dagger away and surprised both of them by saying, "Perhaps I'll teach you one day."
Jericho left her side briefly to listen at the door. It was difficult to tell the exact nature of the confusion and commotion below stairs. He doubted he had more than minutes before the constabulary pounded on his door. He was in no mood for a confrontation with British officers. He turned on her, cursing her under his breath for looking so terribly fragile and innocent on the very bed where he had hoped to take her. She had certainly put a period to that portion of the evening's entertainment.
"C'mon. On your feet. We have to get out of here. You've had as much rest as I can give you."
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Rae felt herself drawn to her feet, not by his hand, but by the compelling urgency in his voice. There was something in his tone, a grudging respect perhaps, that spoke to her strength. He believed she could travel; she could believe no less.
She followed her rescuer to the window and only paused the merest of seconds before following him onto the sloping roof of the tavern's back porch. It was only after dropping to the ground, where his strong and capable hands steadied her on her feet, that it occurred to her she did not know his name. As he led her away from the tavern she looked back once and saw two dimly lighted windows that opened above the roof. How differently things would have turned out if Kroger had appeared, she thought sadly.
"Don't look back," Jericho ordered, jerking her forward. "I have to find a safe place for you. Do you have family that will hide you?"
Rae shook her head. Not for anything would she chance leading the enemy to Salem and Ashley. She couldn't let them know what she had done. God, she had killed a man this evening. Quite against her will, she began to shake. She sniffed inelegantly.
Jericho felt her hand tremble in his. "Don't go all missish on me now. Here, take my coat. It will help with the cold, at least." He struggled out of the jacket while she stood quietly, afraid to protest his suggestion for fear he would make good his threat to abandon her. He helped her slide her stiff arms into it, only too aware how pathetically lost she looked in it. "And for God's sake stop your sniffling. You laid a man low back there, and no one will be much impressed by your pretty tears and protestations. Certainly not me. But if you want to throw yourself at the mercy of the official inquiry, leave now." He waited all of three seconds for her to indicate her desire to do just that. Her slight spine merely stiffened. Jericho reached blindly for her hand and pulled her into an easy run beside him.
She had no idea where she was. Her companion used sidestreets and alleys she had not known existed. Where there was light there were great, hulking shadows. Where light was absent there was only a penetrating darkness that frightened her with its intensity. She gave thanks that one of them knew where they were going.
