The Sherbrooke Series Novels 1-5 (117 page)

Brewster was a thoroughbred, with a racer’s heart. He stretched out his neck, bunched his muscles, and flew forward, surprising even Gray, who’d trained Brewster himself some four years before.

He would lose sight of Durban, curse loudly into the dark night, then catch sight of him again. He didn’t believe Jack
knew where he was going. But if he was lost, why didn’t he just stop and return to London?

Because he thinks I’ll be there waiting to kill him and then take his body to the magistrate. Not a bad idea, all things considered. The boy isn’t stupid, at least about saving his hide.

It started to rain about two o’clock in the morning. The temperature plummeted. It needed but this, Gray thought and hunched down against Brewster’s neck. Brewster, unhappy about the weather, snorted and stretched his neck out even longer.

There was no traffic at all. Not a carriage or another rider. Nothing, just the heavy rain and fat, bloated clouds and air that was growing colder by the minute.

Gray cursed, unable to think of anything else to do. And always he was thinking:
Who the hell is Jack?

Brewster came around a bend. Gray was expecting to see Durban in the distance, but he didn’t see anything at all. He rode farther. He didn’t see Durban, not a whiff of him. He’d just vanished. No, that was impossible. He rode another mile. When he was certain that Jack must have left the main road, maybe finally realized that he was going in the wrong direction, Gray pulled Brewster to a stop and sat there in the rain, freezing and thinking. Then he turned back toward London. He saw a small country road that forked off the main road. Jack had to have come this way. Gray nudged Brewster onto the rutted, muddy country road.

Gray was exhausted, soaked to the marrow, and so worried about Jack that his anger at the boy had cooled below the boiling point. Brewster was tiring. He had to do something.

Brewster slowed to a walk, both he and his master nearly cross-eyed with fatigue. Suddenly Gray heard a familiar whinny.

Durban.

He pulled Brewster to a halt and said, “That’s our Durban. What do you think, Brewster? Do you know where he is?”

Brewster raised his great head and whinnied loudly. He was quickly answered. Durban was close, just off to the left. It was then that Gray saw a very old relic of a barn set back from the country road at the far end of a barley field. There was no farmhouse in sight, just the dilapidated old barn, probably deserted a good half century before.

The rain was coming down even harder, though Gray would have thought that impossible. It was difficult to see three feet in front of him. Without any instruction from his rider, Brewster left the road and gingerly made his way through the muddy field which had sharp rocks sticking up here and there to catch the unwary. At a patchwork wooden fence Brewster had to jump, which he did, clearing it easily.

At least Jack was inside that barn, out of the rain, nursing his bruised rib—the worthless little bastard. He obviously didn’t have any notion of direction.

Durban whinnied again, and Gray’s eyes narrowed.

He slid off Brewster’s back, nearly falling because his legs wouldn’t hold him up after the five-hour ride. He steadied himself and led Brewster into the barn. At least it provided some shelter, though rain came hard through a good half dozen holes in the roof. Then suddenly the rain stopped—simply stopped. Well, that was something.

He called out, “Jack? Where are you, you damned idiot?”

No answer.

He removed Brewster’s bridle and led him to Durban, who was tied by a badly frayed rope in one corner of the barn where the rain probably hadn’t reached. Durban was chewing on old straw. Gray left the two horses together,
Brewster nuzzling Durban’s neck, and walked to the only other protected corner of the barn.

“Jack?”

No answer. He cursed. When he saw the boy finally, he saw only his head, covered with what looked to be thick dark blond hair. He was covered with straw up to his nose, an attempt to keep warm. He seemed to be asleep.
Sleeping sound as a babe in the straw while I was riding like a bat out of its cave trying to find him.

Gray came down on his knees beside the boy. It was near to dawn and growing lighter. He pushed the straw off and shook the boy’s shoulder. Then a shaft of early-morning sunlight knifed through two board slats.

Gray sat back on his heels and stared down at the boy. He was shaking his head even though he knew he wasn’t mistaken. “Oh, God,” he said, “I don’t believe this. Jesus, you’re no more a Jack than I am.” Gray leaned forward and swatted the straw from her face and stared down at the girl he’d badly wanted to smash into the stable floor. “You’re a damned female. I could have killed you. Not that it should make any difference, but of course it does. You were stealing my horse. Why? Who the devil are you?”

She moaned.

5

“W
HAT
’
S WRONG
with you? Wake up.”

He lightly slapped her cheeks. “Come on, open your eyes.” She moaned again, turning her face away from him. She was wet. This wasn’t good. He couldn’t be of much help since he was wet to the bone himself, and his only clothes covered those bones.

He pressed his palm to her forehead, her cheeks. She didn’t have the fever. He said again, this time right in her ear, “Wake up. I don’t like this. I came after you because you stole Durban and here you have the absolute nerve to act ill. You have even more gall to be a female. Damn you, wake up.”

She opened her eyes. It hurt, but she did it. The man’s voice sounded very irritated. At first she’d believed it to be her stepfather’s voice, but then she knew it wasn’t. It was his voice, the baron’s voice. Her vision cleared and she saw him not an inch from her nose. He looked worried. Why?

Then her stomach clenched and she lurched up. She felt
his hands on her arms, pulling her back down. “I’m going to be sick,” she said and felt him pull her up fast and hold her steady. She drew deep breaths, shuddered, breathed through her mouth. No, she wouldn’t vomit; she refused to. She swallowed, took several more shallow breaths, and said, “The great-aunts don’t know about this. Please don’t tell them.”

“Why the hell not? They’ve got a thief disguised as a valet, and you’re also a girl. Is this why they call you Mad Jack? You pull ridiculous stunts like this? Dress like a boy and parade about? Damnation, what is going on here? Who are you, damn you?”

“Stop cursing.” She felt pain pounding in her jaw and head; her ribs ached, drew, and pulled, and she wanted simply to close her eyes and fall back into the straw. She was cold, yes, that was the worst of it—not her ribs, not her cramping belly. She was cold and she didn’t know what to do about it.

She looked up at him and said, “I’m cold. Please, do you have a blanket or something?”

“I’m as wet and cold as you are. Just where do you think I’d find a blanket? Do you even have any idea where you are?”

“In an old barn. Durban brought me here. We can’t be too far from Folkstone.”

“Here, let me cover you with straw again.” He paused a moment as the shaft of bright sun hit him in the face. “No more rain. All right. I have no idea where we are, but we’re nowhere close to Folkstone. We’re somewhere west of London.”

“No, no, we’re south of London.”

“If you were a man, you’d know in your bones what direction you were going. It’s an automatic thing, this knowing where you are, bred deep in a man’s bones. But
you’re not a boy, you’re a damned girl and you were riding poor Durban as hard as you could, due west. On the Reading road, toward Bath.”

She groaned and closed her eyes. “Oh, dear.” She opened her eyes and blinked. “Do you really know the direction automatically because you’re a man?”

“Naturally. Without men, women wouldn’t find their way home. It’s a sorry thing, but there it is. Now, take off as many clothes as you can and I’ll hang them out in the sun to dry. There’s nothing else we can do, so get on with it. Oh, your ribs. Do you need help?”

“No, go away.”

“Fine,” he said, rising. “I’ll strip myself.”

He heard her breath whoosh out from behind him. He spun on his heel and saw her weaving where she stood, but he wasn’t in time to catch her before she fell back down onto the straw. He let loose with a string of curses that had Brewster neighing loudly at him, and then she whispered, “You’re cursing again.”

“I’m cursing because it’s simply the only thing to do. It’s what a man does when he doesn’t understand what the devil is happening or why it even dared to happen to him since he is completely innocent, and thus his spleen demands venting. You were stealing my horse, I chased you down, and now you have the gall to be a girl and a mad valet to my great-aunts. On top of everything, you’re sick, damn you.” He smacked his hand to his forehead. “It’s a new day and I had a bloody awful evening and night.”

“What happened last evening?” She didn’t move, just lay there on her side, trying to control the god-awful pain in her one rib that he’d kicked into her back and the sick throbbing in her head. She felt less cold now, which didn’t make a lot of sense but was true nonetheless. And here she was talking. Who cared about his blasted evening? “Did
your mistress tell you she’d found a better protector?”

“Ah, so there’s still a bit of hornet left in you, is there? What would you know about mistresses and the men who keep them?”

“Every man has mistresses if he has the money. Everyone knows that. It’s the way things are.” Slowly, she tried to pull herself upright. She managed it, breathing hard, still feeling a bit sick to her stomach, and hating the dampness of her clothes sticking to her. “But it isn’t right. It really isn’t. Men might automatically know directions, but if they aren’t faithful to their promises, then they shouldn’t be admired.”

“Maybe it’s only other faithless men who admire them. Now, are you going to fall down again? You’re a female, so I suppose I should expect it.” He paused a moment and frowned. “You got the best of me twice last night. I don’t understand that.”

“Men have direction and women have brains—well, and a bit of luck too. Now, I’m going to get up and I’m going to get these wretched clothes off. Yes, I’m going to do it right now. Turn around. Thank you.”

“When you get your clothes off, I’ll look at your ribs.”

“No you won’t, my lord. If you try it I’ll smash you to the ground again.”

Gray laughed, he couldn’t help it. “We’re somewhere in the wilds of nowhere—well west of London—but at least it’s not raining, so I won’t complain. Look, Jack, or whatever your name is, the thing is—” He’d turned as he spoke and there she was, standing in a chemise that came to her knees, and one riding boot on the other lying in the straw beside her. Dark blond hair spilled over her shoulders and breasts. She looked utterly, amazingly female. He hadn’t a clue as to what he had been about to say. He quickly gave
her his back again. “Toss your clothes over near me and then get under as much straw as you can.”

He stripped down to his breeches, had his hand on their buttons, then sighed and shook his head. No, Jack wasn’t a Jack. He couldn’t strip all the way. He picked up her clothes and his shirt, waistcoat, and greatcoat and left her.

She lay there, shivering like a loon, wondering what would happen now and knowing it wouldn’t be good. She closed her eyes, felt nausea stir in her belly, and began breathing lightly and quickly.

He said from above her, “Now, think about your ribs. Did I get one or two?”

“One.”

Without saying anything else, he knelt down beside her, wearing only his breeches. She’d never seen a half-naked man before, and the surprise of it made a little noise in her throat, which brought his face to hers. “What’s wrong?”

“You don’t have a shirt on. I’ve never seen a man’s chest before.”

He sat back on his heels, frowning down at her. “Don’t be a twit. You dress like Jack the valet, hide in a barn older than my grandfather, and then make silly little noises just because I don’t have cloth over my upper parts? Close your eyes, then.” He unfastened her chemise and pulled back the soft white batiste just a bit. It wasn’t enough. He pulled the material wide, baring her breasts. She was so surprised her eyes popped open. She just lay there staring up at him, not knowing what to do. Then she raised her hand in a protective gesture. He gently shoved her hand back down. She just sighed, closed her eyes, and said, “I’m not a twit.”

“Good.” He lightly touched his fingers to a lower rib that was yellow and blue, edged with fingers of green and black. She tried to pull away, but it hurt so badly she just groaned instead. “That’s right. Make noise, but hold still.
Now, let’s see what we’ve got here.” He pulled the material fully apart. Though he didn’t want to, he saw that her nipples were puckered from the cold. Dear God, it was amazing how a woman’s breasts could do a man in very quickly; on the other hand, her breasts were lovely. No, he was looking at the rib he’d smashed with his foot, not at two very nice female breasts. She lay there, stiff and shivering with cold as he ran his fingers over her ribs, up and down her arms, felt her belly, asking over and over, “Here? Does that hurt? No? Good.”

It was a relief, she thought, looking at him because she simply couldn’t keep her eyes closed. He didn’t appear to notice her womanly parts at all. She could have been Jack for all he cared. No, he was looking again at her ribs and now he was lightly stroking his fingertips over that particular rib that hurt so badly she had to bite her lip to keep quiet. Then he pressed harder and she cried out.

He looked up at her briefly. “Sorry. Just hold still. I had to see how bad it was. No, it isn’t broken, thank God, but you’re not going to feel like performing the cotillion for the next week or two.” He sat back on his haunches. “Well, you deserve the pain. Stealing my Durban, a solid old boy I’ve had since I was fourteen years old. The chances are he would have brought you low, you know. Whenever Durban sees any dandelions—it doesn’t matter where—even on the side of a road that’s filled with carriages and other horses, he has to have them. Dandelions are ambrosia to Durban. It doesn’t matter what you do. Indeed, the only thing you can do is simply let him eat all the bloody dandelions he wants. Only then will he move another hoof in the direction you want, even if it’s the wrong direction.

“Now, I’m not going to feel sorry for you. I’m not going to apologize. No matter what you are, you were still
stealing my horse. I’ll bet the aunts had no idea what you were going to do, did they?”

“They know me very well. If they’d put their brains to it, I’m sure they would have realized that I’d do what I did. I left them a letter.”

He could only stare at her. “Bloody hell. Actually, that’s just perfect. What should I have expected? You’re a damned female, after all. Now, tell me your name and tell me right now.”

He was staring at just her face, not her womanly breast parts, which were still very bare.

She was white and silent.

“Is it Jacqueline and you shortened it to Jack?”

She shook her head.

“What else is there that goes with Jack? Jennifer? Jasmine?”

“My name is Winifrede Levering and I’m very cold.”

“Winifrede? What’s a Levering?”

“Winifrede was my grandmother’s name and Levering was her family name. My grandmother on my father’s side. My father loved his mother very much and I got stuck with the results.”

He grunted, closed the chemise over her breasts, and covered her with handfuls of straw.

“Your family name?”

She shook her head. Her jaw hurt, the side of her face hurt. She held herself perfectly still and said, “I don’t want to tell you that. If I do, it will be all over.”

“What will be all over?” He tossed more straw over her.

“I didn’t mean to say that, precisely. My family name is McGregor.”

“You’re not any better at lying than you are at stealing. I’ll accept the Winifrede Levering—it’s too dreadful not to be true. It’s a name that really doesn’t suit you at all—it
even nearly hurts to say that name aloud, so, yes, there’s no doubt in my mind that you’re telling the truth about that. But
McGregor
? The truth, please, now.”

She sighed. Why couldn’t she think of a name that he would accept? She wasn’t about to tell him who she was. She had no idea what he would do. Probably he’d return her directly to her stepfather.

“I must leave,” she said, and he heard the desperation in her voice. There was also pain. What was he supposed to do now?

“Very well,” he said, his voice as cold as the month of February had been last winter. “Once our clothes are dry, I’ll take you back to London and turn you over to the aunts. I’m certain they’ll tell me everything I want to know. They can also deal with you. Of course, they didn’t do a very good job of dealing with you before, but what choice do I have? Poor old birds, stuck with you. They do indeed have my sympathy.”

“They did an excellent job of dealing with me. It was just that I had no choice. I had to go back to Folkstone. The aunts are wonderful. They’re trying to protect me. They won’t tell you a thing.”

“I’m cold as well,” he said, as he lay down beside her and pulled straw over himself. “I came home last night expecting to pour a nice bit of brandy down my gullet and then stretch out on my back and dream sweet dreams, perhaps about my mistress, who doesn’t want another protector. But no, it wasn’t to be.” He gave her a look of loathing. Then he blinked. “Damn. I thought I’d covered you well enough but I didn’t. That straw on your skin will tear you apart.”