Patricia Rice (4 page)

He had been so cold and still when they carried him
in; she had known he was dead without asking. They hadn’t even allowed
her to stay for the burial, but hurried her off with her small bundle of
possessions and the collection of coins they had gathered. So many
coins in a community where they were sparse had stunned Faith into
belief when they insisted she go find her family, and set her out on the
road.

The sound of a horse neighing outside returned her
from her reverie, and Faith leapt from her seat and hurried to add fuel
to the fire. Jack would in all likelihood be home soon. She didn’t know
what she would feed him, but she would think of something. She was
accustomed to making do.

With her hair still damp from washing, she donned
her own mud-splattered cloak and went outside to dispose of her
washwater and draw fresh. She checked on the horses and found Jack had
fastened a pail to the stall of each one and given them fresh hay. She
rubbed their noses and murmured soft words in their ears, petted the cat
and scratched behind his ear, then hurried back to the warmth of the
fire.

With the flour and lard she rolled out unsweetened
biscuits and set them to bake in the heavy Dutch oven over the fire. She
had found a square of hardened cheese in a dark corner of the cupboard
and scraped some of that into the dough before she set the biscuits to
bake.

Now she fried more of the bacon and added flour to
the grease for gravy. She wished she had some onion root or even a
potato, but he would have to settle for what she could find. Perhaps he
would bring back a rabbit. The thought stirred her empty stomach into
growling. The slice of cheese she had eaten for lunch was scarcely
sufficient to last all day.

While the bread baked, she braided her long hair
into a single length, then tied it with a broken shirt string she had
found in Jack’s trunk. Then she tested her clothes, and finding them
sufficiently dry, she scurried into them, apologetically stacking Jack’s
shirt and stockings in a pile to be washed another day.

As the room grew darker, she lit a lamp and waited.
The tea steeped and the biscuits finished baking and the bacon—cut
thick—was good and crisp. And still he didn’t come.

Faith looked longingly at the steaming hot food,
went to the window and searched the darkness, and wandered restlessly
back to the fire. It didn’t seem right to let it go to waste. She didn’t
know what time he would return. She could always cook more.

She rationalized herself into the chair with a plate
of biscuits and gravy and broken bits of bacon. The tea needed
sweetening, but she gulped its strong warmth gratefully and gave the
proper blessing for the meal. She had forgotten to do that this morning,
and she apologized in her prayer now.

Perhaps she had no right to be here. Perhaps Jack
would put her out in the morning. But for right now, right this minute,
she was warm and dry and clean and sitting before a plate of hot food.
She was learning to appreciate each minute as it came.

When she was done, she cleaned up and put everything
neatly back in its place. The tea kept warm at the back of the spacious
fireplace. The remaining biscuits stayed in the pot at the edge of the
fire. They would dry out some, but the gravy would soften them. It was
time to let the fire die down anyway. She shouldn’t rashly use all
Jack’s fuel.

She wrapped a few warming bricks in flannel from his
trunk and placed them at the foot of his bed. They would stay warm for
quite a while. If she had more soap, she could wash his sheets, but that
was a subject she would broach another time. First, she must convince
him to let her stay.

When she had done all she could to make Jack’s home
welcoming, Faith removed her newly washed bodice and skirt and spread
the blanket she had used the prior night out on the hearth. Jack had
taken his old cloak, but she had found a fine black one in his bed
cupboard when she made the bed. It was of a rich, thick wool and lined
with a lovely satin. She wondered why he hadn’t taken it.

She snuggled beneath the warm wool and rubbed her
face appreciatively against the sensuous satin. Were she rich,
everything she owned would be of such fabulous material. She closed her
eyes, and within minutes she was dreaming of satin sheets and wide gowns
and laughing gentlemen.

When Jack entered the cottage some hours later, he
knew instantly that he was not alone. Instead of being greeted by the
icy cold of a long-dead fire and the stench of his dirty dishes, warm
air and the scent of something delicious welcomed him. He had stopped at
an inn to eat earlier, but his stomach still rumbled with hunger for
the bread he had desired just this morning.

Dropping his bundle, he cautiously approached the
hearth, finding the bedding just where he had left it the night before.
He frowned at the sight of his black cloak wrapped around her small
figure. Had she made the connection yet? If so, his hiding place could
be in danger. This was the best billet he’d had in many a year, and he
was reluctant to sacrifice it for one wayward wench.

His frown didn’t last long as he discovered the
bacon and gravy waiting for him and opened the black pot on the fire to
find the biscuits. He would wager all his wealth that the chit went to
bed hungry so that she might leave him his fair share of the meal. He
felt guilty as hell for having enjoyed that meat pie earlier.

Jack tried to maintain his irritation at this
unwarranted interference, but the smell of the bread made him grin. He
helped himself, piled the biscuits on the plate with the congealing
gravy, and scooped up the delicious mess with his fingers. The taste of
cheese intermingled with the bacon startled him, and he savored the
flavor.

He sat down in the chair beside the warm embers of
the fire and cleaned his plate, then poured a mug of strong tea. He
preferred coffee but hadn’t bothered to buy the grounds lately. Tilting
the chair back and sipping the hot beverage, he studied the bundle of
bedding on his hearth.

She must be exhausted not to hear his clumping boots
and his ungentle clanging of the pots and plate. Apparently she had
done something with her hair, since none of the rebellious strands crept
around her face. Instead, he watched the thick length of her dark
lashes curled against her velvet-soft cheeks and wondered at the
innocence of such sound sleep.

He hadn’t slept like that since his youth. Military
life had taught him to sleep with one eye open, and his occupation now
relied on it.

If he were not careful, he would drag her down with
him. He’d have to send her on her way, perhaps when the weather grew
warmer. It would be convenient to have someone available to look after
the horses while he was gone.

With that decision made, Jack removed his boots and
encountered another problem. Glancing from his bed to the hearth, he
scowled. He hadn’t slept in nightshirts since he was a callow youth, but
he couldn’t very well sleep in the raw with a child under his roof.
Cursing that unforeseen development, he crossed the room to his bed and
unfastened his breeches. He’d be damned if he slept in them. Her modesty
would simply have to suffer the indignity.

He left the breeches on the floor where they fell,
and rolled up in his bedcovers. The lingering warmth from the bricks was
a pleasant surprise, and he stretched wearily to fill the bed. The
shirt and stockings were a damned nuisance, but having his stomach full
for a change almost compensated for it. Leaning his head back against
his arms, Jack closed his eyes and slept.

Faith jumped awake with the first light of dawn. Her
gaze instantly traveled to the bed, from whence soft snores could be
heard, then to the dirty plate on the table. He was back, and he’d eaten
her meal.

Smiling, she jerked her bodice on under the covers;
then, throwing a surreptitious glance to the sleeping man on the bed,
she hastily scrambled into her skirt.

She hastened to do her chores as quickly and quietly
as possible. She nearly stumbled over the heavy bundle by the door.
Fear pumped through her veins as she imagined the contents torn from
their rightful owners. She had never known a thief before. Perhaps she
was making a desperate mistake by wishing to stay here.

But when she walked out into the icy cold, she knew
she was not yet ready to travel on. The snow seeped through the holes in
her shoes, and her ungloved hands reacted with pain to just the brush
of the wind. If she had the choice of dying for pride or living with the
devil, she would have to choose the devil. Her father might be ashamed
of her choice, but she had discovered a deep desire to live.

Carrying the pail of water back to the house, she
straightened her shoulders and prepared to face the devil. He was still
asleep, and she tried to be as noiseless as possible. She set the kettle
on to heat and rummaged through the larder for something edible. The
hens had produced no new eggs, to her disappointment.

The sound of a deep voice behind her caused Faith to jump and swing around.

“Why don’t you use what’s in the sack? It’s at least fresh, and I would rather have the coffee.”

He emerged from the bed still tucking his shirt into
his breeches. It was the same shirt he had worn the day before, Faith
noted. The hole was in the same place. Her tongue froze in her mouth.
All the fine arguments she had practiced disappeared, and she could only
stare at his imposing figure.

Jack gave her an impatient glance, then lifted the
sack onto the table. He produced the pouch of coffee beans and threw
them at her. “Do you know what to do with them?”

He had shaved and had his hair trimmed, although it
still hung loosely instead of being bound in a queue. Faith caught the
pouch and tried not to stare. He was much handsomer than she had
imagined, albeit in a rough fashion. Broad cheekbones jutted to shadowed
cheeks and a straight, thin nose that did not quite match the rather
sensuous curve of his lower lip. When the square chin beneath that mouth
tightened, she jumped and stared at the beans helplessly.

“I...I don’t know what they are, sir.”

“Jack. Call me Jack.” He grabbed the pouch, rummaged
about until he found the flatiron she had neatly set in his barren
cupboard, and proceeded to crush the beans with a few vigorous hammers
between iron and table. Then he handed her the flattened but more
savory-scented pouch. “Just cook them like tea.”

Wide-eyed, she nodded and accepted the pouch. She
sent a sidelong glance to the large sack remaining on the table, and her
stomach rumbled. Jack grinned.

“Take what you need. I’m seeing to the horses.”

The grin almost made him human. It was lopsided and
gleaming white and it deepened the little dent in his cheek. Faith
stared blankly after him as he went out the door. Highwaymen weren’t
supposed to be human.

Fearing for her almighty soul, she dived into the
bundle of goodies and nearly crowed with delight at each discovery. Far
from being a highwayman’s stolen bounty, the sack contained all the
ingredients of a well-stocked larder. She nearly cried at the package of
scented soap, and her imagination jumped recklessly to the immense cake
she would make with the sugar.

She hastily whipped together a quick batter to cook
in the skillet, set some of the smoked sausage into another pan, and put
the coffee on to boil. It was a rather crude breakfast, but better than
she had known for some while. With the pot of honey Jack had brought,
it would fill their stomachs. Tomorrow, when she had more time, she
would try porridge and muffins.

Jack returned with a barrel from the barn and set it
on the opposite side of the table from the chair. Without questioning,
Faith set out the newly cleaned plate he had used the night before,
placed the fork and mug beside it, and poured his coffee. Jack gave a
sigh of appreciation as he sipped the strong liquid.

He took the barrel, and after setting the food on
the table, Faith reluctantly took the chair. He made her uncomfortable,
and she tried not to look at him as she tasted the bitter brew he
preferred. She made a face and pushed it away and began to tackle her
bread, when his big hand caught her cup.

“Try it with sugar.” He cut off a small chunk of
brown sugar and dropped it into the hot liquid before pushing it back to
her. “I didn’t think to get milk. Children ought to have milk.”

Faith lifted her eyebrows at this assertion, but she
took another sip. The sugar was an improvement, but coffee was an
acquired taste, she feared.

“I have seen children die of the fever after
drinking tainted milk. I’ll only drink what is boiled first.” It was a
daring thing to say to this big man who could snap her in two, but his
insulting reference to her age demanded some response.

Jack’s mouth tilted. “Remind me never to feed you fine wine, then. Eat, or I shall finish this all myself.”

He seemed quite capable of doing just that, and
Faith hastily began nibbling at the honey-smeared pan bread. Jack
finished his bread and sausage and sat back from the table to finish his
coffee.

“You say you’re looking for work.”

Faith watched him warily, but nodded.

He gave her a scornful appraisal. “You’re scarce big
enough to do much. Those horses out there would pull your arms out of
the sockets. Can you ride?”

Not as he did, but she could stay in the saddle. She nodded again.

He looked skeptical, but continued his
interrogation. “I’ll not have some family after my neck for corrupting
and abducting their precious darling, will I? This is no polite place
for a proper lady to be, and you have a lady’s speech about you.”

“My parents are dead and there is none other to know
of my existence. My parents were gentry, but we did not live any
differently than this. I can cook and clean and sew and tend your
animals. I can read and do sums, if you have need of that.”