Patricia Rice (5 page)

Jack squinted warily at her after this precise
speech. “I can read and do my own sums. I need someone to water, feed,
and exercise my horses while I am away. Can you do that?”

That caused her a moment’s consternation. She knew
nothing at all about horses but how to stay on one if necessary. She
wasn’t afraid of them, by any means. So couldn’t she in all honesty
answer yes? To avoid lying outright, Faith nodded.

Satisfied, Jack set his mug down and stood up. “Then
let us begin. I have need to be in Kent tomorrow. You will start your
chores immediately.”

Faith looked down at the dirty dishes, up to the man striding impatiently toward the door, and hurried for her cloak.

Her mother’s precepts of cleanliness would have to wait. It seemed she was about to learn to be an ostler.

It didn’t take long to discover that the chit knew
the next best thing to nothing about horses, but Jack had fastened onto
the opportunity and refused to let it go. She would learn, and he would
ride farther afield and they would both be the richer for it, come warm
weather.

He laughed at her horror when he insisted she ride
astride. He showed her how to pull the back of her skirt between her
legs and tuck it in at her waist. She was the most squeamish child he
had ever met, but then, he had already decided she was a useful oddity.
And in addition to the truth of her claim that she was hardworking, he
discovered she had a natural affinity with animals that was nothing
short of miraculous.

Faith walked the smallest mare through her paces as
directed. Her skirt was torn and muddied from the falls she had taken
trying to mount on her own, but she hadn’t complained. Precisely.

“Only a man would be fool enough to take a
housekeeper and cook and turn her into a groom and ostler,” she
muttered. “Your priorities are all cock-a-hoop.”

“And you’d not be fainting with exhaustion had you been riding, would you now?” he countered.

There was little enough area to exercise the horses
in, and with the snow, they could not be walked long. By the time they
had been unsaddled and rubbed down, the lass looked as if she’d been
rode hard and put up wet.

Faith grabbed the stall door and Jack was instantly
at her side. He took in her white face, her desperate grip on the wooden
stall, and the expression of pure exhaustion on her thin features. With
a disgusted curse he lifted her nearly weightless form into his arms,
and tramped through the snow back to the house.

He dumped her on the chair before the fire and began
systematically rubbing her chapped hands between his to bring the blood
back into them. “You’ll need gloves and something warmer than that
gown. Did you come away with nothing at all against this weather?”

“Only my bundle, and I lost that the night...” She hesitated.

“The night I found you?” He gave her a sharp look
and saw her face draw tight with fear. So she knew. Or suspected. He
nodded curtly. “In the ditch? I’ll find it. I don’t suppose it has
gloves or a warmer gown, does it, now?”

Faith shook her head and tried to draw her hands
free. Even kneeling, he was nearly of a height with her, and his
magnetic energy made her feel smaller. She had seen and heard John
Wesley speak, and thought him to be the most powerful and impressive man
she knew, but just this highwayman’s physical presence could overawe a
company. Should he ever take to the platform, the world would be his.

The thought of what a waste he made by devoting his
life to crime instead of religion returned a small part of Faith’s
equilibrium. Stiffly she managed to straighten in her seat and take
command of her hands again. “I traded what I did not need for food. This
gown will be sufficient. Now, if you will excuse me, I will prepare
your luncheon.”

“Sure, and you do that, lass. I’ll be seeing after that bundle of yours. I won’t be long.”

He rose abruptly, giving her a close glimpse of legs
like young tree trunks encased in tight buckskin as he strode away.
Faith closed her eyes and prayed for deliverance from evil as she heard
him rustle around the room. When the door shut firmly behind him, she
slumped in her chair, then forced herself to rise and start the meal.

He knew she had witnessed his crime. She had seen it
in his face. What would he do with her now? Would he hold her prisoner?
That was absurd on the face of it. She had begged him not to let her
leave. She was a prisoner by her own words, her own weakness. What did
that make her? An accomplice to crime?

Short of running away to find someone in authority,
there was nothing she could do but feed the fire and put on the kettle.
Whatever Jack’s occupation, he was the first person on this road to
offer her food and shelter and a place to work. Surely God would excuse
her this once for turning her head at his crimes.

Not for the first time, Faith glanced down at her
reed- thin seventeen-year-old figure and sighed. She had no vanity. She
was perfectly aware that because of her diminutive height and
undeveloped figure, she looked thirteen or less.

Upon occasion she had looked with envy at the more
buxom dairy maids and flamboyant village girls with their strings of
beaux, but her parents had made it very clear that she was not for the
likes of them, even had she the looks to attract their eye. She was
educated far beyond the means of a farmer’s life.

That was small consolation to a lonely female
adolescent, but she had been kept too busy to worry about it more than
in those few minutes of darkness before sleep claimed her after a hard
day’s work. The Lord would provide, she had always been taught, and so
she had believed. Until now.

It was becoming quite apparent that the Lord wasn’t
going to provide her with breasts anytime soon, and for that she ought
to be properly grateful. She had the certain feeling that had Jack
realized she was more than a child, he would never have taken her in.

By the time Jack returned with her muddy bundle of
meager possessions, the cottage had filled with the rich aromas of
boiling coffee, barley soup, and a cheese pie she had created with the
one egg she had found and her memory of a recipe a sailor’s French wife
had taught her.

Faith was quite proud of how well it turned out, and
smiled to herself as she took it out of the old Dutch oven. The smile
spilled over to include Jack when he entered, bringing with him the
outdoor scents of cold air and horses.

The smile startled Jack, but he returned it gladly. The solemn child had been unnatural, and a friendly face was always welcome.

The white evenness of her teeth revealed as much of
her upbringing as her other habits. There was no doubt she came from
gentry. A vicar’s daughter, perhaps.

Satisfied that he had found the source of her
solemnity and origins, Jack threw the tiny bundle on the table. “There
you be, milady. It cannot contain much, but then, the faeries are said
to make much of nothing. Let it not be said that I deprive you.”

The smile wavered, but the eagerness in her wide
gray eyes was sufficient recompense. A vicar’s daughter would have
difficulty thanking a popish thief, but at least she did not express her
disdain. On the contrary, he could gather from the aromas greeting him
that she was grateful for his humble abode.

While her fingers flew on the knot in her bundle,
Jack inspected the source of the aromas. He gave the pie a skeptical
look, but he had to admit he had given her little to work with.

When she gave a small cry of triumph and produced a
little leather case from the large handkerchief of her worldly goods, he
turned to see what had so excited her. The realization that it was no
more than a sailor’s mending kit made him snort with surprise. A child
should crow over sweets and baubles, not sewing kits. Mayhap she was a
changeling, after all.

“Is this ready for eating or shall I go mend my tack?”

As if reminded of his presence, Faith guiltily
dropped the case and removed her possessions to the corner by the hearth
where she had folded her bedding. “It is ready, sir. I thank you most
kindly for fetching my bundle. If you will take a seat, I shall serve
you immediately.”

Jack caught her frail arm, his hand easily wrapping
around the wrist almost twice over. “I’m not a ‘sir.’ I think you know
what I am, so we need not enlarge on it more. I have no need of servants
to wait upon me. I’ll provide the food. You prepare it. Together, we’ll
share it. Is that understood?”

Faith nodded, and he released his grip.

Jack watched her with curiosity, wishing he knew her
thoughts. It grew lonely out here, and he was by nature a gregarious
man. It would be pleasant to have someone with whom to converse, but he
had no notion of what girl-children thought or spoke about. He shrugged
and brought the coffee to the table and served himself from the pans she
set before him.

“I’ll bring you some meat for the stew pot this evening before I leave.” He broke the silence casually.

Faith glanced up. “Is that not poaching?”

Jack flashed her solemn features a look of surprise,
but he answered with a grin. “This patch of land here is mine. If the
creatures choose to come to me, who am I to deny them?”

She dropped her gaze back to the plate. “Shall I bake some bread for you to take on your journey?”

 “That would be agreeable,” he replied and continued eating.

He left that night after dark, taking his massive
stallion, wearing his satin-lined cloak and a dazzling white jabot of
lace. He buckled on a sword and scabbard Faith had not discovered in her
housecleaning efforts. She tried not to stare at his imposing figure as
he strode to the door, but her heart was in her throat the entire time.

Only when he grabbed up the parcel of bread and meat
she had prepared for him and tipped her a jolly wink did she relax to
any degree. She lifted her hand in farewell, but she wasn’t certain he
noticed as he walked out, slamming the door behind him.

The cottage felt colder without him, and she
shivered at the sound of hoofbeats disappearing into the distance. For
the first time, but not for the last, she wondered what would happen
should he not return.

Not wanting to contemplate that flashing smile going to the gallows, Faith turned back to the fire and began to scrub pots.

* * *

It was three nights later before Jack returned.
Lying on her pallet beside the hearth, Faith heard him whistling as he
brushed down his stallion. She was glad she had left the barn in
pristine condition, all the horses well fed and groomed despite the fact
that it had taken her the better part of the day and the ache of every
muscle in her body. She hadn’t minded filling the loneliness with work,
and the hope that she had pleased him kept her awake as she waited for
him to enter.

He did so quietly, trying not to wake her. When she
sat up, wrapping the blanket around the chemise and petticoat she wore
to bed, he grinned and flung his cloak across the chair. It felt good to
have someone waiting for him.

“Hello,
bean sidhe.
Did you miss me?”

A tentative smile slipped across her face, almost hidden by the shadows of the dying fire. “Shall I make some coffee for you?”

“That won’t be necessary. I have my own brand of
fire right here.” He reached up to the top of the cupboard and brought
down the bottle of rum. He ignored the disapproval on her face and
poured a fingerful, gulping it down to ease the chill from his bones.
Then, carefully corking the bottle, he returned it to its hiding place.
“That will do till morning. Would you like to see what I brought you?”

Jack lit the lantern to better watch the glorious
expression on the child’s frail features. Her face lit with such
amazement and eagerness that it could have warmed his bones without the
rum. Perhaps that was the reason people had children. He reached for the
sack he had thrown down by the door.

Those wide eyes grew fearful and wary, but he had
nothing to hide. He was no fool to keep his stolen goods on hand. She
would learn that soon enough. He drew out a string-wrapped parcel and
tossed it to her.

Faith fumbled and caught it, relieved at the gift’s
wrapping—bought, not stolen. With trembling fingers she tore at the
paper, aware that Jack watched her as he moved about the room,
discarding scabbard and pistol and removing his boots.

She drew out a bodice and skirt of deep green wool
of so fine a weave that it felt like soft fur beneath her fingers. Even
her best Sunday dresses had never been so grand.

She didn’t dare look at him. It was highly improper
for him to have bought this for her, but she knew he thought he was
pleasing a child. Yet the gown had obviously been bought from stolen
funds, and she could not balance the wrong and right of it.

Apparently observing her hesitation, Jack ordered,
“You will wear it before the other falls off your back. There’re some
frilly things in there to go under it. And stockings. And shoes. I’ll
not be carting you to a quack if your toes freeze off.”

Faith gripped the gown against her. He was given to
ordering her about, and she was accustomed to obeying orders, but she
felt the first vague stirrings of rebellion. She glanced down to the
rest of the contents of the package, and her heart ached to try them on,
but her conscience reminded her of her Christian duty.

“I thank you very much for thinking of me,” she
offered, “but I don’t think I should accept. I have repaired my gown
while you were gone, and I am quite healthy now, thank you.” At the dark
look forming between his black brows, she hastily added, “Perhaps you
could give these to someone who needs them more than I do.”

Jack stared at her with incredulity, then stalked toward her, his shadow drowning the flickering lamp.

Faith met his gaze without flinching, although it took effort.