“Naught but a simple outlaw.”
“I think there is nothing simple about you. Are you a thief? No, I do not think so. You are an odd highwayman to be sure, for, by all accounts, you leave items of true value with their owners. Are you a noble, or a commoner? Perhaps one of the gentry? Are you English-born? There is something decidedly foreign about you. Be you Catholic or Protestant?”
Nicholas gave a wry smile. “If you must know, I was raised on the Book of Common Prayer, but I do not consider myself a religious man.”
“And what of your gang? Why did they leave you to die and not return for you, or bring aid?”
“There is a simple answer to that. I have no gang.”
Katherine blinked. “But I had heard—“
“One should not always believe what one is told.”
* * *
Later, several hours after Katherine had left, Nicholas stood in the doorway of the cottage and watched the stars twinkle in the night sky. He named for himself the various constellations and reflected on what had happened.
When he’d come back to England, he’d been uncertain of what he really wanted. Of course, he had promised his father he would get Ashfield back—a promise he meant to keep. But as to whether
he
really wanted it, that was a question to which he had no answer.
Since arriving on England’s shores, his goal had become quite clear. Nicholas tightened his fingers on the doorframe sending a shock of pain to his wounded arm.
He craved
revenge
.
Revenge for his father’s impoverished and ignominious death in Holland. Revenge for the loneliness of growing up on his own in foreign lands. Revenge against those who had changed their clothing, religion, and loyalty with the tides of politics, and had therefore lost nothing.
He rubbed the muscles on his arm below the bandage. In exacting his revenge, he’d taken the coats from those turncoats, and the rest of their clothing as well. He’d taken their dignity and gifted them with a fine humiliation, at least for the nonce. And he’d had a good laugh.
But that wasn’t enough. His blood still ran hot with the need for vengeance. He needed a better target. Bigger and more appropriate. More satisfying. With Cromwell dead and declared a traitor, he’d have to find a man who’d thought he could get away with such treachery.
Someone like Gerald Welles. After all, Welles was in possession of Ashfield.
But not for long. Nicholas scowled.
Tonight he’d be on his way to London, traveling with the man’s daughter. Nicholas would have in his grasp the means to reclaim his patrimony. Plus, he’d be snatching Katherine and the estate from the clutches of his childhood enemy, Finch. A fine revenge, indeed. And a highly satisfying turn of events.
Better yet, he hadn’t had to lift a finger to set this in motion.
Nicholas’s lips pulled into a tight smile. Fate. Kismet. He’d been introduced to the concept during his time in the East. Yes, fate must be providing him with the means to achieve his goal. Just as it had to be a sign that Katherine A. Welles, ministering angel and the instrument of his retribution, wore his old lucky piece around her neck.
There was no question his luck had changed the moment he met her.
CHAPTER FOUR
“KATHERINE?”
Nicholas’s hushed voice echoed loudly in the night. He’d come early so he could take a good look at his old home. In the scant illumination of the crescent moon, he could see little had changed, though it seemed so much smaller and less grand than the Ashfield of his memory.
Then he saw her. In her dark hooded cloak, she’d blended in with the blackness. As she emerged from the shadows and walked toward him, the moon glinted off her forehead. She carried two bundles and cradled something in her arms.
“You are on time,” she whispered, dropping her satchels.
He could see, now, she carried a very small cat.
He nodded, watching the moonlight play on her upturned face.
“I cannot help thinking,” she scratched the feline behind the ears, “’tis too soon for you to be afoot.”
He smiled. “I am quite ready, I assure you. I have no interest in spending any more time confined to that cottage. No, ’tis best we saddle up and be on the road quickly.”
Katherine frowned. “But you do not have a horse.”
“You are right,” Nicholas said. “So ’tis a good thing we are here at your stables.”
Katherine nodded. “We are to walk.”
“Walk?” he raised an eyebrow. “No, we will not walk. Our progress would be so slow they would come upon us before the morrow. And yes, you are right, I am not recovered well enough to walk for several long days, but I am quite well enough to ride a horse.”
“Oh.” She was still frowning.
That did not bode well.
“So we will quietly go inside the stables, and you will help me pick a horse.”
“But that would be stealing.”
“Do you not live here?”
“Of course I do.”
“Are these not your horses?”
“I suppose in a way they are.”
“So you will accompany me into the stables, and we will select two suitable mounts and see they are returned at some point in the future.”
She looked away from him. “No. I will not.”
He tried to keep the annoyance out of his voice. “Katherine, you must be reasonable. Do you know how far it is to London?”
“’Tis a good distance, and will take several days on foot I have no doubt. But, you see, I do not ride.”
A country lass who did not ride? And they were to travel to London? This was too absurd to contemplate. Nicholas ran impatient fingers through his hair. “What do you mean you do not ride?” He knew his voice was getting louder, but his frustration was rising as well.
“That is it. I do not ride,” she repeated staunchly.
“Do you mean you ‘do not’ ride—or you ‘will not’ ride?”
She squared her shoulders, but did not look him in the eye. “It matters not. The result is the same.”
“It matters much. Nevertheless, whether you
will not
ride or
do not
ride, we
will not go
unless you get up on a horse.” He picked up a lumpy bundle and waved it at her.
With obvious reluctance, she raised her gaze to his. Along with the determination he expected to see, her eyes carried a mixture of sadness and desperation. He waited for her to speak, but she did not. In the silence, his exasperation grew. Would the wench continue to look at him like a wounded doe, unmovable and soundless as a statue?
At least she did not simper and bat her eyelashes at him. He was rarely able to resist such acts of deliberate coquetry. Nicholas’s shoulder throbbed from the tension. He tried to relax and sound practical as he spoke. “Do you know how heavy this will be after walking for a mere hour? And then two? Three?” He dropped the bundle to the ground. It landed with a thud.
She looked away.
“But ’twill not tax us to load it on a horse.” Cupping her chin, he pulled her gaze to his. “And no cat.”
“You are mistaken.”
Even though she did not say what he wanted to hear, Nicholas felt his approval grow. He disliked those who would not stand up for themselves.
But on this matter he would not budge. He would not complicate their travels with the addition of a cat, no matter how small. Nicholas scowled.
In answer, Katherine clutched the little beast protectively. Her eyes lost their sadness and flashed with new resolve. In the thin moonlight, she glowed with the ferocity of a lioness. “I will leave the bundles if I must, but Montford will come.”
“Montford?” He hoped his voice sounded more curious than surprised. “’Tis an interesting name for a cat. How came you by it?”
“’Twas the family who lived here before the war. I have seen it in books and other places.”
Nicholas felt oddly touched by this memorial to his family and knew not what to say. In the short silence that followed, he heard soft footfalls from behind. Letting go of Katherine’s chin, he thrust her behind him as he spun around to face a tousled, sleepy-eyed young man wielding a pitchfork in his direction.
“Jeremy?” Katherine hissed loudly, stepping out from behind Nicholas. “I had hoped not to wake you.”
Nicholas pushed her back behind him.
“It is quite all right,” she whispered to Nicholas, shrugging off his hand and stepping out from behind him again.
The boy looked at her uncertainly then thrust the pitchfork at Nicholas. “Who is he?”
“’Tis of no importance,” she answered.
“Seems mighty important to me, you being out here with him in the middle of the night.” He glared at Nicholas and took a step forward, the sharp tines of the fork edging closer. “I would know why he is here.”
Dressed roughly, the boy appeared to be a servant, probably a groom. What right had he to question Katherine? Or anyone else for that matter? Yet, by the way he held the pitchfork, it did not appear the lad would give up easily. Nicholas clenched his jaw. If the boy wanted a fight, why, then he would be pleased to give him one.
In one fluid move, Nicholas leapt to the side, positioning himself between the groom and Katherine, while whipping out his pistol.
The boy lunged toward him.
Nicholas jumped back, still holding Katherine. She bumped into his injured shoulder. He groaned, but kept his pistol aimed at the groom.
The gun glinted, cold and lethal in the weak moonlight.
“Both of you must stop this,” Katherine said, her voice quiet but firm. “’Tis not your right to question me,” she said to Jeremy. Then softer, to Nicholas, “Please, put away that weapon.”
Nicholas kept his eyes fixed on Jeremy. “Your mistress is right.” He lowered his arm, but kept it ready should the boy suddenly move again. “Let us talk inside. Is there anyone else in the stables?”
The boy shook his head.
Nicholas nodded at the pitchfork. “You can put that down before we go in.”
Jeremy inclined his head stiffly and tossed the tool onto the ground. It hit a rock with a loud clang.
Nicholas sucked in a breath. He took Katherine’s arm and waved at the boy with his gun. They followed him into the dark building.
Flint sparked onto tinder, illuminating the boy’s face while he lit a lantern. The wavering light revealed neat, austere surroundings. Clean, oiled saddles hung tidily on pegs alongside harnesses and bridles, yet there was a feeling of disuse. Most of the stalls were empty. Nicholas lowered the firearm to his side.
Jeremy spoke to Katherine. “Is he that highwayman?”
“Who I am is of no concern to you,” said Nicholas.
“’Tis of great concern,” the young man affirmed.
Katherine shook off Nicholas’s hand, and pulled back her hood. “Jeremy, this is Mr. Ed—“
“I am Katherine’s cousin.” Nicholas spoke over her.
Katherine blinked. “Ah, yes. Mr. Eddington will be accompanying me to London, to see my other cousin.”
Jeremy eyed Nicholas. “He does not look like safe company, and ’tis a strange hour you have picked to begin your journey.”
“’Twill be aright, Jeremy.” Katherine sighed. “Let us be off with no trouble. I must go because Father has planned I will say my spousals tomorrow with Richard Finch.”
Jeremy looked at Katherine. “I would have agreed to take you.”
“I thank you for that, Jeremy. But, you see, my cousin is bound in that direction.”
The lad frowned, caught in obvious indecision. Then he smiled at her, and Nicholas could see she had won him over.
Nicholas stepped forward. “We shall need two horses.”
Jeremy shook his head. “She don’t ride.”
“All right,” said Nicholas, almost shouting his frustration. “The only way to get to London I can think of if ‘she don’t ride’ is for her to ride with me. Together. In which case, we shall only need one horse.”
Katherine pursed her lips.
The little cat yawned and began to purr.
Nicholas took Katherine’s lack of argument for agreement.
“I think ‘twould be better,” Jeremy said, addressing himself to Katherine, “if I get two horses.” He put out a hand to still her protest. “I will accompany you. It will take me just a moment to make ready.”
“No, Jeremy. I cannot ask that of you,” Katherine said.
“You are not asking,” he corrected her. “I will feel much better if I can see you are safe.”
“Fine,” agreed Nicholas looking heavenward. “While we talk, the night wanes. If we do not leave soon ’twill be morning.” He turned to Jeremy. “You get two horses, and whatever else you require. And be quick.”
He took Katherine by the arm and guided her through the door, then helped her collect her satchels. One was very heavy and held several book-shaped objects. Could they really
be
books? And she had thought she would walk to London carrying them?
Keen disappointment ran through Nicholas when he saw the mounts Jeremy led from the stables. Personal inspection of the stalls confirmed the lad’s declaration that the two mares were the best Ashfield had to offer. And to think that these stables had once been renowned for their horseflesh.
He could feel Katherine tremble as he took her by the waist and lifted her onto their horse. Her complexion appeared waxen in the moonlight. In her eyes was the same dull resignation he’d seen on the faces of Christians sold in the slave markets of Algiers. He made an effort to be gentle while he settled her on the animal and mounted behind her, offering no further objections to the furry bundle of his namesake she had tucked in a fold of her cloak.
Katherine perched uneasily, not astride, but not sidesaddle either. Her heart pounded, and alarm ran through her veins. She adjusted her skirt.
Nicholas took the reins, tightening his arms around her, and pulled her into his warmth. But she could not relax. Dread clutched her heart with each slight movement of the mare.
“I have not been on a mount since…since Edward.” The words stumbled out breathless and hesitant. Her heart pounded as the scene flashed through her mind. Her body felt, anew, the dawning horror as horse and rider missed the jump and fell, crashing down together. A gasp caught in her throat.
She felt a gentle squeeze. “Tis sorry I am.” Nicholas’s resonant voice brought with it a measure of calm, and his arms gave comfort. “This ride ’twill be aright. I will keep you safe.” The prickly stubble of his beard grazed her cheek.