Soldier of Fortune: The King's Courtesan (Rakes and Rogues of the Retoration Book 2) (39 page)

The fortified manor house belonging to Sir Robert Hammond was a large rectangular three-story building standing in the middle of a sizeable deer park. Its enclosed courtyard with wet moat, curtain wall with battlements, and coursed-rubble and stone tower, harked back to earlier times. It resembled a prison more than a home. Without thinking, Jack gave his reluctant charge a comforting hug. She squirmed in her sleep, burying her head against his shoulder.
If you deliver me to him, I fear I will never escape.
Her words niggled at his conscience. As if to stop them, he drew the hood back up to cover her face.

He had stubbornly refused the temptation to take a good look at her, even as she slept, and he wasn’t about to do so now. He’d already let his curiosity get the better of him and now she wanted to pull him into matters that were none of his concern. She was something to be delivered. He need know nothing more about her then that. He didn’t give a damn about the mystery anymore. All he wanted was to hand her over and be on his way. Besides, she wasn’t in any real danger. If Rat-faced Perry were willing to pay him a thousand pounds then he’d been paid much more than that himself. As he’d said, the girl was valuable. Doubtless, she’d be well taken care of, if only for that.

He slid to the ground with her in his arms. She stirred and sighed, but exhausted from her ordeal she didn’t wake. It seemed they were expected. Two burly household guards ushered them down a sparsely furnished stone-flagged corridor into a well-lit great hall. Liveried footmen stood by the door and a fellow in a cassock was bent over a document in the corner. Jack looked about curiously. Shields and weapons graced the walls in an imposing display, and medieval suits of armor stood at attention, flanking an oak-mantled fireplace.

An ill-favored man with a stringy beard, thinning hair, and a self-satisfied air lounged in a chair by the fire, playing with a riding whip. Jack’s lips twitched in a half smile. Despite his airs, the fellow looked barely able to wield a sword.

“Ah! The prodigal is returned to us.” The man rose to his feet with an oily smile and gestured impatiently for Jack to step forward. “Let me see her, if you please.”

“Wake up, princess. You’re home.” Jack felt a moment’s regret as he lowered his sleeping bundle to her feet. Startled awake, she clung to his neck as if she thought that he might save her. He had to tug at her wrists to make her release him. She stumbled blindly as he turned her around, and he held her waist to steady her.

“Remove the hood.”

He lifted it off her head. Her hair gleamed in shades of copper, red, and gold in the candlelight. There had been a muted dreamlike quality to the adventure while it unfolded in the dark. Now it felt as though he were waking too.

“And the blindfold.”

The man was beginning to annoy him. “Say please.”

“Eh! What?”

“Remove the blindfold…
please
.”

“Please remove the blindfold.” It was the woman who spoke.

With a snick of his dagger Jack cut her free.

She peeled the rough cloth from her face and a soft gasp escaped her.

“Hello, Arabella.”

She took a ragged breath. “Hello cousin.”

Despite the obvious apprehension in her voice, Jack felt a sense of relief. A family matter, then. Something that neither required nor warranted his concern.

“Shall I introduce your escort, my dear? He is a highwayman and gentleman of great renown.”

He had refused to help her and she refused to spare him a glance. “He needs no introduction. He is nothing but a thug for hire. He is certainly no gentleman and neither are you. Pay him what you owe him and send him on his way.”

“I am your betrothed!” Sir Robert snapped. “It was very wrong of you to fight me, and very bad of you to run away.”

“My betrothed? I never agreed to such a thing! Even though you stalked me and attempted to hold me prisoner in my own home.”

“You are an unmarried woman and as your closest male relative I have tried to do my duty, yet you insisted on moving to London and living alone. I made you an honorable offer. One that would have benefited us both. In return, you made me a laughing stock!”

“Benefitted us both?”

Bored and restless, Jack cracked his neck from side to side, eased his shoulders, and took another look around the room, noting exits and entrances, the positions and bearing of Sir Robert’s men, and every weapon in the room. Like most adventures lately, this one was proving to be a disappointment. He had no interest in what was clearly a family squabble. He only wished they had the good manners to pay him for his trouble and do their bickering behind closed doors.

“No doubt you hoped for something better than a baronet. A duke or an earl perhaps. Someone willing to overlook your unfortunate mother, insolent disposition, and lack of beauty in favor of your inheritance. But look at you now! Wild and headstrong. Waylaid on the road. The prey of rogues and thugs. One wonders what happened during your captivity. Half of London saw you board that coach. All London will be wondering if you’re carrying a highwayman’s babe in your belly.”

Jack’s head whipped back toward them. Curious, assessing, interested again.

“
You
arranged my abduction. You know that isn’t true!”

“Yet it could so easily be seen to be. And who would marry you then? My staff witnessed you arrive, clutched in his arms. It is all very romantic, but hardly the behavior one expects from a countess entrusted with a title and her father’s holdings. It’s just the reason young women need guidance and are not to be trusted with managing an estate, even if a doting parent would have it so. The priest is here. I am giving you one last chance to repent your foolishness. We will marry and return to London immediately. We will explain your flight as our elopement. You will cease fighting me and obey and—”

“You put me through five days of hell so you might steal my inheritance and you think that will make me marry you?
I’d rather marry a sheepherder.”

He responded with a vicious blow that dropped her to her knees, and then he began to lay his whip about her back and shoulders.

A wave of memory came unbidden, freezing Jack’s breath so it came in jagged shards. Drunken curses, piteous cries, the image of a woman’s body lying broken and still amidst a heap of shattered crockery and splintered wood. Hatred and murder flashed in his eyes before he ruthlessly suppressed it. He clenched and unclenched his fists, mastering himself.
I would very much like to kill him,
he thought with mild surprise.

“Come and hold her still, priest!” Hammond snapped. “The girl needs discipline.”

“I think not,” Jack said calmly, cocking his pistol. “I think you should put that down before someone gets badly hurt.”

The guards by the door stepped forward, readying their own weapons, but their master waved them back. Jack suspected the footmen had pistols too. Four on one, and it wouldn’t be wise to discount their master or the priest.

“Do you fancy her then, highwayman? I thought you might. You can have her here and now if you like. I’ll even pay you for your pleasure. She is useless to me as she is. Rebellious, disgraced, yet still too proud to marry. But a highwayman’s seed in her belly would suit my purpose well enough.”

“You are indeed a generous host,” Jack said, giving him a mocking bow. “But I am accustomed to finding my own women.”

“Are you? Surely not ones as fine as this.”

Taking her upper arm in a cruel grip, Sir Robert hauled her to her feet. She stood mute and rebellious, her head high and her back straight, stony green eyes refusing to see them, her gaze fixed firmly on the far wall. It was Jack’s first real look at her. She might once have been pretty but it was hard to tell. She had an angular face with high cheekbones and there was a stubborn tilt to her jaw, but she looked drawn and haggard, her lip was puffed and bleeding, and one side of her face was battered and swollen.

“I tend to prefer mine without all the cuts and bruises.” He felt an uncomfortable twinge he didn’t care to examine, and reminded himself yet again that the odds were against him, and he was not the author of her troubles.

“What does her face matter? She’s a lady, and unless those idiots dared cross me, a virgin still. She has a nice trim waist, hips meant for hard riding, and what man wouldn’t enjoy these?” He cupped her breasts, lifting them slightly while she stood stone-faced, not moving a muscle. “Would you like to see more? Have you ever had a virgin? You could be the first to ride her.”

“I’m told those rare, some say mythical beings are highly over-rated,” Jack said, hiding his revulsion. It was clear now why Hammond had wanted a known highwayman for this venture. He doubted Rat-faced Perry knew or he’d have recommended someone else. His concern for the girl was steadily growing, but after refusing his host’s offer he’d be lucky to get himself home safely, never mind the girl.
Damn Perry anyway!

“What I
would
like to see is some gold, some brandy, and a meal.”

“You disappoint me, Jack.”

“My
friends
call me Jack.
You
are not my friend.”

“If you won’t have her, I assure you, someone else will.”

“Aye…well…if that’s your plan, I’d advise you clean her up, feed her, and leave off beating her.” He leaned closer and whispered. “It won’t work very well if she’s dead.”

“You’re a brazen bastard,” Sir Robert said with a chuckle as he tossed him a purse. “Phelps!”

“Yes, my lord!” One of the footmen hurried over.

“Find a woman to tend to the lady. And take this man to the kitchen for some brandy and a meal before you see him on his way.”

Jack followed the footman out without once having met his erstwhile charge’s eyes directly.
Arabella
. It was a lovely name. One that rolled sweetly across the tongue. He had done for her what he could short of dragging her with him at gunpoint. With two cocked and loaded pistols pointed at his back that would not have ended well.

As he finished off a meat pie, he wondered how she’d gotten herself into such a mess.
You’re the one who delivered her when she begged you not to
, a nagging voice reminded him. He drowned it with a brandy, set his hat upon his head, and went to collect Bess. He’d agreed to deliver a package and he’d done so. It was barely past midnight. There was nothing left to stop him from making some entertainment of his own.

Arabella Hamilton paced back and forth like a caged animal, testing the confines of her room, noting again and again the same rough stone walls, the same bare cot bolted to the floor, and the same ledge and aperture, ten feet above her, impossibly out of reach even with the aid of an overturned bucket. A part of her knew there was no escape, that she might circle this tower a thousand times and nothing would change.

She’d thought that by leaving for her mother’s home in Ireland, her troubles with Robert would end. Setting out alone she’d felt such anticipation as she ignored years of rules and strictures about what well-behaved women should and should not do. She’d inherited her father’s inquisitive nature, but until recently, she’d shared his curiosity about the world outside her home from the safety of his library. His increasing reclusiveness after her mother’s death had left her little choice. Beyond her country estate, local farms and markets, and their London townhouse, her adventures had unfolded in the pages of books.

Following his death, her cousin’s arrival at her secluded country home in Wiltshire seemed overly intrusive, almost aggressive, and his initial attempts to court her made her wary. She held him in no great esteem and sensed something unsavory behind his frigid blue eyes. Fortunately, as a single woman, never married and over the age of twenty-one, she had the legal right to her own property. What she did or did not do with herself and her father’s inheritance was no concern of Robert’s, but her rejection of his suit had quickly led to stalking and threats.

The kidnapping of heiresses was not unheard of amongst morally and financially bankrupt gentlemen. She was concerned enough to appoint a reliable steward and move to the London townhouse, thinking it safer to be surrounded by relative strangers than to rely on the aid and protection of elderly servants and neighbors who lived miles away. But Robert had followed close behind.

When people began referring to her as his betrothed, regardless of her protests to the contrary, she’d thought it prudent to escape him.
Still,
she would never have taken her fate in her hands so precipitously if Robert hadn’t forced her, and if she hadn’t had a place in mind to go.

As a child, her father, then Earl of Saye, would sometimes tell her stories as she sat upon his knee, of the beauty of Ireland and his love for her mother, Brigid Claire—a woman as wild and soulful as Ireland herself. He’d lost his heart to her whilst serving on one of Cromwell’s Irish campaigns.

Not all who followed Cromwell were religious fanatics. Some, like her father, were levelers and free-thinkers. Basing their opinions on scientific inquiry and logic rather than authority and tradition, they held a general belief in equality for all. It was a popular movement among many in the New Model Army, including some who argued that Irish Catholics had a claim to freedom and equality just as valid as their own.

It didn’t matter to her father that Brigid Claire was Catholic. As a second son, he’d not expected to inherit and he’d married her with every intention of making Ireland his home. But when significant elements of the army refused to embark for Ireland and Cromwell decided they had to be crushed—he had wisely decided to retire his commission, claim his inheritance, and spirit his wife away to the relative safety of his quiet English home. She died while Arabella was just a toddler, but her father’s tales brought her vividly to life, and as Arabella grew older, she wrote them down in a leather-bound journal that she carried with her everywhere she went.