The Highwayman (Rakes and Rogues of the Restoration Book 3) (14 page)

Mr. Butcher noticed them first. He said nothing, but he gave Jack a long assessing look.

Taking Arabella by the arm, Jack escorted her to an overturned tree trunk and sat her down before turning to face a group of disapproving faces, now gone silent.

He spread his arms wide. “What? I cannot be redeemed. I cannot charm her into marrying me and giving me her fortune, nor can she convince me to turn myself in to the Old Bailey for the good of my soul. It’s an impasse with no victor, and nothing for it but a drink.”

“Hah!” Lady Ferrar harrumphed. “Is there no man alive who can graciously admit when he is defeated by a woman?”

“We called for you several times,” Miss Buckhurst said, but no one was paying attention.

A bottle of claret was fetched from the coach, and they were soon back to laughing and singing. Jack took care to pay special attention to each of the ladies so they would all have a memorable night. He handed the women back into their coach a hair’s breadth before dawn. Arabella was the last. Before passing her up, he whispered his promise once again. “I will come to you soon, Bella. Look for me by night.”

It was not in the least unusual for sophisticated London ladies of a certain class to enjoy each other’s company at salons, dinner parties and the theater while their husbands pursued interests of their own. Nor was it unusual for them to make their way home as the sun peeked over the horizon. It
was
unusual for them to travel without escort in the evening to the more dangerous parts of town.

When Lord Ferrar sent for his coach, only to discover that it and his wife had last been seen heading toward Shooter’s Hill the afternoon before, he raised the alarm. By the time Lady Ferrar and her thrilled and chattering entourage clattered to a halt in front of her palatial townhouse, his Lordship and two of Miss Buckhurst’s suitors had raised a group of armed friends and retainers to go in pursuit. The two groups met with a flurry of questions, barked orders, and loud exclamations, and the ladies were hurriedly ushered inside.

An exhausted Arabella became the center of attention whether she willed it or not, as breathless accounts of their encounter tumbled from everyone’s lips. Even the footman and coachman chimed in. It was Gentleman Jack, roaming far from the North Road, who had stopped them high on Shooter’s Hill and held then there till dawn, though gentleman he was, taking only a token from each of them and keeping them richly entertained with songs and stories.

“Miss Hamilton pulled a pistol on him the moment he opened the door, but he snatched it from her grasp!” Miss Buckhurst trilled. “And then he claimed a kiss from her as forfeit!”

“Did he, indeed?” Lord Stanley, a handsome dark-haired courtier known for his bad luck at cards and his friendship with Lady Grantham, eyed Arabella with interest. “You pulled a pistol on the villain? You are very brave, Miss Hamilton!”

“You are being kind, my lord. I fear it was foolhardy in the extreme.”

Lady Grantham eyed them both. “Indeed it was, Lord Stanley. And the man slung her over his shoulder like a piece of booty and carried her off with him, for her pains.”

“It wasn’t like that!” Miss Buckhurst protested. “He carried her but for a moment, and she slapped him soundly for it.”

Arabella gave her a warm smile as she gratefully accepted a brandy from a dour-faced servant. Perhaps she had misjudged her. She certainly would not have expected her to come to her defence.

“Yes, she did,” Lady Ferrar affirmed, wrapping an arm through Arabella’s as if to claim her as her own. “I thought, despite his size, she might knock him off his feet. Our Arabella was a lioness! Though we all saw how desperately you offered yourself in her place, Lady Grantham. How noble you were!” Her voice dripped acid.

“It is fortunate indeed none of you were harmed.” Lord Ferrar’s annoyance was evident as he spoke. “We will discuss your reckless behaviour later, Elizabeth. “You
are
unharmed Miss Hamilton? The rogue did not molest you?”

“Oh, heavens, darling! He kissed her. In return he left us most of our jewels. We all offered, except for Arabella, but it was her he chose.”

“Miss Hamilton?”

“I am unharmed, my lord,” Arabella replied in a shaky voice. “The fellow was a little rude, but he did nothing more than kiss me. It was all rather unexpected and a bit of a shock though.”

Lord Stanley cocked his head to one side, regarding Arabella quizzically. “Arabella? Would you be Arabella Hamilton? The Countess of Saye?”

“Countess?” Lady Ferrar blinked in surprise. “I had no idea you were married, my dear.”

“She is not. Her father died without male issue and she inherited everything, including the title. Is that not so, Lady Saye? Elizabeth, you have captured one of the most eligible and elusive heiresses in England.”

“Stanley would know,” Lady Grantham remarked dryly. “He has made a thorough study of every heiress of note in England. Scotland as well I presume.”

Arabella wasn’t used to this much attention. She had not lied to Lord Ferrar. Jack’s mad pursuit
had
come as a complete surprise. She had never expected to see him again. She had certainly never expected to kiss him. But he had not forgotten. He had come for her and he’d promised to return. Stunned, elated, she wanted privacy to savor it. She wanted to be waiting when he came.

Having become somewhat of an expert at feigning illness, she pressed the back of her hand against her brow as ladies and gentlemen rushed forward to assist her to a chair. “I am so sorry to be such a bother. But I am still recovering from a recent illness, as you know. This has all been so overwhelming. Please, might someone take me home?”

~

Jack slouched with his hands in his pockets in a recessed doorway next to the hackney stand, watching as one by one, lights were dimmed or extinguished in the grand houses on the other side of the square. Hers was a tidy, four-story, redbrick home, the second from the end. It was fronted by wrought iron fencing and white-trimmed windows, ‘As neat and proper as the lady herself,’ Nate had told him after seeing her safely home. But there had been nothing proper about the way she had kissed him last evening.
It’s a pretty enough little prison, but the lass was meant to be free. They all think her as prim and plain as one of her dresses. Does no one see her as she really is but me?

Surrounded by cobbled streets, palatial homes and manicured parks and gardens he was in her world now, but in the hours before dawn, the streets belonged to him. He ambled across the square, a courtier on his way to meet a lover, a rakish gentleman heading home, sated from a night of cards and drink. Her bedchamber was on the second floor. He smiled to see that she’d left a window open. Staying to the shadows, he slung his sword over his back, planted one booted foot carefully on the fence, testing it, and then leapt up to catch the windowsill quick as a cat and pulled himself inside.

He landed with barely a sound, crouched on the balls of his feet, his movements as quiet and hushed as the sleeping house. A fire burned low in the grate, its sputtering flame casting more shadow than light in the room. It was darker in here than outside, where the moon was just passed full. He assessed his surroundings carefully––a habit engrained since childhood and one that helped him survive. A couch was right next to him. Two comfortable armchairs faced the fire. A chessboard table, its bronze and silver pieces glowing ruddy from the fire, was set between them.

A murmur, a rustle, a soft sigh to his left, told him she was asleep. He rose and went to the fire, hunkering down to poke and prod until it blazed high, allowing him to see. It was a spacious room, paneled in wood, with soft, comfortable-looking rugs strewn about the floor. A lacquered chest of drawers and a heavy oak armoire bespoke wealth and taste, but it was the woman in the carved four-poster bed with its rich green hangings that captured his gaze. She lay across it, her shapely nude body covered by silk sheets, her skin rosy and unblemished and her hair, tousled and disordered, spread about her in sleepy chestnut waves, burnished to flame by the fire.

His breath caught in his throat. His fingers ached to touch her.
What draws me to her?
What was it about her that so appealed? He almost resented it. There was no shortage of women for a man like him if he wanted them. Beautiful women. Married women. Women who wanted a little danger, an adventure to warm them when their husbands strayed. Women of the world who avoided attachment or complication as assiduously as he did. He had always avoided the innocent, at least until he’d held Bella tight in his lap.

He had long been self-sufficient. He liked his solitude and the peace that came with it. Friends came easily enough, but he never let them too close. His mother, if she
was
his mother, had been as ephemeral as mist, pummeled by the forces surrounding her until John Harris battered her to death. She had come from Bella’s world. Cursed to live with Harris by the child she bore. Terrorized and broken by the man she loved and callously shunned and abandoned by those who should have loved her. She had done her best to be a mother, and he had done his best to protect her.
And we both failed.

Now he seemed compelled to help those trapped as he once was. Allen, Peg, Bella in her tower. He had no compunction taking from those who had more than they could use and were careless of the suffering of others—they were the one’s who’d turned their backs on his mother. But he’d never harmed an innocent.

Yet here he was, standing over Arabella’s bed. He had never accepted anyone else’s rules, but his pursuit of her broke every rule he had made for himself. She was another innocent who just wanted to be loved. It was in her eyes. The eager wistful look when he bent to kiss her. The hitch in her breath when he touched her. The foolish readiness to trust him with her safety, her thoughts, herself.
And am I not like her? Do I not do the same? I have met her only twice, yet I trust her with secrets that could destroy me. I share with her things I share with no one else
.

She had slipped so easily into his thoughts, and into his private world. It felt as though she belonged with him...and to him. But she didn’t. She had been protected all her life––by power, position, a loving family. She could have no idea what happened to women who strayed from the path.

He looked at her with longing. She lay on her side, one shapely leg bent, her knee drawn to her chest and her cheek resting against her open palm. His eyes followed her curves, alight with hunger. For her body, her kisses, and yes, maybe for something more. Should he wake her? Her window had been open.
She invited me
. Yes. But she had no real idea what she asked for or wanted. Doubtless, she thought to spend a six-month talking and kissing before deciding what came next.

Was he to woo her then? To what end? She could no more take up with a highwayman then he could take an aristocratic spinster with him on the road.

She stretched and rolled on to her back, the silk sheet clutched in her hand. It draped her form, clinging to every curve, and bunched in a tantalizing V between her thighs. He watched, mesmerized. Her hand relaxed and the silk slid slowly from her grasp revealing a perfectly rounded breast, its dark tip hard and puckered, demanding to be tasted, fondled, and kissed.

His cock twitched, heavy against his leg, and he shifted, easing the discomfort. She was succulent, ripe. Even in her sleep, a soft smile played upon her lips. If he drew back the covers and slid in beside her, would she be frightened...or would she welcome his touch?

So curious, so innocent, so right and so wrong. He leaned over her and brushed a tendril of hair back off her face, half willing her to wake, knowing if she did, he would kiss her and there’d be no turning back. Best not to wake her, though. Best to leave. Sighing, he let his hand travel the length of her body, close enough to feel her warmth, but not enough to touch. She looked achingly beautiful, touchingly vulnerable, and he felt the urge to protect her against any who might harm her, including him.

Sighing, he straightened, not knowing how he could walk away from her, or how he could stay.

“Jack?” Her voice transfixed him. He stood silent, watching her, unable to move.

Embarrassed by his silence she blushed and reached for the covers.

“No... Please don’t” His voice was hoarse. “I only want to look at you.”

~

Arabella was a little alarmed. She had never seen him so serious and intense—so tightly wound. She had never seen him like this before. Gone was the genial charmer, the fellow adventurer, her trusted protector and comrade in arms. It reminded her that he was a stranger. A criminal, an outlaw. It reminded her that he was a very dangerous man. A part of her was frightened, but another part that came from somewhere deeper—was thrilled. Ignoring his plea, she raised the sheet to cover her breast.

He made a helpless gesture. “It amuses you to tease me?”

“I have never thought of myself as the sort of woman who excites a man’s interest in that way.” She edged away from him and pulled her knees up to her chest.

“I should think I would be a better judge of that than you. You hide yourself in coats and cloaks and scarves. You cruelly imprison that glorious hair, but your eyes promise passion, your smile hints of mischief, and your voice is pure seduction. I swear all I think of is unwrapping you.” He approached her bed, his eyes gleaming with a predatory light.

She blushed and wrapped her thin sheet tight around her, seemingly unaware of how it accentuated every feature and curve—or how very provocative it was.

He eyed her hungrily. “You invited me, Bella, and here I am. Will you invite me to sit? Or are you having second thoughts. Would it be better if I were to leave?”

“No! Don’t leave.” She could hardly believe he was here in her bedchamber. Even though she’d left her window open. Even though she’d waited like a bride on her wedding night, just because he’d said that he might come. The sight of him weakened her limbs and set her heart soaring, but it was one thing to kiss a man while fully clothed, and another wrapped only in a sheet. She wasn’t sure what he expected from her, or what she expected from him. The only thing she was certain of was that she didn’t want him to go.