The Highwayman (Rakes and Rogues of the Restoration Book 3) (41 page)

“Hiding.”

“A cowardly lot, are they? But you are not afraid.”

“No. I am not afraid. Now please be quiet and make no sudden moves.” Biting her lip in concentration, she began working on his arm, probing carefully for the bullet. She labored in silence for several long minutes. His body clenched tight from his teeth to his toes and a cold sweat beaded his brow, but other than a few muttered curses, he obeyed her.

“Aah!”

He turned his head to look. She waved her tweezers triumphantly, the fugitive bullet clamped tight within their grasp.

“All of that with naught but your sewing kit,” he managed between tightly gritted teeth.

She gave him a broad smile, her eyes sparkling, and patted his shoulder making him flinch. “You did very well! The danger is past and we’re nearly done.”

He replied with a weak grin, grateful that his hostess was a capable country lass rather than one of the decorative dolls he had grown accustomed to, but when she set to cleaning and stitching, he couldn’t stifle a groan. He held his breath, eyes closed, one hand gripping his glass, clenching and unclenching as she worked a neat and tidy cross stitch on his arm.

“Why aren’t you afraid? Don’t you think you should be?” he managed hoarsely, desperate for any distraction.

“Think you so?”

The thought occurred to him that she had never asked his name, nor where he came from, how he got his wound, or what he had been doing outside her door. In fact,…she was curiously incurious. He continued clenching and unclenching his fist.

“You are out here by yourself. It is lonely and dangerous in the woods, little bird. Do you feed every wolf that happens upon your door?”

She pulled the stitch tight. He winced and swore under his breath.

“There! All done. You can relax now.” She grasped his fisted hand and unclenched it, removing the glass from his grip and placing it on the floor. She massaged his palm briskly with her own to bring back his circulation. Holding his hand in her lap, she traced a faint scar that patterned the base of his thumb, and then looked up with a pensive gaze. His eyes, as green and layered as the forest depths, gleamed feral in the firelight. “Is that what you are? A wolf?”

His breathing was ragged. “Perhaps. A tame one though, madam, I assure you.”

She released his hand abruptly; as if only now aware she held it. “Meaning you will not piss on the furniture and chase my chickens?”

He gave a bark of laughter. His abbess had a salty tongue. Perhaps she wasn’t the cloistered innocent she appeared. This day had gone from bad, to better, to promising indeed. “Meaning I will not bite the hand that feeds me.”

“Good! Marjorie will be glad to hear it.” She rose to her feet, abandoning him abruptly. He watched in amusement as she straightened her apron and adjusted her slightly skewed cap, returning her stray curls to their prison before tugging on a bell cord and bustling about the parlor tidying up.

He closed his eyes and listened to her soft humming. The brandy had dulled his senses as well as his pain, but there was something vaguely familiar about the tune. He felt a pleasant ache, a yearning sense of melancholy, but though the melody teased at his memory he was unable to place it. His ponderings were interrupted by the arrival of a stout, white-faced maid carrying broth and bread, and a posset of milk, herbs, and spices. Despite her considerable girth, she seemed as skittish as a mouse, and when he caught her eye and grinned she squeaked like one too.

“There’s no need to fear, Marjorie. He’s as weak as a kitten and harmless for now. I am going to need your help to move him once he’s eaten, so please stay close.”

He grinned at the maid again and licked his lips, as if reminding her that kittens ate mice too. Finding her courage, she lifted her chin and glared back.

“Pease don’t tease my servants. They’ve been through an ordeal and it’s kind of them to share my exile.”

“Your exile?”

“Never mind. ’Tis none of your concern. Drink your broth. All of it. And the posset Marjorie has made you too.”

He wrinkled his nose, but directed a nod of thanks towards the older woman who stood poised by the door ready to take flight. She nodded back, giving him a careful look he found somewhat disconcerting. He pulled his gaze away and returned his attention to his hostess.

“I should rather have more brandy.”

“That was for the pain. I should think you well insulated by now. You’ve lost a good deal of blood and you need your liquids. You can have more brandy with your posset once we have you tucked into bed.”

He gave her a wicked smile, diverted by the thought of her wrestling his naked body into bed, and obliged her by drinking the broth and tearing into a hearty loaf of bread. He hadn’t eaten in two days and he devoured it all, even the warmed milk. It was laced with tincture of opium as well as honey, herbs and spices, and the pain from his wounds quickly faded to a dull memory.

His hunger eased and his thirst slaked, his appetite was whetted for other things. Unfortunately, the abbess insisted, along with maid Marjorie’s determined help, on slipping him back into his long shirt before assisting him to his feet and down the hall to a proper bed. It appeared he really was as weak as a kitten; or at least too weak to protest.

She sat beside him a moment, and drew the blankets up to his chin. “Sleep now. We are deep in the forest. No one ever comes here. It’s safe.”

It worried him that she asked no questions. It was clear from his clothing what he was, and her kind were no friends to royalist cavaliers. He was also mightily annoyed by the smug and watchful presence of her maid by the door, precluding any attempt at seduction. There seemed little point in fighting the effects of brandy, fatigue, and the old woman’s posset. Waving them both away with a yawn and a languid hand, he allowed their ministrations to do their work, and slipped gently into sleep.

***

Elizabeth sat in the parlor wrapped tight in her shawl, feeling cold and strangely hollow inside. His coming had been so unexpected. She had feared at first it was Benjamin at her door until she remembered that he was dead. Perhaps it was shock that left her feeling numb. She laid her head back and listened to the rain, softer now, pattering on the pane. The fire had died to coals; its merry crackle now nothing more than the occasional hiss and pop. She blew out the lamp, and as darkness engulfed her, her loneliness did too. She turned her head as if she could see through wooden door and plaster wall to where he lay sleeping, and then she stood and started down the hall.

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Rakes and Rogues of the Restoration

Soldier of Fortune

(Formerly The King’s Courtesan)

Soldier of Fortune
tells the story of Hope Mathews, a character inspired by Nell Gwynn, and Robert Nichols, a war-weary Parliamentarian captain first introduced to readers in
Libertine’s Kiss
. Haunted by his past, hardened by years of fighting and consumed by a quest for revenge, Robert Nichols’ honor is a fading memory. When Charles II confiscates his lands to reward one of his backers it seems life as a mercenary is all that’s left, until the king makes him an offer. Marry his mistress, a beautiful courtesan with humble beginnings and he will keep his lands and be richly rewarded. To Hope, who dreams of independence it’s a crushing betrayal and for Robert it represents a new low. Bitter, disillusioned, trapped in a marriage neither of them want, their clash is inevitable. Can these two wounded souls realize the answer to all their dreams might lie in each other's arms?

~

“James’ fully realized version of naughty, bawdy Restoration England is the ideal setting for her marvelous characters to play out their sensual and romantic love story. Through the pages readers come to believe in hope, true love, trust and the great gift of passion lovers share. The quick pace, strong dialogue and high degree of sensuality added to the lush backdrop will have readers enthralled.” ~
Romantic Times
top pick

“Judith James can paint with her words...and bring to life King Charlie and his court for me any time! Reading her novels is the closest I can come to living them.” ~
bookworm2bookworm

“Seventeenth century England is the perfect setting for this novel and Ms. James does it justice. She describes a rich, evocative world that I can’t wait to sink back into...a sumptuous treat.”~
The Literary Nymph

“This is a tale you won’t want to miss just for this last sentence alone.” ~Terra
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PREVIEW

Rakes and Rogues of the Restoration Series Book Two

(The King’s Courtesan)

London, 1651

The day Hope Mathews’ life changed forever dawned crisp and clear. She awoke clutching her kitten, lying on a cot in a corner garret of a steep-gabled four-story building. Her home, a substantial structure comprised of three linked houses, all of them leaning drunkenly over the street below, was at the centre of a zigzag web of side streets and alleys, some barely wide enough for two pedestrians to pass. It was late autumn. The metallic bite of winter was in the air and frost patterned the rooftops, making the city beyond her windows shimmer like some alabaster-and-diamond fairyland. She imagined she was a princess, trapped high in a tower, waiting for a handsome rescuer to charge the battlements and take her away.

The bells started ringing well before dawn, invading the gloomy quiet generally reserved for bakers starting their day and linkboys ending theirs. The sleepy city was stirring, and there was already a bustle in the streets below. The Lord Protector and his army had been sighted. Fresh from victories in Ireland and Scotland, the young Charles Stuart driven from England’s shores, they were returning home. Despite the Protector’s edicts against gambling, roistering and drink, soldiers did as they had always done. As the good people of London—deprived of any spectacle since the beheading of their former king—set out early to secure a place along the route to watch the coming parade, every shopkeeper, winemaker, tavern-worker and whore were making preparations for what promised to be a lucrative day.

Drury Lane, on the eastern edge of Covent Garden, was one of the most colorful areas in London even in these drab times. Lords and ladies, hawkers and beggars, and charlatans of every nationality rubbed shoulders in this part of the city. Brightly painted signboards hung from every house and business. Unicorn horns and dragons marked the apothecary, wheat sheaves and a sugarloaf advertised the bakery, and her own home proudly displayed a golden-haired siren with wide blue eyes and crimson lips.

Her mother boasted to one and all that The Merry Strumpet was listed in
The Wandering Whore
, and as its proprietor she was noted therein as one of London’s best-known bawds. It was one of many establishments counting on profits this day, and she needed to escape immediately or be trapped running errands, raking cinders and cleaning floors.

Hope slipped down the stairs and ducked through an alley joining a laughing band of urchins who greeted her as one of their own. The sun had risen, the throng was thickening, and they weaved in and out of jostling crowds, nimbly dodging carts and angry merchants as they stuffed their pockets with filched fruit and biscuits. She lost her companions as she approached the city centre, their loose-knit brotherhood disbanding as each sought a perch from which to watch the show.

The steady drumming in the distance was getting louder by the minute and she jumped up and down, trying to see over the heads in front of her. Spying a low-hung balcony, she forced her way through a river of people and pulled herself up, kicking and squirming, wrapping her arms around a beam. Ignoring the protests of its already cramped inhabitants, she positioned herself so she had a bird’s-eye view of the street below.

First came a vast army of grim-faced pikemen in their shining breastplates, pot helmets and buff leather coats. They marched in rigid formation, their weapons bristling as the air rang with the tramping of booted feet. Then came Cromwell at the head of the Ironsides, his company of horse, but there was none of the pageantry and color, the smiles and waves and dashing displays of a royalist parade.

They passed by, row upon row, a faceless army with nothing to distinguish one from another and the cheers that greeted them were dutiful rather than spontaneous. It was a clear display of might and power. A veiled threat and stark reminder more than a celebration, but any kind of public gathering was scare in the city these days, and any spectacle was preferable to none at all.

Hope was beginning to wonder if the adventure had been worth the bother when a prancing black horse caught her attention. It frothed and fretted, tossing its head and stepping sideways, breaking an otherwise perfect formation, yet its rider didn’t seem inclined to curb it. Unlike his fellows, who looked straight ahead, he seemed to scan the crowd with interest. Tall and broad-shouldered, he managed the beast with ease. He wore no uniform and looked more like a cavalier than a Parliamentarian. He must be an officer, and a wellborn one at that. Her heart thudded with girlish excitement.

From a distance he appeared to be young and handsome, much like the gallant rescuer she imagined in her daydreams. It was hard to get a good look at him, though, with his wide-brimmed hat pulled low, obscuring his features.

Interest piqued, she leaned out farther, trying to get a better look, when a sudden scuffle behind her knocked her off balance and sent her tumbling to the street below. She lurched to her feet a moment before a shod hoof would have crushed her fingers, only to back into the hindquarters of a startled horse. When it shied away from her, its rider cursing, she slipped and almost fell again. Surrounded on all sides, she dodged and darted, wooden shoes slipping on the muddy cobbles, trying to remain upright as she was buffeted from beast to beast. As her panic grew, someone snarled and cuffed her and a man kicked her between the shoulders, growling for her to get out of the way. She was trying, but she couldn’t see over them to find a way out and they just kept coming. People were trampled to death in London’s narrow streets every day, and if she fell again—