The Rogue's Return (17 page)

“It's all right now?” He looked at his arm again, to check that he hadn't imagined its presence. “I remember . . . I forbade it, but how?”

“I thought of something I'd seen once. Maggots.”

“Maggots!”

“Now you sound like Playter. They saved your arm, Simon.”

He stared at his arm again. Was he imagining a crawling sensation? “Then thank you, and thank the maggots. But how?”

“They eat the corrupt flesh, the way they eat rotting meat. Don't look like that.”

“I can't help it. I'm profoundly grateful, but I can't help it.
Maggots
?”

She leaned forward with a mock grimace. “Crawling into and out of you, yes.”

He laughed, but then hissed at the catch in his ribs. But he assessed the pain. “Not as bad as it was. How long has it been?”

“Since when?”

“Since the duel, I suppose.”

“Five days.”

“How strange. So we've missed our boat.”

“We can hire another. If you're up to the journey.”

“How? And, why?” When her eyes shifted, he said, “Don't, Jane. You're not a good liar. Tell me the truth. Why this urgency to leave?”

“Someone set a fire. It could have burned the house down and us in it, but as we were awake tending to you, it only scorched the office. We think it was an attempt to burn your room above. To burn your papers.”

“Those damn papers. I wonder if they're worth all this.”

“Of course they are, but even Playter agrees that we can go tomorrow if you'll be sensible.”

He was worried about all aspects of this, and bitterly frustrated about being weak and stuck in this bed, but even so, he smiled at her stern care of him.

“Who are you, Jane St. Bride?”

Her eyes flew to his, alarmed.

“Don't worry. I'm not delirious. But I thought I knew you once. Plain, sober Jane who preferred a quiet life and wouldn't say boo to a goose. Now you're a golden tempest, a warrior goddess, a shining angel. I adore you. I'm profoundly grateful. But if this is the real Jane, why the other one?”

She blinked at him. “Perhaps events have changed me.”

“You've never been like this before?”

“No. But I wasn't angelically quiet back in Carlisle. Before Martha died—

“Why do you call her Martha, not Mother?”

Her cheeks flushed. “She preferred it.”

It seemed unlikely, but why would Jane lie about something like that? Yet he felt strongly that she was lying and concerns rushed back. The jeweled box was even more magnificent, but he still didn't know what it contained.

“Before
Mother
died,” she said stiffly, “I was something of a tomboy. I suppose it was two deaths and coming to a strange place that quenched me.”

“Until now.”

She kissed his hand again. “Until
you
. If I'm a warrior goddess, Simon, it's because you've made me one. I'll fight to keep you safe, but you must rest, eat, and get stronger. Hal's hiring a boat for us alone so we can stop if there's rough weather. We're leaving, and with God's blessing, we'll reach home.”

Weak and in pain, he wanted home, but he wanted Jancy just as much. It must be fever and weakness that made him feel that she was watchful and wary. How could he love and adore a woman he didn't trust? But Simon couldn't push away all questions. He lay staring at the ceiling, wishing he knew what was inside the box he was taking to his beloved home.

J
ancy made an excuse to escape. She was ecstatic that Simon seemed to be recovering his strength so quickly, but she wished his mind weren't so sharp. How had she not noticed she'd started calling Martha by name? It was a wonder she hadn't called her Aunt Martha under all this stress.

She longed for truth between them as a parched throat longs for sweet water. True lovers should never lie to each other, but in addition it would seem true love loosened the tongue—or weakened the brain.

She took refuge in her room to think.

Perhaps she should tell Simon about the switch from Nan to Jane. He might understand and forgive, and once he knew, he might be able to sort out any legal complications. That information, however, felt like the locked door that kept the Hasketts out of sight.

That, he must never know.

But why would he doubt that Nan Otterburn was who Martha had said she was—an orphan from the Scottish Otterburns? But then she realized that he might think it appropriate to inform the head of the Otterburn family of their marriage. That would explode everything.

No. The door must stay locked.

She could carry off the deception. The few people who knew Jane and Nan well enough to tell them apart were all in Carlisle and unlikely to travel or invade noble
spheres. What's more, every passing day made exposure less likely. People changed. All she had to do was keep her head and not make silly mistakes.

A knock on the door made her aware that her hands were clenched, her nails digging into her palms. She relaxed them and opened the door to find Oglethorpe.

“Captain Norton's here, ma'am, asking to speak to Mr. St. Bride.”

Jancy wanted to shield Simon from everyone, but she went to ask his wishes.

“Bring him up. Norton's not going to slit my throat.”

Of course he wasn't, but as Jancy escorted Captain Norton to Simon, she had the feeling he came bearing news. She doubted it could be good.

As soon as he left, she returned. “What did he want?”

“To slit my throat,” Simon teased. “In fact, to ask to travel with us. Gore's given him charge of some extra documents to go on the
Eweretta,
and he's to leave for Montreal tomorrow and take the place of the courier already there.”

“Isn't that strange?” she asked uneasily. “Too coincidental?”

“Jancy, you're letting your imagination run away with you. The explanation is simple. Gore's getting rid of everyone connected to the duel.”

“What of the other second, then?”

“Delahaye? Posted west to the Red River Valley debacle, poor man.”

“And Playter?”

“Nothing yet, but Gore would start a riot at the garrison if he tried.”

She still felt a creeping sense of threat. “What of the people who conspired with McArthur? Might they still pose a threat?

“They're insignificant people who've probably made themselves scarce since his death. It seems to me that the words ‘coin' and ‘land' are often used awkwardly and might indicate a person of some importance, but I
can't work out who. I hope someone in the Foreign Office can match the references with time and place and work it out.”

She'd rather know now. “Initials? But that would be a long string of names.”

“More likely a similarity. There's a Captain Penny in the garrison, but also a Lieutenant Moneysworth. Then we have Sir Peter Field and Frobisher Glebe. I'll leave it for others. Will you mind Norton traveling with us?”

“Not at all. He'll be extra protection.” She went to put more wood on the fire. “He must regret standing as your second, however.”

“Devil a bit. He's ambitious. He's been thinking of making a future here, but this opens up much better opportunities. I gather he twisted Gore's arm for some excellent recommendations. And of course I, too, owe him some assistance.”

For a moment she wondered what he meant. Then she realized. A St. Bride of Brideswell could apparently advance a man's career.

“What's the matter?” he asked. “I do owe him something.”

“It's that you take on everyone's causes.”

He laughed. “It's in the blood, my love. Lost causes a specialty. An ancestor on my mother's side was Lady Godiva, who rode naked through Coventry so that her husband would reduce taxes.”

“You mean that if riding around naked would get the Indians their homeland, you'd do it?”

“Without hesitation, but I doubt my naked body would carry much weight with the government.”

She grinned at him. “You'd have all the ladies on your side.”

“If you'll remember, out of respect the observers were supposed to close their eyes. Are you saying you wouldn't?”

“No. I'd be peeping Thomasina. She must have been a remarkable woman.”

“And beloved by her people and her husband. She passed her spirit of fighting injustice on to her son, Hereward.”

She stared at him. “Not Hereward the Wake.”

“Valiant leader of the hopeless resistance to the Norman invasion, yes.”

“
He's
an ancestor of yours, too?”

He looked at her quizzically. “Over time, one acquires rather a lot of ancestors.”

“But most people don't have ones from the history books.”

“He's not a direct ancestor, if that's any consolation. His sister carried Lady Godiva's blood down through the Baddersley family to my mother, and thus to me.”

“Hereward's rebellion led to his death,” she pointed out.

“Not according to my family's version. He accepted reality and settled for peace and a handsome property not far from where Brideswell now sits. And there he and King William would sit by the fireside to talk about the good old days.”

“Really?” She didn't try to hide her disbelief.

He grinned. “You're a cynic, love. There's no proof either way, so why not believe the pleasant story? I, too, am driven to fight for justice, but see”—he held out his hand to her—“I already have my happy ending.”

Jancy took his hand and asked questions about Lady Godiva and Hereward, but underneath she was quivering with the effect of idle words.

It's in the blood.

Carried the blood down through the family . . .

Simon didn't doubt that the blood of a woman dead eight centuries ago could shape him. What would he think if he ever found out that she brought the blood of vagrants and thieves to his line? A need to tell him and get it over with rose in her like vomit. She was saved by Hal returning with the news that he'd found a vessel leaving tomorrow carrying cargo to Kingston.

“It can take us, and for an extra fee, the captain agrees to put in to shore if a storm rises.”

Jancy's “Excellent” clashed with Simon's “I'll be able to walk there.”

She turned on him. “No, you will not! What if you were to fall? Do you want to be brought back here? Playter said you could try standing when you're on the boat and no sooner.”

“He's an old woman, and so are you.”

She put her hands on her hips. “I'm a
young
woman, and I've known old ones who could eat you for breakfast.”

His stormy expression eased. “Your mother?”

Jancy hadn't meant Martha. Martha had been strong in her way, but not in the knife-wearing, hard-swearing ways of some of the Hasketts.

“Among others,” she said and escaped to attack the last of the packing.

 

As soon as Jancy had left, Simon said, “Help me up.”

Both Hal and Oglethorpe looked dubious, but at least they didn't argue.

Flexing upright to sit on the side of the bed was the worst. Simon froze as pain spasmed around his ribs.

“Lie back,” Hal said, but Simon pushed on upward and found a bearable position.

“That was,” he said, “extraordinarily painful, but I'm all right now. Move the steps beneath my feet.”

The bed was high enough to need steps. Once his feet were on the lower one, Simon cautiously stood, aware that he was hunched and unable to do anything about it.

“I feel like a wizened ancient, but this isn't too bad. . . .”

As soon as he was upright, however, his head swam and his legs threatened to buckle. He clutched the two men. “Hell, Jancy's right.
She
could eat me for breakfast.”

“Any day,” Hal said. “Lie down again, you fool.”

“No, not yet. If I'm to get my strength back, I need to move.” With help, he stepped carefully onto carpet and managed to hobble to the fireplace and back—even if a careless turn froze him with pain again. He didn't
say how grateful he was to be back in bed, supported by his damn bolsters, but he was sure they knew.

“I hoped to walk to the ship.”

“It's too risky, Simon. But we can rig up a chair. You can go in state like the Grand Panjandrum himself.”

“Better than on a stretcher. Thank you. I feel so damned useless. Jancy looks exhausted.”

“She's worked like a Trojan, but once we're on board she'll have nothing more to do.”

“Except worry. She hides it, but she seems tense with worry all the time.”

“Her uncle died. You were shot—almost murdered. Then you almost lost your arm and would have done if she hadn't saved it. Then someone tried to burn you in your bed. You're surprised that she's a little tense?”

Simon laughed, resting his head back. “You're right. It's me who's disordered simply from lying here. Do something for me.”

Hal agreed.

After dinner Simon asked that the female servants come up so he and Jancy could take farewell of them. The maids and Tom would stay on with Gilbraith, but Isaiah had left Mrs. Gunn a generous annuity, so she was moving to Scarborough to live with her daughter.

“Lucky daughter,” he said to her, smiling.

Perhaps she blushed a bit. “Go on with you. You take care of yourself, sir, and take care of your wife. She's had a lot to put up with from you.”

“I will.”

He gave them all an extra gift and sent money to Saul Prithy, too—enough to live on as especial thanks for the maggots. Then everyone left him alone with Jancy.

“The house feels so strange,” she said. “Furnished, but lacking all the small things that make a place a home. Waiting.”

“Gilbraith has a wife and three children. It'll soon be more lively than it's been since Isaiah had it built. He would have liked that, I think. Come here.”

She stared at him, almost as if afraid. “Why?”

“I have something for you.” Held out his closed hand.

“What?”

“How suspicious you are. Trust me.”

She relaxed. “Of course I do.” She came and pried up his fingers. Then said, “Oh.” With a grin she corrected it to, “La, sir. You shouldn't have!”

“Put them on.”

She took out her plain hoops and put in the pearl earrings he'd bought so long ago. She went to the mirror and said, “They're beautiful!,” her reflected, shining eyes as bright as if he'd given her the moon.

“I'll add a string of pearls once we're home.”

In the mirror he saw the flicker of a real
You shouldn't
before she smiled. It wasn't really to her discredit that she was frugal, and she would learn to enjoy pleasure and beautiful things. He would teach her.

“You can wear your pearls, and nothing else, in our bed.”

She turned, trying to be severe. “You're wicked.”

“Guilty as charged.” Then he said, “Tantalize me.”

“What?”

“You know the story of Tantalus, who was chained in a lake, dying of thirst, and the water rose every day, but only to his chin?”

“You feel like that?”

“No, but I want to.”

Her brow wrinkled. “You want me to torture you?”

“Yes, please. Take off your stockings.”

She laughed slightly, blushing, glancing at the door, clearly worrying about Hal or the servants returning.

“They'll knock,” he said, “and fear of discovery can even add a little spark.”

He thought fear would win, but then she put her shoed foot on the chair and slowly raised her dark gray skirt and plain white petticoat. She pulled them up just to the knee, so she could untie her garter. Her very plain garter.

Silk, he thought. He'd buy her silk garters trimmed with ribbons, perhaps even with pearls, and they would hold up gossamer embroidered stockings. . . .

Glancing at him sideways, her smile deepened as it did when she was thinking wicked thoughts. Slowly she rolled down her thick cotton stocking, letting her skirts fall as she did so, so that he never saw her naked leg.