Devil's Lady Read online

  He was no judge of age, but her pale face was very young. The hood of her cloak had fallen back to reveal a tumble of tangled brown hair that offered a hint of red. The high, almost aristocratic cheekbones reminded him painfully of his sister, and the knotting in his stomach was not entirely from hunger.

  Jack turned away. Memories did not sit easy on an empty stomach. He resisted the urge to reach for the bottle of rum on the shelf. He knew the dangers of drink.

  The child had not stirred by the time the fire had warmed the room and his supper boiled in the pot. He wondered if she were dead and wandered back to check the pulse at her throat. Her skin was icy to the touch, but he could feel the thread of life still beating beneath his fingers.

  He wasn’t a man who cared about anything anymore. The child could die and he would dig a grave and bury her out back and not think about her again. But as long as she was alive, he supposed he ought to do something to keep her that way.

  The fire cast flickering shadows over the wattled plaster of the walls and the rough-hewn beams as he sought a spare blanket and prepared a pallet by the hearth. A single table, chair, and bed made up almost the entirety of the room’s furniture. The wide plank floor had room enough to spare for one small pallet. Removing the child’s muddy cloak, Morgan covered her with an old one of his own.

  He studied her tiny form beneath the enveloping material and wondered what in hell else he was expected to do to keep her alive. He had never taken care of another soul besides himself, unless he counted his horses.

  Adjusting the pallet a little farther from the stone hearth and the fire’s menace, he scowled and went to check on his horses. He had been a damned fool idiot to bring her here, but as the snow hit his face, he knew he could have done nothing else.

  ***

  Faith stirred and moaned, then tried to stretch her cramped legs. She ached in every fiber of her being, but she had grown accustomed to the pain. She was warm. There must be work to do.

  Darkness did not deter her from rising. She could not remember where she was or how she got there, but a lifetime of habit forced her out of the cozy cocoon of her covers to stir the fire.

  Next she needed to heat water, but if she had been shown the pump or well, she could not remember it. Ignoring the emptiness in her middle, she used the fire’s meager light to search out pail and kettle. Unable to locate her own cloak, she donned the one that had covered her. It dragged along the plank floor, but it was warm, and she was cold as soon as she left the hearth.

  The snow had stopped, leaving a crystalline covering that crunched beneath her feet in the dawn’s gray light. A large structure loomed against the midnight black of the trees. Barns meant animals, and animals needed water.

  She found a trough frozen and covered in snow, and she broke the ice. A whinny from inside the barn reminded her that the animals would need to drink too, and she filled her pail and carried it to the closed door of the barn. Opening the massive panels almost proved too much for her limited strength, but her parents had taught her that the weak must come first, and animals were always weaker than humans.

  Her head spun from the effort, but she rested a moment before picking up the pail and entering the darkness. Perhaps if she worked hard enough, the owner of this grand barn would allow her to stay.

  To her surprise, the only inhabitants of the structure were four horses, a cat, and a few hens. The horse in the last stall was a magnificent beast so large as to be terrifying, but he only whickered gratefully as she offered the pail of water. Timidly she patted his long, soft nose, and he pushed against her hand, searching for treats. She smiled and wished she had aught to offer, but she did not.

  She had always wished for a pet of her own, but they had moved too often, and her parents had protested the nuisance of yet another mouth to feed. Recalling the hatred that had marred her life, Faith knew any pet would have been a victim. Her parents had known too, but she had been too young to understand.

  Petting the scrawny cat that curled around her ankles, Faith went in search of the hens’ nests. She hadn’t had eggs in months. Would the owner mind sharing his breakfast if she cooked it?

  The thought made her mouth water and her legs tremble as she tucked the precious ovals into her skirt pockets. Closing the door and refilling her pail, she stumbled through the growing dawn to the tiny cottage. It was smaller than the barn, but the snow gleaming on its thatched roof and the ice frosting the tiny windowpanes painted a fantasy image coated with sugary icing. Or perhaps just her hungry stomach turned to thoughts of food.

  She crept through the doorway, hesitating to wake whatever inhabitants there might be. She had slept in so many strange places these last weeks that she had grown accustomed to making her own way around other people’s houses and lives. The peat she had thrown on the fire had begun to burn, and the warmth greeted her as she slid off her wet shoes and hung her cloak on a peg by the door.

  She was still shivering in her torn stockings, but she hung the kettle over the fire and took the eggs from her pocket and looked around for the larder. A few pots and skillets hung on the mantel, and a crude cupboard in the corner uncovered the bare rudiments of a meal. Whoever lived here did not spare much time or money on fancy food. There was nary an herb or spice of even the most common kind. A sack of meal, a tin of tea, a rasher of smoked bacon, a stale half-loaf of bread, and a pot of lard constituted almost the entirety of the pantry.

  But that was enough to make a breakfast that would fill her stomach, if allowed. Since no one had come to hinder her actions yet, Faith boldly set about making the kitchen her own. Surely no one would complain to find a meal waiting.

  She conscientiously avoided looking toward the bed cupboard in the shadows across the room. She had never seen a bed quite like that, but she recognized it for what it was from the soft snores within. At one time it had possibly possessed doors to keep out the cold drafts of a winter night, but not even a curtain blocked the opening now. It nearly filled the entire wall, and if she thought about it, she would have to wonder what kind of giant needed that size of bed.

  ***

  The smell of bacon cooking made his mouth water, and Jack conjured up memories of steaming pots of coffee, fresh cream, and baking bread. His stomach rumbled, and he awoke enough to know that last night’s greasy stew hadn’t filled his ever-empty belly. He would have to ride down to the inn and sweet-talk Molly out of a bowl of porridge.

  The idea of a bowl of Molly’s lumpy porridge did not quite satisfy the image of Jack’s dreams, but it would have to do. He had learned the bare necessities of cooking to keep from starving, but he didn’t enjoy it. And he was too hungry to plunder his larder for its meager contents now.

  Swinging out of bed, Jack realized he had slept in his shirt and stockings last night. What imp of hell had caused him to do that?

  Nearly bumping his head on the cursed bed roof, he swore irritably and groped for his breeches. Only then did he realize that the floor was almost warm, and he wasn’t shivering with the predawn cold of a dead fire. The smell of cooking bacon became more than a dream, and as he donned his breeches, his gaze sought the source of this miracle.

  The impact of seeing that frail figure bent over a flaming fire in his own hearth almost sent Jack back to his bed. He hadn’t been drunk in years. He couldn’t be hallucinating. When had he last seen a feminine cooking his breakfast? Not since Ireland, he was certain. Was she a faerie from his lost past? A bean sidhe to haunt him for his sins?

  She turned then, and the slim shadow became a child with a glimmering mat of waist-length hair, prosaically setting a skillet on the table. Jack released a pent-up breath of relief and emerged from the bed.

  Faith nearly dropped the skillet as the lean form rose from the shadows. But he fastened his breeches like a man, and she shoved her fears back in a box and faced her host. She did not recognize him, though she searched her memory.

  He had to be over six feet in height, for he was much taller than her f
ather. His hair was coal black and curled in disgraceful disarray about his collarless shirt. His eyes were hidden in the dawn light, but she could see the black stubble of beard on a long masculine jaw that squared with a stubbornness she had learned to recognize in others.

  This one would be no easygoing farmer who jested and produced a shy wife and half a dozen children. Faith gulped with fear as she noted the breadth of his shoulders. She had thought him on the skinny side at first, but she could see now that he was all lean sinew and muscle—a formidable adversary if she ever knew one.

  It was then that she remembered the prior night and the nightmare of the highwayman, but she couldn’t piece the two together. A highwayman didn’t offer beds to his victims. Perhaps he was some farmer who had stumbled across her in the snow and carried her here. She wondered where his wife was, and she threw an anxious look to the loft ladder at the rear of the room. Perhaps the rest of the family would be down in a little while.

  “Bean sidhes do not remain after dawn,” her host commented oddly.

  “Banshees?” Faith mouthed the word tentatively. His voice was a deep, resonant baritone with a soothing lilt.

  “Faerie women. Do ye know naught of the faeries?”

  Was he teasing her? Faith knew little of jests other than the mocking taunts of children. She stared at him with incomprehension, then ducked her head politely. “No, sir.” She waited for him to abuse her for making free with his larder or to issue orders for the day’s chores. She just prayed he would allow her to eat first.

  The man sniffed the air hungrily, then glanced toward the table. “I don’t suppose you’ve made enough for two, have you? I’m that starved I could eat the hearth.”

  She could very well imagine this giant chewing stones, but the mention of the size of the meager meal brought a lump to her throat. She was so hungry she was almost ready to fight him for those two eggs, but a lifetime of her mother’s teachings warred within her. They were his eggs. She had no right to them.

  Even as her nose and throat filled with the delicious scents of lightly fried eggs and bacon, Faith bobbed her head and replied, “I fixed what I could find, sir. I’ll eat when you are done, if you do not mind.”

  “There’s plates in the cupboard. We’ll share,” he answered gruffly. Leaving her to divide the bounty, he started for the door and his boots.

  “The horses have been watered, sir,” she said, almost timidly.

  He scowled. “People around here call me Jack. I’ll just take a look for myself, shall I?”

  Faith jumped, startled, at the slamming of the door. Then, glancing hungrily at the food in the skillet, she swallowed and tried to relax. For all his gruff manner, he didn’t look like he would eat her for breakfast.

  She went to the cupboard and found a few tin plates and mugs and brought them to the table. Carefully she divided the eggs and bacon between the two of them, giving him the larger portion, since his appetite would have to be so much larger than her own, with his size. Then, keeping the plates warm on the trivet by the fire, she sliced the stale bread and soaked it in the skillet grease and heated it over the fire until it grew soft again.

  The expensive tea had finished brewing by the time Jack returned, and she poured the steaming beverage as he shook the snow off his boots.

  The room possessed only one chair. Without hesitation, Jack scooped up one of the plates and dropped to the floor, picking up a slice of bacon with his fingers and biting into it.

  Faith regarded him with a mixture of dismay and outrage. “You cannot sit there! And that is my plate. Yours is here.” She picked up the plate with the larger portion and set it at his rightful place on the table. “Where are your forks?”

  Jack finished chewing his bacon and tilted one arrogant black eyebrow at her. “The bacon is sliced too thin. A starving man likes something substantial to bite into. Give me some of that tea. I hope it’s strong.”

  Orders, she understood. Faith handed him a mug. “I did not find cream or sugar,” she apologized.

  “And you will not. Sit. Eat.” He gestured at the table. “There’s a fork in one of those drawers somewhere, but the bread works just as well.” So saying, he scooped his egg onto his toast and filled his mouth.

  No lack of manners could appall her any longer, but being ordered to sit at the table while the owner sat on the floor went against all she knew. Uneasily Faith searched for the errant fork. Seeing he didn’t mean to move, she looked at the plate of mouth-watering food. With decision, she took the fork, plate, and mug and sat on the other side of the hearth.

  He didn’t raise an eyebrow as she bit into her thick slice of bread. They ate in harmonious silence. Faith neatly cut every bite with her fork and chewed it thoroughly before cutting off the next piece, as she’d been taught.

  With eyes closed, she sighed in a quiet enjoyment as she consumed the last bite of bread. Jack was startled by the bolt of pleasure he received just from watching her.

  Before he could find an opening for conversation, she leapt to her feet and poured him another mug of tea. She then took the heavy iron kettle from the fire and poured steaming water over the skillet and efficiently began scrubbing their eating utensils.

  To Jack, who had unconcernedly left his dirty dishes to accumulate enough grease to feed the field mice, this efficiency was nothing short of amazing. Unwilling to admit his astonishment, he sat and sipped his tea and watched her work.

  She could do with a good bath. Although it was obvious she had made attempts to scrub at face and hands, her hair was a tangled nest of filthy curls and her neck looked none too clean. The hem of her tattered skirt was caked with filth, and her frayed cuffs were grayer than the rest of the dingy fabric of her bodice. The bodice itself hung in wrinkled folds, and he winced at the rail thinness of the wrists sticking out beyond the cuffs.

  “I’ll slice your bacon thicker on the morrow, if you like,” she offered timidly.

  He raised his brows. “The snow has stopped. You would do better to be on your way. I’ll see you to the road.”

  “I’m a hard worker,” she answered with defiance. “I can scrub your floors, cook your meals, mend your linen, keep your horses. I don’t eat much. I can even sleep in the bam, if you prefer.”

  Had she been the most beautiful woman in the world, Jack could have told her no. He had his goals, and a partner was not one of them. He had women when he needed them and solitude when he wanted it.

  But she was a child—an oddly well-behaved child, to be sure, but a child just the same. She certainly didn’t need the taint of his life, but it could scarcely be worse than the deprivations of the road. Jack found he couldn’t say the words that would throw her out.

  “Have you no home? No family? This is no place for a female.” That was as firm as he could be.

  She didn’t look back at him, but continued scrubbing the skillet. “There’s no one will be missing me. You needn’t fear that. I’ve been looking for a position, but there’s none to be had. I won’t ask for pay, just room and board. What could be fairer?”

  What, indeed? Jack sighed and stretched his legs and rose to his full towering height. He didn’t have time for arguing with stubborn little girls. Rubbing his hand over several days’ worth of beard and his ill-kempt hair, he wondered she hadn’t run in horror from him. Did she even realize he was the apparition who had nearly frightened her to death last night? He suspected not.

  “I’m not here much, and these woods are full of villains. I’d recommend you look elsewhere. I’ll be off now.” He pulled his cloak off the peg, swung it around his shoulders and stomped out into the snow.

  A few minutes later Faith watched his lithe figure ride off on one of the smaller horses from the barn. The old cloak billowed out around him, but he rode like a centaur, as one with his beast.

  And beyond the shadow of any doubt, she knew she had just broken her fast with a highwayman.

  Chapter 2

  Faith had never done anything remotely rebel
lious in her life. Her father’s religion had demanded obedience, and to retain his approval, she had learned to do as told. Not without question, perhaps. Her father hadn’t been an unreasonable man, and as a scholar, he had allowed intelligent questions. She could question, as long as she obeyed.

  But she wasn’t obeying now.

  Faith glanced furtively out the window to the winter landscape, then back to the kettle beginning to boil on the fire. She had waited patiently all the morning for Jack’s return so she could plead her case further. She had swept and scrubbed and tidied. She had found a chest with his meager assortment of clothes and pressed them with a flatiron she had found beneath the coal scuttle. It seemed an odd place to keep a flatiron, but Jack obviously had little notion of tidiness. She hadn’t been able to find needle or thread, for example. She mourned that fact, and wished for her lost bundle, but she hadn’t stirred outside to look for it.

  She didn’t want to know where she was or how far from the road. She didn’t wish to venture forth in that snow and ice again. The wind still howled about the chimney, and there was nothing promising in the heavy gray clouds that practically sat on the treetops. If she went out, she might never find her way back.

  So she sacrificed the possessions she’d lost last night to stubbornly remain in this cozy haven where she sensed she was needed. Or she convinced herself she was needed. The truth was, she needed this cottage more than it needed her. This one night’s comfort had given her enough strength to fight for what she wanted. Or she thought she would fight. Jack hadn’t returned yet to put the lie to her convictions.

  But now that she had made his home clean, she wished to do the same for herself. Perhaps if she were a little more presentable, he wouldn’t object too strongly to her staying just a little while longer, just until the weather cleared, perhaps.

  It would not do to consider Jack’s occupation while she contemplated his home. She didn’t know for certain that he was a highwayman. She hadn’t actually seen the coach robbed.