Patricia Rice (43 page)

“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 silence. Faith 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 barn, 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.

Copyright © Patricia Rice
First published: New American Library, 1992
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portion thereof, in any form

First published by New American Library, New York.
This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real
people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters,
places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and
any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead,
is entirely coincidental.

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