The Rebel's Promise (20 page)

The stagecoach was a heavy, lumbering vehicle, entirely lacking springs and alarmingly effective, it seemed to Rosie, at jolting every bone in her body. Her fellow passengers seemed resigned to this experience, except for a thin, sour faced woman who complained constantly in a high, nasal whine. Eventually a grizzled man in a greasy wig told her to “Give over bellyaching, do!” in a voice which brooked no argument. With an offended sniff, she followed his advice and turned her attention to Rosie, informing her, with an air of superiority, that she was a governess on her way to join a new and most affluent employer.

Three of the four other passengers were farmers whose conversation consisted of largely unintelligible comments about crops and prices. One of these worthy gentlemen was accompanied by a spare-framed hound which, after studying the company carefully, placed his head on Rosie’s knee, and generously invited her to stroke him. He proceeded to spend the journey with an expression of blissful idiocy on his face, as she obliged by alternately pulling his ears or rubbing his long nose. The remaining occupant of the coach was a middle-aged parson who divided his time equally between reading the bible and lecturing Rosie about the temptations facing a young gentleman in the den of iniquity most people called ‘London’. This ill matched little group was informed by the coachman – with a note of pride in his voice - that they would travel at a spanking pace of almost ten miles an hour. This piece of news caused a sound somewhere between a mild cheer and a dispirited groan to ripple through the carriage.

Any attempt to alleviate the boredom by opening the wooden shutters to view the passing scenery was swiftly vetoed by the thin lady who confessed to a morbid fear of ‘countrified air’. Consequently, the atmosphere within the coach was fuggy with the competing odours of unwashed bodies, muddy dog and the eye-watering fumes of the raw onions on which the grizzled man munched. Rosie actually began to envy the outside passengers who were perched precariously on the coach roof. She had listened wide-eyed to the coachman’s advising them against falling asleep. “Don’t be a-blamin’ of me if you drop off,” he said with a distinct lack of sympathy, “And watch out for lads having a bit of a laugh when we go under a bridge.”

A brief break in the monotony occurred when, some twenty minutes after they left the first staging post, the coachman stopped and beseeched them to “Budge up inside!” A large, smiling lady clambered in and squeezed her generous frame onto the seat next to Rosie. She cheerfully informed her disgruntled audience that she had intended to meet the coach at the start but had arrived late and missed it. “Never fear, thought I to meself,” she beamed, her good humour unaffected by the bleak looks cast her way, “You can overtake it on foot and climb up at the next toll-gate. And so I did!”

The only bearable parts of the journey were those occasions on which the passengers disembarked to walk alongside the coach as it trundled up steep hills. The farmers took the opportunity to exchange in good-natured banter with the outside passengers and Rosie, striding ahead, was able to fill her lungs with the clean, fresh air she craved.

After an hour or two, Rosie was heartily sick of a journey which, to add insult to injury, had depleted her limited resources by two whole shillings. The adventurous spirit which had spurred her into action this morning had now deserted her, and she felt unaccountably close to tears. A commotion outside attracted her attention and the coach, amidst raised voices, lurched to a swaying halt, “Lord have mercy on us!” the thin woman clutched Rosie’s arm painfully, “Highwaymen!”

The door was jerked open, and Rosie gasped as Jack appeared in its frame. He was dressed in serviceable riding gear, his dark blonde hair un-powdered and tied, in his preferred style, at the nape of his neck. Free from paint and patches, his face appeared younger. Rosie did not feel inclined to admire his appearance, however. Scanning the coach quickly, his eyes found her and he smiled with what, Rosie felt, was unholy enjoyment. “There you are, brat,” he said pleasantly, holding out an imperious hand in her direction, “Did you really believe I would not find you?”

Rosie shrank back into her seat, conscious that every eye had turned to her. Her own eyes blazed liquid fire at Jack, but he was unperturbed, merely apologising courteously to the interested passengers for halting their journey. “What has the young scamp done?” the grizzled man asked eyeing Rosie with interest.

“Run away from school.” Jack replied coolly, quizzing ‘the young scamp’ with his eyes as she gasped.

“That is a lie!” She stammered, surmising, from the shocked looks of her companions, that she would find little support amongst their number.

“Well, ‘tis not quite the whole story, that is for sure,” Jack inclined his head apologetically towards the governess and the stout woman, “Ladies, I am loathe to sully your ears with tales of the lad’s vices but, suffice to say, there are very few maidens in the neighbourhood with whom he has not … ah,
trifled
.”

In spite of her anger, Rosie’s was impressed, “Jack, you are truly shameless!” she said in awe, and he bowed in acknowledgement of what he seemed to feel was a compliment.

“And who might you be, sir?” the parson decided he had been kept out of the conversation for long enough.

“His cousin,” Jack replied promptly, “Sent by his poor invalid mother to secure his return …”

“This is nonsense,” Rosie tried appealing to the group of travellers, “I am not his cousin, I have not run away from school or trifled with anyone and I do not have an invalid mother!. He is saying these things to to force me to go with him …” she realised too late the hole she was digging for herself.

“Well, if you are not my nephew, perhaps you could explain to these good people who you
are
?” Jack said reasonably. The coachman called down to them to get a move on and, with an exasperated exclamation, Rosie gave up the fight and allowed Jack to help her down from the coach.

Jack had two horses and, as Rosie mounted the one he had brought for her, she heard the governess say knowingly, “I thought he was a bad lot in spite of his comely face.”

One of the farmers responded, “Aye, he needs his backside paddled … and yon gentleman looks a likely candidate for the job.”

“How true,” Jack murmured, and Rosie, throwing him a look of deep loathing, rode off, unsure of her direction, leaving her tormentor to follow in her wake.

Tom was waiting for them in a nearby clearing. He told Rosie that information he had gleaned from an inn on the outskirts of the city confirmed that Sir Clive had travelled north. Jack was momentarily distracted from the seriousness of the situation by the delectable way in which her mannish attire accentuated Rosie’s feminine curves. As she discussed possible routes with Tom, Jack allowed himself to dwell on the way the breeches clung to her slender thighs and the soft roundness of her buttocks. Recalling the way her silken flesh had felt beneath his hands, his throat constricted with sudden longing. Shaking himself out of his reverie, he forced himself to focus on the discussion about their journey.

“He
must
have taken Master Harry to Sheridan Hall,” Tom insisted, “I spoke to the servant at his lodging who said he had a carriage made ready and that he departed late last night. He told the carrier from whom he rented the vehicle that he would be changing his horses on the north road.”

Rosie was not convinced, “I cannot believe he would be so foolish,” she stated, “He will know that Sheridan Hall is the first place we will look.”

“If ‘tis his intention to force you into a confrontation, Miss Rosie, he’ll be wanting you to find him quickly,” Tom pointed out. “It seems to me he wants to be found by you, so that you will swiftly agree to his terms. This is in the nature of a warning shot across your bows, so you’ll not engage in battle with him in the future.”

“Might I suggest we head towards Derbyshire, asking at the posting houses along the road to determine the way they have taken?” Jack intervened. “We have a two day journey ahead of us and I, for one, am keen to set off and get this matter resolved.” Rosie bristled but bit her tongue. Tom was right, they needed Jack’s help, but it irked her that he seemed to feel he was in charge … and his behaviour towards her earlier today, and his outrageous lies at the coach, still rankled with her.

Once they had left the confines of the city behind, they halted at the first coaching inn, and Tom went off to discover whether the ostler or potman had any information about Sir Clive’s direction. Jack dismounted and stretched his limbs, aware of the likely effects of the forthcoming long hours he would spend in the saddle. Rosie, nose in the air, and pointedly avoiding even a glance in his direction, was infuriated to realise he had not even noticed that she was studiously ignoring him.

Tom returned and confirmed that Sir Clive’s carriage had indeed passed this way, “And he was in a mighty bad humour by all accounts. They were headed north, so it would seem that Derbyshire is his goal.”

“What of Harry?” Rosie asked anxiously.

Tom shook his head, “No sign of him, but the potman thought it strange that the ‘pig-snouted gentleman’ – his description, and mighty apt, would you not agree? – requested biscuits and lemonade and carried them out to his carriage and …” Rosie leaned forward eagerly, “… there was a dog in the carriage … a retriever. The ostler said it seemed quite agitated and barked repeatedly at him from the carriage window”

Rosie blanched. Generally, Beau was the most even tempered canine imaginable. She had only once before seen him upset, and that was when Harry, out hunting rabbits, had taken a tumble into a gravel pit and broken his arm. Beau had rushed back to the house and raised the alarm with his insistent barking and then taken her father and Tom to where Harry lay injured. No, if Beau was unhappy, there could be only one reason … Harry was in trouble. She bit her lip, “We must press on, Tom,” she insisted, and the two men mounted their steeds once again.

The road condition varied between poor and appalling, and Rosie was frustrated at the slow pace inflicted on them by the need to avoid injury to their horses from ruts and potholes. Her patience was tried further by the need to stop every ten to fifteen miles to rest the horses or change them for fresh mounts. The message was the same at every stop. “The high-handed gentleman was in a mighty hurry.” It seemed that Sir Clive, travelling by carriage, was putting more and more miles between them with every minute and none of Tom’s soothing utterances could reassure her.

With the darkening skies there came a light rain which seeped through the protection of her cloak and made her teeth chatter. They were approaching the small town of Inglebrook, when Jack gave a muttered exclamation.

“Damn it all to hell, this cursed nag has cast a shoe!”

That settled the matter. They would go no further that night.

There was a small inn set back from the main road through the centre of the town. There were no other customers in the taproom, and Mr Cooper, the landlord, bobbing obsequiously in response to Jack’s request, confirmed that he had two rooms available. He expressed some concerns that they might not be of the standard to which his esteemed guests were accustomed, at which Jack laughed, “’Lud, man! We are cold, damp and worn to the bone with tiredness. I, for one, would sleep in a cow byre if you offered it.”

He gave Rosie – by now a sad, drooping little figure – a sidelong glance from under his brows, aware that she was still furious with him for his comments earlier that day.

“Can you bring us some food?”

The landlord confirmed that he could. His lady wife having cooked, that very day, a pigeon pie and a couple of jellied ox tongues. Rosie’s complexion took on a slightly greenish tinge at the mention of these delicacies and Jack, whilst approving of them heartily for himself and Tom, asked if his young cousin could perhaps beg a bowl of soup? His forehead practically touching his knees, so abject was his bowing, Mr Cooper withdrew to make the necessary arrangements.

Jack and Tom sat on benches at a long, well-worn wooden table and Rosie, after debating for a moment or two, joined them. She deliberately sat as far away from Jack as she could in the limited space available.

“Will we reach Sheridan Hall tomorrow, Tom?” she enquired and he pulled the corners of his mouth down doubtfully.

“We should have been able to make it in two days,” he explained, “But we must find a smith for Jack’s horse in the morning before we can set off again.”

Rosie threw Jack a fulminating look, “So we would have been better off without
him
?”

Jack gave a short laugh and ignored her rudeness but Tom, stung at the injustice of her remark, attempted to remonstrate with her. “You are unjust, Miss Rosie! Jack has come to our aid …”

Rosie held her peace, but her indignation continued to simmer as she listened to the light-hearted banter between the two men. Mrs Cooper appeared, bright red in the face with exertion and, by the time she had finished, the table groaned with a selection of simple, but good quality, dishes. She clucked her tongue over ‘the young lad’ and fussed around Rosie in a motherly fashion. “Yonder stripling,” she informed Mr Cooper later, in a worldly-wise tone, “Is close to dropping with tiredness, but there is something troubling him too. From the way he looks fearfully at him, it has something to do with the handsome gent, you mark my words. A woman knows these things, Mr Cooper. Aye, and ‘tis a pity the lad has such a pretty, girlish face … but happen he’ll grow out of that.” She placed a steaming bowl of chicken soup in front of Rosie who eyed it gloomily.

“For the Lord’s sake stop behaving like a sulky child and eat something!” Jack snapped at her.

She opened her mouth to retort then, with a sound like an outraged kitten, threw down her spoon so that it clattered loudly across the table, leaped up and ran out into the night air. Jack picked up his fork, hesitated as though fighting an inner battle and finally, with a furious expletive, grabbed up Rosie’s cloak and followed her. Shaking his head in the manner of a long-suffering parent, Tom cut an enormous slice of pigeon pie and applied himself to it with great gusto.