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Authors: Judith James
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an adventure. Anything to break the monotony that made one day seem exactly like another. He’d had no real expectations when he set out to meet Perry. He’d certainly not expected Arabella.
A countess, no less. A pampered and coddled denizen of a society he had no use for except to line his pockets and temporarily ease his ennui. After that, nothing had gone as he’d expected. He was not a cruel man, nor a callous one, and his reputation for gallantry to the fair sex was fairly won. Memories lingered still of a broken woman who’d repeatedly placed herself between him and his father’s fists. The stranger who had helped him years ago had come just an hour too late to help her. She was already dead, lying with a broken neck, discarded on the floor amidst broken crockery and bottles.
He had helped Arabella because he could, and because of memories from long ago. But he hadn’t expected to like her quite so much. I didn’t even see her face until we were in the hall . And then it was battered and bloodied. It was her voice that had first captured his interest––a sultry purr that almost belied her inexperience and modest dress. It suggested a marriage of primness and passion that made a man want to unlace her clothing and unlock the heat simmering within. He’d had a too brief taste of it in her innocent yet eager response to his kisses.
She had won his admiration when she kicked the bucket and let loose a string of curses that would have made a London dockworker blush. His teasing had been to distract her and take her mind off their descent, but he’d enjoyed her reactions as she had good-naturedly, if cautiously, played along. It was a courtesy and camaraderie he had not expected from one of her background.
She’d certainly come as a surprise. None of the women he knew could blush and climb down a sheer stone wall without panic or complaint. She spoke her mind, was artless, genuine, and intrepid, and she felt surprisingly good in his arms. He had enjoyed their escape from her prison in ways she hadn’t the experience to imagine. His body had accustomed itself to the weight and feel of her as she rode in his lap and was missing her already. Worse than that, he had been reckless, letting down his guard and telling her things that could cost his freedom or his life should she decide to report them. He was damned if he knew what imp of the devil had prompted him to give her his real name.
He tightened his hand around the pearls. She was not for him, and he was not he for her. Taking the necklace had been an impulsive act. One meant to remind them both of who they were. She was a lady and an innocent. He hadn’t rescued her only to finish the job her mongrel cousin had asked him to do. She was lucky it was only her necklace he stole, for she was as enticing and ready to pluck as a juicy piece of ripe fruit. He wagered she’d be married within the year despite the nonsense she spouted about glorying in her spinsterhood. Besides, she lived in London, and whether it was as Swift Nick, Samuel Johnson, John Nevison or Gentleman Jack, London was no place for him to be.
Most of his peers carved out a territory of sorts. Many roamed Hounslow Heath. Crisscrossed by the Bath and Exeter roads it offered rich pickings from wealthy visitors headed to the West Country resorts, or courtiers heading to Windsor. Others stalked Hyde Park, Islington, and the streets and outskirts of London. The Newmarket Road, used by gamblers and members of the court on their way to the races had been the scene of a pitched battle between highwaymen and courtiers not long ago, and there were many other favored haunts.
Swift Nick had frequented them all, but Jack hunted only on the North Road. There were not many men of his height and bearing, and it wouldn’t do for the two of them to be recognized in the same place and as the same person. The good-natured king who had pardoned him once, was unlikely to be amused.
Leave the lass to London
A countess, no less. A pampered and coddled denizen of a society he had no use for except to line his pockets and temporarily ease his ennui. After that, nothing had gone as he’d expected. He was not a cruel man, nor a callous one, and his reputation for gallantry to the fair sex was fairly won. Memories lingered still of a broken woman who’d repeatedly placed herself between him and his father’s fists. The stranger who had helped him years ago had come just an hour too late to help her. She was already dead, lying with a broken neck, discarded on the floor amidst broken crockery and bottles.
He had helped Arabella because he could, and because of memories from long ago. But he hadn’t expected to like her quite so much. I didn’t even see her face until we were in the hall . And then it was battered and bloodied. It was her voice that had first captured his interest––a sultry purr that almost belied her inexperience and modest dress. It suggested a marriage of primness and passion that made a man want to unlace her clothing and unlock the heat simmering within. He’d had a too brief taste of it in her innocent yet eager response to his kisses.
She had won his admiration when she kicked the bucket and let loose a string of curses that would have made a London dockworker blush. His teasing had been to distract her and take her mind off their descent, but he’d enjoyed her reactions as she had good-naturedly, if cautiously, played along. It was a courtesy and camaraderie he had not expected from one of her background.
She’d certainly come as a surprise. None of the women he knew could blush and climb down a sheer stone wall without panic or complaint. She spoke her mind, was artless, genuine, and intrepid, and she felt surprisingly good in his arms. He had enjoyed their escape from her prison in ways she hadn’t the experience to imagine. His body had accustomed itself to the weight and feel of her as she rode in his lap and was missing her already. Worse than that, he had been reckless, letting down his guard and telling her things that could cost his freedom or his life should she decide to report them. He was damned if he knew what imp of the devil had prompted him to give her his real name.
He tightened his hand around the pearls. She was not for him, and he was not he for her. Taking the necklace had been an impulsive act. One meant to remind them both of who they were. She was a lady and an innocent. He hadn’t rescued her only to finish the job her mongrel cousin had asked him to do. She was lucky it was only her necklace he stole, for she was as enticing and ready to pluck as a juicy piece of ripe fruit. He wagered she’d be married within the year despite the nonsense she spouted about glorying in her spinsterhood. Besides, she lived in London, and whether it was as Swift Nick, Samuel Johnson, John Nevison or Gentleman Jack, London was no place for him to be.
Most of his peers carved out a territory of sorts. Many roamed Hounslow Heath. Crisscrossed by the Bath and Exeter roads it offered rich pickings from wealthy visitors headed to the West Country resorts, or courtiers heading to Windsor. Others stalked Hyde Park, Islington, and the streets and outskirts of London. The Newmarket Road, used by gamblers and members of the court on their way to the races had been the scene of a pitched battle between highwaymen and courtiers not long ago, and there were many other favored haunts.
Swift Nick had frequented them all, but Jack hunted only on the North Road. There were not many men of his height and bearing, and it wouldn’t do for the two of them to be recognized in the same place and as the same person. The good-natured king who had pardoned him once, was unlikely to be amused.
Leave the lass to London
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