My Lord Jack Page 11

  Claudia stared down at the bucket, her mind working. Queen Marie Antoinette had liked to play at dress-up, costuming herself and her ladies as shepherdesses or milkmaids as the royal fancy dictated. Owing to her position as Phillippe’s mistress, Claudia once had received the summons to Le Petit Trianon at Versailles where she’d waited upon Her Highness at her celebrated hameau. Standing about with her fellow courtiers in a lace-trimmed kerchief and bow-bedecked overskirt while the queen, likewise garbed and perched on a stool, squealed in delight at the milk streaming into the chased silver pail had struck Claudia as not only foolish but also deadly dull. Now, however, she found herself wishing she’d paid closer attention. Even so, the process had looked simple enough. If memory served her, all she need do was to take hold of the teat—abhorrent, repugnant thought—and manipulate the sensitive flesh until the contents flowed into the bucket. How difficult could that be?

  Glancing up at Jack, she felt her hesitancy gel into firm resolve. Determined to redeem herself, to prove she wasn’t so useless as heretofore her gaffes had made her out to be, she reached for the pail. “Mais bien sûr,” she said, wrapping her fingers about the handle and summoning a confident smile. “But of course.”

  Some minutes later, squatting on the three-legged stool and cursing a blue streak, Claudia had considerable cause to regret those words. It was the cow’s fault, of course. The stupid beast had taken a dislike to Claudia the moment she’d stepped inside the stall. Tail twitching, Grizel had kicked over the three-legged milking stool that Claudia had just set down, then eyed Claudia as if to say, “Your move.”

  The stool righted and the bucket positioned beneath the direction of probable flow, Claudia leaned in and grabbed hold of the teat with both hands. Careful to keep her cheek from brushing the beast’s broad side, she pulled down. Grizel let out a piercing squeal and backed up. Wondering if she might be hurting her, Claudia took lighter hold and started to work the warm flesh. She knew a heady triumph when she felt the first trickle, and then a goodly stream, pass through her fingers to strike the inside of the bucket with an encouraging ping, ping.

  The bucket close to three-quarters full, she was just congratulating herself on her hard-won victory when the horrible animal kicked out. This time the flailing back hoof caught the pail, knocking it on its side and sending milk splashing Claudia’s skirts, shoes and the straw at her feet. Merde! She whipped out a hand and righted it, managing to save a third or so of the precious liquid.

  Only too ready to quit the byre while she still had something to show for her labors, she grabbed the pail and lantern and backed out of the stall. Feeling like Job, or the female equivalent thereof, she trudged back to the cottage, the biting air drying her gown to prickly stickiness, the seeds that had somehow found their way inside her shoes feeling like boulders.

  Somehow she was not really surprised to find Monsieur Campbell—Jack—watching her from the stepping stone outside the open cottage door, one hand curved about a mug of steaming tea. He slid his gaze down the length of her. “I dinna suppose you managed to get any into the bucket?”

  “I dinna suppose I did,” she mimicked, then shoved the pail at his chest and marched inside, the echo of his hearty laughter ringing in her ears.

  Claudia’s day went downhill from there on. In the pearly gray light of new morning, the inn taproom rang quiet as a churchyard, the tables and benches empty save for crumbs and dried spillage from the night before. The staleness of unwashed bodies, tobacco and burned tallow still hung upon the air when Claudia and Jack stepped inside but otherwise the low-ceilinged room seemed a different place entirely from the boisterous and dangerous place Claudia had stepped inside two days before.

  Which was fine with her.

  She’d spent the ride over in Jack’s pony cart wondering how she would feel upon returning to this, the scene of her disaster. Not that the episode had been entirely unpleasant. There had been that moment, a few seconds at most, when she surrendered her knife and let herself fall into Jack’s open arms and he’d held her close. They’d been strangers then, were strangers still, and yet how safe she’d felt, how protected. He had protected her, first laying his very life on the line and then his purse to pay for her room and board. Why? she wondered yet again, even as his friend, Milread’s voice echoed in her mind, Everyone’s somebody tae Jack.

  And it wasn’t only Jack who was deserving of her thanks. The day before, in the meeting hall, the barmaid had risen to speak for her although Claudia suspected that her doing so had put her out of favor with the innkeeper. Two people, two strangers, had put themselves at risk to save her life and so far Claudia had yet to utter a single word of thanks to either of them.

  And suddenly she felt very, very ashamed.

  As if reading her thoughts, Jack bent his head to her ear and whispered, “Dinna fash, she’s not one to hold a grudge.” He inclined his head down the aisle between tables to where Milread sprawled on her hands and knees before the hearth, employing a small handheld brush to sweep ashes from the grate into the dustpan.

  “We’re verra sorry to be late,” he called out, leading the way down the aisle. “Claudia had a bit o’ trouble with the cow. And with the chickens,” he added, smiling back at Claudia over his shoulder when she reached out to swat him.

  Milread rose and turned to greet them, wiping her hands on the front of what must have once been a white apron. “Nay worries. The next coach isna due for another few hours.” Gazing at Claudia, she said, “Plenty o’ time for Mistress Claudia and I tae get better acquainted.”

  The Scotswoman topped Claudia by a good head and was built like an ox but if Claudia felt even the tiniest bit intimidated, she refused to show it. She pulled back her shoulders and inclined her head. “Mademoiselle.”

  The two women regarded one another, each taking the other’s measure. And then Milread said, “I was just about tae make myself a cup o’ tea. Will ye join me?”

  “Merci. Yes, I believe I will.”

  The invitation plainly included Claudia only. Apparently taking the hint, Jack started edging his way to the door. “Well, I’d best be off. That chimney piece Duncan bespoke willna carve itself and forbye I promised auld Una I’d bring by one of my brews to ease her cough.” To Claudia he said, “Ye’re no to go beyond the kitchen or the smokehouse nor to so much as visit the privy without telling Milread first until I come this eve to fetch you home. D’ye ken me?”

  Humiliated that he’d not only brought up her status as his prisoner but then put Milread in the position of her keeper, Claudia nodded and turned away. That she did indeed plan to seize her first opportunity to escape, whenever it might come, hardly seemed to signify. Jack Campbell didn’t trust her and for some odd, inexplicable reason, that hurt.

  Knuckled hands hidden inside the folds of her cloak, she watched from the corner of her eye as Milread followed Jack to the door. The two Scots stopped on the threshold, voices lowered in conference. Occasionally one or both paused to peer her way but Claudia pretended not to notice. She was tired, she was humiliated, but beyond all, she was lonely. Lonelier than she’d ever felt in her life, for never had she felt more the outsider, nor farther away from all that was familiar and dear.

  Lost to her own misery, she heard Jack take his leave and then the door close, presumably behind him. Footsteps padded back down the aisle toward her; a heavy tap on her shoulder had her whirling about.

  “Shall we sit awhile?” Milread asked, though Claudia doubted it was truly a question. “Once the coach comes, we’re sure tae be on our feet for the rest o’ the day.”

  A short while later her cloak hung on a peg by the door, the fire laid, and two mugs of steaming tea and a plate of bannocks set on the table before them, Claudia finally found the nerve to say, “Mademoiselle, about the other day, I wish to—”

  Milread cut her off with a broad smile. “Nay worries, mistress, ’tis water under the bridge.” She took another bannock from the plate and bit into it.

 
Taking a cautious nibble of her own flattened biscuit, Claudia swallowed and then said, “Call me Claudia, s’il vous plait. If you please.”

  Around a mouthful of biscuit, Milread asked, “Well then, Claudia, tell me how ye and Jack are rubbing along?”

  Thinking back to their disastrous first evening together, Claudia allowed there was nothing to be gained by recounting the gory details, especially as they were all so patently unflattering to her. Reminded that Jack and Milread were friends—how good of friends she’d yet to discover—she said only, “He is very…quiet.”

  Milread cracked a laugh, sending biscuit crumbs sprinkling her square chin like snowflakes. “Oh aye, silent as a stone and deep as the sea, that’s our Jack. And yet he’s a regular chatterbox compared tae what he was when he was a lad.” Expression sobering, she added, “At least after his puir maither’s murder.”

  It was certain to be none of Claudia’s business and yet that had never caused her to hold her tongue before. And so she didn’t hesitate to ask, “Murdered?”

  The smile left Milread’s hazel eyes. Tracing a broad finger about the rim of her cup, she confided, “Och, but ’twas a terrible thing. I dinna remember it all that well myself as I was but six or so. Jack would have been about eight or nine, his braither, Callum, four or five. They were on their way tae market, Maggie and the two lads, when a robber waylaid their cart. The boys wer’na harmed as she’d bade them burrow down in the straw at the back of the cart, but Maggie herself was killed, beaten tae death with a cudgel and, some say, ravished too. Either way, they caught up wi’ the bastard and strung him up in the commons just yonder.”

  Claudia felt her anger over that morning dissolve in a rush of genuine sympathy. “Pauvre Jack,” she said, belatedly realizing she’d spoken aloud.

  In Paris she’d witnessed her own mother guillotined in the square and thus she knew firsthand the pain of a parent meeting a violent end. That Jack had suffered such a tragedy, such a loss, at the tender age of nine tore at her heart.

  Milread nodded and took a swallow of tea. “Aye, Callum seemed tae be fine afterward, but Jack…It hit him hard. He didna speak so much as one wee word for nigh on a year.”

  Claudia had been too lost in sympathy to attend to all the details but now it occurred to her to ask, “Callum, this is a common name?”

  “Aye, I suppose it is, though fortunate we are to have only the one.” Milread made a face. “Callum McBride, the blacksmith’s son and the selfsame sot who gave ye that wee shiner.” She pointed to Claudia’s bruised cheek.

  Shocked to her core, Claudia nearly spat out the sip of tea she’d just taken. “That beast is Jack’s brother?”

  “Half-braither. They’d different faithers,” Milread said and her shuttered expression told Claudia she meant to leave it at that.

  But Claudia was determined to hear the rest. “Why did not Jack tell me this himself?”

  Milread shrugged. “Why would he? Until t’other day he and Callum had no spoken so much as a word to each other in nigh on ten years. They’re no exactly loving braithers, ye ken, for since they were bairns Callum’s harbored a terrible hatred o’ Jack. And dinna ask me why, for in truth I’ve nay notion,” she added, anticipating the question tickling the tip of Claudia’s tongue.

  Embarrassed to be so easily read, hoping she’d done a better job of concealing her true self the night before when she’d lied to Jack about being a lady’s maid, she stared down at her plate. Toying with the remains of her biscuit as her mind worked to make sense of it all, she remarked, “Even for half-brothers, they do not much resemble each other.” Perhaps there was some slight similarity about the bridge of the nose, the shape of the chin, but the likeness if indeed it could be called that ended there.

  “Aye, Callum’s always been skinny as a fence rail and with a face like a rat, no bonny and strong like Jack.” Milread’s voice ended on a sigh and a dreamy look hazed her eyes.

  Wondering if she might have misunderstood the meaning of bonny, Claudia asked, “You think Monsieur Campbell handsome?”

  “Aye.” Milread’s brow bunched in a scowl. “Ye dinna think so?”

  Under pretense of taking a sip from her mug, Claudia asked herself that very same question. Before now she’d always defined “handsome” in terms of Phillippe’s patrician features and slender physique. And yet there was no denying that Jack’s rough-hewn looks held a certain appeal. He possessed a raw-boned sensuality, she’d allow him that, and his big, broad chest had felt nicely firm beneath her palms. The few times she’d seen him smile had confirmed that his teeth were straight and white and, more to the point, all present. And thinking back to that morning when his big hands, his hangman’s hands, had worked gently away at her tangled hair, she was forced to admit that the tingling awareness his touch had triggered had little if anything to do with her contempt for how he earned his living.

  Hating that he roused her, searching for faults, she answered at length, “Ah oui, of course, but do you not find him to be un peu large?”

  Milread’s wide mouth curved upward; the look she slanted Claudia was positively wicked. “Ah well, I canna say as I’ve had the pleasure, but I ken he’d fill a woman up and then some.”

  Claudia nearly fell back in her chair. Her English might be imperfect at best, her command of Scots vernacular nigh on nonexistent, but she had no difficulty in comprehending Milread’s meaning. Recovering her composure, she owned that a small, unworthy part of her couldn’t help but rejoice that Milread and Jack were apparently not lovers.

  Feeling more cheerful than she had all morning, she allowed, “Alors, I suppose he does have a nice smile.”

  Milread tossed back her flaxen hair and guffawed. “A nice smile, is it?” She slapped the flat of her hand onto the table, setting cups rattling. “Ye’re a rare one, Mistress Claudia, and ye’ve some verra queer notions, but I ken we’re goin’ tae get on just fine.”

  It turned out that “getting on” with Milread proved to be the very least of Claudia’s difficulties. As morning stretched into midday and midday into night, the Scotswoman showed herself to be as good-natured as her freckled face and ready smile portended—as well as gifted with the forbearance of Saint Jeanne. When in helping an overnight guest on with his boots, Claudia handed him his left boot first instead of his right, a mistake that sent him careening down the stairs, Milread only helped him up, checked for broken bones and then went to fetch him a pint on the house. Likewise, when Claudia dropped an entire pot of hot stew smack in the middle of the tavern floor, Milread shrugged and went to the broom closet for a bucket and mop.

  But after more than sixteen straight hours on her feet, not even Milread’s bawdy tales and all-around good spirits could distract Claudia from the ache settling into her lower back or the sting of fresh blisters on her soles. Now it was nearing ten o’clock. Alistair had given the last call for drink some minutes before and the taproom was cleared of all but one man in the corner who’d fallen asleep over his half-full pint.

  Taking advantage of the reprieve, Claudia set her broom in the corner and collapsed on the edge of a recently vacated and still warm bench seat. Her hair and clothing, indeed all of her, reeked of tobacco and grease, and she would have sold her chance for Heaven, if indeed she hadn’t already, for a hot bath and the opportunity to wash her hair.

  As it was, it seemed a monumental effort to even hold up her head. Nearby was Milread, whistling some cheerful tune as she swept away. Faced with all that energy, Claudia felt a grudging admiration.

  Hoisting her throbbing head from the cradle of her open palms, she asked, “You work like this every day?”

  Stopping to assess the two tidy piles she’d created, Milread answered with a shrug. “Ah well, it’s no so bad once ye’re used tae it. Harder than some jobs, maybe, but easier than others.”

  Throughout the day Claudia had wondered why it was that Milread meticulously sorted the droppings into two distinct piles, one of regular debris and a second of foodstuf
fs; the latter she parceled out and deposited in one of several small wooden boxes set about the taproom floor. Her question was at last answered when the barmaid left off sweeping to go over to one of the mysterious little boxes. She picked it up, lifted the lid and angled the box so that Claudia could see within to the wooden block and, beneath it, the crushed form of what must have once been a mouse.

  “Och, but ye’re a fine fat fellow,” Milread announced, lifting the block and holding the bludgeoned form by the end of its curling tail. “Ho, Bridie, come fetch your supper, ye lazy lass.”

  Lips smacking, the tabby cat called Bridie trotted up. Slanted green eyes fixed on the mouse dangling from Milread’s hand, the cat braced itself and then leapt, neatly catching the tossed “treat” in midair. Looking inordinately pleased, Bridie trotted over to the nearest corner to savor her supper in private.

  Reminded of her impromptu encounter with Jack’s “Heather” and how tenderly he’d stroked the little white body before snuggling it away in his coat pocket, Claudia was glad he hadn’t yet come for her so that he might be spared this spectacle. For herself she quickly averted her gaze, wishing she might as easily close her ears to the cat’s crunching.

  She was just about to rise and take up her broom once more when the main door swung open and Jack strode in. Despite her aching back and blistered feet, a trill of excitement shot through her, making that morning’s humiliations seem a very long time ago.

  A smile of welcome forming on her lips, she started up to greet him. “Bonsoir,” she said, painfully aware of how slatternly she must look, how unpleasant she must smell.

  Coming up on her, his smile dipped into a frown. “Warming the bench, are we?” He reached out, wrapping a hand about her arm. “Well, come along with you. Like as no ye dinna deserve a morsel, but I’ll feed you some supper all the same.”

  His hold on her arm pinched but it was her pride that groaned in agony. Looking up into his set face, Claudia felt her smile sink along with her spirits. “But, I was only—”