My Lord Jack Read online

  To avoid looking at her he kept his regard on the letter, taking his time in refolding it along the original creases. At length he said, “A highwayman found guilty of putting a bullet through the heart of the earl of Aberdaire’s courier is to hang on Friday next, and I’m called to see the sentence carried out.”

  Though he still didn’t so much as glance at her, he felt her frozen stare cut through him like a blast of wintry air.

  “The courier of Lord Aberdaire?” she repeated, a tremor to her tone as if the man or his master were a personal friend.

  “Aye, so it reads.”

  “Must it be you?” He fancied he heard desperation in her voice. To be sure, it held an edge that he hadn’t heard in some time. “Edinburgh is a large city, it is not? Surely there is another who—”

  “Aye, there is and yet it must be me. The condemned, he petitioned the judge that I be the one.”

  Only weeks earlier Jack would have puffed up with pride that his professional reputation for offering a quick, clean death had traveled so far and wide. Now all he felt was numb—and so very cold inside.

  Knowing he could hold off no longer, he turned to face Claudia. A blind man couldn’t have missed how she shrank from him. Monsieur le Borreau, she was no doubt saying to herself, and that he couldn’t fault her for thinking of him as such only increased his misery.

  From deep within him a long buried bitterness rose, cutting through the coldness, melting it like salt sprinkled on an icy path. Fixing his gaze on Claudia’s suddenly pale, stricken face, he said, “Dinna look so downcast, Mistress Valemont, for now I’ve nay choice but to take you so far as Edinburgh after all.”

  Callum stood at the forge, brooding on his night’s disappointments. At first he’d thought it a stroke of fortune when he’d seen the Frog bitch wander off during the dancing. He hadn’t hesitated but had followed her from the taproom to the outside but, as his foul luck would have it, so had Jack.

  Jack, always Jack.

  When they’d disappeared into the safety of the byre, Callum had returned to the taproom and tried to drown his disappointment in drink. On his way to refilling his tankard yet again, he’d bumped into Alistair. It seemed an important letter had come for dear old Jack and the innkeeper meant to give it to him that night. Thinking on what he, Callum, would do were he to get a hot little piece like Claudia Valemont in the dark and alone, he’d been quick to point Alistair to the byre. But his hope that Jack might be caught in some disgrace had died on the vine, too. Upon his return, all the innkeeper could say he’d interrupted was the two of them dancing!

  Callum’s disappointment had tasted bitter as gall. To choke it down, he’d swallowed enough whiskey to fell a small horse. Still sleep had refused to come, until around midnight he’d stumbled into the smithy adjoining his father’s cottage to see if exhaustion and sweat might not coax it along. And so he stood before the heated forge, stripped bare to the waist beneath the leather apron, sweating out his night’s whiskey and hammering away at the dents from an iron bar even as he sought to hammer out the years of frustration and hurt.

  “What the fook d’ye think ye’re about?”

  He turned to see his father, Tam, standing in the doorway dressed in a nightshirt and cap. A candle trembled in one raised hand, sending light streaking back and forth across the room.

  Wild and free as the Frog bitch had danced.

  But whereas the woman pulsed with life, his father looked dry as old bones, the few remaining threads of gray hair tucked beneath the knitted nightcap and the yellowed flesh stretched so tautly over his face that every crevice, every bone jutted out like a Highland crag.

  It canna be much longer now, Callum thought. The prospect made him neither happy nor sad, and he turned back to the furnace where the blistering heat had rendered the metal bar as soft and malleable as a woman’s flesh.

  “Go back tae bed, Da,” he said. Hauling back the hammer, he struck another series of sharp, satisfying blows.

  But instead of leaving, Tam padded over to the forge. The candle he held had burned low in its pewter holder, its untrimmed wick hanging limp and lifeless as an old man’s cock, little tears of tallow slipping off the cord to splash into the reservoir.

  Callum the boy had shed tears aplenty, but Callum the man didna cry, not ever. In his dreams Mam still cried, though, and begged and screamed. It was the screaming he minded most. Since the Frenchwoman’s coming, he’d taken to hearing it during his waking hours too.

  Coming up on him, Tam yelled, “’Tis three o’clock a’most. Ye dinna work half so hard in daylight.” His bloodshot eyes narrowed. “Ye maun be up to some mischief, and I mean tae know what.”

  Above the clanging, the screaming, Callum shouted, “Leave it be, auld man.”

  Red face working, Tam shook a fisted hand. “D’ye dare speak tae me so, tae gi’ me orders in my own forge, whelp?”

  The name touched off an explosion inside Callum’s head to rival Mam’s screams. He swung about, the hammer raised. “Aye, I’ll speak tae ye as I please, do as I please, for we both ken I’ve earned the right and if either o’ us need mind his step, ’tis ye, auld man, no me.”

  Tam shrank back, the pupils in his faded eyes grown so large as to give the illusion of being empty sockets. “I dinna ken ye. Ye maun have drunk sae much as tae make ye daft, for I canna make heads or tails of any of it.”

  Voice pitched above the din, Callum joined his voice to the screaming inside his head. “Och, but ye ken me, Da. Ye ken me just fine.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Three Days Later

  They set out for Edinburgh in the pale gray predawn: Jack, Claudia, Luicas and Elf. Seated inside the pony cart next to Jack, Claudia avoided his gaze by keeping hers trained ahead to the rump of the dappled gray mare the boy rode and the dog gamboling alongside. She was no judge of horseflesh but she thought the horse looked to be a calm creature, far less feisty than either Jack’s bay hitched to the cart or the tinker’s horse—or so she hoped.

  For on the back of that very horse she meant to steal away from Edinburgh to Linlithgow—and freedom.

  Aberdaire Castle, her father’s seat, lay some fifteen miles west of Edinburgh, or so said the pleasant-faced coachman who’d stopped inside the taproom for a pint the week last. Once she reached Aberdaire’s sanctuary it would be over, for no one would think to look for a runaway lady’s maid-cum-seamstress-cum-horse thief within the stone-and-mortar walls of an earl’s castle. Not even Jack.

  Once they arrived in Edinburgh, her opportunity must come sooner or later, for it stood to reason that he and Luicas could not watch her night and day. At some point they would have to leave her to carry out their unsavory trade. She only hoped that her chance would come in the daylight rather than at nighttime when she would have only moon and stars and the occasional street lamp to guide her from the city. Day or night, she would leave, for to stay with Jack Campbell another four months, even so much as another week, had become insupportable.

  To want a man more than one was wanted in return—this was not wise. To want a man hired to kill, who was but one step above an assassin, was nothing short of madness. To begin to fall in love with such a man, to bask in the luxury of forgetfulness for long, blissful stretches of time, was a betrayal of the worst kind, tantamount to turning her back on every one of her countrymen who had felt the sharp bite of the guillotine’s blade.

  Jack didn’t cut off people’s heads. He hanged them—a less grisly death for the onlooker, perhaps, but no kinder to the poor victim, possibly less kind, or so she’d heard. Despite his protestations to the contrary, deep inside him he must harbor some remorse, some fledgling shame; otherwise why would he have worked so very hard the previous evening to keep her from attending the packing of the tools of his trade?

  Thinking of herself as one who must choke down a bitter tonic to be cured of a fever, Claudia had doggedly followed him and Luicas outside to the byre, determined to see all, to see the very worst. Once inside,
she’d steadfastly refused to leave until Jack had become resigned, defiant even. One by one he’d withdrawn each article of death from the storage cupboard, calling on Luicas to recite its proper function before packing it inside the traveling trunk.

  “Luicas, prithee explain to Mistress Valemont the nature of that which I hold in my hand.”

  The boy turned to Claudia, fresh face beaming with the desire to demonstrate just how very much he’d learned. “’Tis a pinioning strap, mistress, tae hobble the hands o’ the condemned and the knees as well so he canna step back from the line.”

  Jack’s eyes, hard and flat as stones, trapped hers. Handing the strap to the boy, he asked, “And why is it that he must not step away from the chalk mark?”

  Taking it to wrap in flannel for the journey, Luicas answered, “Why, on account o’ that bein’ where the two leaves o’ the trap come together, Master Jack. ’Tis verra important the client fall through fast and straight, for betimes a rope can take a man’s head clean off sure as that great blade the Frogs are usin’ o’er in France. Oh, beg pardon, mistress,” he offered at Claudia’s involuntary gasp.

  Jack’s gaze flickered from Claudia back to the boy. “You may leave us, Luicas. I’ll finish here.”

  Luicas hadn’t needed to be asked a second time. A brief bow to Claudia and then he was off like a shot.

  Jack and Claudia regarded each other. “That was cruel,” she said even as she wondered how, even now, she could want him so much.

  Behind Jack’s amber eyes, flames leapt. “I seek only to feed your curiosity, mistress, for in the course of these past weeks I’ve kent it to be a hungry beastie indeed.”

  For once lacking a retort, she turned to go. “I will leave you to your…preparations.”

  Jack had been kneeling by the trunk but now he shot to his feet beside her, his voice soft but his every word edged with steel. “The man I’m called to Edinburgh to hang also shot and killed a young maither of five from another parish though ’tis only for the courier’s murder that he stands condemned.” Defiant amber eyes bore into hers, daring her to look away. “When I settle the noose about his neck, when I walk away and pull the lever that will send him into eternity, will you weep for him, Claudia?”

  Tears stung the backs of her eyes, clogged her throat, but she refused to shed them just as she refused to look away. “Non, I will not weep for him.” She pulled a hard, choking swallow. “But I will weep for you, Jack.”

  It was then that she’d promised herself that when Jack Campbell returned from Edinburgh, he would do so without her.

  The jostling cart, the hard bench and even the tedium of the journey were slight discomforts compared to the scathing pain of self-reflection. She’d made a fool of herself the night of the cèilidh, throwing herself at Jack like a common strumpet in her cups. Better she go now while there was yet time, before she was moved to offer him not only her body but also her heart—and thereby become as helpless against him as that of the poor wretch whose neck he would wring on the morrow.

  Would Lord Aberdaire attend the hanging of his servant’s murderer? she wondered yet again. Were she and Jack on speaking terms, she would ask him, for she’d no wish to repeat her experience in London when she’d arrived on her father’s doorstep only to learn he’d left already. But even if he had, this time she would insist on waiting for his return, for not only had she run out of places to run but also the heart to take her there.

  She risked a sideways glance to Jack. Red-gold hair pulled back in his customary queue to reveal the clean, strong lines of his face, he didn’t look any happier than she was about their silent standoff. He looked quite miserable, she decided, noting a deep purplish crescent carved beneath the amber eye revealed in profile.

  Knowing that she was soon to leave him forever made it easier to forgive the episode in the byre. Underlying the simple wish to part on good terms was the deep and desperate need to capture every look, every touch and every spoken word and imprint them on her memory. What time they had together she was determined to use to learn all there was to know about him, not the shadow side of his trade but the little everyday things…starting with the mystery surrounding his middle name.

  Being the one to offer the olive branch was a new and uncharted role for her, but she resolved to throw herself into it with as much enthusiasm as a breaking heart could muster. Lest she lose her nerve, she averted her gaze to the warm, flannel-wrapped brick upon which she rested her feet and asked, “Jack—this is a Scottish name?”

  Jack, too, had been mentally replaying the previous evening’s episode and kicking himself for his calculated cruelty. Not that Claudia was entirely blameless—she had, after all, insisted on following him out and then refused to leave. But in trotting out the tools of his trade before her innocent eyes and then forcing on her the specifics of their use, he’d gone far too far. Owing to the dubious gift of hindsight, he’d come to see his bad behavior for what it was, a desperate and ill-conceived bid to soften her, to force her into admitting that perhaps he wasn’t quite the monster she made him out to be. In so doing, he’d acted the monster in truth.

  And so it was the lovely silken sound of her voice, more so than the question itself, that jolted him, setting off a fuse of pure, unadulterated gladness.

  Shifting to face her, he answered, “Nay, ’tis English, as was my faither.” Glad to find his voice steadier than either his hands or his head, he added, “His Christian name was John but he was called Jack. When I came along, he was long gone, but my maither had me baptized Jack, no John. I think she missed sayin’ his name.”

  She looked up at him, violet eyes clear and showing none of the heat of their quarrel. Christ, but he wanted to kiss her, fully and passionately as he had come so verra close to doing the night of the cèilidh when at the last moment he’d regained his principles—and lost his nerve.

  She smiled and his heart turned over. “I like Jack. It suits you. But what does the ‘H’ stand for?”

  He peered out to the road ahead and pretended not to hear. As glad as he was to have her speaking to him again, he couldn’t help but hope that her curious mind might soon fix upon some other unknown.

  No such fortune. A breath or two later, she asked, “It is a family name?”

  He shrugged. “In a way.”

  “Infuriating man.” She threw her arms into the air. “Will you not answer me this…this one so simple question?”

  At that very moment the cart’s front wheel hit a rut in the road. Jack’s heart leapt into his throat. He shot out his free hand to hold her back before she could go tumbling over the side.

  He released her and swiped a hand through his hair, which he felt certain would be snowy white by the time her sentence was served. “Christ, woman, have you no heard, ‘curiosity killed the cat’? The same can be said for prying French lassies though hard as your head is, I dinna suppose I should be worrit.”

  “Forgive me.” She returned one hand to the side of the cart. With the other she found his arm. Hers was the lightest of touches, but it burned through his layers of clothing to mark his flesh like a brand. “Only Jack, I still want to know what that ‘H’ stands for.”

  He hid a smile. “Why?”

  “Because…well, because I want to know everything about you.”

  “Oh, aye, a fascinating specimen am I.” He sighed, unsure of whether to feel flattered or violated, but either way he resigned himself to telling her. She’d seen the worst of him, his darkest side. Certainly a mere name couldn’t put her off more. “Verra well, but ye must give your word ye’ll no laugh.”

  “Cross my heart.” She lifted her hand from his bicep to sign the cross over her bosom.

  Her delectably soft, full bosom. Remembering the feel of her breast beneath his palm, of how good, how right, it had felt to hold her, he drew a deep breath, released it very slowly, and confessed, “Hamish.”

  The gale of laughter she gave nearly caused him to drop the reins. But, Dear Lord, it was good
to see her smile, to hear her laugh even if it was at his expense. Better a clown than a monster, he decided, even as he pretended annoyance. “You laughed.”

  “I did. I am sorry but it is so…so dreadful. ’Amish.” She tittered, a hand fanned out to brace either side of the impossibly tiny waist that but a few nights before he had spanned with his two hands.

  “Hamish, not ’Amish. Please, Claudia, ’tis bad enough without your leaving off the ‘H.’ And ’twas my maither’s faither’s name, if ye must know.”

  A thought struck him. He’d been curious before but then so much of her history was sketchy or missing altogether that the issue of names had seemed the least of it.

  But now that she’d introduced the topic of names, it seemed the perfect time to ask. “What of Claudia? It’s a lovely name to be sure,” he added when he saw her high brow furrow into a frown, “but it doesna sound verra French.”

  “Ha! A lot you know. Claudia is very French indeed although my given name, the name I was baptized with, is…” She hesitated, ducked her head, and admitted, “Clothilde.”

  “Clothilde?”

  She nodded. “It is a most unfortunate name, I know, as bad as Hamish or perhaps worse. Even as a child I refused to come when called by it and so on my sixteenth birthday Maman’s present to me was that I might be Claudia instead.”

  He thought for a moment, then turned his head to smile at her. “I like Claudia better.”

  Her brow smoothed and her mouth softened into a wistful smile. “So do I, Jack. So do I.”

  They reached Edinburgh as the soon to be slumbering sun was dipping low beneath the horizon, casting a smoky pink haze over the spired skyline. The tollbooth to which Jack was called lay just off of that part of the Royal Mile known as Canongate. The rooms kept in readiness for him were clean and commodious but, more to the point, they were close to his work. Even when the warder sent the prisoner’s particulars on ahead, Jack always visited with the condemned on the eve of the execution to see for himself. Not to draw out the prisoner’s suffering—that was God’s prerogative—but because he prided himself on precision. To determine the optimal striking force for the falling body and the distance required to achieve it, not only weight and height but also body mass must be taken into careful account. Jack trusted no one but himself.