The Rebel Page 7

  "Where is Matilda?" she asked.

  "On her way. I told her to meet us in the orchard."

  "The orchard?"

  "It's a pleasant day to sit outside, but the orchard looks to be the shadiest spot."

  "A lovely idea, but I should be helping make the bread."

  "Cook said she can do without you today."

  "Oh. Very well. But you should be resting. I seem to recall giving orders for you to stay abed."

  "I'm not very good at taking orders."

  As evidenced by the whipping marks on his back. He'd admitted that four had come from his father because he'd disobeyed him, but had his father inflicted the others when his youngest son rebelled again? She was quite certain now that Nick was the rebellious sort, at least if he thought a rule unnecessary. Like staying in bed.

  If he followed her thoughts, he didn't show it. He crooked his elbow but she did not take it. "Come now," he said with a wink. "I promise not to try to kiss you."

  She took his arm, and they walked side by side among the rows of apple, cherry and pear trees. Brutus ran ahead, ears flopping, turning often to see if they still followed.

  "Will you answer some more questions for me?" she asked.

  "If I can."

  "What did you dream about last night? And I want the truth this time."

  His arm tensed beneath her hand. "It was nothing, Lucy, just a dream."

  "It might be a memory from your missing years trying to get out."

  "I doubt it."

  "Why?"

  He shrugged one shoulder.

  "You can tell me," she said, quietly. "It'll go no further."

  "I know."

  "Then tell me."

  He let go of her and strode ahead. "I don't want to talk about it. I don't even want to think about it." He did not speak harshly, although he had every right to. She'd pushed him too far, thrust her nose into business that wasn't hers. Yet he didn't even raise his voice.

  She trotted to catch up then had to walk fast to keep apace. "I'm sorry. I won't ask again."

  He slowed then stopped. "I'm sorry too." His fingertips touched hers. "Perhaps one day I can tell you, but not yet."

  "I'll be here when you're ready."

  They sat in the shade of an old apple tree, a little apart. Brutus wedged himself between them and rested his chin on his paws as he watched the house. Matilda emerged carrying something, but she was too far away for Lucy to see what it was.

  "Tell me about your parents," she said. "How did they meet?"

  "My father traveled to Florence when he was eighteen. He says he fell in love with her on first sight. They corresponded for two years before he convinced his father to let them marry."

  "How romantic." And not at all like the image she'd built up of his father. How could a man who'd whip his son for a small disobedience know anything about love?

  "They had an even more difficult time convincing her father, but the two families must have come to an agreement because they were wed in sixty-eight and my brother was born a year later."

  "It must have been difficult for her."

  "I'm sure she missed her family."

  "Not to mention the other obstacles," Lucy said. "Language, religion, and the stubborn English pride. England is very different than Florence, after all."

  He plucked at the grass. "I never considered it like that."

  Matilda was closer now and Lucy could see that she carried a basin, linen, and a small blade. "What are those for?"

  Nick rubbed his chin. "I asked her to shave me. It's so itchy."

  Lucy laughed. "You're not used to it?"

  "As far as I'm concerned, two days ago I could only grow sparse tufts of fine hair. Now it's coarse and growing like weeds."

  "You don't want to try doing it yourself with a mirror?"

  "I'm not used to doing it myself. I'd probably cut my chin to ribbons."

  "He is a baron's son," Matilda said, puffing out her chest. "He would have had a servant do it for him."

  Lucy bit back her smile. "Yes, of course."

  "I've lived a pampered life," he said with mock seriousness.

  "Your clothing states otherwise." And those scars. "Indeed, you didn't look like a gentleman at all when I first met you. You still don't."

  "What should a gentleman look like?"

  She thought about Lord Lynden up at Sutton Hall. He was away at court, but she'd met him a few times before he left, and even dined with him once. "Colorful. Soft."

  "Not so the Colecloughs. Perhaps Father dresses like a peacock at court but not at home." He tilted his chin to give Matilda better access. "What about your parents?" he asked before the maid began. "Tell me more about them."

  Lucy's family wasn't nearly as exotic as Nick's, but he appeared to be listening closely while Matilda shaved him. She told him about their home, farm, and her childhood, how growing up with two older brothers could be a blessing as well as a curse, how she missed her parents and friends but enjoyed her new life at Cowdrey Farm too. She told him everything, or almost. There was a gaping hole where Edmund Mallam was concerned. Some things were better left unspoken.

  "There you are, sir," Matilda said, sitting back on her haunches and admiring her handiwork. "All smooth."

  Nick rubbed his chin. "Thank you. I don't now how I put up with it being so scratchy. How does it look?"

  "Much better," the maid said.

  'Much better' didn't even begin to describe his new appearance. If he walked into a crowded room, all the women would be swooning within moments, and that was without employing that devastating smile of his.

  His brows rose. "Lucy?"

  "Mmmm?"

  "Are you all right?"

  Oh lord, he'd caught her staring. "Yes, of course. Why do you ask?"

  "Because you didn't answer my question."

  He'd spoken? It seemed her wits had completely failed her.

  "I understand if you don't want to tell me." He huffed out a breath and watched Matilda as she emptied the basin of water against a tree trunk. She was out of earshot. "Indeed, don't answer it. I shouldn't have asked."

  "No, you can ask me anything. I… I just didn't hear you. Ask me again."

  He plucked at the grass some more. "A woman of your age from a good family is usually wed by now. I merely wondered if you were… waiting for someone. Someone in particular, that is."

  Matilda slowly and methodically wiped out the basin with a strip of linen. She didn't seem to be in any hurry to return to her chaperoning duties.

  "I was betrothed once," Lucy said without taking her gaze off Matilda. "At least, I thought I was. He seemed to think otherwise."

  "He didn't honor the agreement?"

  She shook her head. Her throat tightened. She didn't want to speak of it. Not with this man. A man who would surely have women lined up to be his wife if the position were open. It was utterly humiliating.

  "The cur." He'd stopped picking at the grass and shifted closer to her. For a heart-stopping moment, she thought he'd try to comfort her with an arm around her shoulders, but he did not. "I may not know much about the ways of the world," he said, "but I do know a man ought to honor a commitment made to a woman."

  "When the man believes there is no commitment… " She shrugged.

  "So he claims you lied too?" He muttered something under his breath. "I hope your kinsmen thrashed him."

  She recoiled, but his harsh tone hit her like a blow to the stomach. "My father isn't the thrashing kind. Nor are my brothers."

  A look of horror crossed his face, and she suspected it matched her own, but for entirely different reasons. "He should have been punished! Didn't your father want to defend your honor?"

  "I didn't say Father sat idly by and did nothing. He spoke to Edmund's father and ceased to trade with him when he supported his son. It was fortunate that most of the village believed me, although I'm sorry to say that Edmund's new wife has not had an easy time of it since she arrived. My friends have shunned
her. When the opportunity to come here with Henry presented itself, I begged Father to let me go. He thought it was because I couldn't continue to face Edmund and his new wife, but that was only part of it. I hoped that with me gone, the villagers would forget faster."

  He shook his head. "Your kindness to someone who has wronged you astounds me."

  "She didn't wrong me. She had no knowledge of me until she arrived."

  "And your father simply cut off the cur's father? How is that going to change anything?"

  "I didn't want the situation changed. Not once it happened. Why would I want Edmund back when he has wronged me so? I was well rid of him."

  "Yes, but your honor should have been defended more vehemently."

  "By thrashing Edmund? What would that achieve?"

  He blinked at her as if he didn't understand her at all, or her father. He spread his hand on the grass, splaying the fingers so that they almost touched hers lying idle at her side. "If you were mine… if someone hurt you… "

  A lump clogged her throat, and she tried to swallow past it. She must remember that he thought like an impetuous youth, not a grown man, and a youth brought up by a father who punished with whippings. With no better mentor than that, why would Nick think any differently?

  At eighteen he was still fresh and innocent, relatively unscathed by a brutal father because he'd only just begun to rebel. But what about later? What happened when Nick questioned other rules he thought unfair, or outright disobeyed them?

  A severe thrashing, that's what. The sort that left dozens of permanent scars. It must have changed him. How could it not? Changed him from this happy youth into the gruff man she’d first met. She closed her eyes.

  "Lucy?" he murmured. "You're angry at me. I'm sorry."

  She laid her hand over his on the grass, and he wrapped his thumb around her fingers. She fought back tears. "I'm not angry with you."

  "Disappointed?"

  "No." She drew in a ragged breath. How could she undo years of cruel control with only a few words? "The thing you must understand is that I know my father loves me. I don't need him to prove it by meting out violent punishment upon Edmund."

  "How do you know?"

  "He never once doubted me. Most fathers would blame their daughter in private, if not in public, for her part in the saga. My father didn't. He has always given my word equal weight as any man's. How could I ever doubt the love of someone who treated me with so much respect?"

  He swallowed heavily, making his Adam's apple jerk up and down. Their gazes connected briefly, and she saw the shine in his eyes before he shifted his focus to the ground. "I'm glad your father never hurt you," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "You deserve every kindness."

  She rolled his hand over so that it was palm up and linked her fingers through his. There were so many difficult questions she wanted to ask him about his own family, but Matilda was fast approaching, and Lucy doubted he would have told her more than he already had.

  He pulled his hand away when Matilda sat beside them. Lucy fussed with her skirts and didn't meet her maid's gaze.

  "There'll be no grass left if you keep picking it out," Matilda said, nodding at Nick's fingers busily plucking the grass again.

  His hand curled into a fist.

  Matilda untied the pouch attached to the rope girdle at her waist and pulled out a piece of linen she always kept in it, hairpins, and finally a small knife. She handed it to Nick then fished out something else and passed that over. It was the lump of wood with the two ears emerging from it.

  "I was tidying your room and thought you might like this to pass the time awhile," Matilda said. "Looks like you might need it now."

  Nick turned it over and smoothed his thumb along the grain. "I can't remember how." He held it out but she pushed his hand away.

  "Try."

  "Go on," Lucy added.

  He shook his head and placed it on the grass, the little knife too. Why wouldn't he even try?

  "Someone approaches," he said a moment before Brutus jumped up and ran off barking.

  Lucy squinted at the long drive leading to the house, but she neither saw nor heard anything. "I can't— Oh, you're right. I hear it now." His senses must be incredibly sharp to have picked up the distant sound of wheels on the road.

  Matilda got to her feet. "It must be the Greene lad back with Widow Dawson."

  She gathered up her things, including the wood and knife, and headed off. Nick held out his hand to help Lucy up. He did not let go once she was standing.

  "I'm sorry," he said quickly.

  "There's nothing to forgive."

  He rubbed his thumbs across her knuckles and looked down, shook his head. "Lucy, I didn't mean to scare you before when I spoke about thrashing anyone who'd hurt you."

  "Nick—"

  "You can trust me."

  "I know."

  "I'd never harm you and or anyone you cared about."

  She laid her palm against his newly smooth jaw and gently lifted his face to see it better. His eyes had turned darker, almost black, their depths endless. The urge to kiss him was overwhelming. It was like a compulsion, an addiction, and it took every piece of her strength to resist. She did, however, touch her thumb to the corner of his sad, beautiful mouth.

  "I know that, Nick." She had barely known him a full day, and yet it was a truth that she felt deep within her. There were mysteries surrounding him, not the least of which was why he'd been set upon and why he'd been carrying so many weapons, but she didn't need to know the answers to believe him a good man. She knew his essence, his soul. He wouldn't harm her.

  He turned his head a little and managed to plant a kiss on her wrist before she removed her hand.

  "We'd better meet Widow Dawson," she said, walking off.

  Behind her, he sighed deeply.

  ***

  Widow Dawson inspected the bruises on Nick's body then the wound on his head. "It must be bandaged for a few more days." She gently applied a salve before wrapping the clean linen around his head again. "Pass me that pin, Bel."

  Her young daughter handed over a pin and positioned herself nearby, so she could watch how her mother secured the bandage. The wise woman had already taught her child a great many things, Lucy knew, and the girl was quite capable with the tasks set her. Bel loved to talk about all she'd learned whenever Lucy visited them in the village. The girl would make an excellent wise woman one day.

  Matilda entered the bedchamber and sat on her chair by the door. "No luck," she said, heaving a sigh. "The Greene lad said he asked Milner and some others and no one knows of anyone called Coleclough, and no one went through Sutton Grange who looked like our man here."

  "Did he describe Nick?"

  "Aye. Says he told them Mr. Coleclough's got tanned skin, black hair, and is as tall and solid as an oak. If he were in the village, they would have noticed him."

  Lucy leaned against the bedpost. "We could widen our search to Larkham and the other villages further away."

  "I don't want to cause trouble," Nick said.

  "Nonsense. It's no trouble. You must have gone through one of the villages."

  "You could write to his family," Widow Dawson said. "From Kent, is he? Shouldn't take more than three or four days to get word to the border, perhaps less if the weather stays fair."

  "Or I could travel there instead of a letter," Nick said.

  "No!" both Widow Dawson and Lucy cried. "The road'll rattle loose the broken bones in yer head," the wise woman said. "There'll be no traveling by horse or cart for you for some weeks."

  "Will it heal?" Lucy asked. She stood out of the way on the other side of the bed yet near enough that she could watch.

  "Given time and rest, aye. He's a strong lad. Nay, hardly a lad." She chuckled and nodded at his chest, still bare from when she'd inspected it. "Just look at 'im, Lucy! Have you ever seen such a fine one?"

  Nick crossed his arms over his chest and arched a brow at Lucy. Unfair! She hadn't made
the comment, why should he tease her?

  She smiled because she was incredibly pleased that he'd returned to his amiable self again, their earlier conversation apparently forgotten. That vulnerable, melancholy side of him worried her, made her want to forget propriety and just hold him, comfort him.

  "What about my memory?" he asked Widow Dawson. "Will it come back?"

  She pushed aside the hair that had fallen across her forehead. Never a neat person, she looked even messier after her ride in the cart. "I've only known one other like this, years ago. I was a child meself, and me Ma was the wise woman of Sutton Grange then. He was a man older than yerself, Mr. Coleclough. Fell off a barn roof, he did. Broke his leg and hit his head. Was out cold for a while, and when he woke up, he couldn't remember the accident. He couldn't remember nothin' after his weddin' day, as it turns out."

  "His wedding day?" Lucy said. "How odd."

  "What happened?" Nick sat forward, his unblinking gaze on the wise woman. "Did he regain his memory?"

  "Aye, he did some three days later."

  Lucy's heart kicked inside her chest. "What a relief. Only three days."

  Nick drew his knees up and wrapped his arms around them. "Do you think three days is the normal length of time?"

  She shrugged. "You're only the second one I've seen like this, and I've never heard of no other." Widow Dawson crooked her finger at Lucy. "Come show me the ointment you used on his bruises."

  "Why?" Lucy asked.

  "I just want to see it, is all."

  Lucy followed her out, leaving Bel with Matilda and Nick. Widow Dawson shut the door behind them and caught Lucy's arm to halt her. "I don't want to see the ointment," she said. "I wanted to speak to you away from him."

  Dread washed over Lucy. Oh God. "You told us he'd be all right," she said weakly.

  "He will be. He will be." Widow Dawson glanced at the door. "He'll recover full well, don't you worry. This is about his memories."

  "Oh? He won't get them back?"

  "I expect he will. That's the problem."

  "I don't follow."

  Widow Dawson's golden eyes flared like bright lamps. She drew a breath. "The other patient I told you 'bout, the one who lost his memory too."

  "Yes? What about him? Did he not make a full recovery after all?"