The Highwayman (Rakes and Rogues of the Restoration Book 3) Read online

  Praise for

  JUDITH JAMES

  “Judith James fearlessly bursts through the ceiling of the historical romance genre and soars to astounding heights. Her writing is intriguing, daring, exquisitely dark, and emotionally riveting.” ~ USA Today bestselling author, Julianne MacLean

  “Upscale historical romance at its best!” ~ Historical Novels Review

  Rakes and Rogues of the Restoration

  The Highwayman

  "Rooted in an authentic historical setting, this thrilling tale of passion and adventure will leave you breathless."

  ~Sabrina Jeffries, NYT bestselling author

  “A sensual romance with history leaping off every page...so very well done...a stirring adventure...The love scenes are moving and tender...quite unique and splendid..

  ~Regan Walker, Regan’s Romance Reviews

  Libertine’s Kiss

  “Fueled by sizzling sensuality and sharp wit, James’ refreshingly different historical deftly re-creates the glittering, colorful court of Charles II while also delivering an unforgettable love story.”

  ~John Charles, Booklist starred review

  “Judith James juggles poetry, Restoration court culture, and fairytale references with an almost perfect sense of timing...There is really nothing out there quite like this.”

  ~Lynn Spencer, All About Romance Desert Isle Keeper Review

  “Readers will find this poignant love story enthralling and unforgettable.”

  ~Kathe Robin, Romantic Times top pick

  Soldier of Fortune

  (The King’s Courtesan)

  “James’ fully realized version of naughty, bawdy Restoration England is the ideal setting for her marvelous characters to play out their sensual and romantic love story. The quick pace, strong dialogue and high degree of sensuality added to the lush backdrop will have readers enthralled.” ~Romantic Times top pick

  “This is one really hot delicious book that you won’t be able to put down...a tale you won’t want to miss just for this last sentence alone.”~Terra Yankee Romance Reviewers

  Available from

  JUDITH JAMES

  Rakes and Rogues of the Restoration

  Libertine’s Kiss

  Nominated RT Best British Isles Historical

  AAR Desert Island Keeper

  Booklist starred review

  Romantic Times Top Pick

  Soldier of Fortune

  (Enhanced version of The King’s Courtesan)

  Romantic Times Top Pick

  The Highwayman

  ~~

  Previous Works

  Broken Wing

  Winner of Independent Publisher’s IPPY Gold

  Romance Novel TV Best Debut

  Historical Novels Review Editor’s Choice

  AAR Desert Island Keeper

  AAR Honorable Mention Best Book

  AAR Buried Treasure

  Highland Rebel

  A Barnes and Noble book of the year

  Historical Novels Review Editors Choice

  One of the best of 2009 Dear Author

  The Highwayman

  JUDITH JAMES

  Halfpenny House

  Digital Edition

  Copyright © 2014 Judith James

  Halfpenny House

  Digital ISBN: 978-0-9920504-1-2

  Print ISBN: 978-0-9920504-5-0

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions

  The license to use this book is granted through its purchase via legitimate retail avenues, or with the express written permission of the author. The purchase of this book licenses it for your personal use only. All rights to this book and the text there-in are reserved and non-transferrable including the right to reproduce, lend, download, transmit, decompile, resell or reverse engineer any part thereof in any form without the express written permission of the copyright holder. The reverse engineering, uploading and/or sale or distribution of this book without the express permission of the copyright holder are illegal and punishable by law. This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and events are solely the product of the author’s imagination.

  Cover, image, design, styling, modeling and clothing by Rob Lucas

  Copyright © Rob Lucas Pimpernel

  Cover Rob Lucas

  www.pimpernelclothing.com

  www.huzzar.co.uk

  Photo credit: Fiona Bennett

  Formatting: L.K. e-book formatting

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I would like to give a very special thanks to my dear readers. I know it’s been a long wait and your unflagging patience and support have meant so much.

  I would also like to thank some folks who have been very generous with their time and expertise in helping prepare this book for publication. To my beta and proof readers, Cindy Coulombe, Sandra Mackenzie, Linda Todd, and Regan Walker, bless you for your eagle eyes, incisive comments, and great suggestions. A special thanks to Bev Pettersen, and editors Pat Thomas and particularly Janet Bank for a super catch and for all their help with the early edits.

  Once again, I would also like to thank blogger, photographer, model, re-enactor, weapons consultant, and period clothing designer, Rob Lucas. When the opportunity came to launch this series it was the black-and-white photo Rob uses for his Rakish Highwayman blog that was the inspiration for all three covers.

  A NOTE TO READERS

  Although The Highwayman is a work of fiction, the character of Arabella Hamilton is based on the 17th century travel writer and journalist, Celia Fiennes. The quotes, journal entries (and spelling) at the head of some chapters and in the text are hers.

  I hope you will forgive me for using Alfred Noyes’ The Highwayman to start this tale. It is one of my favorite poems and although it was published long after the events of this story, it was surely inspired by the romantic appeal of men such as Swift Nick. It is also, what first inspired me to write this tale.

  If you would like to know more about Celia Fiennes, or the real-life highwayman known to history as Swift Nick, you might enjoy reading the historical note at the end of this story. Thank you for joining me on this adventure. I hope you enjoy the journey!

  ‘The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,

  And the highwayman came riding--riding--riding--

  The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.’

  ~Alfred Noyes

  CHAPTER ONE

  (1680)

  The Highwayman stopped his mount outside the Talbot Inn at Newark. It was one of several inns he thought of as home. Some men knew him as John Nevison, a useful name for business or when he wished to be discrete. Those who braved the Great North Road called him Gentleman Jack, a well-mannered rogue who stole their goods with courtesy and charm. The pamphleteers preferred the sobriquet Swift Nick, given him by King Charles, likening him to the devil, claiming his mount was black as pitch, a demon horse with flaming hooves that barely skimmed the ground. The only name he never used was the one left him by his aristocratic sire. He allowed no man to call him Harris, and his friends and associates called him Jack.

  “Easy, Bess,” he murmured, calming his restive mare with a gentle hand to her withers. She snorted and pawed the ground. She had carried him far this day and had more than earned her oats and ale. He slid easily to the ground and surveyed his surroundings, ignoring the impatient butting of her head against his back. “I’m hungry too, lass. It’s well fed and cozy we’ll be soon enough.” His voice, pitched low and soothing, was lac
ed with a tinge of amusement.

  It was a fine late summer’s night, lit by a warm glow from the inn and a silvery quarter moon. The smell of cooked sausage drifted on the breeze and a burst of music and laughter spilled through an open ground floor window, but he clung to the shadows. He’d not survived this long without learning a little caution.

  His eyes flicked carefully over the inn yard. A stage from London and one from York, barrels of ale and wine, and several crates, empty but for a few stray feathers. Tethered horses belonging to locals whickered back and forth, including Ned’s roan and Billy’s bay gelding. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary. His stomach grumbled and Bess nudged him again. He stepped from beneath the arched coach entrance and into the light.

  A redheaded freckle-faced boy posted near the door rushed forward, as thin and awkward as only a lad halfway between boy and man could be. Awestruck and stammering he reached for the bridle. “I’ll…I’ll see to her, Jack…Oat’s and ale and a fine bed of straw. I’ll rub her down good. I…” The lad caught Jack’s pointed look and reddened, dropping his hand. The mare dipped her head and whickered, letting the boy caress her broad forehead and finely tapered muzzle before Jack gently pushed his hand away.

  “I’ll see to her myself, Allen. As I always do. Here.” He tossed him half a crown. “Tell Ned and Billy to make room at the table and order me ale and a meal. And for God’s sake fill your belly. A gatepost has more flesh.”

  He watched the boy hurry away, and then he led Bess to the comfortable stall reserved as hers. Allen reminded him of himself at that age. Without the bruises and anger. Once he grew into himself he’d be a broad-shouldered well-made man, provided Ben Winslow the innkeeper kept him fed. He’d done right to bring him here. What better home for an abandoned bastard with a bottomless pit where his stomach should be? It suited me well enough.

  Like the boy, he’d known hunger and the taste of fear. He also knew that children had an immense capacity to hate…and he knew what power there could be in the indifferent kindness of a stranger.

  The mare rested her head against his shoulder as if sensing his darkening thoughts. A desert princess she was, clean-limbed, swan-necked, and coal-black without a speck of white. She was a combination of spirit, intelligence, and surefooted grace and speed, with all the beauty and endurance characteristic of her breed. If not for her, he would have met his maker years ago, by pistol, sword or noose. If not for her, he would have grown to be a bitter hate-filled man.

  No one could have blamed him. At the age of seven, his father sold him for a shilling for the day. At ten, he’d been left for dead after a brutal beating. He used to lay awake at night dreaming of revenge. It was the only thing that kept him warm. But a stranger came and stole that dream, leaving in its stead, freedom, a purse, and for the first time in his life...a choice.

  Johnny Harris, his sire, as base and ignoble a brute as any in England, had been born an aristocrat. John Nevison, having disowned and abandoned any connection to his father, was free to invent himself. He’d chosen his own name, and after honing his skills and fattening his purse on the battlefields of Flanders, he’d chosen to join the aristocracy of the road. A proper knight of the highway needed a suitable mount, so he’d guarded his money until he found Bess. She was worth more than the purse he’d been given, even as a surly, half-broken filly, but the ham-fisted colonel who owned her had outlived his luck at cards and had his back, quite literally, to the wall.

  When he bought her, he’d been near as sullen and wild as she was. Over ten years past that had been. A fine pair they’d made. But no spirited creature was ever tamed by bitterness and anger. They had grown together, he and Bess, and in the thrill of the chase, the joy of moonlit races across heathered moors, the gravity defying leaps where man and horse soared through the air as one, they had learned to trust.

  He would never forgive, but nor would he allow hatred to claim his life, refusing John Harris any claim to his mind or his heart, just as he’d refused his name. He was free now. He lived his life with no ties and no regrets, savoring the moment, ready for the next adventure. Now he and Bess were both legends of the road, and no man could claim a more valiant companion, or a faster one.

  He grinned as the mare tossed her head and gave a squeal of excitement. Allen was approaching with a half pitcher of ale. She arched her neck sideways, tilting her head and burying her muzzle in the container, greedily stealing several gulps before the boy managed to mix the rest into her mash.

  “Greedy guts! She’s yet to learn to drink like a lady. Does Winslow feed you enough, boy?”

  “Aye. I eat whatever I please whenever I please, Jack. Mrs. Winslow says I was born a scarecrow.”

  “And no one mistreats you?”

  The boy grinned. “No one would dare…but…”

  “But?”

  “I’m not wanting to be a hostler or a stable boy, Jack, and that’s all he seems to think I’m fit for. He tells me to learn my sums so I can help with orders and such but I’ve no mind to be an innkeeper either. I want to learn to use a sword and ride the moors and—”

  Jack held up a hand to stop him. “Have you ever seen an elderly highwayman, Allen?”

  Allen blinked.... “I...well...there’s...”

  “There’s not a one.”

  “There’s Captain Dudley!”

  “Richard Dudley?” Jack gave a short laugh. “He’s but a few years older than I am! Though I grant you that’s almost a doddering ancient in our profession. Most of us never see our thirties. You of all people should know that. We end up swinging on the end of a rope, trying to look dashing while we slowly choke to death. Entertainment for the masses. A good story to tell over a brimming pint. We oblige them by daring deeds and an early but gallant death, and they oblige us with a few coins and jewels along the way. Even a soldier lives longer. If you thirst for adventure that’s a better trade, and in any case, I neither want nor need an apprentice. I prefer to work alone.”

  “But to be a soldier I would still need to use a sword,” the boy pointed out reasonably. “And if soldiering is so much better, why haven’t you taken it up?”

  A dark look passed over Jack’s face. “Because I can’t abide another man giving me orders, lad, or anyone thinking he can put his hands on me or run my life. If some stuffed country lout in a sergeant’s uniform tried it, I’d probably kill him. Soldiers who don’t take well to discipline and orders…they die young too.”

  “But you’re a gentleman. You would be an officer.”

  Jack spat on the ground and gave Bess a slap on the rump. Her head was deep in the feed bucket and she ignored him. “I may be a gentleman of the highway, but I’m a God-cursed bastard just like you. I’ve been a captain of mercenary, they aren’t picky about a man’s background, but them and soldiers are a bloodthirsty, uncivilized, murdering lot. A gentle lad like me is better suited for the road.”

  The boy was hanging on his every word. “They say you never murder, and you’re kind to the ladies. They say sometimes you dance with them.”

  Jack snorted in derision. “No, that’s that fool Claude Duval, though I don’t mind taking credit for it. The longer you stay after the thing’s accomplished the more danger you create for everyone involved. A husband is angered or embarrassed into playing the hero, a coachman gets anxious and reaches for his weapon, someone makes a foolish move and next thing you know… somebody’s lying dead on the ground. I’ve stolen a kiss or two, if a lady’s of the mind for it. But they seldom are if their husband is about. I’m slapped more often than I’m kissed.” He fingered his jaw with a rueful grin.

  He caught the boy’s rapt look and his voice became curt and serious. “It’s part of the act, Allen. A good highwayman has style and flair and gives some entertainment for what he takes. A bad one gets people killed.”

  “Have you ever killed anyone, Jack?”

  “Oh, aye. I earned my arms at Dunkirk, didn’t I? And if you’ve yet to notice, I keep company with a very bad l
ot. I’m well able to defend myself and good at staying alive, but ’tis true I’ve never murdered a man, and I don’t care much for killing.”

  “I don’t want to be a soldier and I don’t want to be an innkeeper. I want to have pamphlets and ballads written about me. I want to be a highwayman just like you.”

  “Then learn to act the gentleman first. There’s plenty of those come through the inn. Watch them. Learn their manners and proper speech. Learn to do more than scratch out your name. I’ll talk to Winslow about finding you a tutor or sending you to the village school.”

  Allen eyed him with a suspicion. “And if I do that, you’ll take me with you on the North Road?”

  “No,” Jack said, clapping him on the shoulder. “That’s not why I brought you here. I brought you here in hopes you’d make something of your life. You have choices and chances I never had. Besides, I’m a firm believer a man should make his own way to hell. But do as I say, and I will teach you a bit about using a sword. Come. I can smell dinner from here.”

  With Allen in tow, Jack ducked his head and stepped into the crowded inn.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The busy swirl of conversation that hummed inside the Talbot came to a momentary halt as people turned to examine the latest arrival. Some of the patrons smiled and nodded at the newcomer, others looked him over dismissively and went back to what they were doing, and two proper young misses traveling through from London to York, whispered excitedly as they looked him up and down.