The Valentine Legacy (5 page)

“A fraud, am I? What about you, brat? You with your men's clothes, your hair like a witch's straggling down your back. You look like one of those hooligans who throw rocks at windows over at Fells Point. No, maybe you're not a fraud at all. Maybe your father's wrong. You're only a female because your body makes you aware of it once a month.” He ignored her snarl. “So tell me, what were you doing at my sister's party tonight?”

She was as silent as the dark clouds overhead.

“Well? Don't you have an answer? Is it something outrageous?”

She twitched and he continued to push. “I'll just bet I
know why you were there. You were looking at all the men. Perhaps you were trying to find one close to your size so you could go to his house, break in, and steal some of his clothes. The good Lord knows your mother wouldn't let you buy men's clothes. That's it, isn't it, Jessie?”

He'd gotten her. She'd sworn she wouldn't let him get to her, but he had. He always did, when he set out to. She twisted around in her saddle and shrieked at him, “I wanted to see you, damn you to hell, James Wyndham!”

She was trembling now, knowing she'd just opened herself to utter devastation. She felt raw and exposed. She waited for the blow. And waited some more.

The blow didn't come. Instead, James said, “This is very strange, brat. Why did you want to see me? Is it because Glenda is after my poor male self and you want to make sure I'm good enough for her? You want to make sure I won't beat her if I marry her? You saw me staring at those breasts of hers that she displays at every opportunity and wanted to make certain I'd manage to restrain myself?”

She could but stare at him. He hadn't ground her into dust with mockery, but he'd hurt her more than even she could begin to imagine at the moment. He was a man; that was it. A man and thus he was as dull witted and as obtuse as her mother's pug, Pretty Boy, whom Jessie called Halfwit whenever her mother wasn't around.

She continued to stare at him and James said, frowning at her, “Well? It's Glenda, isn't it?”

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, that's it. I'm going home, James. You needn't come any farther with me. Good night.”

She clicked Benjie forward. To her relief, James didn't come after her again. She wanted to look back, but she forced herself not to.

James wondered, as he rode Lilac toward Marathon farm, why he'd come after her. His sister would be unhappy with him that he'd left so early. Giff would tease him and poke
him in the ribs, all sly and obnoxious, wondering if he'd gone to see someone special. Like Connie Maxwell, who hadn't been in attendance this evening. James could have told him that Connie's son was visiting her from Harvard and thus the two of them would wait until Danny returned to school.

A raindrop landed on his nose. Damnation. He clicked Lilac forward, and she, hating rain more than exerting herself, ran like the rising wind toward her stable.

If Jessie was concerned he would make a good husband for her sister, then people must think he was being particular in his attentions to her. He hadn't been; he knew it. He didn't like Glenda. She made him nervous because her right hand played over him whenever they danced. She annoyed him with her downcast eyes and her talk of seeing beautiful England, in the spring, in the summer, even in the winter, it didn't matter to Glenda. To hear her recite poetry had constituted the most painful twenty-two minutes of his life. He shuddered at the thought of having to sit still while she played the harp.

He urged Lilac to go faster. When he reached the house, he was soaked to the skin, in a bad mood, half afraid that Glenda Warfield was on his heels, and ready to lash out at anyone who crossed him.

He was met by pandemonium.

Oslow and ten stable lads were pacing around, oblivious of the rain, obviously waiting for him. Old Bess was holding a large, black skillet. To protect whom? Thomas was standing in the open doorway, looking stately, his arms crossed over his chest. Even he looked ready for action. Beneath the shelter of the front overhang stood a very angry Allen Belmonde. It seemed someone had stolen Sweet Susie from the paddock while James had been at the Poppleton party. Allen was here because he had ridden directly to Marathon when
one of James's stable lads had come to the party to fetch James and found only Allen.

This, James thought, as he was surrounded by shouting stable lads and a furiously cursing Allen Belmonde, was going to be a fine end to his evening.

J
ESSIE
'
S HAT
,
A
long-ago gift from her father, kept most of the rain off her face, but the rest of her quickly became wetter than the moss beneath Ezekiel's Waterfall.

She rode with her head down, feeling two parts miserable and one part angry. Damn James anyway.

But damn him for what? What had he done? Nothing, and that's why she was damning him.

When she heard the neighs and hoofbeats of several horses coming toward her, she pulled up Benjie. “It's nearly midnight. Who the devil is out in this wretched rain besides me?”

Then she heard men's voices. They were arguing, cursing the rain, cursing the foul-up with their partners, cursing the mare who was teasing the horse Billy was riding.

Billy was yelling, “The damn bloody mare's still in heat. Damn ye, stay away from me poor old boy! He's too old fer the likes o' ye and yer blood is blue besides, not all mottled and common like my ole boy here.”

What damned mare?

“Shut yer trap, Billy,” the other man yelled back. “Move yer horse, or we'll be in for it. Jest look, both of them want to mate here, in the road, in all this rain. Damned buggers.”

Jessie heard a horse scream, then the man, Billy, scream even louder. She heard a wet thud. His horse must have thrown him to get to the mare.

She clicked Benjie forward, tugging him to the grass-edge of the road. She came around a bend, pulling him quickly to a halt.

There was Sweet Susie, butting against a horse whose rider was sitting in the middle of the road, wet and muddy and cursing. The horse—the common one that was Billy's—was obligingly trying to mount her.

If Jessie hadn't realized that these men had stolen Sweet Susie from James's farm, that they were probably very dangerous, she would have laughed at the sight of Sweet Susie and Billy's horse nipping at each other, their eyes rolling, their manes flying as they reared at each other as the torrential rain poured down.

The other man was trying to pull the horse away from Sweet Susie, trying to keep his balance at the same time, and screaming at Billy to get off his ass and help him. He wasn't having much luck. Billy's horse wanted to mount Sweet Susie, and he looked set upon his course. Sweet Susie looked set upon the same course.

This was her chance, Jessie realized. She wouldn't get another opportunity like this. She shrieked at the top of her lungs, sending Benjie into a furious gallop, steering him right between the two horses, nearly hitting Billy, who was trying desperately to scramble on his hands and knees through the mud out of the way. She saw Billy's horse break away from the other man, jump a ditch, and gallop into the field next to the road. She grabbed Sweet Susie's lead and slammed her heels into Benjie's sides.

He snorted and leaped forward. Sweet Susie, liking Benjie's snort, snorted herself, kicked up her back legs, and ran as fast as she could to catch up to Benjie.

Jessie heard the men shouting behind her to bring back their horse, that she was a thief, and she laughed aloud.

Now all she had to do was make James's farm, Marathon, before they caught up with her. She didn't want to think
about what would happen to her if they did catch her. She prayed the man wouldn't leave his partner, Billy. It would take them a while to catch Billy's horse, a good ole boy.

She was only about three miles from Marathon. If she stayed on the road, they'd probably catch her. She waited until Benjie rounded a bend. She guided him off the road into a copse of elm trees, forcing Sweet Susie behind him since it was a very narrow path until they reached Gympsom's Pond, now overflowing its banks from the heavy rainfall. It was tricky, but they made it through. Beyond the pond was a field of hay surrounded by oak trees. Sweet Susie was hungry as well as in heat. Jessie kept telling the mare that Benjie would do whatever she wanted if only she'd keep running with him and not stop to eat. Sweet Susie twitched her tail and ran.

The gunshot startled Jessie so, she nearly fell off Benjie's back. She twisted around and saw just the one man about fifty yards behind her. No Billy.

Before she could flatten herself, there was another shot and this one, to her utter astonishment, hit her. She felt a cold shiver along the side of her head, nothing more, just that blast of cold. If she didn't feel anything, then it couldn't be bad. At least the idiot had shot her and not Sweet Susie. She shouted, “Benjie—run, you devil! Run!” She couldn't fall off. She couldn't pass out, or everything would be lost.

She clung to Benjie's mane and to Sweet Susie's lead. There were no more shots. She supposed the man finally realized he might hit Sweet Susie, and surely that would ruin the plans for the mare.

Rain was running down the side of her face and into her mouth. She licked it away and realized it wasn't rain. It was sweet and sticky and had a strange metallic taste. It was blood, her blood. She felt nauseated and dizzy. In that same moment when she accepted that she'd been shot, really shot,
she felt a searing pain through her head. Oh no. She had to be fine—fine enough to make Marathon.

She saw the rich pastures of Marathon just ahead of her, the thick clusters of elm trees spread throughout the fields. She heard the man's cries closing in. She knew then she would make it if only she could hang on. She rode Benjie right up to James's front door, scattering at least a dozen people in front of her. She pulled Benjie to a stop at the sight of James dashing down the deep steps.

“What the devil are you doing here, Jessie?”

“Hello to you, James. I brought you Sweet Susie.”

She weaved in the saddle.

“What the devil is wrong with you?” He was next to Benjie then, looking up at her, prying Benjie's reins from her fisted hand to give them to one of the stable lads. “ Oslow, you take Sweet Susie and make sure she's all right. Well, brat, what's wrong?”

Thomas brought a lighted lantern. It sent up a ghostly yellow light through the rain.

“Good Lord, what's that on your face, missie?” Thomas said, poking the lantern into Benjie's side. Benjie took exception, quickly sidestepped, threw back his head, and sent Jessie flying off his back.

James caught her. She leaned heavily against him. “Bring the lamp, Thomas.”

“Oh my, what's wrong with her purty little face?”

“Why does Jessie Warfield have my Sweet Susie?” Allen Belmonde yelled, running out of the house. “I don't care if she's a girl; I'll see her in jail. She's always giving Alice ideas that don't suit any female, and now look what she's done. She's a common thief. If her damned father thinks he can send his daughter to do his dirty work, then he's—”

“Be quiet, Allen,” James said very softly, in a tone of voice he rarely used. It was hard and low and mean and quite calm. Belmonde shut up. James tucked Jessie close.
She was still conscious, but just barely. He added to Allen Belmonde, “I believe she's been shot.” He couldn't believe he sounded so calm. God, she'd been shot! “Let's go inside and see how bad it is. No doubt she'll tell us how she came to have Sweet Susie.”

He picked her up in his arms. Her old hat fell off her head, and he pulled her against his chest to protect her from the rain as well as he could. He didn't realize until he walked into the parlor that twelve people were pressing at his back.

Old Bess said, “Glory be, Mr. James, jest look at her poor face. All that blood. Poor little baby. What happened?”

Old Bess was right. He stared down at the hair over her temple, matted with rain and blood, at the streaks of blood down her cheek and on her shoulder. “Thomas, please have Dr. Hoolahan fetched immediately. Tell him Jessie's been shot. Now, Bess, get me a blanket. She's soaked clear through.”

James just stood there in the middle of his parlor holding Jessie Warfield in his arms. This was not the way he'd expected this particular evening to end. Of course finding Allen Belmonde here screaming about his stolen horse hadn't been in his calculations either. Now everything had changed again. What was Jessie doing with Sweet Susie? He moved to stand in front of the fireplace.

“I can stand, James.”

“Shut up. Even though you weigh more than a female should, I can bear it for a few more minutes.”

She tried to pull away from him. “Stop it, damn you. Don't move again. I don't want you bleeding on my carpet.”

“Mr. James, here's a nice blanket.”

It wasn't any good and James knew it. She was wetter than he was. As he wrapped her in the blanket he just knew she'd catch an inflammation of the lung. To his relief he
saw that the bleeding was sluggish now, thank the good Lord. “Come along, Bess, we've got to get her out of these wet clothes or she'll get really sick just to spite me. I don't think we should wait for Dr. Hoolahan.”

He automatically walked to his bedchamber. Then, realizing what he'd done, he turned and took her to his best guest chamber. “I'll see to her, Mr. James. You go get changed yourself. The good Lord knows you're nearly as sodden as poor Miz Jessie. I'll take good care of her. Don't you worry, Mr. James.”

When James knocked on the bedchamber door some seven minutes later, Old Bess told him to come in.

Jessie Warfield had three blankets pulled to her chest and was wearing one of his never-worn nightshirts, buttoned to her throat. He wondered where Old Bess had gotten it. Her hair was spread out over the pillow, and Old Bess was gently daubing a wet cloth to the wound just above her left temple. Thank God the bullet hadn't struck her face. And it was a bullet. He'd known that right away. It had scared the devil out of him. That she'd remained conscious was a good sign. A head wound and unconsciousness could mean death. The thought made him shiver. He was relieved to see that the brat's eyes were bright, not all clouded up with pain and confusion.

Jessie watched him come to the bed. His hair was tousled, his shirt wasn't fastened properly, and he looked worried. About her? No, more likely his concern was for Sweet Susie.

“I'll take over now, Bess. Go downstairs and wait for Dr. Hoolahan.”

“Yessir, Mr. James.”

Jessie watched her lean down, pick up her iron skillet, and walk from the bedchamber. Jessie said, “This room needs fixing. The wallpaper is so old it's—Ouch!”

“Sorry. You might consider keeping your mouth shut for
a while. Hold still, I want to see how bad this is.”

She gritted her teeth and closed her eyes.

“It hurts.”

“Yes, I imagine it does. The bullet split through your scalp. That's why you're bleeding like a pig. Damn you, brat, hold still. Don't pull away from me. Don't you dare go to sleep.”

It was then he saw the tears seeping from beneath her closed eyes. He didn't like it but didn't know what to do about it. “I'm sorry, Jessie, I won't touch you again. Dr. Hoolahan should be here soon.”

He lightly touched the edge of the soft cloth to her cheeks to wipe away the tears. He felt like a clod.

“Just lie still. That's right. Don't move; just lie there and try to relax. And stay awake.”

She opened her eyes and stared up at him. “Sweet Susie's still in heat. She wanted Billy's horse to mount her.”

“You can explain that later. Rest, Jessie, and—”

“I know. Stay awake. I'm not stupid, James. I won't go to sleep, not with a head wound.”

She closed her eyes again, but the pain didn't lessen. Her head seemed to pulse, a dull throbbing that was fast becoming a vicious headache. How could she relax when she wanted to cry and huddle into herself?

“He was stupid to shoot at me when he could have hit Sweet Susie. That's what finally stopped him, the fear of hurting her. She even wanted Benjie. You must keep her apart from the stallions, James.”

“I will.”

She sighed deeply, gave him a vague smile, and fainted. It scared him to death. She shouldn't have fainted. Not now. God, maybe it wasn't just a superficial scalp wound? What if—“Jessie? Jessie, wake up! I don't like this. Come on, wake up.” He shook her shoulders, but her head just lolled on the pillow. He cursed some more. He was still cursing,
ordering her to wake up and stop scaring the devil out of him when the bedchamber door opened and Dr. Hoolahan strode in. Actually, the doctor never strode; he minced. He took short, delicate little steps. He was thirty years old, barely five feet four inches tall, and had a full head of nearly white blond hair and slanted blue eyes. That mincing walk of his made James want to hit him, but now, he was so relieved to see him, he jumped up from the bed and said, “Quickly, Dancy, she's been shot, her scalp grazed, but it's still bleeding sluggishly. She just fainted and I know that's not good. Oh, Jesus, quickly.”

“It's all right, James. Just move aside, that's it. Give me a bit more room.”

Dancy Hoolahan might mince, but his voice was as deep and soothing as Bishop Morgan's in Washington. He had light hands and he was clean, necessities for both people and horses. James watched him lightly probe around the wound, then lean down and press his cheek to Jessie's chest. He watched him take her pulse, watched him pry open her eyes and look at her pupils.