The Highwayman (6 page)

He assented, and Jane left, telling him that she would return soon. But as it turned out, it was a full twenty minutes before she kept that promise,

She spent most of that time in searching for Agatha, but to Jane’s great annoyance, that lady was nowhere to be found. She did eventually come across Elsie, however, and in the end was obliged to make do with the maid as a chaperon. She also took the time to collect one of her late father’s nightshirts.

When she was standing beside her patient’s bed once more, she thought at first he had fallen asleep, and she started to turn away with relief. But then his lids lifted and he gazed at her with such pain-filled eyes that she was overcome with compassion as well as guilt for having taken so long.

She said softly, “I am sorry to have kept you waiting, Mr. Sebast, but I have brought the ointment now.” He merely nodded, and she continued tentatively, “It will be necessary to...ah...to expose your limb, sir.”

As he drew back the sheet, a smile quirked his lips and he said, “I wish you would not refer to it as my limb. Miss Lockwood. I am not a tree.”

“Your appendage then,” she conceded.

“Good God!
That
brings to mind some freakish creature with tentacles or antennae. Can you not simply call it by its proper name? It is my leg, or, more specifically in this case, my thigh.’’

“‘A rose by any other name...’ ” she quoted.

“Exactly so!” he said. “So you might just as well call it by its proper name.”

“But you must know, sir, that it is not proper for a lady to refer to it thus.”

“Yes, and what a great piece of nonsense
that
is!”

Jane did not reply to that. By concentrating solely upon his wound and her task, she soon had removed the bandage, applied her ointment and redressed the wound.

“Well?” he asked. “Shall I live?”

“Oh yes,” she answered with a pleased smile. “I think, most definitely, yes. Of course there is still danger of infection, but for now, at least, there is no sign of that.”

“Ah,” he said, surprised to discover that the pain had already lessened to manageable proportions. “What an unusual female you are, Miss Lockwood. And a talented one, too, I might add.”

Flustered by his compliment, Jane tried to cover up her reaction by becoming very businesslike, gathering her supplies and telling him that he must rest now. She knew, however, by the amused look in his eyes that she had failed to mask her blushing agitation. Lowering her own eyes, she encountered that hairy chest again and recalled her other purpose.

Holding the nightshirt out to him, she said, “I thought you would be more comfortable wearing this, sir.”

He eyed the garment, ran a hand slowly over his chest, then looked up at her innocently. “Actually, I am more used to sleeping in the—er— but if it will make
you
more comfortable, I shall wear it.”

“Thank you!’’ she said with just a hint of sarcasm.

He grinned, and moving his hand from his chest to his jaw, said, “Tell me, my dear. In addition to keeping a supply of nightshirts on hand for your male guests, do you also provide them with shaving gear?”

“The nightshirt belonged to my late father, Mr. Sebast,” she said a trifle stiffly, “and as to the shaving gear, I shall have Melrose bring it to you.”

She then did the only thing she could. She made a hasty retreat, taking the gawking Elsie with her.

Jane had dismissed Elsie and proceeded towards her own chamber before she realized that she was smiling. She stopped in the middle of the hallway and touched her lips with her fingertips in wonder.

She had actually enjoyed much of her most recent encounter with Mr. Sebast. Yes, and what was even more amazing, and rather exhilarating, too, was the knowledge that she had not suffered the paralyzing awkwardness which usually afflicted her in the presence of strange gentlemen.

Was that because he was a highwayman? But no, she decided in the next instant. Although she could not have said why, she rather thought that he had at least been bred a gentleman, and therefore, perhaps he was not beyond redemption.

She had taken several more steps, but now she stopped again to consider that notion.

Common sense told her that she ought only to be concerned with getting him well to the point where she could be rid of him. Still, that might take several days, and there could be no harm in trying to reform him during that time, could there? In fact, was it not her duty at least to attempt to turn him from the disastrous path he had chosen to follow? One might almost say that it was fated.

CHAPTER FIVE

“What drivel!” exclaimed Jane’s patient, interrupting her in the middle of a sentence.

It was the following afternoon. Jane was once more alone with him in his chamber, but by now it had happened so frequently that it no longer seemed such a breach of propriety. Repetition had gradually quieted her conscience, and she told herself that to continue baulking would be to make a mountain out of a molehill. After all, Mr. Sebast was in no condition to harm her, and in any event, he would soon be gone.

At his remark, Jane looked up from the book she had been reading aloud and declared, “Really, Mr. Sebast. I should scarcely stigmatize Shakespeare as drivel!”

“If that is Shakespeare,” he asserted, “then I am King George.”

A smile curved her lips and she replied, “Then you must certainly own to being our poor, mad king, sir, for this is indeed Shakespeare.”

Triumphantly, she held the book up so that he might read the title.

“The Family Shakespeare,
by Thomas Bowdler,” he muttered, then rolled his eyes. “As I said before, it is drivel. Worse than drivel, in fact, and if you had ever read the original version, you would know it.”

“Well,” she admitted, “I must own that I am finding this to be rather dull reading. Is the original really so very different?”

“As night is to day,” he assured her. “When I am on my feet again, I shall obtain a copy for you.”

Alarmed at the prospect of how he might obtain such a copy, she said quickly, “That is very kind of you, but it is not at all necessary....”

“No,” he agreed, “and I am seldom kind. Nevertheless, I shall do so. I cannot allow you to continue thinking that Shakespeare would write such bland stuff. This idiot, Bowdler, has managed to take all the fire and passion out of it.” Seeing her blush at his mention of fire and passion delighted him, but he resisted the urge to tease her and merely added, “Now, what is that other book you have there?”

“Oh,” she said, “it is called
Pride and Prejudice.
Have you read it?”

“No. For a good many years, I was out of the country. Except for the classics, I fear that I have fallen far behind in my reading.” He did not mention that his time in England had been spent in less admirable pursuits than reading. Instead he said, “I daresay that book cannot be any worse than
The Family Shakespeare,
however.”

“Oh, it is a great deal better, I assure you. I like it excessively, and I think you will, too.” Then she added, a little uncertainly, “But, perhaps not. It is a romance and was written by a lady. However, she is very witty and clever, and she pokes fun at Society, which
you
will no doubt appreciate.”

“Touché,”
he acknowledged with a grin. “But I promise you, I have nothing against female authors, especially if they are clever and have a sense of humour.”

“Then we have something in common,” she replied archly, “for
I
have nothing against male authors.”

He laughed and told her, “Now, that’s landed me a facer!”

Jane smiled, then paused, fingering the book in her lap, before beginning tentatively, “Mr. Sebast...”

He held up his hand and said, “Please, surely such formality is unnecessary between patient and physician. I wish you would call me Jon.”

He could no longer endure being called ‘Mr. Sebast.’ And although he was not fond of the name and never used it, at least Jon was not an alias. He answered to Sebastian when necessary, but that was too close to ‘Sebast’ for comfort.

She had been curious as to what his given name was, and, forgetting propriety for the moment, she said, half testing, half questioning, “John?”

Good God! he thought. John and Jane. How alarmingly appropriate they sounded together. Making haste to correct her, he said, “No, it is
J-o-n,
with a soft
J.
I fear my mother was of a romantic nature.’’ He paused before adding, “But if you prefer, you might call me Saint, as many of my acquaintances do.”

At that, Jane could not suppress a peal of laughter, and she said, “Heavens! What an inappropriate name for a highwayman. I think I should prefer to address you as Jon.” Then a frown creased her brow. “But if I were to call you Jon, then you would be free to call me Jane, and that would not be—”

He stopped her again. “I know. I know. It would not be proper. But, my dear Jane, I thought we had already established the fact that I am not in the least proper.”

She shook her head at him with a rueful smile. “Do you know how very difficult it is to defeat you in an argument?”

“Then do not attempt it,” he recommended. “Besides, we are not having an argument, we are having a discussion.” Seeing that she was not entirely convinced, he continued. “If you are worried over what others will think, I have a solution. In private I shall call you Jane, but when others are present, I shall address you as Miss Jane. Will that answer?”

In her mind, she was already thinking of him as Jon, and after a moment of arguing with her better judgment, she said, “Yes, I suppose it might.” She spoke firmly enough, but lowered her eyes modestly.

“Excellent!” he said. “And now that we have that settled, what is it that you were about to say to me when I so rudely interrupted you?”

She looked up, and suddenly her mind was blank, but this was not entirely due to his interruption. It had more to do with where her gaze became fixed, as though it had a will of its own.

He was sitting up, leaning back against the headboard, his pillows behind him, and he was wearing one of her father’s nightshirts. Regrettably, however, her father had been neither as tall nor as broad of shoulder as her highwayman. As a result, the garment was, of necessity, left unbuttoned from mid-chest to throat. Until now, she had studiously avoided looking at the exposed portion of his chest Now, she was not only staring at it, but found herself wondering if the hair there would feel soft to her touch or crisp.

“Jane?” he asked quizzically. Recalling herself with a slight start, she raised her eyes to his face and said quickly, if a trifle breathlessly, “Oh, yes, I was curious about those years you spent out of the country. Were you with the army for the whole of that time?”

“Good God, no! I only fought in the war for the last two years of it, until after Waterloo. I spent nearly half of the ten years before that in America.”

“America!” she said. Her curiosity ran rampant. She wondered what had happened to make him leave England in the first place, and for so long a time. But when she heard where he had been, one question took precedence over all others. Leaning forward, she asked eagerly, “Did you meet any Indians while you were there?”

He laughed, then teased, “Why, Jane, I would never have taken you for one of those bloodthirsty females, eager to hear tales of barbaric savages.”

She waved a hand impatiently, dismissing such a notion. “No, no! It is not their savagery I am interested in.” Then, before she could stop herself, she asked,
“Are
they truly as savage as they are said to be?”

This time he laughed even harder before saying, “Despite your lack of interest in the matter, I shall tell you that, indeed, they are.” In a more sober voice, he added, “But I can also attest to the fact that they are among the most noble and admirable people who ever walked this earth.”

“How strange that they should be both,” said Jane with wonder.  “But what I started to ask about is their knowledge of herbs and medicine. I have heard that their experience with such things is considerable. Did you meet any of them? You must have done, since you seem to know so much about them.”

“I did,” he told her. “As a matter of fact, I lived for several months with a band of the Sioux. That is the name given them by the Americans and the French, but they call themselves the Dah-ko-tas.”

“Good God!” she exclaimed. “Were you captured?”

“No. Had I been, it is unlikely that I would be here to tell the tale. As it happened, I was in a position to do a service for the chief’s son. Little Fox had been wounded by some American cavalry who were chasing him, and I was able to hide him until the danger had passed.” He shrugged and added, “The chief was so grateful that he adopted me into the tribe.”

“Oh, my,” she breathed. “I should love to hear all about your time with them. But first tell me, please, about their healing practices.”

“I shall be happy to tell you what little I know, but I fear it is not much. Healing among the Indians is done by medicine men—or in some cases, medicine women—who guard their secrets most jealously. But you must first answer a question for me. How in the world did you become so interested in herbs and healing?”

“Oh, there is no mystery to that. Even as a young girl, before my mother—that is, before I lost my mother, I used to visit our tenants and try to help them when they were old or in need. I always felt so helpless, though, in the face of illness, until the vicar gave me a book on healing, and it has fascinated me ever since. But now, if you please, do not keep me in suspense any longer.”

Pride and Prejudice
was forgotten as Jon told Jane all he knew of herbal healing among the Indians. Although it was something of a disappointment to her that he could not give her the English names for many of the herbs used by the natives of America, she did not really mind. What he did tell her was so very interesting that she lost all track of time.

At last, however, her gaze fell upon the mantel clock, and she jumped up, saying, “Oh, good heavens! I shall be late for my meeting with Mr. Phillips, my estate agent. I must go at once.”