Mad Jack (Sherbrooke Brides 4)

Well, damn. Sooner or later the boy would slow, he’d have to. Brewster couldn’t maintain such a pace for very long—no horse could, not even his. He was aware of the boy looking back every few minutes. Gray didn’t think Jack had seen him yet. Good. He would probably pull Durban up soon, slow him to save his strength. They were out of town, on the Reading road, stretching long and flat into the distance. Gray knew that if the boy left the road he would probably lose him. The night was simply too black to see much of anything, despite that bit of moon. He had to catch him and he had to catch him soon, or else he just might lose him, and then what would he do? Inform the aunts, saying, “Well, Aunt Mathilda, Aunt Maude, your valet stole one of my horses, but I lost him on the Reading road. Do either of you know why he did this? What’s on the Reading road? Perhaps he left because of something to do with that hard-eyed Sir Henry Wallace-Stanford who was looking for him?”

Why the hell was the boy riding to Reading? Then possibly onward to Bath? Wasn’t Jack the valet from Folkstone, just as his two aunts were?

He said now to his horse, “Brewster, my boy, our Durban is in the hands of the valet Jack, who’s up to no good, and I have no clue as to what the no good is. Is the little bastard indeed mad? Just what I need, a bloody real-life mad valet who’s completely untrained, according to my valet, Horace. Mad Jack. Now that has a ring to it, doesn’t it? Or was he there at my house to steal my silver? We’ve got to catch him so Durban can come home. Can you give me the speed, boy?”

Brewster was a thoroughbred, with a racer’s heart. He stretched out his neck, bunched his muscles, and flew forward, surprising even Gray, who’d trained Brewster himself some four years before.

He would lose sight of Durban, curse loudly into the dark night, then catch sight of him again. He didn’t believe Jack knew where he was going. But if he was lost, why didn’t he just stop and return to London?

Because he thinks I’ll be there waiting to kill him and then take his body to the magistrate. Not a bad idea, all things considered. The boy isn’t stupid, at least about saving his hide.

It started to rain about two o’clock in the morning. The temperature plummeted. It needed but this, Gray thought and hunched down against Brewster’s neck. Brewster, unhappy about the weather, snorted and stretched his neck out even longer.

There was no traffic at all. Not a carriage or another rider. Nothing, just the heavy rain and fat, bloated clouds and air that was growing colder by the minute.

Gray cursed, unable to think of anything else to do. And always he was thinking: Who the hell is Jack?

Brewster came around a bend. Gray was expecting to see Durban in the distance, but he didn’t see anything at all. He rode farther. He didn’t see Durban, not a whiff of him. He’d just vanished. No, that was impossible. He rode another mile. When he was certain that Jack must have left the main road, maybe finally realized that he was going in the wrong direction, Gray pulled Brewster to a stop and sat there in the rain, freezing and thinking. Then he turned back toward London. He saw a small country road that forked off the main road. Jack had to have come this way. Gray nudged Brewster onto the rutted, muddy country road.

Gray was exhausted, soaked to the marrow, and so worried about Jack that his anger at the boy had cooled below the boiling point. Brewster was tiring. He had to do something.

Brewster slowed to a walk, both he and his master nearly cross-eyed with fatigue. Suddenly Gray heard a familiar whinny.

Durban.

He pulled Brewster to a halt and said, “That’s our Durban. What do you think, Brewster? Do you know where he is?”

Brewster raised his great head and whinnied loudly. He was quickly answered. Durban was close, just off to the left. It was then that Gray saw a very old relic of a barn set back from the country road at the far end of a barley field. There was no farmhouse in sight, just the dilapidated old barn, probably deserted a good half century before.

The rain was coming down even harder, though Gray would have thought that impossible. It was difficult to see three feet in front of him. Without any instruction from his rider, Brewster left the road and gingerly made his way through the muddy field which had sharp rocks sticking up here and there to catch the unwary. At a patchwork wooden fence Brewster had to jump, which he did, clearing it easily.

At least Jack was inside that barn, out of the rain, nursing his bruised rib—the worthless little bastard. He obviously didn’t have any notion of direction.

Durban whinnied again, and Gray’s eyes narrowed.

He slid off Brewster’s back, nearly falling because his legs wouldn’t hold him up after the five-hour ride. He steadied himself and led Brewster into the barn. At least it provided some shelter, though rain came hard through a good half dozen holes in the roof. Then suddenly the rain stopped—simply stopped. Well, that was something.

He called out, “Jack? Where are you, you damned idiot?”

No answer.

He removed Brewster’s bridle and led him to Durban, who was tied by a badly frayed rope in one corner of the barn where the rain probably hadn’t reached. Durban was chewing on old straw. Gray left the two horses together, Brewster nuzzling Durban’s neck, and walked to the only other protected corner of the barn.

“Jack?”

No answer. He cursed. When he saw the boy finally, he saw only his head, covered with what looked to be thick dark blond hair. He was covered with straw up to his nose, an attempt to keep warm. He seemed to be asleep. Sleeping sound as a babe in the straw while I was riding like a bat out of its cave trying to find him.

Gray came down on his knees beside the boy. It was near to dawn and growing lighter. He pushed the straw off and shook the boy’s shoulder. Then a shaft of early-morning sunlight knifed through two board slats.

Gray sat back on his heels and stared down at the boy. He was shaking his head even though he knew he wasn’t mistaken. “Oh, God,” he said, “I don’t believe this. Jesus, you’re no more a Jack than I am.” Gray leaned forward and swatted the straw from her face and stared down at the girl he’d badly wanted to smash into the stable floor. “You’re a damned female. I could have killed you. Not that it should make any difference, but of course it does. You were stealing my horse. Why? Who the devil are you?”

She moaned.

5

“WHAT’S WRONG with you? Wake up.”

He lightly slapped her cheeks. “Come on, open your eyes.” She moaned again, turning her face away from him. She was wet. This wasn’t good. He couldn’t be of much help since he was wet to the bone himself, and his only clothes covered those bones.