Free The Highwayman (Rakes and Rogues of the Restoration Book 3) by Judith James

then, and her spinster’s ways, a pity though it be. He settled back in the saddle and the mare slowed to an easy canter they could both sustain for miles. Bess was built for endurance and speed and he’d not rushed her on the journey south, yet even she had her limits, and he promised her a rest and himself too, once this last task was done. Maybe after, he would go and see Peg, a pretty tavern wench from up the road who’d given him the eye more than once. He’d been keeping to himself too much of late. Perhaps she’d be of a mind to accompany him to the next public dance. His inexplicable attraction to a frumpish old maid, who longed to serve on grand juries and fight crime as a parish constable, only proved he’d been without female companionship far too long.
    Yawning, he slowed Bess to a walk and allowed himself a short nap, trusting to the mare’s surefootedness and good sense. As he nodded off, he dreamt of being arrested by a green-eyed feme sole, and held captive by honeyed kisses and a soft embrace.
     
    ~
     
    Jack passed through Nottingham along the broad market road with its pillared walkway about an hour before dawn. The industrious would be waking soon, and the drunks had gone to bed. The usually bustling town was still, almost as if it were holding its breath, waiting for the day to begin, and the steady clopping of Bess’s hooves echoed eerily down the empty street. He loved these dreamlike moments peculiar to the night, when the world around him seemed to slow and stop and reveal itself as something new.
    Leaving Notts behind, he forded the Trent and pressed on––his destination just an hour down the road. A heavy band of low-level cloud was fast approaching, and by the time he reached the farmhouse the wind was howling and he was cold and drenched. He settled Bess in a stall piled high with fresh straw, rubbing her down, checking her hooves, and leaving her oats and water. Inside the house, two guards were passed-out drunk over a heavy trestle table littered with cards and spilled drinks. Another with a bloody nose lay unconscious on the floor.
    A carroty-pated, bacon-fed fellow slumped in the room’s only comfortable piece of furniture, an oversized, overstuffed armchair set before the hearth. A well placed kick started the fire back to life, and two fresh logs soon had it roaring. Jack tapped the oblivious occupant’s boot with his own, and then hauled him up by the front of his shirt and dragged him to a pile of sacking in the corner. He threw back a shot of reasonably good brandy, tore off a hunk of cheese and bread, and settled in front of the fire with his long legs stretched out to enjoy the heat. A moment later, he was asleep.
    He awoke to the feel of Rat-faced Perry’s pistol pressed tight against his right temple.
    “Morning, Jack,” the little man said in a menacing tone. “What brings you here to burn my wood, eat my food and drink my liquor? I don’t recall issuing an invitation.”
    Jack yawned, turning into the gun barrel as he shifted to look at his host. “Yours is only half-cocked,” he said with a slight smile. “Feel mine. It’s bigger than yours, and fully cocked and loaded.” The pistol, which had been hidden within the folds of his cloak wedged tight against Perry’s scrotum. “I wonder which of us would miss our respective body parts the most, should an unintended accident occur?” His voice was cool and amused.
    Perry prodded Jack’s head once with the barrel. “Some say you make no use of this at all.” He lowered his weapon and dropped it in his pocket.
    “Aye I’ve heard as much myself. And some say the same of you.” Jack pulled the hammer back to half-cocked and raised his own pistol so it pointed to the ceiling. “You’re a jumpy fellow, Perry. Though I’ll not blame you for that given what sorry men you have. I might have been the devil himself and nary a one of them would have noticed. ’Tis no excuse for being so mean with your