“What do you mean?” Jack asked.
“That same week, I heard the vicar’s wife in the apothecary cryin’ up a storm. Her young uns was taken ill with the fever, see, an’ the new governess was delayed. Mrs. Paddon didn’t know how her was to cope alone with two young uns sick. So, I said to ask Miss Greyson to stay ’til the new governess come.” Mrs. Adamson sniffed and blinked as if to stay tears. “I promised to send our Betty round to help if Miss Greyson wouldn’t stay.” The woman’s chin trembled. “I almost sent our girl to her grave.”
Jack closed his eyes. “But you didn’t, because of course, Miss Greyson agreed to stay and nurse the children.”
“Thank the good Lord.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry fer Miss Greyson, I am. But I thank the Lord fer sparing our Betty.”
A bitter taste crept into Jack’s throat. “What caused the fire?”
“Fallen candle. It happened late at night when all was asleep.” She twisted her cleaning rag. “I only hope them good folks didn’t suffer. They never will rebuild the parsonage. The land is cursed, folks say.”
“Don’t talk rubbish, woman!” Adamson interjected.
“T’ain’t the land that’s cursed. ’Tis them Greysons.” An emaciated, stringy-haired man slid into the seat next to Jack.
“What?” Jack said through gritted teeth.
“Them Greysons. Part devil if ye ask me.”
“Shut yourn trap, Jeb Fowler,” Adamson said. “Ye got no business talkin’ ill of the good vicar. He were a God-fearin’ man.”
“I ain’t speakin’ ill of the vicar.” Jeb smirked, revealing a row of stained teeth. “I’m talkin’ about ee’s spawn, sprung from tha’ Londoner he wed.”
Black anger rose in Jack’s chest. He squeezed the empty glass in his hand.
“Ye be drunk. ’Tis time to git thee home,” Adamson growled.
“I tell ye,” Jeb said, ignoring the publican’s warning, “the good Reverend Paddon was mistaken when he took pity on that Greyson witch. But he were saintly, so he let the Greyson curse inside.”
“Stop yourn evil talk!” Mrs. Adamson said. “I remember the vicar’s young uns. Lambs, they was.”
“Devils!” Jeb snarled. “Specially tha’ no-good boy. Broke me uncle’s nose unprovoked an’ stole ee’s horse, he did.”
“T’was well-deserved as I remember it,” Adamson said. “Yourn uncle, God rest ee’s soul, were a brute, an’ the Greyson boy did right tryin’ to stop him from beatin’ that poor pony ’alf dead.”
Jack smiled. He’d knocked that damn fool flat on his back and set the pony free. The poor thing couldn’t get away fast enough.
“The vicar’s missus let them young uns run wild,” Jeb muttered. “Never took proper care like a good mother should. Unnatural, I tell ye.”
Jack’s hand moved instinctively to his holster hidden beneath his jacket. But Brandt caught hold of his wrist.
“The vicar tried to set his boy straight, but he were always gettin’ into scrapes an’ causin’ the vicar grief,” Jeb continued his tirade.
Jack’s hand moved from his holster and closed around the base of his glass. The urge to beat the self-satisfied and smug expression off Jeb’s face threatened to swallow him.
“It be a blessing them Greysons be dead an’ buried.”
“Now, don’t ye talk ill of the dead in me tavern. I’m warnin’ thee, Jeb Fowler.” Mr. Adamson waggled a finger at Jeb.
“Good riddance to them Greysons, I say.” Jeb spat on the floor.
Fury blinded Jack as he lifted the glass in his hand and brought it down on Jeb’s head. The man fell off his barstool and dropped to the ground, but his lips continued to move as he shouted for help. Jack pounced on him and slammed his fist into Jeb’s face. But Jeb’s mouth kept moving. Determined to shut him up, he brought his fist down again and again. Voices shouted in the distance, but Jack could not stop. Brandt’s voice grew louder, and someone tried to pull him back, but rage blinded and deafened him. He kept hitting until blackness overcame him.
Chapter One
And sometimes ladies hit exceedinghard,
And fans turn into falchions in fairhands,
