The Highwayman by Catherine Reynolds Page A

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