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Her Rebel Lord
Georgina Devon


The rebel’s marriage proposal… To polite society Duncan McNabb, Lord Byrne, is the quintessential gentleman, occupied merely by fashion and flirtation. But Jenna de Warre knows his other identity – Duncan is also a hunted rebel! Bound to him by this deadly secret, Jenna soon finds herself drawn deeper into Duncan’s dangerous world – and falling ever more under his charismatic spell.When it seems the rebel lord returns her feelings, Jenna leaps at his proposal of marriage. But is she merely destined to be mistress to his cause?









‘Are you flirting with me, mylord?’

Duncan’s countenance took on a hunger she could not misinterpret.

‘After what has transpired between us, I am not flirting.’

Jenna dropped her gaze and increased the movement of her fan. ‘You are bold.’

‘I am entranced.’

She did not know what to say. She had agonised that he would ignore her completely. Now she worried that what he spoke would lead them into something they would both regret. But, regardless of what lay between them, she wanted to be with him…


Georgina Devon has a Bachelor of Arts degree in Social Sciences with a concentration in History. Her interest in England began when she lived in East Anglia as a child, and later as an adult. She met her husband in England, and her wedding ring set is from Bath. She has many romantic and happy memories of the land. Today she lives in Tucson, Arizona, with her husband, two dogs, an inherited cat and a cockatiel. Her daughter has left the nest and does website design, including Georgina’s. Contact her at http://www.georginadevon.com

Recent novels by the same author:

THE RAKE

THE REBEL

THE ROGUE’S SEDUCTION

THE LORD AND THE MYSTERY LADY

AN UNCONVENTIONAL WIDOW

THE RAKE’S REDEMPTION




HER REBEL LORD


Georgina Devon




www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


Chapter One

1746 De Warre Castle, near Carlisle and theScottish Border

Crash!

Jenna de Warre jumped back from the glass bottle that had just violently hit the floor of her stillroom. One second the pieces of glass were in focus and the next they blurred. She was so nearsighted.’ Twas that which had caused the accident in the first place. She had been reaching for a different bottle and her arm had brushed the one that fell. She took a deep breath and put the frustration from her.

She blinked rapidly and pushed her spectacles up the bridge of her nose. The glass shards came into focus. Irritated with her clumsiness, she bent and whisked the pieces into a dustpan and tossed them into the bin under the work bench.

She stood up and knuckled her lower back. The day had been long and promised to be longer still. Mistress James was due to deliver her fifth child at any time. And she had still to prepare the draught for the mother-to-be that would help ease the birthing pains.

She took a deep breath of the cold air. Winter was the worst time of year to work in her stillroom. Even with a roaring fire and her fingerless wool gloves, her hands were clumsy from cold. Normally she didn’t come here at night, but she had been fretful from idleness and this occupied her. She doubted the babe would come tonight.

The creak of door hinges startled her, although she felt no real fear. They were too far from town for anyone to be here who did not belong or know their way. Still, it was late for someone to be seeking her. Eyes wide, peering over the rim of her spectacles, she wondered who was using the only door that opened onto the outside at this time of night.

‘Jenna?’ a male voice whispered, a strong Scottish burr making her name nearly unrecognisable.

‘Gavin?’ Her cousin stepped into the room, and joy widened her full mouth into a grin. ‘Is that truly you?’ She set down the pestle and rushed around the table, arms wide to hug him.

‘Shh,’ he said, slipping inside with a furtive glance behind. ‘No one should know I’m here.’

Puzzled, she fell back. He shot the bolt in the door before moving to the entrance that led into the castle and locking that as well.

‘What is wrong?’ Apprehension crawled down her back. ‘You look awful.’

He smiled wryly. ‘Leave it to you to point out the obvious.’ The smile died, leaving his long, narrow face haggard and pale. ‘I’ve been better.’

He sank with heavy relief on to the only stool. His thick grey cape pooled on the floor, the hem wet and laced with mud. His scuffed and filthy riding boots left prints on the stone pavers. He looked like he was travelling fast and without comforts.

Her disquiet intensified. To keep herself from blurting out questions before he was ready, she poured out a generous portion of whisky, which she kept for medicinal purposes, and took it to him. He downed the liquor in one long swallow as she knelt before him.

‘Thank you. I needed that.’

She smiled up at him, took the empty glass and set it on the floor. She caught his heavily gloved hands in hers, but said nothing, waiting patiently for him to explain. She had learned as a child that Gavin could sometimes be led, but he could never be pushed.

He was tall and as lean as a sapling. Hair the colour of mahogany waved around high cheekbones, so much like her own but without the freckles that were the bane of her existence. There were days she refused to look in the mirror because she did not want to see the dirt-red spots. His nose was a long hook, while hers was just short of one.

Bright green eyes, dulled by exhaustion and a narrow-lipped mouth drained of colour told her he was on the last dregs of his energy. Her heart ached for him.

If only he hadn’t fought for Bonnie Prince Charlie.

His ruddy complexion returned slowly as the whisky burned its way through his body. ‘I need yer help, Jen.’

The haunted look in his eyes reminded her of the day he’d fled to her from the bloody field of Culloden. He had been lucky to escape. Many Scots who had fought for the Stuart Prince had not been so fortunate. Her stomach knotted.

‘You know I will do everything I can.’

‘Aye, that you will.’ He swallowed hard, the action bobbing his Adam’s apple and accentuating his thinness. His gaze skittered away from hers, only to return. ‘I need money, Jen. Lots of it.’

Now it was her turn to gulp as she shook her head helplessly. ‘I have none, Gavin. Only my jewellery.’

‘That will do,’ he said. ‘Have ye any more drink?’

Her gaze narrowed as she looked him over. Rare among his peers, Gavin was not a drinker. ‘Some.’

He smiled, but she could tell it was an effort. ‘Will ye no’ give me more?’ His burr was pronounced, a habit he had when things were not going well.

She rose and poured another generous portion. ‘What is wrong?’

He took the full glass and downed the contents before answering. ‘The redcoats caught me two weeks ago. I managed to escape their filthy prison. I am fleeing to France.’

Worry and fear made her stomach cramp. ‘You are lucky. Why did you not send word? Father would have tried to get you released.’

His mouth twisted. ‘Aye, that would have been ironic. Bloody Ayre asking that a Scottish Jacobite be freed.’

She paled at Gavin’s use of the name given to her father by the Scottish. Her sense of desolation was made worse by knowing that the name was earned, and Papa would never be free of the stain it cast.

During the first Jacobite uprising, Papa had been a young army lieutenant, eager for promotion and confident in his support of George I. At the orders of his commanding officer, he had led his troops in the massacre of an entire Highland village. Her mother, the youngest daughter of a Scottish laird, had fallen in love with the young English soldier the year before. Against her parents’ orders, she had married Julian de Warre, who was later made Viscount Ayre by the English king for his actions.

Jenna’s mother had died ten years later, worn out by grief over what her husband had done. To this day, Papa regretted his actions and regretted even more the loss of his wife because of what he had done.

‘They might have let you go because of Papa,’ Jenna finally said.

‘Aye, I know, Jen. But I could not do it.’ Silently he held out the glass, a wince drawing a line between his brows.

Frowning, she filled the glass and handed it back. ‘Are you hurt?’

His eyes met hers over the glass rim. ‘Only a wee bit. Nothing to fash yourself aboot.’

Her lips pursed in irritation. ‘You were ever one to be evasive, Gavin James Steuart, when the truth did not suit you. How badly hurt are you?’

‘I told you. Not much.’ His gaze slid away from hers.

‘Liar.’ She stood and studied every inch of him, although most of him was hidden. ‘Take off your cape so I can get a good look at you.’

His mouth turned down as he prepared to defy her.

‘No, do not be taking that stand with me, Gavin.’ Her tone softened. ‘You know I love you and want to help. If you are injured, you will have trouble.’ Tis not likely you will find other aid when you must remain in hiding.’

He sighed and the tightness around his mouth eased. ‘You always could manage me when you had a mind to.’ He undid the clasp at his throat and let the cape fall to the floor.

Jenna gasped and sank back to her knees in front of him. His jacket was stained black with blood over his right shoulder. ‘We must get this off so I can see how bad the damage is.’ She plucked at his coat.

Long, painful minutes later, Gavin’s pale flesh was exposed. The wound was jagged and deep. A musket hole.

‘Is the bullet still in?’ she asked, probing gently and wincing with each involuntary flinch of his body.

‘I do no’ ken.’ A weak smile curved his lips. ‘It felt like my entire shoulder exploded. Surely the ball went out the back.’

She examined him, front and back. ‘Yes. An exit wound.’

He blanched. ‘Ah, good, then. I’m fleein’ for me life. Tonight, I meet The Ferguson, who will smuggle me out o’ England.’

Jenna’s brows raised in appreciation. Even she had heard of The Ferguson, the scourge of the English army. Tales said the man had single-handedly defeated a whole platoon of redcoats. Some said that if he had been in charge of the Scots during Culloden the battle would have ended differently. She did not think anyone could have bested the English army. There had been too many of them.

Momentarily diverted, she said, ‘You know The Ferguson? You move in exalted ranks. I have always thought he sounded romantic.’

Gavin grunted. ‘Leave it to a woman to think Duncan is romantic. He is not. You can not be a fighter and be romantic.’ He shook his head. ‘Duncan and I were at Eton together. Then he went to Cambridge and I went to Edinburgh.’ Gavin grimaced. ‘I could no longer stand being in England, but Duncan said going to school with the English helped him understand them better. Made him better at besting them.’

‘And it seems to.’ She pushed to the back of her mind her foolish fascination over a man she had never met. ‘Let me clean the wound and bandage it properly. Otherwise the skin will fester.’

Stubbornness moved over his face once again. She poured him more whisky and handed it to him before laying a hand gently on his good shoulder.

‘Aye, I know, Jen. You are a healer, just as your mother was.’ He gritted his teeth. ‘Get on with it, then.’ He gulped the liquor down.

She worked as quickly as possible. ‘It appears clean, but you have lost a lot of blood. I will need to sew it shut, poultice it and wrap it tightly.’

He nodded. ‘More whisky, if you please.’

‘Are you going on tonight?’ she asked, knowing the answer, but wanting him to understand why she was going to refuse him.

‘I moost.’

‘Then,’ twould be best for you to have no more.’ She took the empty glass and set it on the table, well away from him. ‘Otherwise, you will not be able to stay on your horse.’

‘You are sensible as always, but ’twould be nice. Still, I’ve a ways to go, and I mustn’t be late. The tide will wait for no man, not even The Ferguson.’

Jenna took the hint and quickly bandaged him. When she had finished, he rested his head on her worktable.

‘I would give you something else for the pain, Gavin, but laudanum would only cloud your wits more. Wait here and relax as much as you can while I fetch my jewellery.’

Minutes later, she returned and handed him a small velvet sack. ‘’Tis all I have. I wish ’twere more.’

Gavin poured out the meagre contents: a loose ruby and one sapphire, a single-strand pearl necklace, such as a young girl would wear, an amethyst brooch and a thistle leaf done in emeralds. He handed the thistle leaf to her.

‘I cannot take this, Jen.’ Twas your mother’s.’

She shook her head. ‘No, Gavin. She would want you to have it. Mother never cared for jewels, only people, and you are the only son of her only sister. Take it.’ Tis the most valuable.’

‘I will repay you, Jen. That I promise.’ He slipped the brooch back into the bag and secured the packet in the pocket of his jacket. ‘I must be going.’

He rose and swayed slightly before catching himself with one hand on the edge of the table. Jenna rushed to him and put an arm around his waist.

‘Are you sure you can travel?’

‘I moost. If I miss tonight, the next chance is a month away. Not many ships, even smugglers, will carry convicted Jacobites. And no one will hide one.’ His mouth twisted bitterly.

Worried, Jenna watched him go to the outside entrance. She could not let him go alone. ‘I will go with you.’

He turned, irritation etching lines along his mouth. ‘That you will not do.’

‘How will you stop me? Besides, you will be safer if I’m with you. You cannot tell me the redcoats are not hunting for you, Gavin Steuart.’ Twould be a lie. And if your wound continues to bleed, I will be able to treat it.’

She did not say what she thought—that if his wound continued to bleed he would not have the strength to escape without help. Or that he might not even live. If he stayed in England, his chance of living to an old age was even less than that.

‘True,’ he muttered in the tone of voice he always used when he saw himself losing an argument with her.

‘They won’t be looking for a couple.’

‘Aye,’ he said, resignation moving over his face.

‘I can ride as well as you and will not slow you down.’ That, too, was true. Many times as children she had outraced him. And she jumped better. ‘I also put on riding boots when I fetched the jewels.’

He put up one last fight. ‘I am going to the Whore’s Eye, a raunchy tavern near the coast.’

She grimaced. ‘I have heard of the place. Nothing good, either.’

‘’Tis not the place for a woman, let alone a lady.’

‘I can take care of myself, Gavin.’

He sighed, the lines of pain around his eyes deepening. ‘I will let you accompany me part of the way. No matter how much help you will be, I canna let you go all the way.’

Seeing the determination in his eyes and knowing he could only be pushed so far before he became intractable, she concurred. When they reached the point where Gavin ordered her to turn around, she would refuse. He was not the only stubborn person in this room.

‘A deal,’ she said.

Before he could think of another argument or condition, she grabbed her woollen cape and two blankets. The night was bitterly cold and storm clouds rode the sky like hounds after a fox. Better to be prepared.

He tried one last tack. ‘But you stand out like a rowan berry in green leaves. That hair sparks even in this dim room.’

Her first reaction was to bristle at his reference to her hair. ’Twas the second bane of her existence, after the freckles. But she knew he was only trying to keep her from accompanying him. She might make light of the situation, but she was following him into mortal danger. The English would do whatever it took to recapture an escaped Jacobite. Even now, months after Culloden, they rode the Scottish hills, killing and imprisoning any man who might even remotely have fought for Bonnie Prince Charlie. They would think nothing of killing Gavin—and her with him—if they found them.

She swallowed the whimper of fear that threatened to escape her throat. If Gavin saw her weakness, he would use it to start another argument and they did not have time.

‘I will keep the hood over my head, Gavin. Now, we’d best be going.’ She moved to the door and pushed him out into the damp, blustery night.

He shivered. ‘’Twill snow before we reach our destination.’

‘’Tis why I have brought two blankets.’ A soft whicker caught her ear. ‘Why did you not put your horse in the stable?’

‘Do not be daft. The last thing I need is for some stable boy to know I’ve been here and then to tell a redcoat.’

A chill chased down her spine. ‘I am not used to subterfuge. Sorry.’

‘Just see that you get your own mount without them knowing why.’

She had not thought of that. ‘Wait a minute.’ She rushed back to her stillroom and picked up the bag she took when calling on a sick person, adding what was left of the whisky to the pack. Returning to Gavin, she said, ‘I will say I am going to deliver Mistress James’s baby. We had word earlier she was due soon.’

She was well down the lane and through the gate that guarded the entry to de Warre Castle before she met up with Gavin. He emerged from the shelter of brush and tree. She would swear he wavered in the saddle. She held her tongue.

The speed of their passing flipped the hood off her head. Icy pellets of water hit her face like miniature musket balls. Jenna hunched her shoulders up. Melting hail blotched her eyeglasses, blurring her vision. She took the spectacles off and secured them in her bag of medicinals.

She pulled even with Gavin and asked, ‘Why leave from here?’ Twould be easier and quicker to cross to France from the eastern coast.’

‘And better watched, I’d warrant.’ Gavin spurred his mount on. ‘’Tis colder than a witch’s—’ He caught himself. ‘My pardon, Jen.’

‘No pardon needed. I’ve heard worse.’

She kept her attention on their path and her companion. The moon peeked fitfully out from the canopy of clouds, silvering the bare tree limbs. She loved these cold, stark nights. They were harshly beautiful. But tonight, she wished it were warmer.

A glance showed Gavin slumped over, his hands clutching the pommel. He rode with an awkwardness that was not normal. She had hoped her assessment of his wound was too severe. She was afraid she had been right. Anxiety tightened her chest as a premonition of trouble twisted her stomach, that part of her that was most susceptible to nerves.

Off to one side, as though coming through one of the bordering fields, she heard the sound of horse’s hooves in sucking mud. The glow of a storm lantern pierced the night’s darkness, flickering through the surrounding trees like fairy light.

Gavin caught the bridle of her horse and pulled them to a stop. ‘Hush,’ he whispered, his voice nearly lost in the sough of the rising wind.

A troop of six men rode not thirty feet from them, their mounts following the trail she and Gavin skirted. Crimson flashed in the lantern’s illumination.

Redcoats.

English.

Jenna’s hands turned clammy. She could not have spoken if her life depended on it.

The sounds of hooves plopping in mud and men muttering among themselves reached her as they passed. The storm lantern cast a baleful yellow glare on the dirt track and disappeared into the distance.

Jenna released her breath, only then realising that she’d been holding it. Blood rushed to her head and for moments she was dizzy.

‘That was close,’ she whispered, the scare making her breathy.

She glanced at Gavin for his signal to go forward. He sat as one frozen. He must have been even more frightened than she. After all, he had just escaped the redcoats and then to have them nearly discover him…

Uncomfortable speaking so soon after their close call, she reached out to him, intending to comfort with her touch. As though moving slowly through heavy water, he slid to one side. Jenna watched in shocked denial as he tumbled to the wet ground and lay in a motionless heap.

She jumped down and knelt beside him, heedless of the mud weighting down her skirts. She bent her lips to his ear. ‘Gavin,’ she whispered, putting as much command into her voice as possible without raising it. She could not take the chance that a stray brush of wind would carry his name to listening ears.

He did not move.

She shook him. Nothing. Her left hand grasped his right shoulder just as the metallic tang of fresh blood met her nostrils. The wound must have reopened. Apprehension chewed her insides.

There was no time to change the bandage. ‘Gavin,’ she ordered, ‘you have to get up.’ She stooped above him with her hands under his shoulders and pulled with all her might.

He tried, but his body was like a sack of corn, flaccid and heavy, too cumbersome for her to lift without his help. He sprawled back down.

Tears of frustration and fright sprang to her eyes. She swiped them away, determined to save him, no matter what. But how? He had lost so much blood and more seeped from him as he lay here in the cold. She took deep calming breaths until the fear threatening to devour her eased. If he could not get up and ride, then he could not leave for France and safety. She had to get help.

She would have to leave him here, under the shelter of a hedgerow. She tugged at him, managing to slide him along the slick ground. He groaned, but she kept pulling. There was nothing else she could do.

Gasping for breath, she sank once more to her knees beside his head. ‘Gavin, I must leave you here. Go on without you.’ She sucked in air and willed herself to speak calmly, even though her entire body shook. ‘Gavin, I am going for help.’

He gazed up at her, his eyes glassy from pain. ‘The Ferguson,’ he said, his voice a bare thread. ‘Go to Duncan.’

Even now he would not give up his goal of escape. ‘’Twould be better to take you home and hide you in one of the priest holes.’

He shook his head. ‘No. Duncan. Not safe anywhere but France.’ He coughed and shivers racked his body.

The ground was so cold. She jumped up and fetched the two blankets. Returning, she rolled him up in them. Her mind raced the entire time. Much as she hated to think it, he was right. The only person she could trust to help her with Gavin was The Ferguson. Anyone else might betray him or be tricked into doing so.

‘How will I recognise The Ferguson?’

His eyes opened, shining like glass in the silver moonlight. ‘Silver cross. At his neck.’ His lids drifted lower. ‘Always wears it. Do no’ know why.’

‘What colour is his hair? His eyes?’

‘Do no’ know. Changes. Eyes are hazel.’ His eyes shut completely.

Her chest clenched painfully. She swore softly, words a lady should not know, words she only heard in the stables. If she did not hurry, it would be too late. She jumped up and made for her mare, pausing long enough to tether Gavin’s horse to a bush. Tears blurred her vision as she mounted.

Glancing back at her cousin, she whispered, ‘Do not die on me, Gavin Steuart. Do not ye dare. I will haunt you in hell if you are not here when I return.’

Swallowing the anger created by her fear, she turned the horse away. The Whore’s Eye was not too much further. Many’s the time she had overheard servants talking about the lawlessness of the seamen and worse who frequented the place.

She had no choice.

Only another Jacobite could be trusted with Gavin’s life. She prayed she would reach The Ferguson in time.


Chapter Two

Jenna halted at the door to the Whore’s Eye, her boots sinking into a muddy puddle. Three feet above her head a battered sign with a large blue eye painted on it dropped large drops of water on her head. Her soaked cape clung to her like a woollen mitten, and her hair fell in a limp rope down her back. The spectacles she had put back on, after tying her horse to a tree some distance away, were blurred.

Fingers numb from the cold, she pulled the hood of her cape over her hair, then fumbled with the handle until the heavy oak door swung inwards on protesting rusted hinges. Jenna stepped into the opening. The odours of unwashed bodies, onions too long cooked and rancid ale hit her nose like a slap. Cheap tallow candles flickered from some of the plank tables, adding their acrid scent. After the bitter clean of the storm, the smells were nauseating. The fireplace, where a large kettle hung full of what promised to be mutton, provided a minimum of light and an eye-stinging haze.

Gavin had said this place was the haunt of scallywags and highwaymen. A quick glance around told her Gavin had been kind.

She would not choose to come here with an armed escort, let alone by herself. But ’twas a risk she had to take. Gavin’s life depended on her.

The men here looked rough and more than reprehensible, pursuing their pleasure in groups or alone, as the mood took them. All drank. A lone buxom wench worked the tables, her charms spilling out of a tight bodice and her arms large enough from hefting ale-filled tankards to floor any male who might take advantage.

Jenna’s mouth twisted in a reluctant glimmer of admiration. The woman probably welcomed the extra bit of change a randy man provided. Jenna had long ago lost count of the number of illegitimate children she had helped bring into the world.

Someone yelled, ‘Close the bloody door, yer bloody fagget!’

Jenna winced as she closed the door and slid to the side, keeping her back to the wall. The last thing she had intended to do was draw attention. No matter that she was in one of her working dresses and her cape was plain black, she obviously did not belong here.

Her clothing started to steam in the smoke-infested warmth and the stench of wet wool added itself to the other odours. Her nose wrinkled at the assault before she remembered to make her features placid. No one in this room would be bothered by these smells and to show that she was would only offend anyone who might look at her.

She took a moment and removed her spectacles and wiped them on her soaked sleeve. She needed to be able to see the silver cross. She put them back on and they instantly fogged. She sighed and waited. Patience was a virtue. The steam soon evaporated and the figures closer to her came into harsh focus.

The skin at the nape of her neck crawled and in a nervous twist, she looked to her left—and nearly fainted. Four redcoats sat at a table not twenty feet from her. One of the soldiers watched her with heavy-lidded intensity. Could he be the officer who had passed Gavin and her? If so, did he recognise her? Surely not. She had kept the hood of her cloak over her hair, hiding her face.

Instinctively, she bit her lower lip.

Why were they here? This was a tavern not normally frequented by their like. Were they here because of Gavin? Did they know he was to meet The Ferguson, who would smuggle him out of England and over to France? Was that why they had been travelling the same road? It could not be. She had to believe that or all was lost.

Jenna gulped down hard on the fright swelling in her throat. Her bottom lip was raw from her teeth. She edged along the wall away from the man’s regard, trying desperately to ease the thundering of her heart. Perhaps if she ignored the redcoat he would go back to his drinking. Still, the muscles in her neck tensed.

She had to find The Ferguson.

Her gaze darted around, searching for a tall man wearing a silver cross. She would wager no one but The Ferguson would wear such a thing in this place. The ruffians here did not have the wealth. Hopefully he wore it. He had to. There was no other way she could recognise him.

How often this past year had she heard wondrous tales of The Ferguson’s exploits? She could not count them, let alone remember them all. There was the time he had single-handedly held up ten English soldiers and robbed them, leaving them with nothing but their small clothes. Gavin said The Ferguson had taken the uniforms to be used by Jacobites trying to infiltrate the English ranks to learn military secrets. That was before the Battle of Culloden. A more recent time, The Ferguson had saved a Highland crofter’s family from being burnt out of their home. The man was a figure of almost mythic proportion.

A flurry of noise came from the back door, deep laughter and the rumble of conversation punctuated by a woman’s seductive tones and a man’s husky voice. A couple coming back from enjoying a tryst.’ Twas not unexpected in a place such as this. Jenna glanced their way, even though she knew The Ferguson was not one of the pair. He was here to rescue Gavin, not dally with a wench.

The two moved deeper into the room. Jenna squinted. Her spectacles allowed her to see many things better, but they could not bring everything into perfect focus.

Still, she saw enough. The man was tall, with hair so dark it seemed to absorb the meagre light. His shoulders were broad, emphasising the leanness of his hips, which the woman in his arms was too appreciative of. One of her hands lingered on his thigh, speaking plainly of what they had been about. Her face was turned up to his, her brown hair tumbling down.

They were a striking pair.

Someone scraped a chair leg across the rough floor. Someone else grunted. Jenna looked back the way she had come. The redcoat with the heavy-lidded eyes was moving her way. She told herself he was going to the privy, but her heart insisted on hammering at her ribs.

She gripped the neck of her cape tighter to secure the hood over her red hair as she moved out of the redcoat’s path, inching between chairs until she was closer to the couple. A glint of silver flashed. It came from the man with the woman. From his throat. It could not be what she thought.

But what if it was?

She dared not ignore it. She cast another glance over her shoulder, only to see the soldier nearly on her. He was not going outside. Her heart increased its panicked beating.

Even if the dark-haired man had not worn the cross, she would have gone to him now. He was not an English soldier and he was already with a woman, so he would not be interested in her that way. No man ever was. But she could act as though she were here to meet him. With luck, he would be too surprised to naysay her immediately and his presence might be enough to deter the redcoat from his pursuit of her.

The serving wench winked at the man and moved to the tap area. This was her chance. Jenna scuttled forward and sat awkwardly on the hard wooden bench across the table from the man. Leaning forward, she started to speak and stopped. The glint of silver that had first drawn her was a cross.

She looked at the man again. Long and lean, with cheekbones like chiselled granite, he looked back. Hair, black as the darkest night, absorbed what little light there was and fell thickly to his shoulders. His jaw was strong and smooth. She glanced at his hands where they cupped around a tankard of ale. His fingers were elegant and strong, the nails short and free of dirt. If his hair were snagged into a queue, his grooming would be that of a gentleman.

However, his clothing was anything but fashionable. A loosely fitting brown coat that looked twenty years out of mode and a threadbare muslin shirt covered his broad shoulders.

He was a mass of contradictions. Yet he wore the silver cross she was to look for.

She had to take the risk. Gavin was dying. She inhaled sharply, taking in with the air courage and determination.

He watched her with eyes as yellow and hard and sparkling as citrines. Hazel eyes.

He looked feral and dangerous—a wild animal caught in a moment of near civilisation. He blinked and the image disappeared. He was only a man who had been fondling a tavern wench minutes ago.

Still…he wore the cross.

His blatant study of her set her nerves on edge. She spoke harsher than she had intended. ‘I’ve need of your help.’

His sensual mouth twisted up, and his gaze lingered where the cape clung to her breast before lifting to meet her eyes. ‘You’d best speak little and softly. No woman of your station could have reason for being here.’

Jenna looked furtively around the room, her attention lingering briefly on the table where the three redcoats sat. She did not look behind to where the other soldier still stood. Her shoulders hunched before straightening again.

‘Have I spoken loudly?’ she asked, her brows rose in a haughty challenge. ‘Or to anyone but you?’

He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I just came in.’

Her scowl intensified. ‘You are an infuriating man.’

‘I doubt I’ve anything you would want, mistress,’ he said, assuming a humble expression.

Jenna wondered if her lips were blue. They did not want to move. ‘Are you here to meet someone?’ she whispered.

His eyes narrowed, glinting dangerously. Like a caged lion she had once seen in a book.

‘Aye,’ he muttered. ‘Nelly.’ He angled his head in the direction the serving wench had gone and grinned rakishly.

Jenna blushed from the roots of her red hair to the top of her black cloak. She watched his fine, sensual mouth twist in amusement and wished for at least the hundredth time that she did not flush at the slightest provocation. It was the curse of her hair.

‘What impertinence,’ she said before thinking. Chagrinned at her uncontrolled response, she bit her lip to keep anything else from spilling out.

His eyes flashed wickedly. ‘And your question was not?’

She turned away, trying to ease her temper. He was right. But she dared not ask him outright if he was here to meet Gavin. There was no way of telling who might overhear, and not just Gavin’s life was at stake. The English soldiers would willingly kill The Ferguson and anyone found with him. And she did not even know if this man was the Jacobite hero she sought.

She glanced quickly back at him, intending to look away as though he were of no import, but his tawny eyes caught and held hers. Unable to tear her gaze away, she lost herself in the amber pools with their brown striations and black, black pupils. His eyes narrowed, the full, short blond lashes casting shadows on his cheeks.

With a part of her mind, she registered that his lashes should be ebony to match his hair. Then the thought flitted away.

Jenna took a deep breath and forced herself to break the hold this man had on her. He was more vital and more handsome than any man she had ever met. He would be arresting if he passed her on a crowded street. But she was here for Gavin, not to fall under some strange man’s spell.

‘I…I have a friend,’ she murmured after what seemed an eternity.

Somehow, in spite of his attraction for her, she remembered to look around and make sure no one was any closer than they had been. Particularly not the English soldier who seemed to be following her around the room and still stood some distance away, his shoulders propped against the wall.

The man across from her raised one brow when she did not continue. ‘’Tis glad I am, mistress, that you have at least one friend.’

She scowled at him. ‘This is not a jesting matter,’ she said.

‘No,’ he said, his voice deep and mocking. ‘It never is.’

A double meaning? She took a deep breath and started again. ‘I have a friend. I think he was supposed to meet you, but he is wounded.’

There, it was out. Thank goodness she had not mentioned names.

Something dangerous flitted across the man’s face. ‘His name?’

She chewed her lip harder until the metallic tang of blood told her she had bitten through the skin. If he was the wrong man, she and Gavin were dead.

‘What is your name?’ she mumbled, staring determinedly into his eyes, searching for something she could not explain.

Exasperation and a hint of impatience tightened his mouth. ‘No games. My name is Duncan. And your friend’s?’

She closed her eyes in relief. How many Duncans could there be in this tavern? More than one this close to the Scottish border, but surely not more than one wearing a silver Celtic cross.

She opened her eyes to see his reaction. ‘Gavin. His name is Gavin and he’s badly hurt.’

Worry flitted across his face. Jenna let out the breath she had been holding. He would not be upset unless he was The Ferguson. She had made the right decision. Now they had to get back to Gavin before it was too late.

‘We must leave,’ she said. ‘He is…’ She told herself not to cry. ‘He is lying in the mud. Wounded. Badly.’

‘Then there is no time to waste,’ Duncan said.

Thank goodness he understood. Jenna stood and turned toward the front door.

‘Not that way,’ he said, grabbing her shoulder and stopping her. ‘Through the kitchen.’

His hand slid around her waist and pulled her tight to his side. The hard sinews of his flank pressed intimately against her hip. The musky scent of his maleness surrounded her. Her stomach clenched into a roiling knot.

She tried to pull away, needing the safety of the entire room between them, but willing to settle for inches. Anything that kept him from touching her so intimately.

His embrace tightened. ‘We are a couple, leaving to do what couples always do.’

His words and what they implied jolted her, brought back the picture of him entering the room with Nelly, the tavern wench. ‘Two women in one night?’ she said before thinking.

He cast her a sly look just instants before his mouth descended. Against her lips, he murmured, ‘Pretend you’re Nelly.’

Then he kissed her.

Her first kiss. It was not chaste. It made her mind twirl and her gut twist. It was incredibly arousing. It scared her as nothing else had.

He drew abruptly away. Jenna’s senses swirled.

A commotion at the entrance drew her attention, and she belatedly realised the noise was what had made him stop. He had not been immersed in their kiss as she had. He had been playing a skilful game with her and anyone else in the room who had wanted to watch. Pain constricted her chest. She ignored it as best she could.

Another soldier entered. A groan of despair escaped her. Too many redcoats. But this one was different from the four already here. From the braid on his epaulettes to the arrogant tilt of his head, he was obviously the leader of the group already here. He took off his cockaded hat and shook off the water, exposing his silver-blond hair and pale blue eyes.

She gasped. The newcomer was Captain Lord Johnathan Albert Seller, a man who had visited her father a few months ago. Though they had not met formally, there was the very real possibility he would recognise her, even in this environ.

The fingers on her side dug into her ribs. The Ferguson dragged her through the door into the kitchen. If she did not know better, she would think he also recognised Captain Seller. But that could not be. A Jacobite and an English army officer did not know each other. Ever.

The Ferguson released her and she stumbled. She felt cold and bereft with his warmth gone. She was demented to feel thus.

Noise and cooking smells engulfed her. Warmth wafted from the fire where a mutton roast turned on the spit, propelled by the efforts of a tiny urchin. The proprietor, identifiable by the none-too-clean white apron around his skinny waist, nodded briefly at Jenna’s companion, then ignored them.

Nelly slid in the door behind them. Duncan made a nearly imperceptible nod to the woman. She acknowledged it with a wink. Then he strode across the room and into the night.

Jenna followed him through the outside door and a blast of wind hit her. The sleet had turned to rain, and clouds obscured the full moon. At least it was not freezing—yet. Desperation twisted her stomach.

She caught up with The Ferguson. ‘Gavin’s hurt. We must hurry. My horse is this way.’ The nearly incoherent words spilled from her mouth as rain ran in rivulets down her face.

His hand wrapped around her wrist and jerked her to him. He was wet as she, although they had only been outside for scant minutes. She stared up at him, his action and the harshness of it taking her by surprise. He was a darker shadow in the black night so she could not make out his features. But she felt his heart beating steadily and strongly against her breasts.

Abruptly, she became aware of the warmth radiating from his body and the way it sheltered her from the worst of the wind that pounded at his back. He was an inferno in his heat and a rock in his strength.

‘Not so fast.’ His voice was a deadly growl. ‘Who are you? And why should I believe a word you say? You could as easily be an agent of that German bastard’s, sent to trap me with information forced from Gavin by torture. You wouldn’t be the first,’ he added in an undertone.

Jenna blinked away water and looked up at him. He made sense, even if her immediate thought was to kick him in the shin and gain her freedom from his disturbing hold.

‘Jenna. I am Jenna de Warre.’ She felt him stiffen and his hold on her wrist turned painful, causing her to flinch. ‘You are hurting me.’

His grip did not ease. ‘What does Bloody Ayre’s daughter have to do with a Jacobite?’

She should have known he would recognise her father’s name. But it was too late now.

‘Answer me.’ His voice colder than the night, he radiated tension.

For the first time, Jenna felt fear of the man who held her close as a lover, yet harshly as a gaolor. She should have dissembled, used a different name. Anything. But she had not thought beyond getting help for Gavin.

She groped for words and nothing came. She stared up at him, his face in shadow, telling her nothing of what he thought.

He shook her. ‘Answer me, woman. Your life depends on it.’

Fresh fear stole her breath away. She had been so unprepared. Finally, she realised what she should have known all along. Duncan would not—could not—let anyone live he could not trust with the secret of what he looked like. She was more a danger than most, or so he must think.

The man holding her thought she would betray him at the first opportunity. Somehow she had to convince him otherwise. Gavin’s life depended on that.

She had to choose her words carefully. ‘My father has regretted what he did for his entire life. My mother died from grief when I was young because of what my father did. She was Scottish.’ She paused to lick lips that were cold and stiff. It did not help. ‘Gavin is my cousin. Could be my brother, we are that close. His mother came to live with us and raised me along with her own child. Our mothers are—were—sisters. I would do anything to save Gavin.’

Long minutes dragged by. Jenna squinted in the darkness, wanting to read his thoughts by the expression on his face, but was unable to see his features. Despair began to creep up on her. She forced back a tear of frustration and shattered hope.

If he would not come with her, then she would escape from him and go back to Gavin on her own. Somehow she would get her cousin on his horse. If she had to, she would ride home and bring someone from her father’s castle. She would bring her father. She should have done that at the beginning. It would be dangerous for Gavin, but no more so than leaving him in the cold and wet. There were no other choices.

The kitchen door opened and a beam of yellow light split the dark. Duncan yanked her back with him into the shadow of a large oak where the glow did not penetrate.

A redcoat stood in the entry, a storm lantern in his right hand. Seller.

Could things get any worse? Jenna wondered, her hands breaking into cold sweat. She felt the man holding her stiffen until he seemed ready to explode from the tension he suppressed.

Seller stepped into the rain just as a female form materialised beside him. Nelly. She said something to him that Jenna could not hear and pulled on his arm that held the lantern. He looked down at her and spoke. Nelly nodded and her hand slid from his arm to his chest. Seller stepped away from her and further into the dark.

A gust of wind ripped through the tree sheltering Jenna and Duncan, bringing cold stinging rain with it. It hit Seller and Jenna saw him sway. Nelly appeared by his side once more, urging him back inside with her body pressed to his. This time he went.

The air whooshed out of Jenna. ‘So close,’ she muttered.

‘Too close,’ Duncan said. ‘’Tis time to go.’

Hope flared in her. ‘Are you going with me to Gavin?’

He held her for another second before pushing her away. She took a shaky step back, bracing herself against the tree trunk.

His voice harsh, he said, ‘Understand this. I do not trust you, and I will not think twice about killing you if you’re lying.’

She shivered, but anger and determination stiffened her spine. ‘And I you, if you do anything to harm my cousin.’


Chapter Three

‘Fair enough.’ The Ferguson motioned Jenna toward her tethered horse. ‘I will meet you at the bend in the track.’

Teeth chattering, she nodded before realising he could not see her. ‘At the bend. In five minutes or so.’

‘Close enough.’

She shivered and looked around for something to use to mount her mare. A hand gripped her shoulder and she jumped. It took all her control not to squeak.

‘What?’ She twisted around to find The Ferguson so close his breath was a warm caress on her chilled face.

‘I just realised you rode side saddle.’ Disgust dripped from his words.

She bristled. ‘Of course.’

‘And your teeth chatter enough to draw attention from a deaf man.’

She tried to pull away from his hold. ‘I am cold.’

‘I will bring you another cloak or a blanket.’

‘I do not need anything—’

He cut her short by grabbing her waist and lifting her onto the saddle. Even after he let her go, she would insist he still touched her. It was a sensation she had never experienced before and it was not comfortable.

The fact that his hold on her waist had felt exciting and illicit was something she pushed to the back of her mind. No man should make her respond like this. Particularly no Jacobite.

She had been so jumbled that he had turned his back to her and made his way to the stables before she realised it. It was too late to tell him not to bring her anything unless she yelled, and she had no intention of doing that. The last thing either of them needed was to draw attention and have Seller come back outside because her voice carried.

She settled her leg over the saddle horn and turned her mount, Rosebud, in the direction they were to rendezvous. All the while her mind worked.

The Ferguson must be known here and the workers must approve of what he did, particularly Nelly, or he would not move so openly. Even in her sheltered life, she had heard about secrets told to bed partners and imagined that could be deadly to a man of his ilk. But that was none of her business.

She and Rosebud made their way through the mud and rain.

She was determined to rid her stomach of the strange sensation that had plagued that part of her body since her first sight of the Jacobite. The unease was because she knew he was the only person who could help her save Gavin. Nothing more.

She would not let it be anything else. He was a Jacobite, the opposite of everything Papa stood for.

Yet, her mother had been Scottish. She was half-Scottish. Her beloved cousin was all Scottish.

She pulled up at the bend in the road and squinted into the darkness behind her. Her glasses were once more in her saddlebag because they were no help in this weather. She heard the soft suck of his horse’s hooves pulling out of the muddy track before she saw the dark outline of his body.

‘Here.’ He held out a wad of cloth. ‘A blanket. Belongs to the stable lad, but ’tis better than nothing.’

She scowled. ‘Kindness from the man who will kill me if I endanger him?’

‘Better to die warm than cold.’

Her first inclination was to refuse the offer, but she was more practical than that. The weather was beastly, and the last thing her cousin needed was for her to get too sick to care for him. With as much grace as she was capable of, and knowing he could not see her scowl in the darkness, she took the blanket and swung it around her shoulders. The damp wool smelled of hay and horses and less pleasant things. Soon it would be soaked as everything else she wore, but for the moment it warmed her.

‘We had best hurry,’ she said. ‘Gavin has not much time, I fear.’

She urged Rosebud on, wishing she could hurry, but knowing she should not for safety’s sake. The footing was precarious and the moon a poor substitute for a lantern. One moment the muddy track shone with a silver sheen. The next it nearly disappeared as the clouds scudded across the sky in time to the rising wind.

Jenna prayed Gavin would survive. He had a strong constitution and had survived a wound at Culloden and later internment in an English prison. Surely he could live through this. He had to.

In spite of her worry about her cousin, she was intensely and uncomfortably aware of the man riding behind her. When the wind let up for a moment, she could just hear the creaking of his leather saddle and the soft whickering of his horse. At times she thought she heard The Ferguson swearing under his breath, but neither of them dared talk. Sound would carry on the wind for some distance.

For all she knew, the redcoats had left the inn and were behind them. Reacting to that thought, she turned her mount left and on to a narrow trail that went through the fields. This route would not be travelled by someone unfamiliar with the area.

She had only gone several steps when her companion’s hand clamped down hard on her wrist. She had sensed him moving abreast with her, but had not thought he would stop her.

‘Where are we going now?’ His words were a hoarse, angry whisper.

‘A way that is unknown to the English.’ Her reply was swept away by the wind. ‘A shortcut.’

‘How do you know that?’

She swallowed a sigh of irritation. Every minute they argued was another minute longer in their journey, another minute Gavin lay on the cold, wet ground.

‘Because I have lived here most of my life. Because I have been out on worse nights than this, going to a birthing or tending to someone so sick the family fears they might not make it until morning. Because I know what I am doing.’

She could feel his gaze on her even as his fingers tightened momentarily before relaxing and leaving her. The breath she had not realised she held sighed from her lips.

‘If this is—’

‘I know,’ she said with a weary sigh, ‘you will kill me. And I believe you. Now can we go?’

In reply, he moved ahead of her so she had to urge Rosebud forwards in order to regain the lead. Jenna hunched into the stable boy’s blanket and clenched her jaw.

She knew he followed by the soft whickering of his horse. She hoped he was scanning the area for redcoats as she was. The last thing they needed was to be stopped. The soldiers might let her go, but they would arrest him and likely hang him without a trial.

She urged Rosebud on, glad of the meagre glow from the moon to see by. It was a risk. A passing soldier might see them, but likely would not go out of his way to stop them, thinking them locals returning home.

She needed to reach Gavin. As it was, her cousin would not be crossing to France tonight. And if they were not lucky and prompt, he might not be leaving for a long time.

They entered a copse of trees and instantly what light there had been disappeared. Jenna slowed even more.

‘Are you sure we are saving time?’ he asked, doubt lacing his words. His voice floated on the cold, wet wind.

Exasperation was an emotion Jenna did not often feel. This man seemed to make the worst come out in her. ‘Yes. I have trod this path many a night. Gavin is just the other side of this copse.’

‘I hope so.’

The urge to turn in her saddle and berate him for his doubt was strong, but she knew it would accomplish nothing. And someone might overhear them. She gritted her teeth and kept going.

Minutes later, they exited the trees into a clearing. She stopped and slid from her horse. Squinting, Jenna could barely discern a darker spot on the ground that was her cousin. Heart pounding, she rushed to his side. She squatted down.

Gavin’s face was a pale glimmer in the returning moonlight, with his mouth pinched down and his jaw clenched. In spite of the cold, his high cheeks were washed in scarlet. A fever.

She heard The Ferguson take a deep breath. ‘We must get him to shelter.’

Without bothering to look at him, she said, ‘I know. I cannot move him myself. Otherwise I would have taken him home and hidden him instead of fetching you. He cannot cross the channel as he is no matter what he wants.’ She turned to face him. ‘I need you to help me lift him to his horse and tie him to the pommel. Then I need you at the end of the journey to help me get him into a priest’s hole where he will be safe. After that, you can go.’

His eyes narrowed in irritation. ‘I am not yours to order as you please.’

She bit her lower lip. ‘No, you are not. I forgot myself in my concern for my cousin. I need your help. Gavin will die without it.’

He nodded. ‘Where is the wound?’

‘His right shoulder.’ She lifted his cape and the blankets to show where the bandage bulged.

‘Fetch his horse closer while I get him up.’

Not waiting for her, he pulled the coverings from Gavin and grabbed her cousin’s good shoulder. With a grunt, he lifted Gavin enough to get his arm around his friend’s waist. Duncan stood, Gavin in his arms. The men wavered and she knew her cousin’s dead weight threatened to topple both of them on to the ground. Jenna winced and hurried the animal, but knew there was no easy or nice way to do this.

‘Hold the horse steady,’ The Ferguson ordered when she reached them.

He half-carried, half-dragged Gavin to the horse’s side and draped the unconscious man’s hands and arms over the saddle. Duncan pushed until Gavin’s body hung face down over the saddle.

Gavin moaned in pain. Instantly Jenna moved to the other side of the horse where Gavin’s face and shoulders were. She was glad the animal was well trained enough to remain motionless.

‘Gavin,’ tis me, Jenna.’

‘Jenna? What the…? Ah, I passed out. It hurts.’ His voice was hoarse and his words nearly incoherent. ‘My head is…I’m upside down.’

‘Gavin,’ Duncan said, ‘I’m here and, if you will help, I’ll get you sitting in the saddle.’

‘Duncan?’

‘Yes, my friend. We are going to get you to safety, but I need your help.’

With a struggle that Jenna knew caused Gavin more discomfort, they got the wounded man straddling the horse. The animal stood its ground until they were done.

‘Much better,’ Gavin whispered.

Jenna held out a vial. ‘Drink this.’

Gavin gasped as he swallowed. ‘What is this?’

She smiled. ‘Whisky and laudanum. You will feel better for it.’

‘I’d best tie you to the saddle, then,’ Duncan said. ‘The last thing I want is for you to fall again and for me to have to get you back up on the horse.’

‘I’m fine,’ Gavin protested.

‘Then why are you shaking like a leaf in a storm?’ The Ferguson asked. ‘Better to be safe than to be regretful.’

Knowing she had done her best for Gavin, Jenna found a log and mounted. When she was settled, she studied the man who still stood close enough to catch her cousin if he slipped. His clothing clung in soaked folds to his body. Likely they would all be sick from this night’s work.

Without a word, she took the reins of Gavin’s horse and headed in the direction they had been travelling before coming upon her cousin. She didn’t wait for The Ferguson to follow. After watching him with Gavin, she didn’t doubt he would be close. It was obvious he cared for her cousin. She was thankful for that.

She sensed him moving behind them.

Jenna felt as though the weight of the world sat on her shoulders. Shivers racked her body and each gust of wind cut through her clothing like knives through butter. She knew Gavin felt worse. Her heart ached for her cousin.

Worse would be when he realised he had not made his escape across the water. Then there was his companion—The Ferguson. Hopefully the man would leave as soon as he helped her get Gavin safely into the priest hole.

Even as she thought that, she knew she didn’t really want him to go so quickly. He was the Scottish hero of Culloden. Tales of his derring-do circulated even amongst the English.

And she was not immune to him.

She should be. Even though she sympathised with the Scots, she had not supported Prince Charles Edward Stuart’s claim to the English throne. But neither did she believe the surviving Jacobites should be hunted like animals.

She sighed and wiped water from her brow and eyes and squinted into the murky distance. Being nearsighted, she thought she could just discern the hunchback outline of de Warre Castle against the night sky. Goodness knew it seemed they had been travelling long enough to cross the breadth of Cumbria, so they should be home.

A dark line of trees marked the road leading to the castle. Gravel crunched under the horses’ hooves. Soon.

‘Now the rain stops,’ she muttered, realising that for the first time this night water didn’t run in rivulets down her face. She heard The Ferguson chuckle, a deep, rich sound that made her entire body tingle.

‘Lucky for us it didn’t stop sooner. No one will even know we passed. The water will wash away any trace.’

‘Ahh, I had not thought of that.’

‘Subterfuge is not a way of life to you.’

The derision in his voice hurt, but she forced it aside. He was right.

But how to get Gavin into hiding without someone seeing? She didn’t worry about being seen out here. At this time of night no one would be looking outside. But when they went to the priest’s hole, they would be moving through the house. How much could she trust the servants?

And The Ferguson. He would not like being seen. He had made it clear he would kill to protect himself.

She edged closer to the man and whispered, ‘Follow me.’

Carefully picking their way by the sporadic light of the moon and stars, she went to the outside entrance of her stillroom. This was not the first time she was thankful she had had this door put in.

Stopping her mare, she lifted one leg over the saddle and slid to the ground, ignoring her skirts rucking high enough to show her boots and stockings. She pulled the heavy key from her pocket and opened the door.

The Ferguson followed her, Gavin in his arms. She made her way by the light from the banked fire to the tinder and candle she kept on the sill. It took several times before she had the candle lit.

She motioned to the same chair her cousin had sat in earlier. With more gentleness than she would have thought possible, the man laid Gavin down.

‘We must get him into dry clothes and warm. The priest hole is hollowed out of stone and cold. No place for a sick man, but ’tis the safest.’

He turned his head to look at her. ‘Fetch clothing while I undress him.’

She bit her lower lip. ‘He is unconscious now, but likely will rouse when you start moving him around.’ She took a deep breath to calm the apprehension she felt for Gavin. ‘He will be in great pain.’ For a moment she thought she saw tenderness move over the man’s rugged features.

‘There is nothing for it. Nor will it be the first time he has hurt.’

She nodded. ‘You fought with him, did you not?’

He stared at her, and she wondered what he saw in her face. ‘Aye. Side by side, like brothers.’

She realised he was telling her that her cousin would be safe with him although he could not keep Gavin from discomfort or worse. ‘I will be back shortly.’

She turned and fled from Gavin’s critical condition and from an emotion she did not want to examine. She was the daughter of Viscount Ayre, not a Jacobite sympathiser no matter that her mother had been Scottish and her beloved cousin was a convicted Jacobite. She would not side against her father no matter how she might sympathise with the Jacobites and secretly admire the daring of this man. She would not be attracted to a man who personified rebellion against the Crown.

The chill of the castle walls intensified her cold from the outdoors and the sopping clothes she still wore doubled her discomfort. She hurried on. She would change later. She had to fetch Papa’s old clothes, packed away in the trunks on the third floor. In his youth Papa had been Gavin’s size.

She did not want Papa to know what she did. He was a man of honour and loyal to the Hanoverian king. Much as Papa loved Gavin, it would torment him to know he sheltered a Jacobite—even a beloved Jacobite.

The race for the dry clothing helped her teeth stop chattering. She was partially warmed by her exertion by the time she returned to her stillroom.

A fire burned, its ruddy flames making Gavin look hot. He was wrapped in the shawl and a blanket she kept to ward off the cold, his modesty barely covered. His drenched clothes were a dark puddle on the floor.

She shut the door and locked it. They had got this far; the last thing they needed was to be discovered because it was in the small hours of the night and she had thought them safe and they were not.

‘At last.’ Irritation was a burr in The Ferguson’s voice. ‘I began to think something had happened to you.’

She looked at him. The light cast his face into angles and shadows. His mouth was a sensual curve, his eyes dark hollows. She realised anew how attractive he was.

‘I had to go to the top floor to find clothes so as not to waken anyone.’

He scowled. ‘He is worse.’

Her hands clenched, her nails going through the cloth she held. Kneeling down, she dropped the material and reached for Gavin. His forehead radiated heat.

‘He has a fever.’

‘I was afraid so.’ Worry made his voice harsh.

She spared a glance for the man. ‘I will not let anything happen to my cousin.’

‘So you are a miracle worker and would undo what the English have done.’ Bitter derision laced each word. ‘You, the daughter of Bloody Ayre. What if Gavin were not your cousin? Would you have saved him then or turned him over to the redcoats in the tavern?’

Her shoulders tensed at his name for her father, but she knew better than to argue. She could not win and Gavin needed help—now.

‘I have not the time for this.’ Rising, she moved to her work table. ‘Get him dressed.’ Without seeing if her order was being followed, she rummaged in her vials. She pulled the stopper from one. ‘This is laudanum. Added to what he has already had, it will keep him unconscious while I remove the bandage and clean his wound.’

She held it out. The Ferguson rose with a fluid grace that was more like that of a wild animal than of a man. She wondered if he had gained such power from fighting the English he hated so.

He had removed his gloves as she had, and when he took the glass from her their fingers touched. Tingles raced up her arm and she started. He pulled his hand back as though he had been stung. He turned his back on her.

Dazed, she spent a precious moment watching him. With his overcoat and jacket off, it was easy to see that his back was broad and his hips narrow. He was a fine figure of a man. Belatedly, she noted there was a black stain on his white shirt, as though mud had dripped from his wet hair.

Unwilling to continue pondering the man who had sparked her admiration for his bravery and daring from the first time she had heard of his exploits, she focused on her work. Gavin needed her.

She picked up the pot she kept ready and flung tea leaves into it. She filled it with water from a nearby bucket and hung the pot on an iron rail which she swung into the flames. In Gavin’s mug she put ground willow bark. It would be bitter, but it would help with the fever.

‘We can all use something hot. Gavin particularly. We need to warm him so he does not catch an inflammation. I see you found the blankets.’

He wrapped the woollen covers all around Gavin in spite of the heat from the fire. She noted that he had saved none for himself.

She fetched clean cloths and several herbs to make a poultice. After she laid everything down, she got a brace of candles, which she handed to The Ferguson.

‘I will need the extra light from these to see what I must do.’

He grunted as he took the brass holder. Wax dripped down the sides, but he managed to keep the candles angled so the hot material did not fall on Gavin.

Her cousin moaned as she wrestled with the soaked bandages.

‘It would be easier if you cut those off.’

‘You are right. I should have thought of that.’ Chagrin at her failure made her voice skip. She had been too self-conscious at his nearness. This was not like her.

‘No one is perfect,’ The Ferguson said softly. ‘Even you.’

Not knowing how to answer, she ignored his comment. All her life she had striven to be the best she was capable of. Nothing else was acceptable. That was Papa’s motto, and she had taken it as her own.

‘A knife is on my work table—will you get it, please?’

She sensed him standing and leaving. The fire still heated the side of her closest to it, but there was an emptiness on her other side, a coldness not born of temperature. More like loss.

She took several deep breaths and willed her fingers to be still. She was not normally fanciful.

‘Here.’ He held the knife, handle first, to her.

She took the sharp instrument from his hand, careful not to touch his fingers. She didn’t want to know if she would experience the same frisson of awareness that she had before when their skin had met.

Gingerly, she cut away the blood-and-water-soaked bandage. She could not smell rot in the wound, but knew it was too early. She must ensure that it stayed this way.

‘Please pour the tea,’ she said. ‘Mugs are on the shelf above.’

She was grateful that he did as directed without protest. Her mug he set on the fireplace grate. Gavin’s he gave to her.

She shook her head. ‘I need you to get it down him.’

Without waiting to see how effective he would be, she took one of the clean cloths and dipped it in the nearby bucket of water. Gently she cleansed the wound. Even sedated, Gavin began to move and groan. Some of the tea dribbled down his chin. The Ferguson stopped.

‘He needs it all. The warmth and the willow bark I put in it will help him.’

The Ferguson nodded and continued dripping the hot fluid into Gavin, wiping up what spilled.

She found the small knife where she had laid it near the fire. Using the tongs used to put coal on the fire, she picked up the knife handle and held the blade in the flames. She felt rather than saw The Ferguson tense, but he said nothing.

He had been in many battles and seen many men wounded. He knew what she intended. She would cauterise the flesh. Better pain now than lingering death from rot.

‘Please hold his shoulder.’

She pulled the knife from the fire and grasped it with a wad of cloth to protect her fingers from the heat. She took a deep breath to steady her hands and pressed the hot metal to Gavin’s skin.

The hot sizzle of burning flesh filled the room. Gavin’s eyes started open, and his body jerked beneath The Ferguson’s hold.

‘Hold still, Gavin,’ The Ferguson ordered, his deep baritone a soothing rumble that even Jenna started to obey before catching herself. ‘She needs to make sure there is no dead flesh to fester later.’

Moisture filled Gavin’s eyes, and his jaw clenched into harsh angles. But he stopped fighting.

Jenna finished as quickly as possible. The bleeding had also slowed with the burning. ‘Good.’ Her murmur was barely audible. ‘I am sorry, Gavin.’

He looked at her. ‘I know, Jen. I know.’ Exhaustion dragged his eyelids down, and his entire body relaxed.

She took another deep breath, this one shuddering as tears threatened. It was hard enough causing pain to someone she did not know or knew slightly, but to cause her beloved cousin such agony was hard to bear. But she knew it had been necessary.

‘I am going to bind you back up, Gavin, but first I want you to finish the tea.’ She nodded for The Ferguson to put the mug to Gavin’s lips. ‘You need the warmth. Then I am going to finish with you, and we are going to get you into hiding.’

Gavin drank greedily now that he was awake. Still some dribbled on to the blankets.

Over her cousin’s body, The Ferguson watched her. She felt uncomfortable at his intense scrutiny.

‘Have I blood somewhere?’ She wiped at her chin, then her cheek.

He shook his head. ‘I am trying to figure out how a woman who looks as though a stiff wind will blow her over has the strength you have shown tonight.’

She flushed, wishing she had a smudge instead of having him compliment her. ‘I only did what was necessary. Anyone would have.’

He shook his head again. ‘No, they would not. I have seen battle-hardened men balk at what you have done tonight.’

Heat engulfed her at his continued praise. ‘You exaggerate.’

He stared at her, his eyes first hazel, then tawny, depending on how the firelight reflected from them. Unable to continue under such study, she turned her head.

‘I will make sure none of the servants are about.’ She started to stand, only to have her legs refuse to cooperate. She was exhausted.

The Ferguson carefully laid Gavin back down before surging to his feet. He held his hand to Jenna. ‘Let me help you.’

She stared at his outstretched hand, not wanting to touch it. The last thing she needed in her current state was to have his help. She was too susceptible to him when he was threatening to kill her. How much more so would she be when he was being sympathetic? Too much.

‘Thank you,’ she muttered, ‘but I am fine.’

She reached for the stone-set fire surround and gripped one of the protruding rocks, intending to pull herself up. She didn’t realise he had moved with her until she felt his hands on her waist. His fingers felt like bands of iron as they closed over her softness.

‘You don’t wear stays,’ he said, his voice gruff as he lifted her as though she weighed nothing.

Her flush became a full-fledged blush. ‘That is none of your business.’

She turned to face him, only to find her nose level with his loosely tied and dirty neckcloth. Musk filled her senses. His scent. She shivered, but not with cold.

He released her and stood back. ‘Of course it is not the business of a gentleman, but I am no gentleman. I thought we had established that.’

She tilted her head and tried to stare down her nose at him. Papa did it so well. All she accomplished was to make him grin.

‘So we did. Now I must make sure it is safe to move Gavin.’ She paused and thought. ‘If I am not back by the time the clock strikes the half-hour, you must try to hide him here.’ She looked around. There was no place large enough to secrete him. ‘But I do not know where.’

‘We will manage if it comes to that.’

The gentleness in his voice caught her. She looked back at him. Something about the way he held himself, the look in his eye, as though nothing were impossible, gave her confidence in him. Likely it was this same quality that made him such a redoubtable commander and smuggler of hunted men. People would trust him and follow him.

She nodded. ‘Yes, yes, I am sure you will.’

She paused long enough to light another candle before bolting.


Chapter Four

Outside her stillroom it was quiet and chill. The priest’s hole was on the third floor, back in one of the oldest portions of the building. It would be dank and unhealthy, but for Gavin safer than a warm bed.

She paused at her room and gathered up coverlets and pillows and a chamber pot before continuing on her way. ’Twas hard to navigate with all the bedding and keep her candle flame from the material, but she managed. Need gave her strength.

She said a silent thank-you when no one was about. The priest’s hole was just off the staircase that led to the servants’ quarters. She paused, but heard nothing from above. There should be several hours before anyone stirred.

She put the bedding into the small area, closed the door that looked like another panel in a fully panelled room that had once been the lord’s bedchamber, and headed back. Her clothing was still damp and uncomfortable, made more so when she had put the bedding down and the cold air had hit her anew. She shivered and told herself to ignore her own discomfort.

Both men were where she had left them. Gavin even had some colour back in his cheeks, although she thought it was more from fever. Worry about his weakened state gnawed at her. She wanted to put him in a warm room with a comfortable bed and feed him hot tea and broth, but she could not do that. Everyone knew him and everyone knew what he had done.

She beckoned to The Ferguson. He picked up Gavin as though her cousin weighed nothing and followed. She hoped he could carry her cousin for the three flights of stairs, each one narrower than the one before.

Ten minutes later, seeing no one, they deposited Gavin on the makeshift bed. Gavin was unconscious. She set a bottle of laudanum beside him and a pitcher of water that she had laced with willow bark. Unless something untoward happened, she would not be able to return until tomorrow night after the family and servants had gone to bed.

With a worried frown, she pushed the damp russet hair from Gavin’s brow. He felt clammy, but there was nothing more she could do.

She stood and faced The Ferguson. Skirting around him, she told herself the warmth she felt was from her clothes finally starting to dry, not from his nearness. Safely past him, she motioned him out of the small chamber that had been crowded with just Gavin and heart-thumpingly so with the three of them.

She chided herself for being so susceptible to this man. It wasn’t even as though he did anything to entice her. If anything, it was the opposite. No woman in her right mind should be this attracted to a man who would kill her in a second without compunction if he felt she threatened his safety.

She spun on her heel and hurried back the way they had come.

He silently followed her.

She locked the stillroom door and turned to him. ‘Thank you. He would have died if you had not come with me.’

Now that the immediate work was done, reaction set in. Tears of relief and anxiety threatened to spill over. Somehow she held them at bay.

He was still as a pond on a summer evening. Still as she could never be. And yet, raw energy came off him in waves.

He reached out and touched her cheek. She felt moisture. Surely she had not cried. She was not the type. Yet when he pulled his hand away his finger sparkled in the warm glow of the fire.

‘I’m sorry,’ she muttered, more embarrassed. ‘I never cry.’

The excitement and fear of the night seemed to have seeped into her bones. She slumped, only to catch and draw herself up.

‘You have had a trying day. And he is not out of danger yet.’

‘I know.’ Her answer was a small sound, not at all like her normal assured tones. She had to do better than this. ‘He will get better. I know it.’

The Ferguson’s full, beautifully shaped mouth quirked up at one corner. He was the most devastatingly handsome man she had ever seen. Even if she had not known he was The Ferguson, she would have paused to look at him twice—once she got past the filth of his clothing, she reminded herself. It was a futile attempt to ease the attraction he exerted on her.

‘If you have any say, he will be mended by the morrow,’ he murmured. He crooked one finger under her chin and tipped her head up. His heavy lids were slumberous and his eyes were dark.

Anticipation began to curl in her stomach like the first tentative wisp of smoke in a new fire. He leaned down, and she knew he meant to kiss her. Again. She let him.

His mouth touched hers. This was not the harsh, conquering touch from the tavern, but an exploratory overture. She delighted in his touch.

His lips moved against her skin, inviting her to respond to him. She did not know what to do. He was the only man who had kissed her on the lips.

‘Open for me,’ he murmured, his voice husky.

She did and his tongue slipped in, then pulled out. His teeth nipped the inner corner of her lower lip, sending wisps of feeling coursing down to her stomach. The urge to touch him was nearly overpowering, but she was too inexperienced and instead locked her hands into fists at her side.

When he finally pulled away, she felt bereft. The warmth that had comforted her while he kissed her fled. Goosebumps broke out on her arms.

It was an effort to open her desire-weighted eyes, but she managed. He smiled down at her.

‘Thank you,’ he said, moving back and making her a formal leg that would have been the envy of any dandy.

She marvelled at his skills. ‘I… Will you be back to check on Gavin?’

His wonderful mouth twisted. ‘You must think me braver or more stupid than I am to come again into Bloody Ayre’s domain.’

She blanched. In her response to him, she had forgotten everything else. He had not. ‘No, I am the stupid one. It would be too dangerous. How will I get word to you when Gavin is well enough to leave?’

‘I will know.’ He did not elaborate. ‘But for now I’ll take his horse with me. That will be one less clue for the English soldiers when they come to pay their respects to your father.’

She nodded, prodding herself to move and follow him to the outside door in spite of the pain twisting in her stomach from his hard words. She should have remembered how he felt about Papa.

She still had to take her mare to the stable. Hopefully the horses had not taken any harm from the cold. When she went out, she saw he had covered all of them with extra blankets.

She stood for long moments, watching him as he mounted and rode into the still-dark morning. It would not be sunrise for some time. Feeling the bite of the weather that had turned to snow, she headed for the stables, her horse whickering in relief behind her.

Even though she was not adequately clothed, she barely felt the cold. It scared her to know that his kiss was the reason.

Jenna groaned and rolled on to her side. Her entire body ached and damp seemed permanently embedded in her bones in spite of the feather comforters piled on her bed like mounds of snow. Her head hurt, too.

The only good thing was that at least the warmth from his kiss had not lasted through her sleep. That would be too unnerving.

‘Miss Jenna,’ tis time ye was up.’ The sound of china and crystal added emphasis to the words. ‘There be a guest—unwelcome, but a guest nonetheless, and your father requests your presence. An English officer.’

Jenna recognised her maid’s voice. Lizzie Smith had been with her all her life, first as nanny and now as personal maid. The other woman had grown old in service.

‘An English officer?’

‘Aye.’

Surely it was not the redcoat from the Whore’s Eye. ’Twould be too great a coincidence. And yet, why not? Papa was retired from the King’s Army. But if it was the same man, he might recognise her. But she had kept the hood of her cape up. Hadn’t she? She could not remember. And there were precious few redheads around.

What a muddle. Perhaps she would have Lizzie powder her hair, even though it was usually done only for formal occasions. The man might not have seen her clearly enough. And she had been drenched and bedraggled. Nor would he expect to see the woman of last night here. It might be enough disguise.

Jenna levered herself up, wincing at the stiffness in her muscles. She had done too much lifting last night with Gavin, but there had been no acceptable alternative. She hoped her cousin was comfortable until she could get to him.

‘What time is it, Lizzie?’ The clock was on the bed table beside her, too close for her to see clearly without her glasses. She had left them on her work table.

The older woman turned her ruddy, lined face to Jenna. Frizzed white hair framed her round cheeks. ‘Past eleven.’

‘What?’ Jenna bolted upright, ignoring the insistent twinge of her abused body. ‘Eleven! I never sleep past eight, even in the winter.’

‘Not normally, no.’ Lizzie moved to plump the pillows behind Jenna. ‘But Joshua says you were out late last night with a birthing. It must have been a difficult one.’

The maid lifted one eyebrow, waiting for Jenna to explain where she had been. Joshua was the stable boy who must have seen her horse gone.

Jenna took a breath and told her lie, unable to meet Lizzie’s eyes. ‘It was a premature call. The babe is near and the father got overexcited.’ She smiled as though the falsehood was truth.

Lizzie snickered. ‘Ever like a man to rush things.’

Jenna flushed. No stranger to what happened between a man and a woman, she understood her maid’s underlying meaning. More times than she could count, she had heard women whispering how a man wanted his pleasure with no regard for the woman. And then look where it landed her, and with none of the delights to make up for the pain and danger.

And yet…she felt the phantom touch of The Ferguson’s mouth on hers. Her toes curled and her breath caught.

To cover her reaction, she pushed back the covers and swung her feet off the bed. Chill air hit her. She grabbed for her nearby woollen robe and hustled into it before going to the fire. She extended her hands and turned slow circles, hoping the warmth would wipe out the tingle she still felt from the memory of Duncan’s kiss.

‘What have you laid out for me to wear?’ Better to think of something different.

Lizzie picked up a teal-satin pet-en-l’air jacket trimmed with heavy lace. There was a quilted cream-satin petticoat and lace-edged kerchief lying on a nearby chair. A matching round-eared muslin cap completed the outfit. Jenna smiled her approval. Simple as she liked, yet warm enough for the winter day after she layered her chemise and another petticoat under it all.

‘That should be perfect.’

‘I should say so.’ Lizzie sniffed. ‘I might not be French trained or spend months in London, miss, but I know what’s proper.’ She cast a look at Jenna. ‘And what becomes you.’

‘True. You have a good eye.’ Not everything looked equally well with Jenna’s ginger hair and freckles.

Ah, freckles. She crossed the room to her mirror and wash basin and peered at her reflection. Muddy brown splotches marched across her nose. She reached for the milk wash and set about scrubbing her face.

Lizzie harrumphed. ‘No matter how you rub, those won’t come off, Miss Jen. I doan care what the advertisement says.’

Jenna rinsed with ice-cold water, her teeth chattering. Her complexion glowed like polished glass, but the freckles remained. She groaned. Now she looked like a milkmaid.

‘Best I dress.’ She did not try to hide her disappointment. Lizzie knew how she hated the brown spots. ‘Papa is likely getting impatient.’

‘Hah! He was impatient when he sent me to waken you.’ Lizzie picked up the freshly cleaned and ironed chemise as Jenna stepped out of her nightdress.

‘Oh, dear.’ Jenna hated upsetting Papa. He was so loving that she did everything she could to ease his day. Keeping him waiting was not what she normally did.

‘Here, now.’ Lizzie held out the stays.

Jenna groaned. She preferred to go without as The Ferguson had discovered last night. But when she couldn’t…

She sucked in her breath and held it. It was her little rebellion. Lizzie pulled the stays tight and secured them. Only when she was sure the maid was done did Jenna let her breath out. This way her stays were always a little looser than they would otherwise be. She might not have the smallest waist, but she was more comfortable than most women and she did not believe that having a tiny waist was worth not being able to breathe properly.

Except… The memory of The Ferguson lifting her last night and commenting on her lack of stays brought heat to her already rosy cheeks. She had felt so vulnerable, actually feeling the print of each of his fingers along her waist. Stays kept a woman from feeling much when touched. But last night, she had felt everything. She shivered.

‘I’ll have you dressed in just another moment, and you’ll be much warmer.’

Jenna grinned at Lizzie’s mistaken understanding. ‘Thank you.’

Once she was dressed, Jenna sat for Lizzie to style her hair. The maid wound Jenna’s curls close to the head as fashion dictated.

In her best, nonchalant tone, Jenna drawled, ‘I believe I would like it powdered this morning.’

Lizzie’s eyes opened wide. ‘I must have heard you wrong, miss.’

Jenna resisted the urge to grit her teeth. ‘No, you did not. I want it powdered this morning.’

Lizzie shook her head. ‘Even I know that isn’t done.’ She raised one grey brow. ‘And even when it should be done, you refuse.’

Jenna lifted her chin. ‘I can and will do exactly as I please, thank you.’

Lizzie met Jenna’s eyes in the mirror. ‘You always were stubborn when you set your mind to something.’

Jenna forced a tight smile. ‘Yes. And I intend to do as I please, not as fashion dictates.’

With a sigh of resignation, Lizzie fetched the flour and the cape to put around Jenna’s shoulders to protect her clothing. Several breath-holding, eyes-squeezed-shut minutes later, it was done. Lizzie pinned the muslin cap with teal ribbons on Jenna’s now-white hair. Her toilette was finished, except for teal stockings and plain black leather shoes that were both comfortable and practical.

‘You’ll do,’ Lizzie said proudly. ‘In spite of the hair,’ she added in an affronted undertone.

Jenna ignored the last comment. A glance in the mirror told her she looked as well as could be expected, even if she was slightly outrageous with the powdered hair. She would never be a beauty, but she was clean and well groomed in a casual way that suited her. And the powdered hair suited her complexion.

More importantly, she did not look like the drenched rat from the Whore’s Eye last night.

She stood and smoothed down her skirt. ‘Then I will be on my way.’

Unwilling to let her charge go without gilding, Lizzie stopped her. ‘You should wear that strand of pearls your mama left you.’ She gave her a sly look. ‘They would go very nicely with the hair.’

Jenna froze. She dared not let Lizzie—or anyone—see that her jewellery was missing. The pieces should be with Gavin’s horse, which was with The Ferguson. What a tangle the disguise of the hair had created.

She waved her hand in a dismissive way. ‘Oh, that would be too much. I am not dressing for Papa’s guest.’

Lizzie arched one greying eyebrow. ‘What if he’s an eligible bachelor?’

‘I am not looking for a marriage partner, Lizzie, and you know that. Papa needs me.’

Lizzie sniffed. ‘Iff’n you ask me,’ twould be the best thing for both of you.’

‘Well, I am not asking you.’

Until meeting The Ferguson, Jenna had never been interested in men except as patients and friends. And after last night, the last man she would find intriguing was an English soldier. While she had never considered herself a Jacobite, in spite of knowing her cousin was one, seeing how the English tracked down men like Gavin, she began to have more sympathy for the hunted fugitives and less for the English.

This was still uppermost in her mind when Jenna paused at the heavy oak door to the parlour. Surely the English officer from last night was not here, and she had sat through the torture of powdering her hair for naught. Her luck could not be that horrible for he would recognise her even with her hair powdered. Surely.

Burke, the butler, had followed her once she entered the foyer. He bowed his wig-covered head, the wrinkles at his eyes and mouth pronounced, and opened the door. ‘Miss de Warre.’

Jenna gave him a small smile as she swept into the room, her voluminous skirt swishing before her and falling behind her like a wave of cream. From the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of crimson. Tension engulfed her. She kept her gaze on her parent and her chin up.

‘Papa, I hope I have not kept you waiting.’

Viscount Ayre stood. He was a tall man, slim and straight with just a hint of a stomach. His eyes were a deep, kindly brown. His skin was swarthy and his hair dark. She had inherited her colouring from her mother.

Papa held out both hands. She put her fingers in her father’s warm palms, barely managing not to grasp at the security he always made her feel.

She sensed the other man rise, and only then did she turn to face him. Seller. Her smile felt frozen on her face, and she would swear the blood drained from her cheeks. Somewhere she found the strength to pull her fingers from Papa’s safe clasp.

‘Jenna,’ Papa said, ‘I would like to present Captain Lord Seller. He is here in command of a garrison.’

She made the other man a shallow curtsy. ‘My lord.’

He bowed to her, his fashionable bag wig, so popular with military men, and well-fitted red uniform lending him an air of distinction. ‘Miss de Warre, my pleasure to finally meet you in person.’

She kept the smile on her face, wondering when he would denounce her and demand to know what she had been doing at the Whore’s Eye last night. When he continued to gaze at her, one dark brow raised as though he wondered at her perusal, she turned away and sank into a chair that was thankfully close enough so she did not have to move. Her legs would not hold her long enough to go elsewhere.

‘How delightful to have the English army here, Captain Lord Seller.’ She finally managed the words, glad she had not had her stays laced tightly. The room seemed closed and tight enough without having the added difficulty of breathing.

It was all she could do to keep her fingers from shaking. If he suspected her of anything, he would demand to search the house. She was not sure the priest hole would go undetected. Nor did she want Papa implicated in the treason she perpetrated with Gavin.

Seller waited until Papa sat back down before sitting himself. His manners were impeccable.’ Twas too bad he was the enemy.

His bearing was much like Papa’s, which was to be expected, both having a career in the military. From there they diverged. Seller was shorter and slighter, yet with an air of wiry strength that she felt sure stood him in good stead when using a sword. His eyes were a piercing blue and his brows black as night. His mouth was thin and his jaw straight. He was the epitome of an English soldier.

‘No one can be more delighted than I am, Miss de Warre, now that I see what the country has to offer,’ he murmured, his tenor voice smooth and pleasant.

And still he did not denounce her. Perhaps he had not seen her clearly last night. Perhaps she was safe.

Jenna narrowed her eyes at his comment, which could be taken many ways. She chose to take it literally.’ Twas easier. ‘Ah, then you must have been here for some time and had the opportunity to see how beautiful Cumbria can be even as winter closes in on us.’

‘Unfortunately, no. I only returned yesterday.’ A sly smile tugged at his well-shaped lips.

She tensed, but when he said nothing more she focused on his lips, which she thought too thin. Not like The Ferguson’s sensual mouth. She blinked at her erratic thought. Never in her life had she thought of a man’s lips before. What was happening to her?

Papa drew her attention back to the moment. ‘Captain Lord Seller is here because rumours have reached London that Jacobites are fleeing here before seeking transport to France. He is not here for pleasure, Jenna.’

She concentrated on keeping her hands relaxed in her lap even though her tendency was to twist the fringe of the shawl around her shoulders. Did Seller know about Gavin? Was that why he was visiting them? Surely not, or he would not be here on what appeared to be a social visit, but would be scouring the countryside or turning their home inside out.

It was an effort to act as though she cared nothing about the man’s mission. A woman of her position would only be concerned if she felt threatened, and there was no reason for her to feel that.

So she played the social role. ‘That is too bad, my lord. You will be too busy to participate in the round of festivities the winter season brings. With Christmas just past, we must find other divertissements.’

Seller looked at her papa before returning his attention to her. ‘I will be occupied, but not to the point that I won’t be able to accept invitations. Just not as many as I might like.’

Burke entered with a silver platter that held a cream-coloured card. He gave it to Papa, who read it quickly.

‘It seems we have more company. I had not expected them today, but no matter.’ Papa turned to the butler. ‘Please show them in.’

Burke bowed and left. Jenna raised a brow, wondering who was here. They rarely had guests this early in the day and now more visitors within an hour of each other.

The butler returned and announced, ‘Mrs McNabb and Lord Byrne.’

A lady glided into the room followed by a gentleman. Jenna’s gaze passed over the woman to stare at Lord Byrne.

Even though it was early in the day and in the country where clothing was casual and practical, he wore a peacock-blue velvet coat over a silver silk waistcoat that was embroidered with metallic threads in the shape and colours of the bird he resembled. Black pantaloons and silk stockings completed his toilette. Diamanté buckles secured his shoes. He would fit perfectly into a crowded London ballroom.

Were it a sunny day, he would have blinded her—and she was used to dandies. One of their neighbours had a son who thought himself the epitome of the London man about town. But Lord Byrne had an air about him that argued against the effete stance of one well-shod foot in front of the other as he made his bow, an elaborate fan flicking as though the room were too hot when it was really very cool.

Instead of a wig, his hair was curled and powdered until it was the colour of storm clouds. A black ribbon held the queue and wrapped back around and tied over the stock and ruffle at his neck.

A heart patch, perched on the corner of his full, well-shaped mouth, drew her attention to that attractive attribute. It was disconcerting to find that Lord Byrne’s lips reminded her of The Ferguson’s.

Once again, she remembered last night’s second kiss. Just the thought made her flush; the room suddenly too warm for comfort. She closed her eyes and willed herself to stop this foolishness. It had been a kiss. Nothing more.

When she looked again, Lord Byrne was studying her with an intensity that belied his costume. Thick sable-coloured brows and lashes gave him a sultry look in keeping with his full sensual mouth. His eyes were hazel.

Except for the colour of his hair and his clothing, he reminded her of The Ferguson. She frowned.

‘Viscount Ayre,’ a woman’s low voice said, interrupting Jenna’s thought.

Jenna forced herself to look away from the man who she was sure was much more than the dandy he played and looked at the woman who accompanied him. She had forgotten Mrs McNabb in her reaction to Lord Byrne.

The woman was older, yet still beautiful. Tall and willowy, she carried herself with grace. Her skin was porcelain fair with a small tracing of lines around her eyes and lips.

She was very similar to Lord Byrne in colouring and features, likely his mother. There the similarity ended. Her dress was more conservative. Her clothing was much like Jenna’s, only in golds and browns. Her blond hair was not powdered under the muslin cap.

She was a distinguished woman, who also looked tired and worn. Jenna wondered what tragedy had aged her early, but doubted she would ever know. Jenna rose to meet Mrs McNabb, mindful of her manners.

Papa stood. ‘Mrs McNabb, welcome to de Warre Castle.’

She nodded regally. ‘Thank you for receiving us on such short notice.’

Papa smiled. ‘My pleasure, madam. May I introduce you to Captain Lord Seller? The Captain is here to protect us.’

Jenna started at what she thought was a hint of sarcasm in Papa’s voice. Surely not. He of all people would believe that Captain Seller truly would protect them.

‘Seller, I had not thought to find you this far away from London.’ Lord Byrne’s melodious baritone seemed to float across the room as he made his languid way to the soldier. ‘The last time I saw you, you were in his Majesty’s private guard.’

‘Ah, Byrne.’ Seller’s tone was a sneer. ‘I see you have not changed.’

Lord Byrne stopped and drew himself up. ‘Of course not. Why should I?’ He snapped his fan shut, but the look in his eyes was cold. ‘I am happy with the person I am.’

Seller lifted one black brow. ‘I see. What brings you to the wilds of Cumbria? I had thought you never likely to leave London.’

Lord Byrne yawned behind his fan. ‘We are rusticating. Mother had a penchant for the country, so I bought a hunting lodge. Nothing major.’

‘Captain Seller,’ Mrs McNabb intervened, ‘how nice to see you again. It has been a long time.’

The Captain turned to her. ‘Madam.’ He bowed. ‘The pleasure is mine.’

The butler re-entered with a tea tray and cakes. There was stronger drink for the men. This far north, they observed the niceties when it pleased them and ignored them when it did not.

Mrs McNabb and Lord Byrne sat in chairs opposite Jenna and her father. Burke built up the fire.

‘Viscount Ayre and Miss de Warre,’ Mrs McNabb said, ‘we would like to invite you to a dinner in a fortnight.’ She pulled a gilt-edged envelope from her muff and handed it to Jenna’s father. ‘A house warming.’ With a gracious smile, she turned to Seller. ‘Captain Seller, you are also invited, although, since I did not know you were here, I don’t have an invitation. If you give me your direction, I will send one.’

There was silence for long minutes while Seller watched Viscount Ayre. Something was about. Jenna’s stomach started to twist.

Finally, when Jenna thought she would tear her shawl with her nervous twisting, her father said, ‘Captain Seller will be staying here.’

Jenna was thankful she already sat, otherwise she might have made a spectacle of herself. As it was, shock gave her fingers added impetus and the sound of her nails ripping through the fabric of her shawl seemed very loud to her ears in the silence following his announcement.

Her father turned an apologetic smile to her. ‘I meant to tell you later, my dear.’

She nodded. ‘I will notify Mrs Joiner, Papa.’

She hoped the unease she felt about the English soldier being billeted with them did not show in her voice. This would make it doubly hard to care for Gavin. It was now too dangerous for her cousin to stay here. She would find Seller a room as far from the priest hole as possible, but something must be done.

‘That is easily settled, then,’ Mrs McNabb said. ‘I will have an invitation brought round for Captain Seller.’

Jenna forced a smile, thankful everyone was done with their tea, drink and cakes. Manners bade them leave shortly, even Seller, who was not yet billeted with them.

Something made her glance at Lord Byrne. He watched her with an intentness that belied the casual negligence of his pose. There was a coiled energy about him even though he seemed to lounge against his chair. When he realised she returned his attention, his mouth curled up faintly.

She blinked, taken aback by his attraction. Did he know how devastating he was? The knowing look in his eyes said he did. She flushed and looked away, feeling like a schoolroom miss caught in the grownups’ circle and ignorant of how to go on.

It was a disconcerting feeling for a woman of five and twenty.

Thankfully, Mrs McNabb chose that moment to stand. ‘We must be going, Lord Ayre.’

She held her hand out to the viscount, who took the delicate white fingers and raised them to his lips. A large blood-red ruby graced the third finger of her left hand.

‘My pleasure,’ he said, genuine pleasure in his tone. ‘I look forward to dinner.’

Jenna gave him a piercing look. Her father was always polite. He was rarely as delighted as the smile on his face implied.

They were no sooner quit of the room than Seller rose. ‘I too must take my leave.’ He made a bow to Jenna. ‘Miss de Warre, I am delighted to meet you again. I hope to further our acquaintance.’ He turned to her father. ‘My lord, thank you for your hospitality.’

Viscount Ayre stood easily. ‘I am glad to be of service to the Crown.’

‘Yes, sir. I will return later in the day with my belongings.’ Captain Seller made a quick exit.

It took all Jenna’s self-control not to rush from the room. She had to select a bedchamber for Seller, and she needed to check on Gavin. Even though it was day time and she had not planned to visit Gavin until night, her nerves were strung tight with knowing the soldier would soon live here.




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