Her Rebel Lord

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.