Her Rebel Lord

‘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.’