Her Rebel Lord

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.’