Читать книгу Her Rebel Lord - Georgina Devon - Страница 6

Chapter One

1746 De Warre Castle, near Carlisle and the Scottish 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.