Читать книгу Her Rebel Lord - Georgina Devon - Страница 8

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.