Читать книгу Her Rebel Lord - Georgina Devon - Страница 8

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.’

Surely it was not the redcoat from the Whore’s Eye. ’Twould be too great a coincidence. And yet, why not? Papa was retired from the King’s Army. But if it was the same man, he might recognise her. But she had kept the hood of her cape up. Hadn’t she? She could not remember. And there were precious few redheads around.

What a muddle. Perhaps she would have Lizzie powder her hair, even though it was usually done only for formal occasions. The man might not have seen her clearly enough. And she had been drenched and bedraggled. Nor would he expect to see the woman of last night here. It might be enough disguise.

Jenna levered herself up, wincing at the stiffness in her muscles. She had done too much lifting last night with Gavin, but there had been no acceptable alternative. She hoped her cousin was comfortable until she could get to him.

‘What time is it, Lizzie?’ The clock was on the bed table beside her, too close for her to see clearly without her glasses. She had left them on her work table.

The older woman turned her ruddy, lined face to Jenna. Frizzed white hair framed her round cheeks. ‘Past eleven.’

‘What?’ Jenna bolted upright, ignoring the insistent twinge of her abused body. ‘Eleven! I never sleep past eight, even in the winter.’

‘Not normally, no.’ Lizzie moved to plump the pillows behind Jenna. ‘But Joshua says you were out late last night with a birthing. It must have been a difficult one.’

The maid lifted one eyebrow, waiting for Jenna to explain where she had been. Joshua was the stable boy who must have seen her horse gone.

Jenna took a breath and told her lie, unable to meet Lizzie’s eyes. ‘It was a premature call. The babe is near and the father got overexcited.’ She smiled as though the falsehood was truth.

Lizzie snickered. ‘Ever like a man to rush things.’

Jenna flushed. No stranger to what happened between a man and a woman, she understood her maid’s underlying meaning. More times than she could count, she had heard women whispering how a man wanted his pleasure with no regard for the woman. And then look where it landed her, and with none of the delights to make up for the pain and danger.

And yet…she felt the phantom touch of The Ferguson’s mouth on hers. Her toes curled and her breath caught.

To cover her reaction, she pushed back the covers and swung her feet off the bed. Chill air hit her. She grabbed for her nearby woollen robe and hustled into it before going to the fire. She extended her hands and turned slow circles, hoping the warmth would wipe out the tingle she still felt from the memory of Duncan’s kiss.

‘What have you laid out for me to wear?’ Better to think of something different.

Lizzie picked up a teal-satin pet-en-l’air jacket trimmed with heavy lace. There was a quilted cream-satin petticoat and lace-edged kerchief lying on a nearby chair. A matching round-eared muslin cap completed the outfit. Jenna smiled her approval. Simple as she liked, yet warm enough for the winter day after she layered her chemise and another petticoat under it all.

‘That should be perfect.’

‘I should say so.’ Lizzie sniffed. ‘I might not be French trained or spend months in London, miss, but I know what’s proper.’ She cast a look at Jenna. ‘And what becomes you.’

‘True. You have a good eye.’ Not everything looked equally well with Jenna’s ginger hair and freckles.

Ah, freckles. She crossed the room to her mirror and wash basin and peered at her reflection. Muddy brown splotches marched across her nose. She reached for the milk wash and set about scrubbing her face.

Lizzie harrumphed. ‘No matter how you rub, those won’t come off, Miss Jen. I doan care what the advertisement says.’

Jenna rinsed with ice-cold water, her teeth chattering. Her complexion glowed like polished glass, but the freckles remained. She groaned. Now she looked like a milkmaid.

‘Best I dress.’ She did not try to hide her disappointment. Lizzie knew how she hated the brown spots. ‘Papa is likely getting impatient.’

‘Hah! He was impatient when he sent me to waken you.’ Lizzie picked up the freshly cleaned and ironed chemise as Jenna stepped out of her nightdress.

‘Oh, dear.’ Jenna hated upsetting Papa. He was so loving that she did everything she could to ease his day. Keeping him waiting was not what she normally did.

‘Here, now.’ Lizzie held out the stays.

Jenna groaned. She preferred to go without as The Ferguson had discovered last night. But when she couldn’t…

She sucked in her breath and held it. It was her little rebellion. Lizzie pulled the stays tight and secured them. Only when she was sure the maid was done did Jenna let her breath out. This way her stays were always a little looser than they would otherwise be. She might not have the smallest waist, but she was more comfortable than most women and she did not believe that having a tiny waist was worth not being able to breathe properly.

Except… The memory of The Ferguson lifting her last night and commenting on her lack of stays brought heat to her already rosy cheeks. She had felt so vulnerable, actually feeling the print of each of his fingers along her waist. Stays kept a woman from feeling much when touched. But last night, she had felt everything. She shivered.

‘I’ll have you dressed in just another moment, and you’ll be much warmer.’

Jenna grinned at Lizzie’s mistaken understanding. ‘Thank you.’

Once she was dressed, Jenna sat for Lizzie to style her hair. The maid wound Jenna’s curls close to the head as fashion dictated.

In her best, nonchalant tone, Jenna drawled, ‘I believe I would like it powdered this morning.’

Lizzie’s eyes opened wide. ‘I must have heard you wrong, miss.’

Jenna resisted the urge to grit her teeth. ‘No, you did not. I want it powdered this morning.’

Lizzie shook her head. ‘Even I know that isn’t done.’ She raised one grey brow. ‘And even when it should be done, you refuse.’

Jenna lifted her chin. ‘I can and will do exactly as I please, thank you.’

Lizzie met Jenna’s eyes in the mirror. ‘You always were stubborn when you set your mind to something.’

Jenna forced a tight smile. ‘Yes. And I intend to do as I please, not as fashion dictates.’

With a sigh of resignation, Lizzie fetched the flour and the cape to put around Jenna’s shoulders to protect her clothing. Several breath-holding, eyes-squeezed-shut minutes later, it was done. Lizzie pinned the muslin cap with teal ribbons on Jenna’s now-white hair. Her toilette was finished, except for teal stockings and plain black leather shoes that were both comfortable and practical.

‘You’ll do,’ Lizzie said proudly. ‘In spite of the hair,’ she added in an affronted undertone.

Jenna ignored the last comment. A glance in the mirror told her she looked as well as could be expected, even if she was slightly outrageous with the powdered hair. She would never be a beauty, but she was clean and well groomed in a casual way that suited her. And the powdered hair suited her complexion.

More importantly, she did not look like the drenched rat from the Whore’s Eye last night.

She stood and smoothed down her skirt. ‘Then I will be on my way.’

Unwilling to let her charge go without gilding, Lizzie stopped her. ‘You should wear that strand of pearls your mama left you.’ She gave her a sly look. ‘They would go very nicely with the hair.’

Jenna froze. She dared not let Lizzie—or anyone—see that her jewellery was missing. The pieces should be with Gavin’s horse, which was with The Ferguson. What a tangle the disguise of the hair had created.

She waved her hand in a dismissive way. ‘Oh, that would be too much. I am not dressing for Papa’s guest.’

Lizzie arched one greying eyebrow. ‘What if he’s an eligible bachelor?’

‘I am not looking for a marriage partner, Lizzie, and you know that. Papa needs me.’

Lizzie sniffed. ‘Iff’n you ask me,’ twould be the best thing for both of you.’

‘Well, I am not asking you.’

Until meeting The Ferguson, Jenna had never been interested in men except as patients and friends. And after last night, the last man she would find intriguing was an English soldier. While she had never considered herself a Jacobite, in spite of knowing her cousin was one, seeing how the English tracked down men like Gavin, she began to have more sympathy for the hunted fugitives and less for the English.

This was still uppermost in her mind when Jenna paused at the heavy oak door to the parlour. Surely the English officer from last night was not here, and she had sat through the torture of powdering her hair for naught. Her luck could not be that horrible for he would recognise her even with her hair powdered. Surely.

Burke, the butler, had followed her once she entered the foyer. He bowed his wig-covered head, the wrinkles at his eyes and mouth pronounced, and opened the door. ‘Miss de Warre.’

Jenna gave him a small smile as she swept into the room, her voluminous skirt swishing before her and falling behind her like a wave of cream. From the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of crimson. Tension engulfed her. She kept her gaze on her parent and her chin up.

‘Papa, I hope I have not kept you waiting.’

Viscount Ayre stood. He was a tall man, slim and straight with just a hint of a stomach. His eyes were a deep, kindly brown. His skin was swarthy and his hair dark. She had inherited her colouring from her mother.

Papa held out both hands. She put her fingers in her father’s warm palms, barely managing not to grasp at the security he always made her feel.

She sensed the other man rise, and only then did she turn to face him. Seller. Her smile felt frozen on her face, and she would swear the blood drained from her cheeks. Somewhere she found the strength to pull her fingers from Papa’s safe clasp.

‘Jenna,’ Papa said, ‘I would like to present Captain Lord Seller. He is here in command of a garrison.’

She made the other man a shallow curtsy. ‘My lord.’

He bowed to her, his fashionable bag wig, so popular with military men, and well-fitted red uniform lending him an air of distinction. ‘Miss de Warre, my pleasure to finally meet you in person.’

She kept the smile on her face, wondering when he would denounce her and demand to know what she had been doing at the Whore’s Eye last night. When he continued to gaze at her, one dark brow raised as though he wondered at her perusal, she turned away and sank into a chair that was thankfully close enough so she did not have to move. Her legs would not hold her long enough to go elsewhere.

‘How delightful to have the English army here, Captain Lord Seller.’ She finally managed the words, glad she had not had her stays laced tightly. The room seemed closed and tight enough without having the added difficulty of breathing.

It was all she could do to keep her fingers from shaking. If he suspected her of anything, he would demand to search the house. She was not sure the priest hole would go undetected. Nor did she want Papa implicated in the treason she perpetrated with Gavin.

Seller waited until Papa sat back down before sitting himself. His manners were impeccable.’ Twas too bad he was the enemy.

His bearing was much like Papa’s, which was to be expected, both having a career in the military. From there they diverged. Seller was shorter and slighter, yet with an air of wiry strength that she felt sure stood him in good stead when using a sword. His eyes were a piercing blue and his brows black as night. His mouth was thin and his jaw straight. He was the epitome of an English soldier.

‘No one can be more delighted than I am, Miss de Warre, now that I see what the country has to offer,’ he murmured, his tenor voice smooth and pleasant.

And still he did not denounce her. Perhaps he had not seen her clearly last night. Perhaps she was safe.

Jenna narrowed her eyes at his comment, which could be taken many ways. She chose to take it literally.’ Twas easier. ‘Ah, then you must have been here for some time and had the opportunity to see how beautiful Cumbria can be even as winter closes in on us.’

‘Unfortunately, no. I only returned yesterday.’ A sly smile tugged at his well-shaped lips.

She tensed, but when he said nothing more she focused on his lips, which she thought too thin. Not like The Ferguson’s sensual mouth. She blinked at her erratic thought. Never in her life had she thought of a man’s lips before. What was happening to her?

Papa drew her attention back to the moment. ‘Captain Lord Seller is here because rumours have reached London that Jacobites are fleeing here before seeking transport to France. He is not here for pleasure, Jenna.’

She concentrated on keeping her hands relaxed in her lap even though her tendency was to twist the fringe of the shawl around her shoulders. Did Seller know about Gavin? Was that why he was visiting them? Surely not, or he would not be here on what appeared to be a social visit, but would be scouring the countryside or turning their home inside out.

It was an effort to act as though she cared nothing about the man’s mission. A woman of her position would only be concerned if she felt threatened, and there was no reason for her to feel that.

So she played the social role. ‘That is too bad, my lord. You will be too busy to participate in the round of festivities the winter season brings. With Christmas just past, we must find other divertissements.’

Seller looked at her papa before returning his attention to her. ‘I will be occupied, but not to the point that I won’t be able to accept invitations. Just not as many as I might like.’

Burke entered with a silver platter that held a cream-coloured card. He gave it to Papa, who read it quickly.

‘It seems we have more company. I had not expected them today, but no matter.’ Papa turned to the butler. ‘Please show them in.’

Burke bowed and left. Jenna raised a brow, wondering who was here. They rarely had guests this early in the day and now more visitors within an hour of each other.

The butler returned and announced, ‘Mrs McNabb and Lord Byrne.’

A lady glided into the room followed by a gentleman. Jenna’s gaze passed over the woman to stare at Lord Byrne.

Even though it was early in the day and in the country where clothing was casual and practical, he wore a peacock-blue velvet coat over a silver silk waistcoat that was embroidered with metallic threads in the shape and colours of the bird he resembled. Black pantaloons and silk stockings completed his toilette. Diamanté buckles secured his shoes. He would fit perfectly into a crowded London ballroom.

Were it a sunny day, he would have blinded her—and she was used to dandies. One of their neighbours had a son who thought himself the epitome of the London man about town. But Lord Byrne had an air about him that argued against the effete stance of one well-shod foot in front of the other as he made his bow, an elaborate fan flicking as though the room were too hot when it was really very cool.

Instead of a wig, his hair was curled and powdered until it was the colour of storm clouds. A black ribbon held the queue and wrapped back around and tied over the stock and ruffle at his neck.

A heart patch, perched on the corner of his full, well-shaped mouth, drew her attention to that attractive attribute. It was disconcerting to find that Lord Byrne’s lips reminded her of The Ferguson’s.

Once again, she remembered last night’s second kiss. Just the thought made her flush; the room suddenly too warm for comfort. She closed her eyes and willed herself to stop this foolishness. It had been a kiss. Nothing more.

When she looked again, Lord Byrne was studying her with an intensity that belied his costume. Thick sable-coloured brows and lashes gave him a sultry look in keeping with his full sensual mouth. His eyes were hazel.

Except for the colour of his hair and his clothing, he reminded her of The Ferguson. She frowned.

‘Viscount Ayre,’ a woman’s low voice said, interrupting Jenna’s thought.

Jenna forced herself to look away from the man who she was sure was much more than the dandy he played and looked at the woman who accompanied him. She had forgotten Mrs McNabb in her reaction to Lord Byrne.

The woman was older, yet still beautiful. Tall and willowy, she carried herself with grace. Her skin was porcelain fair with a small tracing of lines around her eyes and lips.

She was very similar to Lord Byrne in colouring and features, likely his mother. There the similarity ended. Her dress was more conservative. Her clothing was much like Jenna’s, only in golds and browns. Her blond hair was not powdered under the muslin cap.

She was a distinguished woman, who also looked tired and worn. Jenna wondered what tragedy had aged her early, but doubted she would ever know. Jenna rose to meet Mrs McNabb, mindful of her manners.

Papa stood. ‘Mrs McNabb, welcome to de Warre Castle.’

She nodded regally. ‘Thank you for receiving us on such short notice.’

Papa smiled. ‘My pleasure, madam. May I introduce you to Captain Lord Seller? The Captain is here to protect us.’

Jenna started at what she thought was a hint of sarcasm in Papa’s voice. Surely not. He of all people would believe that Captain Seller truly would protect them.

‘Seller, I had not thought to find you this far away from London.’ Lord Byrne’s melodious baritone seemed to float across the room as he made his languid way to the soldier. ‘The last time I saw you, you were in his Majesty’s private guard.’

‘Ah, Byrne.’ Seller’s tone was a sneer. ‘I see you have not changed.’

Lord Byrne stopped and drew himself up. ‘Of course not. Why should I?’ He snapped his fan shut, but the look in his eyes was cold. ‘I am happy with the person I am.’

Seller lifted one black brow. ‘I see. What brings you to the wilds of Cumbria? I had thought you never likely to leave London.’

Lord Byrne yawned behind his fan. ‘We are rusticating. Mother had a penchant for the country, so I bought a hunting lodge. Nothing major.’

‘Captain Seller,’ Mrs McNabb intervened, ‘how nice to see you again. It has been a long time.’

The Captain turned to her. ‘Madam.’ He bowed. ‘The pleasure is mine.’

The butler re-entered with a tea tray and cakes. There was stronger drink for the men. This far north, they observed the niceties when it pleased them and ignored them when it did not.

Mrs McNabb and Lord Byrne sat in chairs opposite Jenna and her father. Burke built up the fire.

‘Viscount Ayre and Miss de Warre,’ Mrs McNabb said, ‘we would like to invite you to a dinner in a fortnight.’ She pulled a gilt-edged envelope from her muff and handed it to Jenna’s father. ‘A house warming.’ With a gracious smile, she turned to Seller. ‘Captain Seller, you are also invited, although, since I did not know you were here, I don’t have an invitation. If you give me your direction, I will send one.’

There was silence for long minutes while Seller watched Viscount Ayre. Something was about. Jenna’s stomach started to twist.

Finally, when Jenna thought she would tear her shawl with her nervous twisting, her father said, ‘Captain Seller will be staying here.’

Jenna was thankful she already sat, otherwise she might have made a spectacle of herself. As it was, shock gave her fingers added impetus and the sound of her nails ripping through the fabric of her shawl seemed very loud to her ears in the silence following his announcement.

Her father turned an apologetic smile to her. ‘I meant to tell you later, my dear.’

She nodded. ‘I will notify Mrs Joiner, Papa.’

She hoped the unease she felt about the English soldier being billeted with them did not show in her voice. This would make it doubly hard to care for Gavin. It was now too dangerous for her cousin to stay here. She would find Seller a room as far from the priest hole as possible, but something must be done.

‘That is easily settled, then,’ Mrs McNabb said. ‘I will have an invitation brought round for Captain Seller.’

Jenna forced a smile, thankful everyone was done with their tea, drink and cakes. Manners bade them leave shortly, even Seller, who was not yet billeted with them.

Something made her glance at Lord Byrne. He watched her with an intentness that belied the casual negligence of his pose. There was a coiled energy about him even though he seemed to lounge against his chair. When he realised she returned his attention, his mouth curled up faintly.

She blinked, taken aback by his attraction. Did he know how devastating he was? The knowing look in his eyes said he did. She flushed and looked away, feeling like a schoolroom miss caught in the grownups’ circle and ignorant of how to go on.

It was a disconcerting feeling for a woman of five and twenty.

Thankfully, Mrs McNabb chose that moment to stand. ‘We must be going, Lord Ayre.’

She held her hand out to the viscount, who took the delicate white fingers and raised them to his lips. A large blood-red ruby graced the third finger of her left hand.

‘My pleasure,’ he said, genuine pleasure in his tone. ‘I look forward to dinner.’

Jenna gave him a piercing look. Her father was always polite. He was rarely as delighted as the smile on his face implied.

They were no sooner quit of the room than Seller rose. ‘I too must take my leave.’ He made a bow to Jenna. ‘Miss de Warre, I am delighted to meet you again. I hope to further our acquaintance.’ He turned to her father. ‘My lord, thank you for your hospitality.’

Viscount Ayre stood easily. ‘I am glad to be of service to the Crown.’

‘Yes, sir. I will return later in the day with my belongings.’ Captain Seller made a quick exit.

It took all Jenna’s self-control not to rush from the room. She had to select a bedchamber for Seller, and she needed to check on Gavin. Even though it was day time and she had not planned to visit Gavin until night, her nerves were strung tight with knowing the soldier would soon live here.