Her Rebel Lord. Georgina Devon
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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.’
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