Her Rebel Lord. Georgina Devon

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      ‘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.

      Chapter Two

      Jenna halted at the door to the Whore’s Eye, her boots sinking into a muddy puddle. Three feet above her head a battered sign with a large blue eye painted on it dropped large drops of water on her head. Her soaked cape clung to her like a woollen mitten, and her hair fell in a limp rope down her back. The spectacles she had put back on, after tying her horse to a tree some distance away, were blurred.

      Fingers numb from the cold, she pulled the hood of her cape over her hair, then fumbled with the handle until the heavy oak door swung inwards on protesting rusted hinges. Jenna stepped into the opening. The odours of unwashed bodies, onions too long cooked and rancid ale hit her nose like a slap. Cheap tallow candles flickered from some of the plank tables, adding their acrid scent. After the bitter clean of the storm, the smells were nauseating. The fireplace, where a large kettle hung full of what promised to be mutton, provided a minimum of light and an eye-stinging haze.

      Gavin had said this place was the haunt of scallywags and highwaymen. A quick glance around told her Gavin had been kind.

      She would not choose to come here with an armed escort, let alone by herself. But ’twas a risk she had to take. Gavin’s life depended on her.

      The men here looked rough and more than reprehensible, pursuing their pleasure in groups or alone, as the mood took them. All drank. A lone buxom wench worked the tables, her charms spilling out of a tight bodice and her arms large enough from hefting ale-filled tankards to floor any male who might take advantage.

      Jenna’s mouth twisted in a reluctant glimmer of admiration. The woman probably welcomed the extra bit of change a randy man provided. Jenna had long ago lost count of the number of illegitimate children she had helped bring into the world.

      Someone yelled, ‘Close the bloody door, yer bloody fagget!’

      Jenna winced as she closed the door and slid to the side, keeping her back to the wall. The last thing she had intended to do was draw attention. No matter that she was in one of her working dresses and her cape was plain black, she obviously did not belong here.

      Her clothing started to steam in the smoke-infested warmth and the stench of wet wool added itself to the other odours. Her nose wrinkled at the assault before she remembered to make her features placid. No one in this room would be bothered by these smells and to show that she was would only offend anyone who might look at her.

      She took a moment and removed her spectacles and wiped them on her soaked sleeve. She needed to be able to see the silver cross. She put them back on and they instantly fogged. She sighed and waited. Patience was a virtue. The steam soon evaporated and the figures closer to her came into harsh focus.

      The skin at the nape of her neck crawled and in a nervous twist, she looked to her left—and nearly fainted. Four redcoats sat at a table not twenty feet from her. One of the soldiers watched her with heavy-lidded intensity. Could he be the officer who had passed Gavin and her? If so, did he recognise her? Surely not. She had kept the hood of her cloak over her hair, hiding her face.

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