Her Rebel Lord

‘I doubt I’ve anything you would want, mistress,’ he said, assuming a humble expression.

Jenna wondered if her lips were blue. They did not want to move. ‘Are you here to meet someone?’ she whispered.

His eyes narrowed, glinting dangerously. Like a caged lion she had once seen in a book.

‘Aye,’ he muttered. ‘Nelly.’ He angled his head in the direction the serving wench had gone and grinned rakishly.

Jenna blushed from the roots of her red hair to the top of her black cloak. She watched his fine, sensual mouth twist in amusement and wished for at least the hundredth time that she did not flush at the slightest provocation. It was the curse of her hair.

‘What impertinence,’ she said before thinking. Chagrinned at her uncontrolled response, she bit her lip to keep anything else from spilling out.

His eyes flashed wickedly. ‘And your question was not?’

She turned away, trying to ease her temper. He was right. But she dared not ask him outright if he was here to meet Gavin. There was no way of telling who might overhear, and not just Gavin’s life was at stake. The English soldiers would willingly kill The Ferguson and anyone found with him. And she did not even know if this man was the Jacobite hero she sought.

She glanced quickly back at him, intending to look away as though he were of no import, but his tawny eyes caught and held hers. Unable to tear her gaze away, she lost herself in the amber pools with their brown striations and black, black pupils. His eyes narrowed, the full, short blond lashes casting shadows on his cheeks.

With a part of her mind, she registered that his lashes should be ebony to match his hair. Then the thought flitted away.

Jenna took a deep breath and forced herself to break the hold this man had on her. He was more vital and more handsome than any man she had ever met. He would be arresting if he passed her on a crowded street. But she was here for Gavin, not to fall under some strange man’s spell.

‘I…I have a friend,’ she murmured after what seemed an eternity.

Somehow, in spite of his attraction for her, she remembered to look around and make sure no one was any closer than they had been. Particularly not the English soldier who seemed to be following her around the room and still stood some distance away, his shoulders propped against the wall.

The man across from her raised one brow when she did not continue. ‘’Tis glad I am, mistress, that you have at least one friend.’

She scowled at him. ‘This is not a jesting matter,’ she said.

‘No,’ he said, his voice deep and mocking. ‘It never is.’

A double meaning? She took a deep breath and started again. ‘I have a friend. I think he was supposed to meet you, but he is wounded.’

There, it was out. Thank goodness she had not mentioned names.

Something dangerous flitted across the man’s face. ‘His name?’

She chewed her lip harder until the metallic tang of blood told her she had bitten through the skin. If he was the wrong man, she and Gavin were dead.

‘What is your name?’ she mumbled, staring determinedly into his eyes, searching for something she could not explain.

Exasperation and a hint of impatience tightened his mouth. ‘No games. My name is Duncan. And your friend’s?’

She closed her eyes in relief. How many Duncans could there be in this tavern? More than one this close to the Scottish border, but surely not more than one wearing a silver Celtic cross.

She opened her eyes to see his reaction. ‘Gavin. His name is Gavin and he’s badly hurt.’

Worry flitted across his face. Jenna let out the breath she had been holding. He would not be upset unless he was The Ferguson. She had made the right decision. Now they had to get back to Gavin before it was too late.

‘We must leave,’ she said. ‘He is…’ She told herself not to cry. ‘He is lying in the mud. Wounded. Badly.’

‘Then there is no time to waste,’ Duncan said.

Thank goodness he understood. Jenna stood and turned toward the front door.

‘Not that way,’ he said, grabbing her shoulder and stopping her. ‘Through the kitchen.’

His hand slid around her waist and pulled her tight to his side. The hard sinews of his flank pressed intimately against her hip. The musky scent of his maleness surrounded her. Her stomach clenched into a roiling knot.

She tried to pull away, needing the safety of the entire room between them, but willing to settle for inches. Anything that kept him from touching her so intimately.

His embrace tightened. ‘We are a couple, leaving to do what couples always do.’

His words and what they implied jolted her, brought back the picture of him entering the room with Nelly, the tavern wench. ‘Two women in one night?’ she said before thinking.

He cast her a sly look just instants before his mouth descended. Against her lips, he murmured, ‘Pretend you’re Nelly.’

Then he kissed her.

Her first kiss. It was not chaste. It made her mind twirl and her gut twist. It was incredibly arousing. It scared her as nothing else had.

He drew abruptly away. Jenna’s senses swirled.

A commotion at the entrance drew her attention, and she belatedly realised the noise was what had made him stop. He had not been immersed in their kiss as she had. He had been playing a skilful game with her and anyone else in the room who had wanted to watch. Pain constricted her chest. She ignored it as best she could.

Another soldier entered. A groan of despair escaped her. Too many redcoats. But this one was different from the four already here. From the braid on his epaulettes to the arrogant tilt of his head, he was obviously the leader of the group already here. He took off his cockaded hat and shook off the water, exposing his silver-blond hair and pale blue eyes.

She gasped. The newcomer was Captain Lord Johnathan Albert Seller, a man who had visited her father a few months ago. Though they had not met formally, there was the very real possibility he would recognise her, even in this environ.

The fingers on her side dug into her ribs. The Ferguson dragged her through the door into the kitchen. If she did not know better, she would think he also recognised Captain Seller. But that could not be. A Jacobite and an English army officer did not know each other. Ever.

The Ferguson released her and she stumbled. She felt cold and bereft with his warmth gone. She was demented to feel thus.

Noise and cooking smells engulfed her. Warmth wafted from the fire where a mutton roast turned on the spit, propelled by the efforts of a tiny urchin. The proprietor, identifiable by the none-too-clean white apron around his skinny waist, nodded briefly at Jenna’s companion, then ignored them.

Nelly slid in the door behind them. Duncan made a nearly imperceptible nod to the woman. She acknowledged it with a wink. Then he strode across the room and into the night.

Jenna followed him through the outside door and a blast of wind hit her. The sleet had turned to rain, and clouds obscured the full moon. At least it was not freezing—yet. Desperation twisted her stomach.

She caught up with The Ferguson. ‘Gavin’s hurt. We must hurry. My horse is this way.’ The nearly incoherent words spilled from her mouth as rain ran in rivulets down her face.

His hand wrapped around her wrist and jerked her to him. He was wet as she, although they had only been outside for scant minutes. She stared up at him, his action and the harshness of it taking her by surprise. He was a darker shadow in the black night so she could not make out his features. But she felt his heart beating steadily and strongly against her breasts.

Abruptly, she became aware of the warmth radiating from his body and the way it sheltered her from the worst of the wind that pounded at his back. He was an inferno in his heat and a rock in his strength.

‘Not so fast.’ His voice was a deadly growl. ‘Who are you? And why should I believe a word you say? You could as easily be an agent of that German bastard’s, sent to trap me with information forced from Gavin by torture. You wouldn’t be the first,’ he added in an undertone.

Jenna blinked away water and looked up at him. He made sense, even if her immediate thought was to kick him in the shin and gain her freedom from his disturbing hold.