Georgina Devon – Her Rebel Lord (страница 4)

How often this past year had she heard wondrous tales of The Ferguson’s exploits? She could not count them, let alone remember them all. There was the time he had single-handedly held up ten English soldiers and robbed them, leaving them with nothing but their small clothes. Gavin said The Ferguson had taken the uniforms to be used by Jacobites trying to infiltrate the English ranks to learn military secrets. That was before the Battle of Culloden. A more recent time, The Ferguson had saved a Highland crofter’s family from being burnt out of their home. The man was a figure of almost mythic proportion.

A flurry of noise came from the back door, deep laughter and the rumble of conversation punctuated by a woman’s seductive tones and a man’s husky voice. A couple coming back from enjoying a tryst.’ Twas not unexpected in a place such as this. Jenna glanced their way, even though she knew The Ferguson was not one of the pair. He was here to rescue Gavin, not dally with a wench.

The two moved deeper into the room. Jenna squinted. Her spectacles allowed her to see many things better, but they could not bring everything into perfect focus.

Still, she saw enough. The man was tall, with hair so dark it seemed to absorb the meagre light. His shoulders were broad, emphasising the leanness of his hips, which the woman in his arms was too appreciative of. One of her hands lingered on his thigh, speaking plainly of what they had been about. Her face was turned up to his, her brown hair tumbling down.

They were a striking pair.

Someone scraped a chair leg across the rough floor. Someone else grunted. Jenna looked back the way she had come. The redcoat with the heavy-lidded eyes was moving her way. She told herself he was going to the privy, but her heart insisted on hammering at her ribs.

She gripped the neck of her cape tighter to secure the hood over her red hair as she moved out of the redcoat’s path, inching between chairs until she was closer to the couple. A glint of silver flashed. It came from the man with the woman. From his throat. It could not be what she thought.

But what if it was?

She dared not ignore it. She cast another glance over her shoulder, only to see the soldier nearly on her. He was not going outside. Her heart increased its panicked beating.

Even if the dark-haired man had not worn the cross, she would have gone to him now. He was not an English soldier and he was already with a woman, so he would not be interested in her that way. No man ever was. But she could act as though she were here to meet him. With luck, he would be too surprised to naysay her immediately and his presence might be enough to deter the redcoat from his pursuit of her.

The serving wench winked at the man and moved to the tap area. This was her chance. Jenna scuttled forward and sat awkwardly on the hard wooden bench across the table from the man. Leaning forward, she started to speak and stopped. The glint of silver that had first drawn her was a cross.

She looked at the man again. Long and lean, with cheekbones like chiselled granite, he looked back. Hair, black as the darkest night, absorbed what little light there was and fell thickly to his shoulders. His jaw was strong and smooth. She glanced at his hands where they cupped around a tankard of ale. His fingers were elegant and strong, the nails short and free of dirt. If his hair were snagged into a queue, his grooming would be that of a gentleman.

However, his clothing was anything but fashionable. A loosely fitting brown coat that looked twenty years out of mode and a threadbare muslin shirt covered his broad shoulders.

He was a mass of contradictions. Yet he wore the silver cross she was to look for.

She had to take the risk. Gavin was dying. She inhaled sharply, taking in with the air courage and determination.

He watched her with eyes as yellow and hard and sparkling as citrines. Hazel eyes.

He looked feral and dangerous—a wild animal caught in a moment of near civilisation. He blinked and the image disappeared. He was only a man who had been fondling a tavern wench minutes ago.

Still…he wore the cross.

His blatant study of her set her nerves on edge. She spoke harsher than she had intended. ‘I’ve need of your help.’

His sensual mouth twisted up, and his gaze lingered where the cape clung to her breast before lifting to meet her eyes. ‘You’d best speak little and softly. No woman of your station could have reason for being here.’

Jenna looked furtively around the room, her attention lingering briefly on the table where the three redcoats sat. She did not look behind to where the other soldier still stood. Her shoulders hunched before straightening again.

‘Have I spoken loudly?’ she asked, her brows rose in a haughty challenge. ‘Or to anyone but you?’

He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I just came in.’

Her scowl intensified. ‘You are an infuriating man.’

‘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.