Georgina Devon - Her Rebel Lord



‘Are you flirting with me, my lord?’

Duncan’s countenance took on a hunger she could not misinterpret.

‘After what has transpired between us, I am not flirting.’

Jenna dropped her gaze and increased the movement of her fan. ‘You are bold.’

‘I am entranced.’

She did not know what to say. She had agonised that he would ignore her completely. Now she worried that what he spoke would lead them into something they would both regret. But, regardless of what lay between them, she wanted to be with him…

Georgina Devonhas a Bachelor of Arts degree in Social Sciences with a concentration in History. Her interest in England began when she lived in East Anglia as a child, and later as an adult. She met her husband in England, and her wedding ring set is from Bath. She has many romantic and happy memories of the land. Today she lives in Tucson, Arizona, with her husband, two dogs, an inherited cat and a cockatiel. Her daughter has left the nest and does website design, including Georgina’s. Contact her at http://www.georginadevon.com

Recent novels by the same author:

THE RAKE

THE REBEL

THE ROGUE’S SEDUCTION

THE LORD AND THE MYSTERY LADY

AN UNCONVENTIONAL WIDOW

THE RAKE’S REDEMPTION

Georgina Devon

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Chapter One

1746 De Warre Castle, near Carlisle and the Scottish Border

Crash!

Jenna de Warre jumped back from the glass bottle that had just violently hit the floor of her stillroom. One second the pieces of glass were in focus and the next they blurred. She was so nearsighted.’ Twas that which had caused the accident in the first place. She had been reaching for a different bottle and her arm had brushed the one that fell. She took a deep breath and put the frustration from her.

She blinked rapidly and pushed her spectacles up the bridge of her nose. The glass shards came into focus. Irritated with her clumsiness, she bent and whisked the pieces into a dustpan and tossed them into the bin under the work bench.

She stood up and knuckled her lower back. The day had been long and promised to be longer still. Mistress James was due to deliver her fifth child at any time. And she had still to prepare the draught for the mother-to-be that would help ease the birthing pains.

She took a deep breath of the cold air. Winter was the worst time of year to work in her stillroom. Even with a roaring fire and her fingerless wool gloves, her hands were clumsy from cold. Normally she didn’t come here at night, but she had been fretful from idleness and this occupied her. She doubted the babe would come tonight.

The creak of door hinges startled her, although she felt no real fear. They were too far from town for anyone to be here who did not belong or know their way. Still, it was late for someone to be seeking her. Eyes wide, peering over the rim of her spectacles, she wondered who was using the only door that opened onto the outside at this time of night.

‘Jenna?’ a male voice whispered, a strong Scottish burr making her name nearly unrecognisable.

‘Gavin?’ Her cousin stepped into the room, and joy widened her full mouth into a grin. ‘Is that truly you?’ She set down the pestle and rushed around the table, arms wide to hug him.

‘Shh,’ he said, slipping inside with a furtive glance behind. ‘No one should know I’m here.’

Puzzled, she fell back. He shot the bolt in the door before moving to the entrance that led into the castle and locking that as well.

‘What is wrong?’ Apprehension crawled down her back. ‘You look awful.’

He smiled wryly. ‘Leave it to you to point out the obvious.’ The smile died, leaving his long, narrow face haggard and pale. ‘I’ve been better.’

He sank with heavy relief on to the only stool. His thick grey cape pooled on the floor, the hem wet and laced with mud. His scuffed and filthy riding boots left prints on the stone pavers. He looked like he was travelling fast and without comforts.

Her disquiet intensified. To keep herself from blurting out questions before he was ready, she poured out a generous portion of whisky, which she kept for medicinal purposes, and took it to him. He downed the liquor in one long swallow as she knelt before him.

‘Thank you. I needed that.’

She smiled up at him, took the empty glass and set it on the floor. She caught his heavily gloved hands in hers, but said nothing, waiting patiently for him to explain. She had learned as a child that Gavin could sometimes be led, but he could never be pushed.

He was tall and as lean as a sapling. Hair the colour of mahogany waved around high cheekbones, so much like her own but without the freckles that were the bane of her existence. There were days she refused to look in the mirror because she did not want to see the dirt-red spots. His nose was a long hook, while hers was just short of one.

Bright green eyes, dulled by exhaustion and a narrow-lipped mouth drained of colour told her he was on the last dregs of his energy. Her heart ached for him.

If only he hadn’t fought for Bonnie Prince Charlie.

His ruddy complexion returned slowly as the whisky burned its way through his body. ‘I need yer help, Jen.’

The haunted look in his eyes reminded her of the day he’d fled to her from the bloody field of Culloden. He had been lucky to escape. Many Scots who had fought for the Stuart Prince had not been so fortunate. Her stomach knotted.

‘You know I will do everything I can.’

‘Aye, that you will.’ He swallowed hard, the action bobbing his Adam’s apple and accentuating his thinness. His gaze skittered away from hers, only to return. ‘I need money, Jen. Lots of it.’

Now it was her turn to gulp as she shook her head helplessly. ‘I have none, Gavin. Only my jewellery.’

‘That will do,’ he said. ‘Have ye any more drink?’

Her gaze narrowed as she looked him over. Rare among his peers, Gavin was not a drinker. ‘Some.’

He smiled, but she could tell it was an effort. ‘Will ye no’ give me more?’ His burr was pronounced, a habit he had when things were not going well.

She rose and poured another generous portion. ‘What is wrong?’

He took the full glass and downed the contents before answering. ‘The redcoats caught me two weeks ago. I managed to escape their filthy prison. I am fleeing to France.’

Worry and fear made her stomach cramp. ‘You are lucky. Why did you not send word? Father would have tried to get you released.’

His mouth twisted. ‘Aye, that would have been ironic. Bloody Ayre asking that a Scottish Jacobite be freed.’

She paled at Gavin’s use of the name given to her father by the Scottish. Her sense of desolation was made worse by knowing that the name was earned, and Papa would never be free of the stain it cast.

During the first Jacobite uprising, Papa had been a young army lieutenant, eager for promotion and confident in his support of George I. At the orders of his commanding officer, he had led his troops in the massacre of an entire Highland village. Her mother, the youngest daughter of a Scottish laird, had fallen in love with the young English soldier the year before. Against her parents’ orders, she had married Julian de Warre, who was later made Viscount Ayre by the English king for his actions.