The Jacobite's Return (The Georgian Rebel Series) (12 page)

Every face turned towards Rosie again. There was a hint of laughter in the blue depths of Jack’s eyes that infuriated her further. “Oh, you detestable man,” she muttered furiously.

The coachman called down to them to get a move on, and with an exasperated exclamation, Rosie gave up the fight and allowed Jack to help her from the coach.

“I thought he had the look of a dangerous libertine the moment I clapped eyes on him.” The shocked voice of the governess reached Rosie’s ears.

Jack had two horses waiting, and as Rosie mounted the one he had brought for her, she heard the plump lady reply, “It is sad to think that a young lad with such a comely face should turn out to be a bad lot.”

One of the farmers responded as the coach door was pulled closed. “Aye, he needs his backside paddled, and yonder fine gentleman looks a likely candidate for the job.”

“If only we had the time,” Jack murmured.

Rosie, throwing him a look of deep loathing, rode off. Since she was unsure of her direction, she soon had to rein in and permit her tormentor to catch up with her so he could lead the way.

“I must suppose you are here because Tom has sought your help.” The words came out stiffly. Although her initial anger at his interference remained, another, stronger emotion was beginning to surface. She could not deny the sense of relief she felt that Jack was here. His presence always had a calming effect on her nerves, one she badly needed right now.

“He came straight to me.” His horse was slightly ahead of hers, but he glanced back over his shoulder. “Which is what you should have done, Rosie. Why did you not do so?”

His eyes probed her face and she sighed. He had every right to ask, and she could not put off the answer forever. “Not now, Jack, please. Let us save the explanations for when we have them safe and well.”

He nodded, but there was a steely glint in his eyes that told her he would hold her to those words.

* * *

Tom was waiting for them in a nearby clearing. He told Rosie that information he had gleaned from an inn on the outskirts of the city confirmed that Clive had taken a northerly route, just as they expected. Jack was momentarily distracted from the seriousness of the situation by the delectable way in which Rosie’s mannish attire accentuated her feminine curves. As she discussed possible routes with Tom, her cloak fell to one side, and Jack allowed himself to dwell on the way the breeches clung to her slender thighs and the soft roundness of her buttocks. Recalling the way her silken flesh had felt beneath his hands as she lay in his arms, his throat constricted with sudden longing. Shaking himself out of his reverie, he forced himself to focus on what Tom was saying.

“It is as I thought. Sheridan
must
have taken Xander to Sheridan Hall. I spoke to Lady Drummond’s servants. He did not take her carriage. Instead, he had a hired conveyance waiting when he left the house last night. I found the carrier from whom he rented the vehicle. Sheridan told them he would be changing his horses on the north turnpike.”

“Sheridan Hall is close to ruin. How will Xander fare during the time before we catch up with them?” Rosie’s expression was taut with worry.

“Young Violet has a sound head on her shoulders, and she is loyal to you. You will do yourself no good by torturing yourself. Remember, Sheridan gains nothing by harming Xander. His intention is to force you into a confrontation,” Tom pointed out. “He wants to be found quickly by you, so that you will agree to his terms and be subdued. This is in the nature of a warning shot across your bows, so you’ll not engage in battle with him in the future.”

Rosie appeared to be somewhat reassured by the words. “What about Harry? Did you discover any news of him?”

Tom shook his head. “None.”

Jack decided it was time to intervene. “Might I suggest we head towards Derbyshire, and ask at the posting houses along the road to determine the way they have taken? If Harry has followed Sheridan, we will no doubt learn of it as we travel. We have a two-day journey ahead of us, and I, for one, am keen to set off and get this matter resolved.”

“Two days? Can we not go faster than that?” Rosie’s voice throbbed with impatience.

Incongruously, Jack thought she had never looked more beautiful, with her eyes flashing silver fire and her cheeks flushed. The poised society lady had vanished. He was glad, and hoped she was gone for good. This was the Rosie he remembered. Quick to anger, laughter and love. This was the girl who had rescued him, a complete stranger, because he was injured and she couldn’t bear to see him fall into the hands of the king’s men. She had grabbed up a gun and faced a redcoat captain when she thought Jack and Fraser were at risk. The same girl who had placed her trust in him and ridden at his side across the border to the wilds of Scotland. This Rosie had come to his room the day before Culloden and shared his bed, even though she knew there might be no future for them. This was the woman he still loved—would always love—in spite of everything that had happened to them.

“We will go as quickly as we can, but if we push the horses too hard, we risk injuring them and slowing ourselves down in the process.” His heart went out to her as her lip trembled slightly before she nodded her acceptance of his explanation.

The road led them into a bustling market town. It was impossible to ride at any speed through the crowded streets, despite Rosie’s anxious urgings. They dodged a variety of conveyances and carts, street vendors and pedestrians, and did their best to skirt around other riders until at last the streets became clearer and they could urge their horses into a canter. Once they had left the confines of the town behind, they halted at the first coaching inn, and Tom went inside to discover whether anyone in the taproom had further information about Clive’s direction. Jack dismounted and stretched his limbs, aware of the likely effects of the forthcoming long hours he would spend in the saddle.

Tom returned and confirmed that Clive’s carriage had indeed passed this way. “The tapman said that ‘pig-snouted gentleman’—his description, and mighty apt, would you not agree?—was in a bad humour. The ostler who changed Sheridan’s horses saw the road he took and confirmed that he was headed north, so it would seem that Derbyshire is indeed his goal.”

“What of Harry?” Rosie asked anxiously.

Tom shook his head. “No sign of him.”

“We must press on,” she insisted, and the two men mounted their steeds once again.

The road conditions varied between poor and appalling, and Jack felt for Rosie as her anxiety levels soared with the frustration inflicted by the slow pace. They were forced to dawdle in order to avoid injury to their horses from ruts and potholes. Her patience was tried further when they had to stop every ten to fifteen miles to rest the horses or change them for fresh mounts.

The message was the same at every stop. “The high-handed gentleman was in a mighty hurry.”

It felt as if Sheridan, travelling by carriage, was putting more and more miles between them with every minute, and nothing Jack or Tom could say reassured Rosie. With the darkening skies there came a light rain which seeped through the protection of their clothing and made their teeth chatter.

They were approaching the small town of Inglebrook when Jack gave a muttered exclamation. “Damn it all to hell and back, this cursed nag has cast a shoe!”

That settled the matter. They could go no further that night.

There was a small inn set back from the main road that ran through the centre of the town. There were no other customers in the taproom, and Mr. Cooper, the landlord, bobbing obsequiously in response to Jack’s request, confirmed that he had two rooms available. He expressed some concerns that they might not be of the standard to which his esteemed guests were accustomed.

Jack laughed at this remark. “Lud, man, we are cold, damp and worn to the bone with tiredness. I, for one, would sleep in a cow byre if you offered it.”

He gave Rosie—by now a sad, drooping little figure—a sidelong glance from under his brows. He couldn’t put himself in her place and begin to understand the worries of a mother whose child had been stolen from her, but he could see the pain in her eyes, and it tugged at something deep inside him. And, of course, he still had plenty of questions about how he himself should be feeling towards the child concerned. But he decided it was best to keep them for another time. “Can you bring us some food?”

The landlord confirmed that he could, his lady wife having cooked, that very day, a pigeon pie and a couple of jellied ox tongues. Rosie’s complexion took on a slightly greenish tinge at the mention of these delicacies, and Jack, while approving of them heartily for himself and Tom, asked if his young cousin could perhaps beg a bowl of soup? Mr. Cooper, his forehead practically touching his knees, so abject was his bow, withdrew to make the necessary arrangements.

Jack and Tom sat on benches at a long, well-worn wooden table, and Rosie, after apparently debating for a moment or two, joined them. “Will we reach Sheridan Hall tomorrow, Tom?”

He pulled the corners of his mouth down doubtfully. “We should have been able to make it in two days. But we must find a smith for Lord Jack’s horse in the morning before we can set off again.”

Rosie was silent listening to the lighthearted conversation between the two men. Mrs. Cooper appeared, bright red in the face with exertion, and by the time she had finished, the table groaned with a selection of simple but good-quality dishes. She clucked her tongue over “the young lad” and fussed around Rosie in a motherly fashion.

Her booming voice could be heard carrying from the kitchen. “Yonder stripling is close to dropping with tiredness, but there is something troubling him too. From the way he looks constantly at him, it has something to do with the handsome gent, you mark my words. A woman knows these things, Mr. Cooper. ’Tis a pity the lad has such a pretty, girlish face, but happen he’ll grow out of that.” She returned and placed a steaming bowl of chicken soup in front of Rosie, who eyed it gloomily.

“For the Lord’s sake, eat something.” Jack tried to keep the concern he felt towards her out of his voice. Perhaps the words came out roughly as a result.

Rosie opened her mouth to say something in response. Then, with a strangled sob, she threw down her spoon so that it clattered loudly across the table, leaped up and dashed out into the night air. Jack picked up his fork, hesitating as he fought an inner battle not to follow her. Finally, with a muttered expletive, he grabbed up Rosie’s cloak along with his own.

Chapter Ten

The light drizzle had given way to a steady downpour. Rosie, her only thought to get away from the oppressive atmosphere of the taproom and to walk off her fears, quickly found she was drenched and with nowhere to go for shelter. She couldn’t stay in that room and listen to Jack and Tom make small talk. She knew Jack was only thinking of her welfare. He had no idea that the very thought of food made her feel as though she was going to choke, but as soon as she tried to explain, tears had threatened to overwhelm her. If she spoke then, all the emotion that had been building inside her would have burst forth.
And what use would that be to any of us?
Leaving the inn had, at least, given her a chance to collect herself. And to get drenched in the process.

Without realising it, her musings had led her away from the safety of the narrow road. Looking back, the hazy lights of the inn were no longer visible. The canopy of trees obscured the occasional pallid moonlight afforded by the scuttling clouds, and suddenly she could not see as much as her hand in front of her face.

An eerie silence enveloped her. The route along the road had been quiet, but this was sinister. She could hear her heart thudding uncomfortably in her ears. Dark shapes created an alien landscape that appeared to close threateningly in on her, and she trod cautiously across the craggy ground, not knowing in which direction she was walking. She had no idea if she was heading back towards the inn or on a different track altogether. An owl hooted close by, and she jumped in alarm. Behind her a loud rustling in the undergrowth indicated there were other living creatures abroad this night. Harry’s fantastic stories of wild dogs and wolves surviving undetected in the English countryside came back to her, and she shivered in alarm. Trying to retrace her steps proved fruitless, and she ended up deeper in the woods, panic setting in and preventing her from thinking rationally.

The threatening noises grew louder. Something was stalking her. Something much larger than a squirrel or badger. Alarm seized her and she tried to run, but the shifting sound was close, and she knew that it—whatever
it
might be—was just behind her. She was grabbed suddenly by a strong pair of hands clasping her waist, and she tumbled forward. Her assailant fell with her and landed heavily on top of her, so that the breath left her body with a loud
oof
sound. Desperately, she tried to struggle out from under him and could have sobbed with relief when a familiar voice growled in her ear.

“Will you keep still, you bloody wilful little thorn in my side?”

Yielding to the feelings of mingled joy and relief which swept through her—and ignoring the wet ground and cold which seemed to penetrate her blood—Rosie wriggled around under Jack’s body so she could hug him.

“I thought you were a wolf or a bear.” The words broke on a note that was somewhere between laughter and tears.

“And thinking as much, you decided to embrace me? Anyway, that’s quite enough of that. Perry would never forgive me for ruining my coat by rolling around in the mud.” There was gentle mockery in Jack’s voice as he rose and hauled Rosie to her feet. “Besides, we need to get you back to that damnable inn, where it is at least warm and dry.”

Wrapping Rosie in her cloak, he led the way through the dense foliage and back onto the road. “How can you find the way so easily? I was lost after a few seconds.”

“Ah, you are forgetting how much of my childhood I spent at Lachlan, playing and hunting in the forests around the loch with Fraser and his madcap sister, Iona. And of late, I have had many adventures that required me to find my bearings in the highland forests.” It was a reminder of the time they had spent apart. Rosie had heard whispers in London of how he had ridden at the right hand of the Falcon, risking his life to save the brave highlanders from persecution by the occupying English forces. Keeping a comforting arm about her shoulders, Jack hugged her close against his side for a brief moment. “We
will
find them, you know.”

Opening her mouth to reply, Rosie decided against it. Her emotions threatened to overwhelm her once more. If she tried to speak now, she would cry, and that would embarrass them both.

Back at the inn, Tom was still seated in the taproom where they had left him, and it was apparent he had made some serious inroads into Mrs. Cooper’s feast. He was clutching a tankard of ale and regarded them with mild interest when they entered.

“You are both soaked to the skin.”

“Thank you, Tom.” Jack shook the tendrils of wet hair out of his eyes. “Where would we be without your insightful powers of observation?”

Tom, unaffected by this withering sarcasm, merely smiled. “Rosie, you need to get out of those wet clothes this instant, else you will catch a chill, and then what use will you be to Xander when we find him?”

Mrs. Cooper, bustling in to clear away the dishes, gave a squeal of horror at their appearance and shooed the “young lad” upstairs to the best front bedchamber, where a welcoming fire was blazing merrily in the grate. With frozen fingers and limbs that felt like lead, Rosie slid out of her jacket, boots and breeches, and hung the wet clothing over a rickety chair in front of the fire, where it immediately began to steam. Harry’s lawn shirt clung to her like a second skin, but she had nothing else to wear so she kept it on. Picking up a towel which was remarkable for its complete lack of absorbency, she sat on the edge of the bed and attempted to dry her wild curls. She was startled when, after the briefest of knocks on the door, Jack marched in carrying a glass of brandy.

“Oh.” He paused, taking in her state of undress. Then, with the unholy light she remembered so well dancing in the blue depths of his eyes, he kicked the door shut behind him. He was clad in a damp shirt and stockinged feet, but at least
he
was still wearing breeches.

Rosie clutched the inadequate towel to her breasts, since her wet shirt was doing a very poor job of hiding them from Jack’s appreciative gaze. His eyes roamed lower, taking in the slender expanse of her thighs below the shirt tails, and the smile deepened.

“I brought you some brandy.” He held the glass aloft. “I thought you might need warming up.”

“Thank you.” She took the glass from him and waited for him to leave. Instead, he leaned his shoulders against the door panels, continuing to study her with interest. For something to do, she took a large gulp of the fiery liquid and gasped in shock as it hit the back of her throat. Choking, she placed the glass on the dresser and watched helplessly through streaming eyes as Jack came forward to pat her vigorously between the shoulder blades.

“You are not helping,” she spluttered eventually.

“No, but I am enjoying the view.” She realised that she had let go of the towel. Her nipples were thrusting provocatively against the shirt, which had moulded itself perfectly to the contours of her body. She made a movement to cover herself, and Jack prevented her from doing so by catching hold of her hands. “Don’t,” he murmured softly, pulling her to her feet and drawing her close. Mesmerised by the glow in his eyes, Rosie remained still as he released her and slid his hands beneath the hem of her shirt, cradling the curves of her buttocks. “Since the brandy is not doing its job, let
me
warm you up instead.”

Mrs. Cooper chose that very moment to burst into the room carrying a spare nightshirt for “Master Delacourt”. Seeing that young gentleman in a passionate embrace with his older cousin, whose hands—she later told Mr. Cooper, once the vapours had ceased—were actually cupping and stroking the cheeks of the youth’s bare backside, she let out a squeak of horror. Covering her eyes with her hands, she ran from the room.

Rosie, very improperly, went off into a peal of laughter, and Jack, with a thunderstruck expression, decided the best course of action would be for them both to turn in for the night. Regretfully, he bade Rosie goodnight and returned to the room he was to share with Tom.

* * *

Rosie slept remarkably well and found that everything really did appear much better the next morning, even the weather, which was fine and dry. Slipping into her now-dry clothing, she made her way down to the taproom and found Tom—who, it seemed, would be quite happy to take up permanent residence at Mrs. Cooper’s table—essaying a hearty breakfast. Between mouthfuls of rare sirloin, he informed her that Jack had already gone to find the smithy in order to get the troublesome hired horse re-shod.

Breakfast for Rosie was normally a frugal affair, consisting of bread and butter, or a slice of cake, washed down with tea. This morning, however, Tom watched approvingly as her appetite surfaced with ravenous intensity, and she devoured a large serving of ham and eggs.

“What did you say to persuade Jack to join us?” Rosie could not resist giving in to her curiosity.

“He needed no persuasion. All he did was change his clothes and dash off a letter to a friend then we were on our way.”

“A letter to a friend? Which friend?”

Tom shrugged. “He didn’t say.”

Rosie mopped up egg yolk with a slice of Mrs. Cooper’s fresh baked bread.
It was probably a letter to Lady Kendall informing her that he was going out of town.
She tossed her head.
Not that his private life matters to me.
Suddenly, her appetite vanished as quickly as it had surfaced, and she pushed her plate aside.

Jack returned and cast Rosie an expressive glance. It reminded her instantly of what had passed between them on the previous night and caused her to make an odd choking sound. Tom quirked an enquiring eyebrow in her direction but, blushing, she shook her head.

“I have roused the smith from his breakfast, which did not put him in the best of moods. He has promised to shoe my horse today, but refused to be pressed for an exact time. We must kick our heels in this godforsaken place a while longer,” Jack remarked, reaching across Rosie to take a slice of bread. His next comment was added in an undertone, meant only for her. “I for one will be heartily glad to see the
backside
of it.”

Rosie—as he had intended—gasped at this blatant reference to the previous night’s incident. She threw him a reproachful look, which he returned with one of bland innocence.

When Mrs. Cooper came in to bring Jack a plate, it was glaringly apparent that she viewed him in the light of a monster sent straight from hell to disturb the quiet of her god-fearing existence. She cast an occasional scared but challenging glance in his direction. Muttering under her breath about “the ungodly gentry”, she busied herself removing Tom’s and Rosie’s plates, all the while keeping as far from Jack as was humanly possible.

Tom, astonished at the landlady’s odd conduct, waited until she had left the room and then demanded an explanation. “For the lord’s sake, what have you done to Mrs. Cooper to cause the poor woman to look at you as if she suspects you of wishing to ravish her here on the taproom floor?”

“Acquit me, if you will, Tom,” Jack drawled in his best affected-gentleman-about-town voice. “I never trifle with the inn-keeping classes. Now, shall I settle our shot here so that we are ready to continue our journey?”

It was two hours later when the horse was finally shod and they were able to depart at last. Mr. and Mrs. Cooper watched them go with clearly differing emotions. Mr. Cooper obviously nourished the hope that such prestigious and open-handed guests might linger a while longer. Mrs. Cooper, on the other hand, drew Rosie to one side, her matronly bosom heaving with suppressed emotion.

“You do hear such tales of base behaviour from those who call themselves nobles. I, for one, did not believe it until now. Having seen, with my own eyes, how a fine lordship conducts himself… Well, ’tis mighty glad I am to be of humbler stock! Now, my lad, you say the word if you wish to escape, and my Bert’ll get his blunderbuss out and chase him off, see if he won’t.”

It took Rosie a few precious minutes to reassure her that she was mistaken about what she had seen and that Jack was innocent of the actions Mrs. Cooper ascribed to him. That lady maintained a dubious expression as she watched them depart.

The ensuing journey soon became unbearably tedious, and Rosie was heartily sick of being on horseback for a second day. At least the sun put in an occasional appearance, and each mile covered took them closer to Xander—and hopefully Harry—and also to her beloved Derbyshire home. Another vast improvement, on the previous day, was the fact that the circumstances prior to Mrs. Cooper’s intrusion into Rosie’s room had led to a change in relations with Jack. It could hardly be said that they had resumed their former closeness, but Jack continued to make oblique references to the episode, which kept Rosie in a ripple of embarrassment that bordered on laughter. Tom, meanwhile, was left frowning in bewilderment.

They left the road briefly and cut across open countryside. The ground was soft after the heavy downpour of the previous night, but Jack threw a challenge over his shoulder.

“I’ll wager I can reach the
bottom
of that hill before you, Rosie!” He set off as fast as the hired horse would allow.

Never one to resist a dare, Rosie spurred her horse into a gallop and thundered after him, reaching the appointed spot mere seconds later.

“Dear, dear.” Jack flashed a piratical smile in her direction. “Just
behind
me, Rosie. I believe that makes me the winner, since you are once again bringing up the
rear
.”

“I had quite forgotten about your feeble attempts at humour, Jack. Do you inflict them on everyone you know, or are they reserved only for me?” Rosie asked as they waited for Tom to catch up with them.

“Strangely enough, my friends—notably Fraser and Perry—would tell you that my humour, as you call it, has deserted me in recent years.” His expression was enigmatic. “Doubtless they will be pleased to find it has resurfaced.”

* * *

Darkness had fallen, and Rosie was kept awake only by the lazy rhythm of the horses’ hooves and the knowledge that every mile closed the gap between her, Xander and, she continued to hope, Harry. They reached a small town, and Tom pointed out wistfully that his stomach thought his throat had been cut. With one accord, the weary trio of horses clattered onto the cobbles of an innyard.