bit her lower lip.
Why were they here? This was a tavern not normally frequented by their like. Were they here because of Gavin? Did they know he was to meet The Ferguson, who would smuggle him out of England and over to France? Was that why they had been travelling the same road? It could not be. She had to believe that or all was lost.
Jenna gulped down hard on the fright swelling in her throat. Her bottom lip was raw from her teeth. She edged along the wall away from the man’s regard, trying desperately to ease the thundering of her heart. Perhaps if she ignored the redcoat he would go back to his drinking. Still, the muscles in her neck tensed.
She had to find The Ferguson.
Her gaze darted around, searching for a tall man wearing a silver cross. She would wager no one but The Ferguson would wear such a thing in this place. The ruffians here did not have the wealth. Hopefully he wore it. He had to. There was no other way she could recognise him.
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
