ground until they were done.
‘Much better,’ Gavin whispered.
Jenna held out a vial. ‘Drink this.’
Gavin gasped as he swallowed. ‘What is this?’
She smiled. ‘Whisky and laudanum. You will feel better for it.’
‘I’d best tie you to the saddle, then,’ Duncan said. ‘The last thing I want is for you to fall again and for me to have to get you back up on the horse.’
‘I’m fine,’ Gavin protested.
‘Then why are you shaking like a leaf in a storm?’ The Ferguson asked. ‘Better to be safe than to be regretful.’
Knowing she had done her best for Gavin, Jenna found a log and mounted. When she was settled, she studied the man who still stood close enough to catch her cousin if he slipped. His clothing clung in soaked folds to his body. Likely they would all be sick from this night’s work.
Without a word, she took the reins of Gavin’s horse and headed in the direction they had been travelling before coming upon her cousin. She didn’t wait for The Ferguson to follow. After watching him with Gavin, she didn’t doubt he would be close. It was obvious he cared for her cousin. She was thankful for that.
She sensed him moving behind them.
Jenna felt as though the weight of the world sat on her shoulders. Shivers racked her body and each gust of wind cut through her clothing like knives through butter. She knew Gavin felt worse. Her heart ached for her cousin.
Worse would be when he realised he had not made his escape across the water. Then there was his companion—The Ferguson. Hopefully the man would leave as soon as he helped her get Gavin safely into the priest hole.
Even as she thought that, she knew she didn’t really want him to go so quickly. He was the Scottish hero of Culloden. Tales of his derring-do circulated even amongst the English.
And she was not immune to him.
She should be. Even though she sympathised with the Scots, she had not supported Prince Charles Edward Stuart’s claim to the English throne. But neither did she believe the surviving Jacobites should be hunted like animals.
She sighed and wiped water from her brow and eyes and squinted into the murky distance. Being nearsighted, she thought she could just discern the hunchback outline of de Warre Castle against the night sky. Goodness knew it seemed they had been travelling long enough to cross the breadth of Cumbria, so they should be home.
A dark line of trees marked the road leading to the castle. Gravel crunched under the horses’ hooves. Soon.
‘Now the rain stops,’ she muttered, realising that for the first time this night water didn’t run in rivulets down her face. She heard The Ferguson chuckle, a deep, rich sound that made her entire body tingle.
‘Lucky for us it didn’t stop sooner. No one will even know we passed. The water will wash away any trace.’
‘Ahh, I had not thought of that.’
‘Subterfuge is not a way of life to you.’
The derision in his voice hurt, but she forced it aside. He was right.
But how to get Gavin into hiding without someone seeing? She didn’t worry about being seen out here. At this time of night no one would be looking outside. But when they went to the priest’s hole, they would be moving through the house. How much could she trust the servants?
And The Ferguson. He would not like being seen. He had made it clear he would kill to protect himself.
She edged closer to the man and whispered, ‘Follow me.’
Carefully picking their way by the sporadic light of the moon and stars, she went to the outside entrance of her stillroom. This was not the first time she was thankful she had had this door put in.
Stopping her mare, she lifted one leg over the saddle and slid to the ground, ignoring her skirts rucking high enough to show her boots and stockings. She pulled the heavy key from her pocket and opened the door.
The Ferguson followed her, Gavin in his arms. She made her way by the light from the banked fire to the tinder and candle she kept on the sill. It took several times before she had the candle lit.
She motioned to the same chair her cousin had sat in earlier. With more gentleness than she would have thought possible, the man laid Gavin down.
‘We must get him into dry clothes and warm. The priest hole is hollowed out of stone and cold. No place for a sick man, but ’tis the safest.’
He turned his head to look at her. ‘Fetch clothing while I undress him.’
She bit her lower lip. ‘He is unconscious now, but likely will rouse when you start moving him around.’ She took a deep breath to calm the apprehension she felt for Gavin. ‘He will be in great pain.’ For a moment she thought she saw tenderness move over the man’s rugged features.
‘There is nothing for it. Nor will it be the first time he has hurt.’
She nodded. ‘You fought with him, did you not?’
He stared at her, and she wondered what he saw in her face. ‘Aye. Side by side, like brothers.’
She realised he was telling her that her cousin would be safe with him although he could not keep Gavin from discomfort or worse. ‘I will be back shortly.’
She turned and fled from Gavin’s critical condition and from an emotion she did not want to examine. She was the daughter of Viscount Ayre, not a Jacobite sympathiser no matter that her mother had been Scottish and her beloved cousin was a convicted Jacobite. She would not side against her father no matter how she might sympathise with the Jacobites and secretly admire the daring of this man. She would not be attracted to a man who personified rebellion against the Crown.
The chill of the castle walls intensified her cold from the outdoors and the sopping clothes she still wore doubled her discomfort. She hurried on. She would change later. She had to fetch Papa’s old clothes, packed away in the trunks on the third floor. In his youth Papa had been Gavin’s size.
She did not want Papa to know what she did. He was a man of honour and loyal to the Hanoverian king. Much as Papa loved Gavin, it would torment him to know he sheltered a Jacobite—even a beloved Jacobite.
The race for the dry clothing helped her teeth stop chattering. She was partially warmed by her exertion by the time she returned to her stillroom.
A fire burned, its ruddy flames making Gavin look hot. He was wrapped in the shawl and a blanket she kept to ward off the cold, his modesty barely covered. His drenched clothes were a dark puddle on the floor.
She shut the door and locked it. They had got this far; the last thing they needed was to be discovered because it was in the small hours of the night and she had thought them safe and they were not.
‘At last.’ Irritation was a burr in The Ferguson’s voice. ‘I began to think something had happened to you.’
She
