The Rebel (19 page)

“He doesn’t want Miss Clara, lass. He’s set
his cap on ye, sure as I’m standing here.”

“Really, Paul! Of all the notions!” Her
denial echoed faintly as the stable master pulled open the door to
Mab’s stall. She followed. “You don’t have to do that. I can take
care of her.”

“I know, my joy. But I don’t mind spoiling
ye a wee bit every now and then.”

“Thank you.”

“Be on yer way to the house now.”

She stared after them as they disappeared
inside. Jane shook her head and turned away, not quite
understanding what was going on with her old friend.

The house lay dark and quiet on the hill.
The moon lit a bright path through the garden. Though she would not
chance to go that way, Jane also decided against going through the
dank underground passage that had been in existence since a castle
had stood on this hill.

The night was too beautiful, and there was
too much rattling in her mind that she needed to clear. She decided
on taking the walk-path, knowing that if the door beneath the great
stone arch was barred for the night, she could go in through the
kitchen wing. With a sigh, she started for the paddock gate.

“And Jane…”

Paul’s whisper stopped her. He was peering
out from Mab’s stall.

“There’s far more to him that one than meets
the eye, I’m thinking.”

Following the path, she climbed the hill
toward the sleeping hulk of a house…just as he’d hoped she would.
As she approached, Nicholas felt his senses sharpen perceptibly at
the sight of her. With her came the smell of wind and the tingling
promise of darkness. She moved like a cat, her lithe body gliding
effortlessly through the night.

By ‘sblood, Nicholas thought, he couldn’t
remember the last time a woman had stirred in him such
anticipation.

“A far more pleasant night for riding, I
should think.”

Startled, Jane whirled and peered into the
shadows of the garden entry. Nicholas was almost disappointed when
she didn’t reach for the dagger he knew she would be carrying. He
would have enjoyed getting close enough to have to handle her and
the knife.

“What are you doing here?” Her dark eyes
flashed like two jewels in the moonlight. “I shouldn’t have thought
you were one who hides in dark corners and spies on people.”

“I’m not…usually.” He continued to lean a
shoulder against the rough stone of the garden wall. His gaze took
in the loose-fitting dark breeches, the high boots, the black
smock. “I was only enjoying the beautiful view.”

She was dressed as a man, and yet Nicholas
could not for a moment fathom how anyone who looked at her could be
fooled. His eyes lingered on the dark ringlets framing a complexion
that rivaled the moon’s glow. How could any observer fail to see
that she was
all
woman?

Jane cast a glance over her shoulder at the
house looming behind her. “If a beautiful view is what you are
after, then you are facing the wrong direction.”

“I don’t believe I am.”

The true meaning behind his seemingly
matter-of-fact statement was slow to hit her. She was not
accustomed to receiving such compliments. He slowly pushed away
from the wall and moved through the moonlight toward her. Her
objection to his compliment withered on her tongue as a strange,
tingling sensation began to spread quickly through her limbs. He
had discarded his jacket. Her gaze moved uncontrollably to the open
collar of his shirt and the sleeves rolled up to display muscular
arms.

“It is very late. I should be going in.” But
her feet, for some reason, seemed to have taken root.

“Please stay.”

If he had made an attempt to use his
physical charm in persuading her, she would have escaped easily.
But the simple request only managed to unnerve her more. She
searched for safe words to say as he came to a stop before her, but
could think of nothing.

“Clara!” she blurted out. “Yes, Clara is an
early riser. You should go in, too. She will certainly be looking
forward to having breakfast with you.”

“Well, I intend to sleep until noon
tomorrow.”

Anger flared within her. “I do wish you
would stop treating her so poorly.” She couldn’t bring herself to
look up into his face—not when he was standing so close. “She
doesn’t deserve to be treated that way.”

“She appears to be perfectly happy with the
way she is being treated…as are your parents and everyone else at
Woodfield House. You, Jane, are the only one who complains.”

This time, her rising temper forced her to
look up, and she was immediately amazed that how tall he was—and
how intensely he was studying every flaw in her face. Paul’s words
came back to her. “But Clara…”

“Surrender that cause, Jane. I simply do not
care to talk about Clara.”

His arm brushed against hers, shocking her
with the heat that emanated from the spot. She took an immediate
step back. “I…I need to go in.”

“Stay…just for a few minutes.” A strong hand
reached out and took hold of her wrist. His thumb gently caressed
her skin.

“Why?”

“It is a beautiful night. I’ve been
desperate for a tour of the gardens.”

“I shall go and awaken Clara for that. She
is far more knowledgeable—”

“I lied.”

“What?”

“I lied. I do not want a tour. But I recall
seeing a stone bench by the wall at the lower end of the garden. I
would very much like to sit on that bench and talk.”

She tried to ignore the gentle pressure of
his fingers—the warmth. “Since you do not wish to talk about my
sister, then we have nothing to say to each other.”

“But we do.” He tugged gently and drew her
gaze. “I have questions that I would not want to ask of anyone but
you.”

She arched a brow. “About Clara?”

He laughed—a deep, hearty laugh that made
her smile in spite of herself. “By ‘sblood, madam, you are
persistent.”

“Thank you for the compliment.”

“But it was not a compliment,” he growled
good-naturedly, tugging again on her wrist and unbalancing her
slightly. “Trust me, when I give you a compliment, you’ll know.
Come and sit with me for a few minutes. You might just earn one
yet.”

Jane pulled her wrist free, and hesitated a
moment. There was no denying it. She wanted to go with him. At the
same time, she didn’t dare even to think why she wanted to. She
nodded and tried to make light of the whole situation.

“You are greatly lacking in the power of
persuasion.” She saw him open his mouth to argue and waved him off,
continuing. “
Nonetheless
, I suppose I have let you beg
enough. I’ve decided, therefore, to humor you a little, sir. I
shall walk to the garden wall and back.”

Another rumble of laughter from the baronet
brought a smile to Jane’s lips. As far as the rules of propriety
were concerned, she knew it was completely improper to be walking
at midnight with a gentleman through a dark garden. But then again,
she rationalized, she had no reputation to protect. And as far as
any potentially dishonorable intentions on his part, she knew she
was quite capable of protecting herself. She was a rebel leader,
and he knew it. She was not some naïve, starry-eyed virgin hoping
to be kissed by some rogue under a trellis of late-blooming
roses.

These thoughts set Jane’s body and mind more
at ease—at least momentarily—as they walked beneath the stone arch.
Immediately, though, the fragrant scents of the garden beds
surrounded them, and she felt her pulse begin to race again at the
sight of the seductive shadows cast by the light of the moon. She
felt her sense of security beginning to dissolve, and forced
herself to push away such foolish thoughts. She simply needed to
treat him in the same way that she treated every other man she
knew…with blunt honesty and indifference.

“The early hours we keep in the country must
be a torment to someone like you.”

“The hours
we
keep are perfectly
satisfactory. To be candid, I shouldn’t care to have anybody else
about right now.”

Jane found him watching her, and she shook
her head. “I was speaking in general terms when I say ‘we.’ But you
might as well put aside your cleverly disguised discourse and
charming ways, Sir Nicholas. They have no effect on me.”

His arm brushed against hers again, this
time intentionally, she thought. “Are you certain I have no effect
on you, at all”

She shook her head and smiled at him.
Stepping to the edge of the path, she put some space between them.
“I am not one of your London society maidens. I am incapable of
being dared or taunted or tempted. Now kindly tell me what it was
that you wished to ask me?”

The look he gave her told her that he didn’t
believe her bravado for a moment. But he was clearly enough of a
gentleman not to press her. “The topic is a matter of some
seriousness.”

“I’m glad. I should hate to think of
forfeiting needed sleep for anything less.”

His hands were now clasped behind his back,
his expression grave, as the two of them continued down the
path.

“Since our arrival in your part of the
world,” he continued, “I have had the good fortune of coming face
to face with a band of well-known rebels and their leader. I also
have been questioned about and endured interminable lectures
regarding this very same group. Unfortunately, many of those doing
the questioning and lecturing I find to be scarcely objective in
their presentation of the truth.”

Jane frowned in the darkness. She’d been
expecting the questions. It would only be natural that he should
want to know the reason for her involvement with the Whiteboys. As
a member of the English gentry, Spencer would no doubt see it as
his absolute duty to ask these things. And after the answers would
come the advice that a gentleman
must
provide to
insignificant, unintelligent, vulnerable females. She could almost
hear him already.

Jane had to give him credit, though. At
least he’d been able to delay his meddling for nearly two days.

“So much of what we read and hear in England
is based on gross generalization. I know that to be true, for I
recall the discussions I heard with regard to the American colonies
after I returned from there. What was said often had little to do
with the truth or with accuracy. We speak of strife and division
here, but ignore the poverty and exploitation that causes it. We
discuss the threatened involvement of Spaniards and French against
England. We confer the titles of ‘hero’ and ‘villain’ on the basis
of whether a person is English or not. We only see what it is in
our interest to see.”

They reached the bottom of the garden, but
Jane found herself too captivated by his words to turn back. The
two walked beneath a long, trellised arbor of grapevines. Without
thinking, she pulled a bunch of the ripe fruit from the vine.

“I saw this kind of ignorance when I fought
many years ago against the French on the Plains of Abraham in the
taking of Quebec, and later in the campaigns against the Cherokee.
I was even carried along by it to some extent. But this time I want
to do better. I do not want to make the same mistake. I want to
understand the truth.” She heard him take a deep breath and let it
out slowly. “For the past two nights I have—with your father’s
permission—spent some time in his library looking through papers he
has collected regarding this area’s culture and history. But I
should not need to tell you that these accounts have been written
mostly by Englishmen, and lack any attempt at objectivity and
accuracy.”

They stopped at a stone bench beneath the
trellis, and he placed his boot on it. Leaning on a knee, he turned
to her. “So, what I am asking is whether there is someone at
Woodfield House…or someone who lives in the vicinity…who is
knowledgeable
and
objective enough to give me a clear
understanding of what is happening here.”

This hadn’t been what she was expecting.
She’d been so continually faced for so many years with the flaws of
an English system—and the flaws of the aristocracy—that she could
not help but wonder about this man’s motives. He was not at all
like his brethren.

“I must ask you, sir, if this desire for
‘understanding’ can be traced to our little skirmish yesterday and
to your silence about the identity of the rebel. Perhaps you are
concerned about your decision not to give me away.”

“No.” His denial was emphatic. “And I give
you my word that as far as the rest of the world will ever know,
you and I never met until last night…in your parents’ parlor.”

She paused. “Tell me, then. Why do you
care?”

“I told you. I have been questioned about
it, lectured about it by people like Sir Thomas, and this morning
by Musgrave. I like to know the facts before I form an
opinion.”

“Facts.” She leaned a shoulder against the
trellis and met his challenging look. “Facts are all just a matter
of perception.” She held up the fruit in her hand. “What do you see
here?”

“Grapes. Nourishment. The raw materials for
wine, I suppose.”

“What I see is the substance that holds the
seeds of future growth. The individual grape seed has little hope
of growing into a vine. But if I were to bury this entire bunch, in
the spring we would find a number of vines sprouting up from the
soil. Facts can be interpreted in different ways.”

Nicholas pulled a grape from the bunch in
her hand and popped it into his mouth. “And sometimes a grape is
but a grape.” He smiled. “But I accept your point.”

“Why do you
need
to form an opinion
about us?” She shot him a challenging look. “You are here today,
but you will be gone with my sister tomorrow. Why…”

“I shall not be leaving with Clara
tomorrow…nor anytime thereafter. And stop muddying the
discussion.”