The Rebel

by May McGoldrick

  She nodded and as the two men moved back into the darkness of the barn, Jenny’s thin fingers reached up and clasped hers for an instant. The woman’s green eyes were gentle when they met her own.

  “Ye always have been like a daughter to me, my joy, and I know in my heart that ye’ll always be. Let’s just hope that your sister is grateful to ye for the chances ye take now on her behalf.”

  Egan squeezed the woman’s hand but said nothing. She had no desire to hear Jenny explain herself further. Some words were better not said openly. She left the barn alone.

  The rain pelted both horse and rider as she descended the slippery hill and broke into a gallop along the hedgerows. On the flat, she leaned forward, giving the mare her head as they made their way home.

  Though the old woman’s concerns were very real, for the first time in her life, Jane actually agreed with something that her father was attempting to do. Clara needed a husband. She needed a respectable home and a future far away from the turmoil that continued to rip at the entrails of this country. For too long, the blood and pain and anguish that had caused such a chasm in Ireland had affected her family, as well, festering and contaminating all.

  Clara, however, was young, beautiful, and pliable enough to forget everything here. There was still time for her to start a grand new life for herself in England.

  The younger sister had come to Jane’s room tonight after everyone had retired, but not to question her about the incident that had occurred in the afternoon. She’d come to inform her of the plans to visit Ballyclough tomorrow. She’d asked her to go along, and Jane had reluctantly accepted.

  And as Jane now shielded her face against the stinging rain, she only hoped that her family would complete this marriage negotiation soon. She didn’t care to look upon Spencer’s face for even a moment longer than necessary. Her first meeting with him was a memory she wished to bury forever.

  ***

  The stone arch over the recessed doorway that led out into the gardens afforded Nicholas a dry place to stand and smoke his cigar. The teeming rain run in rivulets down along the stone-paved paths into the garden. One of the dogs that wandered about the estate lay curled in a ball near his feet. Beyond the gardens, he could see the dark hulk of the ancient stable with its two long arms of horse stalls reaching out to the stone wall that completed the paddock enclosure. A newer, more modern horse barn loomed beyond. When the lightning flashed, the slate of the roof looked silvery in the rain.

  Despite the excuses he’d used to escape earlier, sleep continued to elude Nicholas long after the inhabitants of Woodfield House had settled in for the night. The sound of the storm and the lash of the rain against his windows had finally driven him from his bed. Restless and dissatisfied with the world, Nicholas stood in the darkness and smoked and watched the falling rain.

  A brilliant array of lightning flashes in the distance drew his eye, and he silently counted the delay as he had always done since childhood. Leaning against the stone and mortar of the arched entry, he waited until the thunder reached him, one peal building on the last, impressive in its untamed power. Then, unbidden—even as the air reverberated from the thunder—from somewhere in the back of his mind, the image of Jane Purefoy’s face formed itself. Ringlets of black hair dancing in the wind. Black eyes, dark as the night, daring him to follow her into the storm.

  Nicholas threw the cigar into the dirt and crushed it with his boot, angry for allowing himself to be so easily bewitched. He’d never allowed himself to become consumed with any woman before, and he wasn’t starting now.

  As he turned to go back into the house, another bolt of lightning lit the fields beyond the stables, and he stopped, fairly certain he had glimpsed a solitary rider riding across the valley floor.

  ‘Bewitched’ was the right word. After all, everyone knew Ireland was the land of ghosts and faerie folk. Of pagan priests and haunted hillocks and storm-riding banshees who carried with them the promise of sudden death.

  He stared out into the darkness until another flash illuminated the scene. There it was again—a hooded, dark-caped phantom—and it was covering ground. The rain-slick sides of the black horse gleamed as it tore across the valley. As the blackness enveloped the field again, Nicholas could see in his mind’s eye the windswept cape flying behind as this ghostly rider rode hard out of the heart of the storm.

  He waited, listening for the approach of the horse, but the thunder rolling in across the fields and the teeming rain obliterated any further sign. When another bolt of lightning finally lit up the sky, the dark green fields were empty.

  He remained still for a long moment, waiting for any telltale sign of what he might have really seen. There was nothing in the pastureland beneath the gardens and the stables, but in a few moments, the sound of a horse drew his attention shortly to one of the stable wings. As he peered through the darkness, he thought he saw a horse being led into the paddock. As if prodded into action, the shaggy gray dog stood up, sniffed the air for a moment, and then trotted off unconcernedly in the direction of the stables.

  Nicholas stood for a moment more. There was no sound from the dog. His curiosity finally getting the best of him, he moved out into the rain. By the time he passed by the walled formal gardens that separated the house from the stables, his shirt was soaked through and the rain was dripping from his chin. He approached the stable cautiously, keeping to the shadows.

  Peering over the stone wall at the line of stalls opening onto the paddock, he listened for any sign of the midnight rider.

  The rain was pouring off the roof into puddles, but through it he thought he could make out the sound of a horse’s hooves shuffling. The soft murmur of a woman’s voice. He strained to hear. The words had the quality of one speaking comfortingly to an animal. Nicholas hoisted himself over the wall and moved along the stall doors. The top half of one door was partially open.

  “Oidhe maithe agut, mo bourine.”

  Jane. Whatever it was she said, the words had been whispered in Gaelic, and Nicholas would have wagered that they carried a far gentler meaning than the curses she’d hurled at him this morning. He smiled in the darkness and waited, not wanting to surprise her in the stall. She was quick with a knife, and Nicholas didn’t trust his own actions if he were to corner her again. He waited a moment more, expecting her to come through stall door into the paddock, but there was no other sound.

  Finally, he pulled open the top half of the door, clearing his throat as he did.

  The smell of the horse and wet leather greeted him, and he could hear the mare shift in the darkness inside, but there was no other sound. A blanket covered the back of the steed.

  Speaking in a low voice to the animal, he entered. He caressed the beast’s damp mane and glanced over the high back to another door that led into the stables. Pushing past, he made his way though the stall to an alley lit only by small windows. Frowning, he turned and stroked the horse’s forelock.

  Even in the darkness of the narrow space, he could see that everything was in order—all was where it belonged. Except for the wet face of the horse, and the dripping saddle on the door leading to the stables, it was as if Jane Purefoy had never ridden in from a violent storm only moments earlier. The routine was practiced and perfect.

  “So fast and so smart,” he whispered to the mare before backing out of the stall the way he’d entered.

  Retracing his steps toward the house, he moved through the rain with more speed than he’d employed when heading down. He wanted a moment with her. Alone. As he strode quickly up the hill, he realized that he was looking for a reason to put himself again in her path.

  The door where he’d been standing before was partially open, as he’d left it. Taking the stairs three at the time, he hurried upward through the house. Whatever secret passageway or hidden stairs she had taken to this floor and her bedchamber, Nicholas was determined to head her off.

  He arrived at Jane’s chamber too late. A line of candlelight showed beneath t
he door. Impulsively, he raised a hand to knock, but as he did, the light was extinguished.

  Nicholas lowered his hand. His fist relaxed. A smile broke across his face, and he shook his head as he started down the hallway and toward his own room.

  He could wait. And tomorrow was certain to be an interesting day.

  ***

  The bed remained untouched, though the candles had been put out hours ago. A middle-aged man, looking far older than his years, sat on a well-worn, upholstered chair by the window, keeping his solitary vigil. It had been a long night, hang it. Far longer than usual.

  The storm outside was easing a little when he heard an ancient hinge creak at the bottom of the secret passageway. As she so often did, she was using the passage that led from the wall between his and the next bedchamber down into the cellars of the original castle and out to the old stables.

  Instantly alert, he waited until he had heard the only sounds that brought him comfort these days. He listened closely to Jane coming up the narrow and dusty stairs, to the panel in her room opening and closing, to the click of the latch behind her.

  Relieved, Sir Thomas Purefoy flexed his aching joints, pushed his weary body out of the chair, and padded silently across the floor to his bed.

  Nine years had passed, but he knew nine hundred more might come and go before she would forgive him.

  Jane was so much like him. She never forgot, and she never forgave. But he was still her father. She would never know how much he had already suffered from her rejection of him.

  Lying awake, as he had so many endless nights before, Thomas Purefoy stared up into the blackness of the bed canopy above him and tried to recall the days when a black-haired girl had run happily in the green meadows around Woodfield House.

  CHAPTER 7

  Her body ached. Her bones creaked from the impact of Spencer’s hard body landing on hers. But this wasn’t the worst of it. It was morning.

  Mornings were not a favorite part of Jane’s day—especially not early mornings, anyway. The housekeeper Fey was accustomed to her failings, though, and despite all of Jane’s complaining, the old servant simply remained, gently pushing the young woman along until she was up and washed. Supervising with an air of a benign despot, Fey watched with satisfaction as a maid helped her mistress into a black riding dress and black boots.

  Looking sleepily into the looking glass, Jane winced at the color of the bruise on her face. Though the swelling on her lip and the side of her mouth had subsided considerably overnight, the sixteen shades of green and yellow seemed to be overtaking the purples and the pinks in the race to dominate. She touched the tender bruise and cursed her negligence for the hundredth time for allowing the Englishman to best her the way he had.

  She could only hope the cut on his arm ached like hell.

  Another glance at her reflection and she knew there could be no going out in daylight looking like a week old carcass. Despite her customary nonchalance regarding how she dressed or looked, Jane simply couldn’t imagine parading a face so hideously discolored in public. It was one thing to shock her father when he’d demanded that she meet their guests in the parlor, but today was a different matter entirely. And bringing attention to herself was something that Jane Purefoy habitually avoided like the plague.

  With a weak smile at Fey, she hobbled out into the hallway and slipped into Clara’s bedchamber without knocking. Perhaps her sister would have a solution to her problem. Clara was already up and dressed and greeted her with the usual morning cheerfulness that was so much a part of the younger woman’s nature.

  Jane thought this might be a perfect time to kill the little cherub, if she only had the energy.

  “I can put some powder on your face,” Clara suggested, “and tame down the wilder shades of the bruising.” She followed Jane to the side of the bed. “But it will still show. And people will be asking questions. And please Jane, for heaven’s sake, don’t use the same excuse that you did last night.”

  “I thought it was quite clever.”

  “Come now. Striking your face on the edge of the dressing table is an excuse far too lame to try to run over any distance.”

  “You’re starting to talk like Father.” Jane eyed the smooth bedclothes of the tidily made bed. “I think it is a very good story. Such an accident could happen to anyone.”

  “Indeed, to anyone who is trying to fib. I don’t believe anyone could possibly roll out of bed, presumably while half asleep, and do this amount of damage only to one’s mouth and not the rest of her face…or to her brow…or…”

  “I cannot comprehend such analytical reasoning at such an early hour.” Jane pulled back the bedclothes and climbed into the bed with her boots and dress on, pulling the coverlet to her chin. “Go without me, shrew, and let me sleep.”

  “No! We cannot go without you,” Clara protested, trying to wrestle the covers off her older sister. “I cannot be left alone with him on such a long ride. Even with a groom to attend us, it would not be…”

  “Of course you can go. Everyone concerned knows that our dear mother has already seen to it that the finishing touches have been put on your wedding dress. I shouldn’t be surprised if the wedding notices didn’t go out last evening.”

  “Don’t be horrid. You must come!” Clara continued to tug on the blanket that the older sister held tightly to her chest. “Please, Jane. Do this for me. It is not proper for me to be alone with Sir Nicholas, and you know it.”

  “Proper be dashed. He is here to marry you, and that’s all there is to it.”

  “Jane!” she whined.

  The older sister shook her head and held on tightly. “There is nothing that you two can do now that you shan’t be doing in a very short while…after you are married. What difference should a fortnight make?”

  She continued pulling. “Please come with us.”

  “I need sleep.” Jane rolled over and pressed her head into the pillows, tucking the blanket around her. “I need rest—peace and quiet. Let me be.”

  “But I need you. I do not want to be left alone with him.”

  Jane let go of the blanket, and Clara fell back hard on her buttocks on the floor.

  “Why not?” Half rising on the bed, Jane looked down over the edge at her sister.

  “That hurt. You intentionally made me fall.”

  “Why don’t you want to be left alone with him?”

  “Help me get up.” Clara stretched her hands up to her sister.

  Jane climbed out of bed, but instead of helping the younger woman, she crossed her arms and towered over her. “Is Father forcing you to marry this man against your will?”

  “Don’t be silly. He is not forcing me to do anything.”

  “But you are trying, once again, to be the perfect daughter, are you not? You are going along with this whole thing, not because of your own feelings toward the Englishman—as you led me to believe after your return from London—but because you think this would be best for the family. Sacrificing yourself for the…”

  “I am not doing any such thing.” Clara pushed herself to her feet and faced her sister. “You are putting words in my mouth.”

  Jane studied the younger woman. “Then do you like him?”

  “Of course I do. How could one not? He is a handsome man, well-to-do; he is a baronet and well-connected in London society. He is every girl’s dream. He is the perfect catch.”

  “Then, do you love him?”

  Clara’s cheeks immediately flushed, and she turned abruptly and walked toward the mirror. It took a long moment before she answered. “If you want me to tell you that I love him as you loved Conor, the answer is no.”

  Jane frowned, feeling the old and familiar tightness in her chest as she met her sister’s gaze in the mirror.

  “I know of no woman who could love a man the way you have loved Conor. I shall probably never come anywhere near having what you have had—your joy when he was still alive, or the suffering you have endured since he was killed.
Honestly, Jane, I know of no one else who is as capable of loving a man as you are.”

  A painful lump in her throat kept Jane from responding. She fought back tears threatening to spill.

  “But in my case, you are making a great deal more of things than you should.” Clara turned and faced her sister. “The reason why I don’t want to be left alone with Sir Nicholas is that he is so much older, so much more experienced, and so naturally I still feel quite shy in his company. I believe, in time, I will learn to trust myself and not be so intimidated by his good looks or his charm.”

  Jane studied the nervous smile on her sister’s face and tried to remember if she’d ever felt this way. She thought of all those times she had run off to meet secretly with Conor by the standing stones on the moor near Knocknakilla. That year, she had turned fifteen and Conor sixteen, but shyness had never been a problem with either of them. But how could it have been? The two had known each other for all of their lives…she, the daughter of the magistrate; he, the son of a poor cottager. Just as Jane’s mind started to drift off toward those memories of the past, Clara’s voice jolted her back to the present.

  “You can wear the black hat with the dark veil that Mother wore to the funeral of Parson Adam’s mother last winter. That should cover the bruise and more.” Clara reached for Jane’s hand and started pulling her toward the door. “Fey tells me that Sir Nicholas has been ready for some time. We should hurry, I suppose. We don’t want him to form a poor opinion of us now, do we?”

  “Not at all.” Jane muttered under her breath as she was dragged from the room. “As his future sister-in-law, I am absolutely desperate with fear that he should form anything but the highest opinion of me.”