The Rebel

by May McGoldrick

  For too long she had lived for vengeance she could not exact. Deep inside, she knew that killing one man—her father—would never bring back those five men or ease her pain. But joining the Whiteboy movement had helped.

  Sometime later, Jane realized she had stopped crying. As if just awakened herself from a deep sleep, she found her gaze focusing on the dark shapes of the standing stones. There were five.

  Five stones standing for longer than anyone knew. Five stones carried here and erected for some mysterious purpose by people long gone. Five of them standing against the elements. Standing against wind and rain. Against sun and ice. Five of them.

  Perhaps, she thought, the descendants of those people still lived here. Still worked this land and claimed it as their own. Despite the invasions of marauding Vikings and Romans and Englishmen, these people—these stones—still stood defiantly on the moor. Five that would stand forever.

  Jane breathed in the clean smell of the fresh night air. She looked at the stones and felt the endless hours of loneliness and anguish quietly slip away. She would no longer allow herself to be crushed by grief.

  “I see tragedy and sorrow in your past—but no shame,” Nicholas whispered. His fingers threaded gently into her hair, and he pulled her head back until she was looking up into his face. “I admire your courage. I admire the woman who you have become despite the adversity in your life.”

  There was understanding and compassion in his face…but fire, as well. Something within Jane thrilled to find that, despite hearing the truth of her past, he still wanted her.

  “The present and the future belong to those who seize it, Jane. Seize it with me.”

  “Genteel society shuns me. It will be scandalous for you to have anything to do with me.”

  “Genteel society can go to hell,” he growled. “I know the hypocrisy of the world. And I know what is good and decent when I see it, too.”

  His mouth descended, brushing over hers, before coaxing her lips apart. Jane’s hands moved up his chest as he kissed her thoroughly. Realizing she was falling too deep and too fast, her fingers fisted on the lapels of his jacket, and she tore her mouth away.

  “Wait! There is Clara…we cannot.”

  “I have said this before Jane. There is nothing between Clara and me, and there never will be. I have already spoken to your father.” Nicholas’s large hands framed her face, and he looked steadily into her eyes. “How must I say it for you to understand? Who else should I tell? What will it take to convince you that that you are the one who fascinates me. You are the one I am pursuing.”

  Jane rose up on her toes and kissed him again. This time, she tried to convey all of her frustration—all of the longing that tore at her—into the heated press of lips, the chafe and dance of tongues. Nicholas’s reaction was immediate. His arms wrapped around her, his mouth as greedy as her own as he gave as much as he took. Jane clung to him, trying to keep her balance and retain a shred of sanity.

  Too many years had passed. It had been so long, that she’d forgotten what it was like to lose herself in a haze of passion. But as Nicholas’s hands caressed and molded the cloak and dress against her body, and—as every inch of Jane’s body came alive with a sensual awareness—images of young love no longer danced before her eyes, but the hard, hot reality of this man and her own admission on what all of this meant.

  There could no longer be any denial. Nicholas already had become much more to Jane than she would have thought possible. Still though, she had gone this route once before and had suffered. And what was worse, this time around she saw the journey would be even rougher and more painful.

  She tore her mouth away and pushed at his chest. He immediately let her go. Jane took an immediate step back, but couldn’t bring herself to look into his face.

  “We should go…’tis late. They shall be worrying about you.” She took a few steps toward their horses, but turned around when she realized Nicholas was not coming.

  He hadn’t moved. He stood there among the stones, the moon behind him, his face in shadow, watching her. Her own heart was hammering in her chest, her tingling body crying out for his touch. It took all of her strength not to run back to him.

  “Nicholas, I…I am planning to go back to Ballyclough tomorrow. I will be going from there and making other visits, too. If you…if you wish to come with me…”

  “I do.”

  She tried not to be distracted by the relief washing through her.

  “Then…I shall let you know tomorrow morning.”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  *****

  Patrick placed a firm hand on Ronan’s arm, stopping him from moving out of the ruined cottage.

  “Nay, ye have no business going out there. Let’s get back to the horses.”

  “I’ve business enough.”

  “Ye’ll not lay a hand on her.”

  “I’ve nothing against Egan. That filthy English bastard is another thing entirely.”

  “He’s done nothing to rile ye.” Patrick watched the two begin to mount their horses.

  “The dog has made a pact with Musgrave, hasn’t he?”

  “We don’t know if he has or if he hasn’t. We only know that he went into the barracks at Buttevant alone and came out with Seamus’s widow. We don’t know what went on there, but I’m thinking we have as much reason to be thankful as we do to suspect him. Maybe more. We don’t know what that magistrate will do for someone like him.”

  The two men, keeping an eye on the barracks since news of Rita’s arrest, had followed Spencer and the widow to Ballyclough, and from there they’d kept a discreet watch on him…until Egan had caught up to the man halfway to Woodfield House.

  “I still want to break the bastard’s neck.”

  Ronan’s menacing tone made Patrick put a hand on the fighter’s muscular arm. “Ye want to break his neck, sure, but is it because he was kissing Egan, maybe?”

  “The man is taking advantage of her,” Ronan growled.

  “Ye seem to be forgetting that she’s the one that came after him,” Patrick retorted. “When are ye going to get it in yer thick head that Egan is a grown woman? She doesn’t need the likes of ye to be pining and drooling after her like some lovesick whelp.”

  “What do you mean, the likes of me?” The young man turned fiercely toward his companion. “The likes of him is what she’s been running away from all these years. She…she’s fond of me. She’s just waiting for me to do the asking…and she’ll be taking me in the place of Conor…bless him.”

  Patrick shook his head disbelievingly. “I’m thinking when she calls you ‘runt,’ she must be talking about size of your brain.”

  “Ye may be my mate, Paddy, but ye are about to feel my knuckles on yer head.”

  Patrick met Ronan’s glare without flinching. Age and experience gave him an upper hand that he knew Ronan would not test.

  “Ye can do yer worst with me anytime, Ronan, but get it in yer thick head right now that ye’ll never do for her. Ye’ll never be a Conor. And ye have a better chance of becoming Lord Lieutenant of Ireland than ye do of making her take ye as her man. I’ve known Egan since she was a wee spit of a lass, and I’m telling ye she is one that’ll be doing her own choosing.”

  Patrick looked over his shoulder and found Egan and the Englishman had disappeared. Thank the saints.

  “I say Liam should know about all of this.”

  The older man returned Ronan’s hostile glare. “And Liam will. But remember, not a word about this kissing business, or I’ll tell Egan myself about your stupid notions of becoming her man.”

  Ronan waved off the threat and started out of the cottage with Patrick on his heels.

  “And God help you then, runt.”

  CHAPTER 19

  The moment he heard the light tap on the door, Nicholas yanked open the latch and grabbed Jane’s arm. Her gasp of surprise was silenced the next instant when he closed the door again and pressed her back against it. The next moment his m
outh was ravenously devouring hers.

  It was some time before he drew back and let both of them catch their breath.

  “I do not recall…ever being so delighted with a morning greeting.” She smiled up at him.

  “That’s because I had all night to plan it.”

  “You have quite a way with words, Sir Nicholas.”

  His body was still pressing hers against the door. The mold of her soft curves against his hard edges was perfect. “I didn’t care much for your insistence on arriving at Woodfield House at different times last night. I had no chance to kiss you goodn…to say goodnight.”

  Jane’s dark eyes danced with mischief, and her arms tightened around his waist. “Are you telling me that the want of a single kiss last night is responsible for your greeting this morning?”

  “Very well. It wasn’t only the kiss…but everything about you that is responsible.”

  His mouth descended. This time with patience, he coaxed and parted her lips again, his tongue darting inside to sample and tease and unleash her passion. Jane’s body arched against his. Her hands rubbed the shirt’s fabric against his back, and her hip answered the slight but seductive movement of his own.

  Nicholas dragged his mouth to her ear and bit on the lobe. “All night I dreamed that I was making love to you.”

  His hand pressed against her breast through the dress, and he felt the peak of the nipple harden as his thumb brushed over it. Jane laid her head back against the door and closed her eyes, and he tasted the skin of her neck.

  “You were here. We locked the door.” His hand moved down the front of the dress. “I slowly peeled away each layer of your clothing until my mouth tasted and feasted on every inch of your sweet flesh.”

  A low moan escaped her lips when Nicholas’s hand cupped her mound through the layers of cloth.

  “We made love on that bed…and then on the floor…and once there on the chair, with you mounted upon me…and once more against this door.”

  Her face was flushed. Her eyes, incredibly dark and large, opened and stared at him when he pulled up the heavy fabric of her skirts and pressed his fingers against her moist folds.

  “What do you say to that, Jane?” He brushed his lips against hers while his fingers stroked her below. “What do you think of my dream?”

  He didn’t wait for an answer and slipped his tongue between the parted lips. He felt the moan of pleasure as his fingers copied the motion of his tongue.

  The time for questions or answers was past, now, and he pleasured in her body’s responses as his gentle ministration of her flesh set her on fire. Slowly, expertly, he manipulated the center of pleasure and sweet torment, lifting her ever higher, reveling in her cries of release as she finally came apart in his arms.

  Fighting to ignore his own raw need, Nicholas cherished the feel of her in his arms. He loved the softness and the strength—the struggle and the surrender—the beauty and the intelligence. He held her tight while the waves of release continued to ripple through her, and kissed her tenderly.

  The sound of two women’s voices in the corridor outside his door jerked Nicholas back to reality. Jane descended like a stone from her place of bliss, and he couldn’t help but smile at her efforts to focus on the present. He dropped her skirts and pushed her behind him as the knock came. Nicholas chuckled inwardly, thinking it was a good thing he hadn’t dragged her directly to his bed for he hadn’t even latched the door. With a reassuring look at Jane, he opened it a little.

  The surprised faces of two young servants greeted him.

  “Oh, sir…begging yer pardon, sir. We saw yer valet and…we…”

  “We thought…ye were already…down…taking your breakfast…downstairs…”

  “We were making up the bedchambers and…and…”

  “Come back in half an hour,” he told them. “Then you can do with the room what you will.”

  Both curtsied hurriedly and disappeared down the hallway. Nicholas waited a moment and then cast a quick glance up and down the now empty corridor before closing the door.

  “I…I cannot tell you how shocked I am…by my own behavior,” Jane whispered from the wall. A trembling hand pushed loose tendrils of hair behind an ear. “Acting the way I did…falling so wantonly into your arms…allowing you to...”

  “Yes, such a moment can leave you shockingly satisfied.” Nicholas pulled her away from the wall and into his arms. “If it were not for those two coming back, I would show the meaning of wantonness.”

  He brushed his lips against hers, and he felt her body melt again into his embrace.

  “Tell me, my love. Where are you taking me?”

  It took her a moment to focus on his words, but he watched her eyes clear as she placed her hands on his chest.

  “As it turns out, only to Ballyclough to check on Rita and her children, and back again.”

  “Nothing after that? No bishops to rob? No kingdoms to overthrow?”

  “On the days that I spend at Woodfield House…of which there are many…I use the afternoons painting.”

  “And where to you paint?”

  “In my work area, in the attics.”

  “Will you take me there?”

  Jane fixed a wry look on him. “Are you always so demanding?”

  “Only when I can get away with it.”

  “Why do I have this feeling that there is a great deal that you get away with.”

  She smiled up at him, and Nicholas held her tightly, cherishing the wild beat of their hearts.

  “I will take you there, sometime. But we do have more important duties to attend to first.”

  Nicholas couldn’t bring himself to let this moment go. “Tell me, are you going to force me to wait for five minutes after you have left before I can face the household? I will not be required to go to breakfast by way of Cork City, will I?”

  “As a matter of fact, I am going to insist that you go and have breakfast with my family without me.” She did manage to break free of him. “Apparently, my mother was complaining incessantly yesterday about not seeing you. You can meet me at the stables when you are finished.”

  He caught her arm as she reached for the door. “I will only go down into that den of lions if you come with me.”

  “Are you serious?” she scolded over her shoulder before peeking out into the corridor. “Do you want the pyramids to crumble? The oceans to run dry? Nay, sir. If I join them, they will think the Second Coming is surely at hand.”

  “Jane, I will not go down if you will not join me. We can leave for Ballyclough now.”

  “But we cannot just go,” she insisted, her expression growing serious. “In spite of anything you say…about your plans not to marry Clara…they have high expectations of you down there, and it is…”

  “Then come with me.”

  “Heavens, you are stubborn, sir.”

  “Come Jane. We shall go down separately and behave as perfect strangers.”

  As she stared at the door, considering momentarily, Nicholas had to stop himself from bending down and placing a kiss on her long and beautiful neck.

  “I just want to look across the room and see your beautiful face before me.”

  “Well, that is too much to ask.” She sent him a cross look.

  “What? Sitting across the room from me?”

  “Nay! Making my face beautiful.”

  He laughed and placed that kiss on her neck to show her exactly how beautiful he already thought she was. Jane sighed contentedly but then placed a hand on his chest.

  “Very well. But I shall make my entrance before you. And not one look…nor touch, either…”

  “I give you my word.” He stole another kiss before she quietly slipped out of the room.

  Nicholas buttoned up his shirt, tied his cravat, and reached for his jacket. Glancing once in the mirror, he was amazed at the starry-eyed face staring back at him. He’d seen other men wearing this look, he realized.

  Men in love.

  ***


  “What do you mean, she’s disappeared?” Sir Robert Musgrave planted his hands on the desk and pushed himself to his feet. “Yesterday, you told me the woman is old and blind. How far can a blind, old woman go?”

  “We have turn the cottage inside out.”

  The captain of the dragoons was sitting bolt upright in his chair. He was an idiot, of course, Musgrave thought, but he was also the youngest brother of the Earl of Kildare’s wife.

  “I had my men scour the countryside around the place. I even had them drag out a few of the farmers in the area and question them about her. Naturally, no one knows anything of her whereabouts. She was there last night, Sir Robert, but she is gone this morning.”

  Musgrave strode angrily to the window. He should have followed his intuition and had the older woman brought in yesterday, directly after the baronet had left with the other one. All that slop Spencer had fed him about wanting to help the poor still sat ill in his craw.

  He’d had Rita arrested because she was the widow of the miserable cur who’d been killed last month. He knew how the Whiteboys worked—and he knew they took care of their women and children. So he’d had his spies keeping an eye on the widow. And just as he’d expected, the woman had shown up with money to spend in the market.

  “Spencer be damned!” Musgrave muttered to himself. There must have been someone else…someone from that damnable gang of thugs…who had been in touch with her. He was determined to find out who.

  Rita, though, had been as stubborn as a mule in answering any of his questions. But he’d thought time was his ally. A few days in the hole with his lonely dragoons to keep her company, and the woman would be singing like a lark.

  How he was beginning to hate Sir Nicholas Spencer! The arrogant bastard had shown up, threatening him with the serious displeasure of the Lord Lieutenant, who just happened to be a dear family friend of the blackguard.