His mouth twisted. ‘Aye, that would have been ironic. Bloody Ayre asking that a Scottish Jacobite be freed.’
She paled at Gavin’s use of the name given to her father by the Scottish. Her sense of desolation was made worse by knowing that the name was earned, and Papa would never be free of the stain it cast.
During the first Jacobite uprising, Papa had been a young army lieutenant, eager for promotion and confident in his support of George I. At the orders of his commanding officer, he had led his troops in the massacre of an entire Highland village. Her mother, the youngest daughter of a Scottish laird, had fallen in love with the young English soldier the year before. Against her parents’ orders, she had married Julian de Warre, who was later made Viscount Ayre by the English king for his actions.
Jenna’s mother had died ten years later, worn out by grief over what her husband had done. To this day, Papa regretted his actions and regretted even more the loss of his wife because of what he had done.
‘They might have let you go because of Papa,’ Jenna finally said.
‘Aye, I know, Jen. But I could not do it.’ Silently he held out the glass, a wince drawing a line between his brows.
Frowning, she filled the glass and handed it back. ‘Are you hurt?’
His eyes met hers over the glass rim. ‘Only a wee bit. Nothing to fash yourself aboot.’
Her lips pursed in irritation. ‘You were ever one to be evasive, Gavin James Steuart, when the truth did not suit you. How badly hurt are you?’
‘I told you. Not much.’ His gaze slid away from hers.
‘Liar.’ She stood and studied every inch of him, although most of him was hidden. ‘Take off your cape so I can get a good look at you.’
His mouth turned down as he prepared to defy her.
‘No, do not be taking that stand with me, Gavin.’ Her tone softened. ‘You know I love you and want to help. If you are injured, you will have trouble.’ Tis not likely you will find other aid when you must remain in hiding.’
He sighed and the tightness around his mouth eased. ‘You always could manage me when you had a mind to.’ He undid the clasp at his throat and let the cape fall to the floor.
Jenna gasped and sank back to her knees in front of him. His jacket was stained black with blood over his right shoulder. ‘We must get this off so I can see how bad the damage is.’ She plucked at his coat.
Long, painful minutes later, Gavin’s pale flesh was exposed. The wound was jagged and deep. A musket hole.
‘Is the bullet still in?’ she asked, probing gently and wincing with each involuntary flinch of his body.
‘I do no’ ken.’ A weak smile curved his lips. ‘It felt like my entire shoulder exploded. Surely the ball went out the back.’
She examined him, front and back. ‘Yes. An exit wound.’
He blanched. ‘Ah, good, then. I’m fleein’ for me life. Tonight, I meet The Ferguson, who will smuggle me out o’ England.’
Jenna’s brows raised in appreciation. Even she had heard of The Ferguson, the scourge of the English army. Tales said the man had single-handedly defeated a whole platoon of redcoats. Some said that if he had been in charge of the Scots during Culloden the battle would have ended differently. She did not think anyone could have bested the English army. There had been too many of them.
Momentarily diverted, she said, ‘You know The Ferguson? You move in exalted ranks. I have always thought he sounded romantic.’
Gavin grunted. ‘Leave it to a woman to think Duncan is romantic. He is not. You can not be a fighter and be romantic.’ He shook his head. ‘Duncan and I were at Eton together. Then he went to Cambridge and I went to Edinburgh.’ Gavin grimaced. ‘I could no longer stand being in England, but Duncan said going to school with the English helped him understand them better. Made him better at besting them.’
‘And it seems to.’ She pushed to the back of her mind her foolish fascination over a man she had never met. ‘Let me clean the wound and bandage it properly. Otherwise the skin will fester.’
Stubbornness moved over his face once again. She poured him more whisky and handed it to him before laying a hand gently on his good shoulder.
‘Aye, I know, Jen. You are a healer, just as your mother was.’ He gritted his teeth. ‘Get on with it, then.’ He gulped the liquor down.
She worked as quickly as possible. ‘It appears clean, but you have lost a lot of blood. I will need to sew it shut, poultice it and wrap it tightly.’
He nodded. ‘More whisky, if you please.’
‘Are you going on tonight?’ she asked, knowing the answer, but wanting him to understand why she was going to refuse him.
‘I moost.’
‘Then,’ twould be best for you to have no more.’ She took the empty glass and set it on the table, well away from him. ‘Otherwise, you will not be able to stay on your horse.’
‘You are sensible as always, but ’twould be nice. Still, I’ve a ways to go, and I mustn’t be late. The tide will wait for no man, not even The Ferguson.’
Jenna took the hint and quickly bandaged him. When she had finished, he rested his head on her worktable.
‘I would give you something else for the pain, Gavin, but laudanum would only cloud your wits more. Wait here and relax as much as you can while I fetch my jewellery.’
Minutes later, she returned and handed him a small velvet sack. ‘’Tis all I have. I wish ’twere more.’
Gavin poured out the meagre contents: a loose ruby and one sapphire, a single-strand pearl necklace, such as a young girl would wear, an amethyst brooch and a thistle leaf done in emeralds. He handed the thistle leaf to her.
‘I cannot take this, Jen.’ Twas your mother’s.’
She shook her head. ‘No, Gavin. She would want you to have it. Mother never cared for jewels, only people, and you are the only son of her only sister. Take it.’ Tis the most valuable.’
‘I will repay you, Jen. That I promise.’ He slipped the brooch back into the bag and secured the packet in the pocket of his jacket. ‘I must be going.’
He rose and swayed slightly before catching himself with one hand on the edge of the table. Jenna rushed to him and put an arm around his waist.
‘Are you sure you can travel?’
‘I moost. If I miss tonight, the next chance is a month away. Not many ships, even smugglers, will carry convicted Jacobites. And no one will hide one.’ His mouth twisted bitterly.
Worried, Jenna watched him go to the outside entrance. She could not let him go alone. ‘I will go with you.’
He turned, irritation etching lines along his mouth. ‘That you will not do.’
‘How will you stop me? Besides, you will be safer if I’m with you. You cannot tell me the redcoats are not hunting for you, Gavin Steuart.’ Twould be a lie. And if your wound continues to bleed, I will be able to treat it.’
She did not say what she thought—that if his wound continued to bleed he would not have the strength to escape without help. Or that he might not even live. If he stayed in England, his chance of living to an old age was even less than that.
‘True,’ he muttered in the tone of voice he always used when he saw himself losing an argument with her.
‘They won’t be looking for a couple.’
‘Aye,’ he said, resignation moving over his face.
‘I can ride as well as you and will not slow you down.’ That, too, was true. Many times