his body.
The ground was so cold. She jumped up and fetched the two blankets. Returning, she rolled him up in them. Her mind raced the entire time. Much as she hated to think it, he was right. The only person she could trust to help her with Gavin was The Ferguson. Anyone else might betray him or be tricked into doing so.
‘How will I recognise The Ferguson?’
His eyes opened, shining like glass in the silver moonlight. ‘Silver cross. At his neck.’ His lids drifted lower. ‘Always wears it. Do no’ know why.’
‘What colour is his hair? His eyes?’
‘Do no’ know. Changes. Eyes are hazel.’ His eyes shut completely.
Her chest clenched painfully. She swore softly, words a lady should not know, words she only heard in the stables. If she did not hurry, it would be too late. She jumped up and made for her mare, pausing long enough to tether Gavin’s horse to a bush. Tears blurred her vision as she mounted.
Glancing back at her cousin, she whispered, ‘Do not die on me, Gavin Steuart. Do not ye dare. I will haunt you in hell if you are not here when I return.’
Swallowing the anger created by her fear, she turned the horse away. The Whore’s Eye was not too much further. Many’s the time she had overheard servants talking about the lawlessness of the seamen and worse who frequented the place.
She had no choice.
Only another Jacobite could be trusted with Gavin’s life. She prayed she would reach The Ferguson in time.
Chapter Two
Jenna halted at the door to the Whore’s Eye, her boots sinking into a muddy puddle. Three feet above her head a battered sign with a large blue eye painted on it dropped large drops of water on her head. Her soaked cape clung to her like a woollen mitten, and her hair fell in a limp rope down her back. The spectacles she had put back on, after tying her horse to a tree some distance away, were blurred.
Fingers numb from the cold, she pulled the hood of her cape over her hair, then fumbled with the handle until the heavy oak door swung inwards on protesting rusted hinges. Jenna stepped into the opening. The odours of unwashed bodies, onions too long cooked and rancid ale hit her nose like a slap. Cheap tallow candles flickered from some of the plank tables, adding their acrid scent. After the bitter clean of the storm, the smells were nauseating. The fireplace, where a large kettle hung full of what promised to be mutton, provided a minimum of light and an eye-stinging haze.
Gavin had said this place was the haunt of scallywags and highwaymen. A quick glance around told her Gavin had been kind.
She would not choose to come here with an armed escort, let alone by herself. But ’twas a risk she had to take. Gavin’s life depended on her.
The men here looked rough and more than reprehensible, pursuing their pleasure in groups or alone, as the mood took them. All drank. A lone buxom wench worked the tables, her charms spilling out of a tight bodice and her arms large enough from hefting ale-filled tankards to floor any male who might take advantage.
Jenna’s mouth twisted in a reluctant glimmer of admiration. The woman probably welcomed the extra bit of change a randy man provided. Jenna had long ago lost count of the number of illegitimate children she had helped bring into the world.
Someone yelled, ‘Close the bloody door, yer bloody fagget!’
Jenna winced as she closed the door and slid to the side, keeping her back to the wall. The last thing she had intended to do was draw attention. No matter that she was in one of her working dresses and her cape was plain black, she obviously did not belong here.
Her clothing started to steam in the smoke-infested warmth and the stench of wet wool added itself to the other odours. Her nose wrinkled at the assault before she remembered to make her features placid. No one in this room would be bothered by these smells and to show that she was would only offend anyone who might look at her.
She took a moment and removed her spectacles and wiped them on her soaked sleeve. She needed to be able to see the silver cross. She put them back on and they instantly fogged. She sighed and waited. Patience was a virtue. The steam soon evaporated and the figures closer to her came into harsh focus.
The skin at the nape of her neck crawled and in a nervous twist, she looked to her left—and nearly fainted. Four redcoats sat at a table not twenty feet from her. One of the soldiers watched her with heavy-lidded intensity. Could he be the officer who had passed Gavin and her? If so, did he recognise her? Surely not. She had kept the hood of her cloak over her hair, hiding her face.
Instinctively, she bit her lower lip.
Why were they here? This was a tavern not normally frequented by their like. Were they here because of Gavin? Did they know he was to meet The Ferguson, who would smuggle him out of England and over to France? Was that why they had been travelling the same road? It could not be. She had to believe that or all was lost.
Jenna gulped down hard on the fright swelling in her throat. Her bottom lip was raw from her teeth. She edged along the wall away from the man’s regard, trying desperately to ease the thundering of her heart. Perhaps if she ignored the redcoat he would go back to his drinking. Still, the muscles in her neck tensed.
She had to find The Ferguson.
Her gaze darted around, searching for a tall man wearing a silver cross. She would wager no one but The Ferguson would wear such a thing in this place. The ruffians here did not have the wealth. Hopefully he wore it. He had to. There was no other way she could recognise him.
How often this past year had she heard wondrous tales of The Ferguson’s exploits? She could not count them, let alone remember them all. There was the time he had single-handedly held up ten English soldiers and robbed them, leaving them with nothing but their small clothes. Gavin said The Ferguson had taken the uniforms to be used by Jacobites trying to infiltrate the English ranks to learn military secrets. That was before the Battle of Culloden. A more recent time, The Ferguson had saved a Highland crofter’s family from being burnt out of their home. The man was a figure of almost mythic proportion.
A flurry of noise came from the back door, deep laughter and the rumble of conversation punctuated by a woman’s seductive tones and a man’s husky voice. A couple coming back from enjoying a tryst.’ Twas not unexpected in a place such as this. Jenna glanced their way, even though she knew The Ferguson was not one of the pair. He was here to rescue Gavin, not dally with a wench.
The two moved deeper into the room. Jenna squinted. Her spectacles allowed her to see many things better, but they could not bring everything into perfect focus.
Still, she saw enough. The man was tall, with hair so dark it seemed to absorb the meagre light. His shoulders were broad, emphasising the leanness of his hips, which the woman in his arms was too appreciative of. One of her hands lingered on his thigh, speaking plainly of what they had been about. Her face was turned up to his, her brown hair tumbling down.
They were a striking pair.
Someone scraped a chair leg across the rough floor. Someone else grunted. Jenna looked back the way she had come. The redcoat with the heavy-lidded eyes was moving her way. She told herself he was going to the privy, but her heart insisted on hammering at her ribs.
She gripped the neck of her cape tighter to secure the hood over her red hair as she moved out of the redcoat’s path, inching between chairs until she was closer to the couple. A glint of silver flashed. It came from the man with the woman. From his throat. It could not be what she thought.
But what if it was?
She dared not ignore it. She cast another glance over her shoulder, only to see the soldier nearly on her. He was not going outside. Her heart increased its panicked beating.
Even if the dark-haired man had not worn the cross, she would have gone to him now. He was not an English soldier and he was already with a woman, so he would not be interested in her that way. No man ever was. But she could act as though she were here to meet him.