The Rebel (33 page)

“No more than I.” He’d made a pact with
himself today. There would be no denying of his feelings for
Jane…publicly or privately. “What are
you
doing out here,
m’lady?”

“I tire of drinking wine with our hostess,
I’m afraid. And though Clara is ostensibly playing at cards with
your sister, she looks like she might cut someone’s head off.”

Lady Spencer took a couple of steps into the
night and looked up at the star-filled sky. “So, with Jane shunning
our company and Sir Thomas retiring to his study a few minutes ago,
I decided that whatever excitement Woodfield offers, it must be out
here.”

“And pray, what were you planning to do if
Jane and I were out here alone?” he asked, amused as always by his
mother’s way of thinking. “Not planning to spy on us, I should
hope.”

“Heavens no! Only keep watch on your
behalf.” She smiled tenderly. “I know you do not need my approval.
But still, I want you to know that I think very highly of Jane. She
is a very special young woman.”

“I know,” he agreed quietly.

She walked past him and stopped by the edge
of the garden—her eyes scanning the dark valley beyond. “Perfection
does not exist, Nick. Beauty is only a passing illusion. Happiness
is not a beginning or an end, but a lifetime of commitment. It is a
journey.” She turned to him. “To love is to give.”

This was not the first time Nicholas had
heard these same words. They represented the principals he’d been
raised to believe in, to live by. He’d heard them many times in his
youth, though he wondered where it was that he’d begun to feel
unworthy of happiness. Somewhere on the Plains of Abraham, he
supposed.

“I haven’t forgotten.”

“That’s good,” she nodded, satisfied.
“You’ll need to remember them. Jane deserves it.”

Nicholas said nothing as his mother walked
back toward him.

“However, seeing that you obviously have
nothing to do this evening, would you care to see the greatest
treasures Woodfield House holds?” At his wry smile, she shook her
head and patted him on the arm. “No, you can find your own way to
Jane’s bedroom, my dear. I am speaking of her workroom. The studio
where she paints.”

“Your vast knowledge and wisdom continues to
amaze me, m’lady.” He offered her his arm.

“I spoke with Finn earlier today, Egan,”
Liam said as the two waited for the others to arrive. “He said that
John Stack’s and Denis Cahill’s tenant farms were paid a visit this
morning by the dragoons. And this afternoon, they were over to
Kilcorney, putting their noses in at the Connell place, at Jock
Dineen’s, and at Ned Ryan’s, as well. They were questioning
everyone about ye.”

She tried to make light of her friend’s
worry. “Unless they’re dividing and passing out bits of heaven, I
do not think these folks will say anything different about me than
they did the last time…or any of the times before.”

The farmers Liam had mentioned would cut off
their right arms before informing on her. The families mentioned
all knew perfectly well who Egan was. Each of them had aided the
Shanavests or, at one time or another, provided shelter for
displaced families over the years.

“But Finn thinks this is only the start,”
Liam warned. “There are many others out there who shan’t be as
loyal…or as brave…or as smart to know what to say or not to say.
He’s worried about ye.”

“About me? In all this time, the man has
made a point of not making himself known to me!”

“Aye…well, I cannot answer for him on that.
But, sure as I’m standing here, the man is concerned. He even had
us move the blind woman, Bridget, to Charleville last night because
ye had talked to her. And don’t ye know, this morning at dawn there
were dragoons searching all over Buttevant for her.”

“You and I have been involved with this
fight too long to become frightened so easily,” Egan said
confidently. “This is not the first time they have searched through
the straw for us.”

Liam shook his head. “There has always been
safety in numbers, and in knowing that when they come after us, we
can spread in a dozen different directions and give them the slip.
But this time, they appear to be after ye alone, my joy, and none
of us like it.”

Egan glanced at the large group that was
gathering. She looked past Ronan’s deep frown across the fire and
searched the faces in the crowd until she found Patrick. Her
friend’s gentle and loyal face was a reminder that she needed to
push aside her own disregard and really listen to what she was
being told. These people
did
care for her, and she for
them.

“What does Finn recommend?”

“He wants ye to stay in the shadows for a
while. With a wee period of calm and easy going…with no sign of
Egan…he thinks the searching and the questioning will soon die
down.”

“How about the gathering at Kildare?”

“Finn thinks we should decide on someone
else to go for ye.” Liam studied the gathered crowd. “’Twill be
good if we can tell the people about the change in plans
tonight.”

Very well, she thought. So, she would not go
on the trip. As everything stood now—and especially after today—she
was afraid that she would be distracted by her feelings for
Nicholas. Her friends needed better representation from their group
than what Egan could offer now.

“So who do ye think should go for ye?” Liam
pressed the question again.

“Patrick.” Egan answered. “He would be
perfect for it.”

***

At the sight of the empty stall, Sir
Thomas’s hopes dropped like stones into a chamber pot. At the same
time, frustration fueled his temper.

All along tonight, he’d assumed Jane was
with the baronet. Seeing both of them disappear after dinner, he’d
thought—nay, he’d hoped—that the two would be sneaking off together
to some dark and private corner of the night.

He had not been mistaken. Subtle as they
were, the signs and gestures had been all too apparent. Spencer was
smitten with Jane…much to the blackguard’s credit. And, by thunder,
if the scoundrel was man enough to go after her even after learning
of her scandalous past, then, hang it, who was he to get in the
way? Aye, something good might turn up after all. Despite his
roguish reputation, the baronet looked to him to be the type to act
honorably when it came to Jane. He had the look in his eyes. This
had all the makings of a love match—if such a thing existed in this
world of hard hearts and itching palms. But he’d known straight
away that Spencer was cut from a different cloth.

Sir Thomas glanced again around the empty
stall.

Damn Jane for trying to ruin it!

He stormed out of the stables and up the
hill toward the house. The cursed Whiteboys needed to be set back
on their heels soon. They needed to have their leaders dancing in
the Cork breeze. They needed a goodly taste of fear. Scare the
buggers off, and Jane might just be discouraged enough to give up
the cause while there was hope of something with Spencer.

Enough was enough, hang it. He had left
Musgrave to do his job too long. Sir Thomas needed to get involved
once again and show the dandy how an old dog goes for the
throat.

***

The flickering light of a dozen candles
brought to life the images on the canvases. Nicholas stood back and
stared at the paintings he’d uncovered and stood up in every
available space.

After bringing him up into the attic studio,
Alexandra had left without a word, leaving Nicholas alone to peer
through this window into Jane’s mind. To view on his own a young
woman’s burning talent. To sense the life that had produced such
work.

He had pored over her paintings with the
fervor of a treasure seeker who had just found the long-hidden
riches of Croesus himself. And as he went from canvas to canvas,
he’d felt an unexpected rush of emotion that had forced him simply
to sit and gaze from time to time. He had been touched, impressed,
and his eyes had opened to the battles and the grief that had
played such an important part of her life.

But the most disturbing revelation had been
the magnitude of Jane’s love for Conor. For a woman to forego
so
much
of her life, to become so consumed with a cause that she
wasn’t born to, bespoke great devotion to this man. It was daunting
to think that she would ever be able to love another…that he would
ever be able to win her.

But hell, he thought fiercely, the taking of
Quebec had not come easily, either. And this was far, far more
important.

He strode to her worktable and opened a
leather case of sketches there. A charcoal drawing of himself was
on top of a number of other sketches. He gazed at it carefully. It
was quickly drawn, but unmistakable in its intent and its power. It
was a depiction of him looking intently at someone he was holding
captive beneath him.

It was a representation of the first day
they’d met. She’d captured the mixture of surprise and heat in his
face. The rest of the picture, however, confused Nicholas until it
occurred to him that the rest was the work of her imagination. In
the sketch, he was wearing a loose flowing shirt, unbuttoned and
showing the muscles of his chest beneath. His hair was loose and
wild around his face. His hand was reaching out of the sketch,
reaching toward the artist.

What he was looking at was an erotic
evocation of what might have been…of what was yet to come! She had
been drawn to him from the beginning.

The creak of the door opening at the bottom
of the stairs jolted Nicholas into the present. He peered down the
steps and saw Jane looking up at him.

“So you found this place,” she whispered.
Her face was hidden by shadows, and he did not know immediately if
she was pleased or angry.

Nicholas watched her come through the door
and latch it. Desire rushed through him as he watched her slowly
ascend the steps. She was wearing the black breeches and shirt—her
white smock had been discarded—and the image from the sketch came
to life in his mind.

“I took the garden path back from the
stables…but when you were not outside, I thought you might already
be asleep.” Nicholas saw her eyes take in the jacket and cravat he
had tossed aside. Her gaze lingered on his rolled-up sleeves and
bare arms.

“Our time together this afternoon was too
brief.” He extended a hand to her, and she took it. He drew her up
onto the top step and into his arms. “I must warn you that you have
created an insatiable appetite in me for what I sampled today.”

Her lips opened under his and Nicholas
tasted the sweetness and smiled even as he kissed her.

“And I thought I was the only one who was
suffering,” she murmured.

Her fingers worked the buttons of his shirt.
The feel of her cold hands touching his warm skin sent another
surge of desire through him.

Nicholas led her to the middle of the attic
studio. She frowned slightly as her gaze took in the paintings he’d
uncovered and displayed around the room. The look of uncertainty in
her eyes pulled at his heart.

“There are so few who know that I use this
place as my studio…and even fewer who have seen any of my work. I
am not traditional in what I do. Perhaps, what I lack in...”

“I would account myself only a fairly
knowledgeable critic of the fine arts, but I have seen enough of
the acclaimed works to say your work places you easily among the
greatest of those artists painting today.”

“These are…” Jane shook her head and spoke
softly, “You mock me.”

“Hardly.” He cupped her face and looked
steadily into her eyes. “I want to make love to you, Jane. Here,
with these works of genius, with these windows to your past around
us.”

He kissed her until she was leaning into his
touch and her hands began to move down over his chest. He caught
her wrist as it reached his waist.

“We should not rush through this. Not this
time.”

Jane’s eyes rounded as he pulled the narrow
cot to the middle of the room. Around them flickering candles and
glistening paintings provided both light and color, and he drew her
down onto the cot. Once again, his mouth feasted on hers. She
shivered with anticipation and leaned back on her arms as he
started unfastening her shirt. With a deliberateness that he hoped
would not prove his own undoing, he caressed each inch of exposed
skin…until he reached the top of her chemise. There he found not
only the linen undergarment, but also a specially made inner shirt,
one doubled in thickness and tight to bind and conceal her breasts.
He smiled at the dozen tiny hooks that appeared as he finished
opening the outer shirt.

“Do you remember the first day we met in the
woods?” he asked softly.

“Yes,” she replied.

Laying her down on the cot, he carefully
undid hook after hook. When the task was done and the inner shirt
lay open, he looked at the buttons of the chemise.

“Just to torment me,” he murmured. “Well,
two can play…”

As he unfastened each button, he pressed his
lips to the newly revealed expanse of skin, causing her to draw in
her breath sharply and grip the sides of the cart as he reached the
soft curves of her belly. He lifted his head and slipped the shirts
and the straps of the chemise over her shoulder. Sliding his hands
lightly over the smooth lines of her collar bone, he drew a line
with his index finger down into the valley between her breasts.
Freed of the constraining clothing, the perfect orbs of ivory flesh
with their hard, extended tips rose and fell. She arched her back
as he cupped one breast and ran his thumb across her nipple.

“So beautiful…and ready to be tasted.”

One of Jane’s hands slipped over his hip and
touched the burgeoning manhood trapped in his breeches. He slid
down along her body, moving himself beyond the reach of her
hand.