The Rebel (4 page)

The rebel’s hat lay in the dirt, and the
scarf that had masked the outlaw had been tugged down. To
Nicholas’s utter amazement, a woman’s face glared up at him. No
wonder it had been so easy to pull her from the horse. Her size.
Her weight.

By ‘sblood, Nicholas thought, staring at
her. A woman!

Ringlets of black hair had escaped their
confines, framing a most attractive face. Black eyes, dark as
night, shot darts of hatred at him. The side of her mouth was
already swelling from the blow. Without thinking, he reached down
to touch the bloody lip, but she slapped his hand away, spitting
out a string of words in Gaelic. From his time spent ringside at
dozens of boxing matches that featured Irish fighters, he
understood the woman was not extending any complimentary
greeting.

“I…? You definitely leave me
speechless.”

Nicholas raised an eyebrow at the next
prolonged curse she hurled at him.

“I should watch what I say if I were you, my
little hellcat.” He reached inside his coat pocket and took out a
handkerchief. “I am willing to forgive you for the names you call
me
…but my father? mother? wife
and
horse? That is
really going
too
far.”

The blood from her mouth had trickled across
her cheek. When he reached down to wipe at it, though, she started
thrashing beneath him. Nicholas immediately captured her hands,
trapping them with one of his own above her head.

“By ’sblood, I am
not
going to hurt
you.”

As he reached down again to dab at the blood
with the cloth, her dark eyes turned on him. It may as well have
been an eternity that he gazed into them, for time stopped. The
woman was stunning in her beauty, and he saw fires banked in those
eyes the likes of which he’d never seen before.

He was still pressing her body into the
leaves and ferns with his weight. He could not help but admire the
rise and fall of her breasts beneath the white smock. His eyes
lingered on the wild pulse beneath the skin of her throat. His gaze
took in the dark ringlets in total disarray around her face and
stopped at the full sensual bottom lip. The bruising he’d inflicted
filled him with a pang of remorse, but then those magical eyes drew
him back.

The moment she ceased to struggle against
his hold, he was bewitched.

“Who are you?” he asked huskily, gently
pressing the handkerchief against her lip. He fought the sudden
urge to lower his mouth to her face, to her throat, to stretch his
body fully on top of hers and find out if she was afflicted by the
same physical desire that had taken hold of him. The attraction was
so strong that Nicholas forced himself to release her. He stood up
abruptly, struggling to clear his mind of such thoughts. Frowning
fiercely, he extended a hand to her, but she didn’t take it.
Reaching down, he grabbed her by the arm and pulled her roughly to
her feet. He didn’t release her.

“If I were you, I would start explaining now
before the magistrate’s men arrive.” She said nothing, her dark
eyes flashing defiantly. “Do the Whiteboys make a habit of having
their women fight for them?”

He was trying so hard to shake off the spell
she’d cast that he didn’t see her reach for the knife at her waist.
She slashed at his arm deeply enough to cause him to yank his hand
away in shock and pain. The moment that Nicholas took to look down
at the cut was all the time that she needed. Before he could act,
she was off and running.

By the time he had reached the edge of the
trees, the woman had regained her horse. Quick as a summer breeze,
horse and rider disappeared along the road. Nicholas looked down at
the pistol lying at his feet and picked it up. He tucked it into
his belt. He went back into the woods and fetched her hat, as
well.

Blood was staining his coat sleeve, and he
shrugged out of the garment. The cut on his forearm was minor, and
he used the handkerchief still clutched in his hand to bind it
before putting his coat back on. He stared after her.

“A woman,” he muttered, walking back down
the road to where the cleric was removing the ropes.

“You took him down. Did you see him? Did you
get a good look at his face?”

The man stared at the hat that Nicholas was
holding.

“The magistrate is offering a great reward
for him, you know.
Especially
him!”

“Who is he?”

“The blackguard is one of their leaders. Of
all of them, he has the largest price on his head. He goes by the
name Egan…though ‘tis undoubtedly an assumed name!”

“Undoubtedly,” Nicholas answered vaguely,
looking down at the hat.

“I definitely did not see
any
man’s
face well enough to describe him.”

Sir Thomas Purefoy frowned and resumed his
agitated pacing across the brightly lit Blue Parlor of the
Woodfield House. Outside the mullioned windows, the green hills of
the Irish landscape rolled downward to a sparkling river.

Nicholas’s mother and his sister Frances
were sitting comfortably on a sofa before the hearth, sipping tea
and looking on unconcernedly, while Lady Purefoy and Clara
fluttered around their injured guest like butterflies around a
flame. Fey, the middle-aged Irish housekeeper, was just finishing
up wrapping the wound on his forearm in clean linen. The thick
fabric of the jacket and the shirt had served to minimize the depth
of the cut, and Nicholas found all this attention a bit overdone.
But he remained silent and allowed the red-haired woman to
finish.

Sir Thomas came to an abrupt stop before him
again. “But you are certain the attacker—the one you came face to
face with—was the rebel leader. You’re
certain
it was
Egan.”

“Not in the slightest. I had no previous
knowledge of the group or its members. I am only repeating what
Bishop Russell said afterward.”

“He
would
know, by thunder,” Sir
Thomas muttered before starting his pacing again.

As Fey packed her things into a basket,
Nicholas thanked her and rose to his feet.

“If you will forgive me,” he said, bowing to
Lady Purefoy. “I believe I shall go and change out of these travel
clothes.”

“Oh! Of course, Sir Nicholas.” The
blue-eyed, round-faced gentlewoman curtsied pleasantly.
Immediately, though, she reached for her daughter’s hand. “How
foolish of me to be so inattentive. Clara, my dear, why don’t you
show our guest upstairs to his room. Perhaps as you go, you can
also give him a brief history of the Woodfield House. It is really
quite an interesting history, Sir Nicholas.”

The young woman, blushing prettily and with
ringlets of gold dancing around the pale young face, started to
lead the way.

Nicholas made a point of ignoring the
mischievous look Fanny was directing his way as he followed Clara
from the parlor.

Only a few hours ride from Cork City,
Woodfield House was an impressive ivy-covered stone structure,
dramatically situated on a high, southern-facing hill. The present
manor house had been here over a hundred years, Clara informed him,
built over what had been the ruins of an earlier house or
castle.

“There are four stories in the building…”
The young woman’s soft voice echoed in the halls as they passed
along. “…though only two of them are used by the family. The ground
floor contains the kitchens and the brewery, storage rooms and a
servants’ hall. The rooms on the top level are also occupied by the
servants. This floor has a number of parlors, my father’s study, a
fine library, and a Hall that we sometimes use for
entertaining…receptions and things.”

Nicholas placed a hand on Clara’s elbow as
they arrived at the bottom of the stairs. The deepening blush in
her cheek, the demure lowering of her gaze, reminded him of the
reason why he’d been so fascinated with her since they’d first been
introduced in London. Beautiful and unpretentious, she possessed
virtues he’d always found attractive in women.

This was the first time they’d been left
alone since he’d arrived. Nicholas paused, correcting himself. This
was the first time they’d been left alone since meeting in London.
Sir Thomas and his wife were becoming too sure of his intentions
and that wasn’t a particularly comfortable feeling.

His gaze fell on her lips, and he considered
whether he should take the liberty of sampling the young woman’s
other charms. Perhaps—he found himself thinking—if he were to
become more attentive on that front, he wouldn’t continue to dwell
so morosely of the years dividing them.

And then, there was another matter entirely
that he needed to forget. The face of the woman he’d met on the
road—this ‘Egan’—was an image he couldn’t seem to shake from his
mind.

The corridor and stairs were deserted, and
Nicholas reached out and took hold of Clara’s chin, raising it
until he was looking into her blue eyes.

“I’ve heard enough about Woodfield House for
the moment. Now I want to hear about you. I wonder if you have
missed me at all since we last met.”

“I…well…I have…missed you…Sir Nicholas.”

He saw the tip of her pink tongue
unconsciously wet her lips, and Nicholas knew this was his chance
to proceed. But a sharp ache in the cut in his arm cleared his mind
of the thought. He released her chin and glanced up at the steep
stairs.

“I have been looking forward to this visit,
too,” he said pleasantly, starting up the stairs.

If she was disappointed, he had no way of
knowing, for as they proceeded she kept her eyes on the family
pictures that adorned the wall.

“What can you tell me about this group of
rebels the bishop called the Whiteboys?”

“I hardly…well…not much. Nothing more than
gossip, anyway.”

Her stammer drew his gaze. Her face revealed
no emotion, but Nicholas’s observant eyes noted the restless
fingers fraying the end of the ribbons she wore at her waist.

“While we were trying to catch up to his
carriage and servants, I spent a little time in Bishop Russell’s
company, yet the man had a great deal to say about them. He was
quite eloquent in his description of their violent attacks against
the clergy and the landowners. He called them thieves and murderers
who have no sense of morality, men who do not believe they are
accountable to any king or any religious authority, either.”

“Naturally, it is in Bishop Russell’s own
best interests to preach such things. When one considers, however,
that in standing up for people who are being steadily bled to
death, the Shanavests are arguably better champions of morality
than the priests. So of course he should say such things. He’d be a
fool not to stain their reputation at every opportunity.”

“From the way you talk, one would think you
are a supporter of this group, Miss Clara.”

The ribbons had become threads in her
fingers. “I…no…Sir Nicholas. I was just expressing an opinion held
by many of our servants and tenants. Many are popish in their
beliefs.”

She said nothing more and did not look at
him again until they arrived at the open door to his room. Nicholas
found his valet waiting inside.

“Thank you for the tour, Miss Clara. What
time am I expected downstairs?”

Clara glanced uncomfortably down the
corridor. “My mother…well, she was hoping to have you meet the rest
of our family this afternoon before dinner.”

“I was under the impression that the rest of
your family resides in England.”

“They do…well, most do. Mother wishes for
you to meet my older sister.”

“An older sister?” Nicholas smiled. “And I
thought you were an only child.”

She gave her head a quick shake, making the
curls dance around her face. “It is true, though, that I have often
felt that way. Sometimes eight years difference in age can seem
like eighty. This is certainly true in the case of Jane and
myself.”

Nicholas forced back the discomforting
thought of how old
he
must seem to such a young woman. He
cleared his throat and tried to salvage some of his vanity. “And
will your sister’s husband and children also be joining us this
evening?”

“Oh no!” Clara again shook her head.
“Jane…well, she has never married.”

A moment later, when Nicholas was left to
change for dinner, his only thought was, at least he would have
another
old
person to talk to. Meeting Jane Purefoy would no
doubt be the highlight of dinner.

***

She couldn’t help it. Lady Spencer’s
curiosity was immediately aroused by the hushed exchange between
their host and hostess near the door. She completed her turn around
the room and stopped before a rather fine painting hanging to the
right of the fireplace.

At a small, round table across the parlor,
Nicholas was playing cards with his sister and Clara. The threesome
appeared totally unaware of the commotion going on at this end.

“…you shouldn’t force her to come down, Sir
Thomas. Not in the condi…”

“I shall
not
hear another word about
this, madam. She was told of this engagement far in advance, hang
it. Now
send
your servant to fetch her.
This
instant
!”

Alexandra hazarded a quick glance at the
husband and wife. Sir Thomas’s command over his wife was clear, for
Catherine Purefoy—though flushed and obviously upset—nodded to the
maid who was hovering just outside the door.

As Sir Thomas turned his attention to the
room, Alexandra quickly looked back at the painting. In all the
years of her own marriage, she couldn’t recall a single instance
when her husband had spoken to her in such tones. She looked over
at Clara and found the young woman watching her parents. There was
a definite look of disquiet around her pretty eyes.

Clearly, there was more to this family than
had been readily apparent when they all had first been introduced
at Court in London. And though Alexandra’s greatest wish for her
son was to have him finally settle and choose a wife, she now hoped
that Nicholas would take his time. It was only common sense that
they should be sure there was nothing about Clara’s upbringing that
might have deprived the young woman of what was necessary for a
good marriage. Necessary, at least, in Alexandra’s opinion.