The Rebel (18 page)

“Sir Nicholas was smitten with her in
London,” Catherine said firmly. “He shall be smitten with her
again.”

She pushed herself off the table, smoothed
the nightgown and robe back over her hips, and turned around. Her
husband was already at the door, ready to leave.

“You are ignoring the most critical thing,”
he said darkly. “Jane.”

“Jane?” she repeated simply. “You do not
believe he is seriously interested in Jane, do you?”

He shrugged. “Have one of your maids reveal
the truth about her past to Lady Spencer or her daughter. That
should effectively put an end to any spell Jane might have cast
over him.”

“But do you…do you really think it is wise
to let them know. I mean, Jane’s past is a shameful reflection on
all of us.”

“Do it,” he ordered. “They will find out
sooner or later, in any case. At least this way, we can be sure he
is chasing the right girl.”

Catherine Purefoy watched her husband turn
his back and open the door. As she watched him disappear into the
gloom of the corridor, she decided that, for once, she couldn’t
agree with him more.

***

Nicholas breathed in the cool night air as
he walked casually in the direction of the stables. It was
difficult to stay calm, but he needed to be patient and keep his
wits about him. His talk with Sir Thomas had cleared his conscience
and his path. He was free now to be himself and to pursue Jane.

She was a mystery, though. High strung,
impetuous, yet completely lacking in vanity or self-absorption, she
was unlike any woman he had ever met. And she was avoiding him.

After inquiring about her when they’d first
came down for dinner, he’d been told by Clara that her sister was
too tired from the activities of the day. She was resting in her
room, but might possibly join everyone later.

Dinner had come and gone, but there had been
no sign of Jane. Not that any of her family had seemed to care
about, or question, or miss her presence among them. No one at the
table had been as aware of her absence, or as disturbed by it as
he.

After his blunt and candid chat with his
host, Nicholas had thrown caution to the wind. Going up to her
bedroom, he had knocked. No answer—no lights visible beneath the
door. He’d even tried the handle, but it was locked. In spite of it
all, though, he had known that she was not inside…and he was
equally sure that her horse would also be missing from her
stall.

A solitary groom stood smoking a pipe and
leaning against a post by the entrance to the paddock when Nicholas
stepped around the stone wall. Curled up at his feet, two dogs
looked like piles of fur, and they lifted their heads with only
casual interest as he approached. On the far side of the paddock, a
lantern swung gently on its hook beside the main door to the
stable. Even in the darkness, Nicholas immediately recognized Paul,
the stable master and trainer in charge of Sir Thomas’s ongoing
breeding venture.

When they had come back this afternoon from
their ride to Ballyclough, Nicholas had spend a good hour talking
to the man about the training of hunters. Breeding horses was not
only a gentlemanly pursuit in Ireland, apparently, it was also a
profitable one.

“Beautiful night, wouldn’t you say,
Paul?”

“Aye, that it is, sir.” The older man
straightened up and took the pipe out of his mouth. “We shan’t have
too many more of these before the cold settles in.”

“I don’t mind the cold. That was a wild
storm, though, last night. It seemed to fairly race out of the
hills.” Nicholas stopped beside the burly man and glanced down into
the shadowy fields where he’d seen Jane. He could still envision
the black cape flying behind her. “It must have bothered the horses
some, I should think.”

“Most of them were fine, but there is always
one or two more high strung than the others.” He put the pipe back
in the corner of his mouth. “But I keep my eye open. Always about,
I am. So I look in on those that need it. Talk to them. The smell
of pipe smoke comforts the horses, too.”

The two stood in silence for a moment. “I
checked on yer mount last night. He was a brave young gentleman
throughout. Picked him up in Cork City, ye said?”

Nicholas nodded.
Always about.
Behind
wisps of clouds, a moon was starting to rise in the east. He cast a
sidelong glance at the man. Jane no doubt came through here
regularly and at all hours of the day and night, so it would just
figure that she would need an ally here. “How does Miss Jane’s
horse fare? She is a pretty stepper over rough ground.”

“Aye, that she is. And Queen Mab fears
nothing.” The man’s bearded face wrinkled into a smile. “And Miss
Jane knew it the first moment she looked on the poor wee thing as a
foal. Now, the rest of us could see plain as day that the filly was
lame and unlikely to amount to much of a horse, but not Miss
Jane.”

“Lame, you say. You couldn’t tell to look at
her now.”

“To be sure, sir.”

“Did she name her?”

“Aye. She called her Mab after the queen of
faeries. I can tell ye, sir, the good lass spent enough time caring
for her and training her and spoiling her till even the mare
believed she was Mab herself. ‘Tis been four years, now, and I can
tell ye that horse
knows
she’s a queen.” He finished with a
chuckle.

Nicholas glanced at the wing containing the
row of stalls where he knew Mab was kept. The shadows of the night
lay heavily across the line of doors. He wondered if the horse were
there now.

“On our ride over to visit Parson Adams, I
was watching Miss Jane. She is quite a skilled rider. One might
even say she is a bit of a daredevil particularly when she knows
someone might be watching.”

“Every gray hair I have in this head is
there because of Miss Jane, I can tell ye.” Paul gave him a knowing
nod and a grin. “Ye should see them, sir. There are times when I
look down this hill and I see the two of them, horse and rider,
moving together like a single creation. Across those fields they
go, so fast that ye expect ‘em to sprout wings and take off for the
heavens. Aye, sir, there are times I scratch my head and wonder if
what my eyes are seeing is real or only my imagination.”

Nicholas had a similar image branded in his
mind. One of the dogs stood up and stretched, putting her muzzle in
Nicholas’s hand and getting a scratch behind the ears for her
trouble. He considered his growing fascination. Jane Purefoy was a
contradiction to every woman he’d ever known. He knew beyond doubt
that the approach he generally used with other women would be
totally insufficient with her. This was a woman who lived life
fully every day. She would accept nothing less than the real
Nicholas Spencer.

“But I do not think I’m speaking out of turn
to tell ye not everyone approves of the way herself and that horse
roam these hills.”

Nicholas understood the everyone to be her
family. He nodded, and they fell silent again.

“I heard the new magistrate today leaning on
her to sell the mare to him. Your mistress became somewhat
riled.”

“The devil take the man!” Paul took the pipe
out of his mouth and spat on the ground. “Sir Robert will be
stoking the fires of hell long before Miss Jane agrees to sell
Queen Mab to the likes of him…and the cur knows it!”

Watching the groom come alive, Nicholas saw
that the man was much more spry than he pretended to be, fiercer
than he allowed to be known, and more protective of Jane than
Nicholas had initially guessed. Paul stepped impatiently away from
the wall.

“For all the years I’ve worked for this
family, I’ve ne’er known Miss Jane to be asking for one single
thing. From the time she was a wee sprite, running barefoot and
getting in everyone’s way, the lass has not once asked for a
bleeding thing. Other first-borne lasses get spoilt to their bones,
but not herself. I can tell ye, sir, the first time that girl e’er
wanted anything for herself was the day she set her sweet eyes on
that foal.”

Paul drew a leather pouch from the pocket of
his battered coat and began packing his pipe again. His eyes seemed
almost to gleam, reflecting the rising moon.

“And by the time Mab came into being, ‘twas
not easy to do any asking of her father.” He paused and looked up
at the house. “Not after all the muddied water standing between
them in recent years. But the lass swallowed her pride and
asked.”

“And asking for a lame filly was a difficult
thing?”

“Aye, sir. More than ye know. But Sir Thomas
was planning to put the animal down, anyway, so he gave the foal up
to Miss Jane.” He stuck the pipe back into his mouth. “Four years,
she’s had her now. For the past four years, Queen Mab has been Miss
Jane’s horse…the only thing she’s ever laid claim to at Woodfield
House. And that bleeding magistrate had better turn his covetous
eyes toward someone else’s property, I’m thinking.”

Nicholas felt his own anger rising inside
him. “Their exchange had better be the end of it, for Sir Robert
heard her refusal clearly…and I can tell you Miss Jane’s response
was clear and direct.”

“The magistrate’s head is filled with
cobwebs, I’m afraid, sir. He hears what he likes.”

“Then I may just knock a few of those
cobwebs loose. If he ignores Miss Jane’s refusal, he shall do so at
his peril.”

The gruff possessiveness in his comment drew
Paul’s curiosity immediately, for Nicholas saw the shining eyes
turn on him. He didn’t know why he’d spoken his thoughts aloud, but
it was too late to worry about it now. Hell, he thought, he’d felt
protective enough of Jane to give her own father a good
tongue-lashing. What did it matter if anyone else at Woodfield
House guessed where his interest lay?

Paul continued to study him quietly.

“It’s getting late.” Nicholas glanced toward
the stables. “I think I shall check on my ‘brave gentleman’ before
retiring.”

The stable master wished him a pleasant
goodnight, but Nicholas noticed that he kept his vigil in the
paddock until he was certain the guest had accomplished his task
and was headed back toward the house.

Reaching the stone archway by the main
house, Nicholas turned and looked back at the stables. As he
watched, Paul finally crossed the paddock and put out the light in
the lantern.

***

The shadowed Woodfield House loomed into
view beyond the crest of the hill, and Jane decided how she was
going to conceal her journey to Kildare.

Her old tutor, Mrs. Barry, was living with
her married daughter in Dublin. Perfect. She’d been invited many a
time to visit with the retired teacher. The fact that the older
woman would not know anything about the visit was irrelevant. All
that mattered was that her parents should be told that she was
starting out for Dublin. What happened to keep her from reaching
there was something she could work out later.

She thought about the last time Mrs. Barry
made a point of inviting her for a visit and an extended stay. Last
Easter. Yes, perfect.

Jane had always been a favorite of the
Englishwoman. Widowed not long after her husband had brought her
and their daughter from the north, Mrs. Barry had been Jane’s first
teacher and undoubtedly the most patient. She’d been the one to
recognize a child’s restlessness with traditional subjects, and
thought to encourage the young Jane to move beyond sketching and
experiment with paints.

Naturally, there were more than a few
Protestant families in search of well-grounded instruction for
their girls, so Jane had not been the tutor’s only pupil. Despite
her popularity, though, Mrs. Barry hadn’t stayed around too long
when her only daughter had married into a good Dublin family. Jane
knew that the woman had been happily overseeing her grandchildren
ever since.

Relieved to have a plan, Jane spurred her
mount up the hilly fields toward the familiar black shape of the
stables. As she drew closer, however, she was surprised to see the
glow of Paul’s pipe in the shadow of an oak a few yards from the
paddock gate. Slowing Mab to a walk, she guided the animal where he
stood.

“Is something wrong?”

“Nay, lass. Nothing at all.” He put the pipe
between his teeth and reached for the horse’s bridle as Jane
dismounted.

“Why did you wait up?” she asked, walking
beside him as they moved toward the paddock.

“Old habit.”

Something was bothering him, she thought, as
he glanced back at the deserted countryside behind.

“Ye did not see anyone out and about now,
did ye?”

“Not a soul.” How many years had he been
waiting up for her? She thought of all those early years, and how
she would find him sick with worry at the bottom of the hill.
Waiting. Scolding. Caring. For too many years than she could count,
he’d been more of a father to her than Sir Thomas. She glanced up
at the cap that he wore low on his head, at the sparkling eyes that
continued to scan the fields she’d crossed only moments ago.

“What’s wrong, Paul?” she asked softly.

“I heard about that mealy-mouthed cur
Musgrave giving ye a hard time today. That was plenty to get me
going.”

“You talked to the Englishman.”

“That I did, lass…and more than once.”

How curious that Spencer refused to limit
his time to socializing only with the gentry. Even at Ballyclough
she’d silently observed him befriending Mrs. Brown and Henry’s cook
and even two of the villagers who had just happened to come by on
some business with Reverend Adams.

They reached the paddock. He pushed open the
gate. “And that’s what has me out here thinking, miss.”

“Come now, Paul. Out with it.”

“Very well. ‘Tis just this. I’m thinking
everybody’s got it wrong.”

Jane turned away, closing the paddock gate
behind them. “Everybody’s got
what
wrong?” she asked over
her shoulder.