The Rebel E-Book

May McGoldrick

• Herausgeber: Book Duo Creative
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Serie: Pennington Family Series
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 619

Beschreibung

 Winner of Holt Medallion!   WANTED…for crimes against the king.   In retaliation for the brutality of the English troops, the Irish rebel Egan is fighting back, leading a secret group of revolutionaries—and building a legend across the country.    REJECTED…by her own family.   Jane Purefoy is a woman with a past. The daughter of an English magistrate, she watched her Irish lover die on the gallows. Now Jane's reputation is ruined—and she has all but ceased to exist is the eyes of her family.    DESIRED…with a forbidden passion.    Sir Nicholas Spencer is on his way to Woodfield House to court the youngest Purefoy sister when he crosses paths with the notorious Egan. Not a man to be cowed, Nicholas wrestles the rebel to the ground and unmasks him—only to uncover Jane's lovely countenance. Bewitched by the spirited lass, Nicholas decides to keep her secret while embarking on a risky plan of seduction—one that will throw her family into chaos, the country into rebellion, and his heart into the throes of a love that can never be…       "The classic rebel-in-disguise story has never been more fun, exciting, or romantic."   - Susan Wiggs NYT Bestselling Author 

Leseprobe

THE REBEL

MAY MCGOLDRICK

BOOK DUO CREATIVE

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Epilogue

Edition Note

Author’s Note

Excerpt of BORROWED DREAMS

Also by May McGoldrick, Jan Coffey & Nik James

About the Author

Thank you for reading The Rebel. In the event that you appreciate this book, please consider sharing the good word(s) by leaving a review, or connect with the authors.

The Rebel © 2011 by Nikoo K. and James A. McGoldrick

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher: Book Duo Creative

First Published by NAL, an imprint of Dutton Signet, a division of Penguin Books, USA, Inc. 2002

Created with Vellum

For Carol Palermo

Friend, Motivator, Scheduler, and Promoter

Extraordinaire

1

London

December 1770

The snow lay like blue icing over the stately plane trees and the walkways of Berkeley Square. Dinner guests, bundled in fine woolen cloaks and mantles of fur, scarcely spared the picturesque scene a look, though, as they hurried from the warmth of Lord and Lady Stanmore’s doorway to their waiting carriages. Across the square, a wind swept up from the river, raising crystalline wisps from the barren tree branches, and flakes of snow curled and glistened in the light that poured from the windows of the magnificent town house. Soon, all but one of the carriages had rolled away into the darkness of the city, the sounds of horses and drivers and wheels on paving stones muffled by the fallen snow.

Inside the brightly lit foyer of the house, Sir Nicholas Spencer accepted his gloves and overcoat from a doorman and turned to bid a final farewell to his host and hostess.

“Spending Christmas alone,” Rebecca chided gently. “Please, Nicholas, you must come with us to Solgrave for the holiday.”

“And intrude on your first Yule season together?” Nicholas shook his head with a smile. “This first holiday is for you—for your family. I wouldn’t impose on that for the world.”

Rebecca left her husband’s side and reached for Nicholas’s hand. “You are not intruding. My heavens, that’s what friends are for. When I think of all the years that James and I were alone in Philadelphia. If it weren’t for the hospitality of our friends—especially at the holidays—how lonely we would have been.”

Nicholas brought the young woman’s hand to his lips. “Your kindness is touching, Rebecca, and you know how hopeless I am about denying you anything. But I’ve spent more than my fair share of holidays with that beast you call your husband. Besides, I understand you have some rather joyous news that you’ll be wanting to share with young James.”

The prettiest of blushes colored Lady Stanmore’s cheeks, and she glanced back at her husband.

“I’m slightly better at keeping state secrets, my love.” Stanmore reached out and took her tightly into his embrace.

Nicholas stood and watched as his friends slipped into a world that included only the two of them. The bond that linked their hearts and their souls was so pronounced, so obvious, and Nicholas frowned at the unwanted ambivalence pulling at his own heart. As happy as he was for them, he could feel something else squirming about inside of him.

He looked away, forcing the frown from his face. Only a fool, he told himself, would be envious of a life that he has been avoiding like the plague.

He already had his overcoat on and was pulling on his gloves when the two became aware of him again. Nicholas couldn’t help but notice the protective touch of Stanmore’s hand on Rebecca’s waist, the intimate entwining of her fingers with his.

“Come anyway.” Stanmore spoke this time. “Come after the Christmas, if you must wait. You know my family likes to have you with us, though God only knows why. Seriously, though, I know James will be anxious to tell you about his term at Eton, and Mrs. Trent will love to fuss over you.”

Nicholas nodded. “I’ll do that. That is, if my mother and sister don’t go through with their threat of coming across from Brussels for a visit. From the tone of my mother’s most recent letter, the brat Frances has become too much for her to handle alone. The latest threat is to leave her in England so that she can finish her schooling here.”

“Well, that’s very exciting news,” Rebecca chimed in.

“Not for me.” Nicholas shook his head and took his wide brimmed hat of soft felt from the doorman. “I know nothing about how to deal with sixteen-year-old children who talk incessantly, without the least semblance of reason, and still think themselves mature beyond measure.”

“There’s a season for everything,” Stanmore countered as he and his wife followed Nicholas toward the door. “It’s all part of the great scheme of life. Marriage. Children. Moving the focus of our attention from ourselves to those we love. As Garrick said so eloquently at Drury Lane the other night, ‘Now is the winter of our discontent made glorious summer.”

Any other time and Nicholas might have made some lighthearted retort about hump-backed, wife-murdering kings; but as he looked at Rebecca and Stanmore, the words knotted in his throat. Somehow, even the words ‘happy and carefree bachelor’ seemed difficult to conjure at the moment.

Nicholas leaned down and placed a kiss on Rebecca’s cheek. “Merry Christmas.”

Outside, the snow was coming down harder, the wind picking up in earnest. Nicholas pressed his hat onto his head and gave a final wave to his friends from the street. As the door closed against the weather, though, he found himself still standing and staring—considering for a moment the events that had brought such happiness to that house. He finally roused himself and turned to his groom.

“Go on home, Jack, and get warm. I believe I’ll walk from here.”

A gust of wind whipped at the capes of Nicholas’s overcoat, and the groom moved on as he was ordered.

The baronet turned up the collar of his overcoat and walked past the fashionable houses lining the square. The handsome windows were still lit in many, in spite of the lateness of the evening. It was the season for entertaining. A solitary leaf danced along the snow-covered street, pressed forward by a gust before being caught in a carriage track. The chill wind burned the skin of his exposed face, reminding him of the warm fire in the Stanmore’s library. The image of his friends in the foyer kept pressing into Nicholas’s thoughts.

The improvement in Stanmore was so marked. For all the years since his first wife had left him without a word—taking James with her and disappearing—he’d been a tormented man. And now, since he’d found the lad and had married Rebecca, Stanmore was so obviously happy. ‘Fulfilled’ was perhaps the best word. The change was stunning…miraculous, perhaps.

It was not long before Nicholas’s house on Leicester Square came into view, but he was far too restless to settle in for the night. The snow was beginning to let up, so he turned his steps toward St. James’s Park.

Since coming back from the colonies over ten years ago, Nicholas Spencer had worked diligently to keep his life as uncomplicated as possible. He’d wanted no ties. He’d endeavored to inflict no pain. During his years as a soldier, he’d seen enough suffering in those wounded and killed, and enough anguish in those families that were left to endure the loss, to cure him of ever desiring any kind of attachment. Life was too fleeting, too fragile.

Somewhere over the years, he’d also found that women were more than willing to put themselves in his path for their mutual amusement and enjoyment. Live while we can. Carpe diem. No harm in it for anyone.

Wealth only meant having enough for good clothes, good horses, a little meaningless gambling, and a bit of concealed philanthropy. It mattered little to him that the polite reaches of society scoffed at his roguish lifestyle. He knew that they perceived him as a gambler and a womanizer, as a sportsman who had chosen to shrug off the responsibilities of his position in society.

And Nicholas Spencer did not dispute this reputation. He was proud of it. He’d earned it. He’d worked hard to establish it. He’d never wanted to be answerable to anyone.

So when, he thought, had he become so discontented?

He strolled through an open gate onto the tree-lined walks of St. James Park. The usual prostitutes and gallants who frequented the park—even this late—appeared to have searched out warmer haunts, out of the wind and the weather. He left the paved walk of the mall, moving out into the open field, his boots crunching on the dry snow.

Indeed, he was as independent as an eagle, but something unexplainable was happening to him. Why, for example, had he felt driven to spend so much time over the past six months with Rebecca and Stanmore? Of course he cared for them deeply, but spending time in their company often did nothing to lift his spirits. On the contrary, it only served to point up how empty and insignificant his own life was, in comparison with theirs.

Fight it as he may, it seemed a desire for belonging, for permanency, had been edging into Nicholas’s heart. It was an odd sensation, new to him, though he knew it was a condition as old as time. Nonetheless, he didn’t want to believe it. He was happy with who he was.

Or so he thought.

“Spare a ha’penny, sir? Jist a ha’penny fer my sister an’ me?”

Out the dark shadows of a grove of trees, he saw the boy’s bare scrawny arms extended in his direction. Nicholas paused to look at him.

“A ha’penny, sir?” Walking on feet wrapped in dirty rags, the waifish figure came cautiously nearer. The top of his head barely reached Nicholas’s waist. Even in the darkness, the boy was pale as death, and the baronet could hear his teeth chattering from the cold.

Nicholas glanced past the thin shoulders of the child toward the bundle of bare legs and arms curled into a ball and lying motionless beneath the tree. Hanks of long dark hair covered the other one’s face.

“Is that your sister?”

The boy tugged at Nicholas’s sleeve. “A ha’penny, sir?”

He teetered slightly, and the baronet put out a hand to him. As Nicholas took hold of the boy’s arm to support him, he was immediately dismayed by the thin ragged shirt that covered the bony frame. He took his gloves and his hat off and handed them to him.

“A ha’penny, sir?”

It wasn’t until Nicholas had taken off his overcoat and was draping it around the boy that he smelt the spirits emanating from the child.

“If you and your sister follow me to a safe house I know, I’ll see to it that there’s hot food and warm clothes, and half a shilling in it for you.”

Dwarfed by the size of the clothes, the boy stared at him blankly and said nothing.

“No harm will come to you or your sister, lad. You have my word on it.”

Nicholas turned his attention to the girl on the ground. She was much smaller than the boy and, as he pushed back the dark mangle of hair, the baronet was stunned by the angelic look of innocence in the sleeping face. Like the brother, she was dressed in nothing more than thin rags that barely covered her. He touched her face. It was deathly cold.

Nicholas immediately gathered the child in his arms, stood up, and turned to the brother. The boy was gone.

The frail bundle of bones and skin in his arm concerned him more, however, so he started across the park in the direction of the house on Angel Court, off King Street. There, he knew, a couple of good souls would look after this child while he searched out the brother.

The loss of his coat and hat was not what concerned him. The boy was welcome to them. What bothered Nicholas was the money he would be finding in the pockets. There was enough there to keep a man drunk for a fortnight. For a child who would use it for pouring spirits and beer down his throat, there was enough money there to kill him.

The girl weighed no more than a kitten, and Nicholas frowned fiercely. The excessive drinking of both rich and poor was still one of the curses of England. While the rich could afford to take care of themselves and their families, the misery of the poor passed early on to their children.

A face appeared at the window when Nicholas knocked at the house on Angel Court. At the sound of his voice, the door quickly opened. The old woman’s face, bright with recognition, immediately darkened when she saw the bundle in Nicholas’s arms.

“I found her in the park.” He brushed past her. “I think she is overcome with the cold.”

The old woman hurriedly opened up a door to the right, leading him into a large room where a small fire spread a warm glow over a dozen beds lining the walls. A few children peeked from beneath their blankets, wide-eyed with curiosity.

“Which one, Sadie?”

The old woman pushed a basket of mending off an empty bed, and Nicholas laid the child gently on the clean blanket.

“Go fetch Martha for me, dear,” Sadie said to a boy on the nearest cot.

As the child hurried out of the room, Nicholas stood back, watching the older woman’s wrinkled hands at they moved over the girl’s face and neck.

He was no expert on children’s ages, but he guessed this young one couldn’t have been more than five. Small curled hands lay on the blanket. Dirty feet stuck out from beneath her rag of a dress. Nicholas’s gaze was drawn to the dark hair framing the innocent features of the face. Long eyelashes lay peacefully against cheeks pale beneath the dirt.

Looking at her, Nicholas found his mind racing, planning. The city was a difficult place for a child on her own. Perhaps he could bring this helpless waif to Solgrave when she was a little better. He was certain Stanmore wouldn’t mind it, and Rebecca would embrace the idea. After all, they had given shelter to Israel, and he was a new lad entirely after only six months. She would thrive in the country. She could go to the village school in Knebworth. She could become a child again.

Sadie’s sharp glance in his direction stopped him. He went nearer, and the woman stood up.

“The poor thing has already gone to her Maker, sir.”

He stared at the woman’s mouth as she quietly spoke. A sudden need to deny her words welled up in him, but he restrained the utterance.

He took a step back. With a slight nod, he turned and in a moment was on the street.

Oblivious to the harshness of the winter night or the time, Nicholas Spencer walked the streets. The injustice of such a death was so wrong. And more innocents—helpless and dying—surrounded him. And what he had been doing about it was clearly not enough.

A shelter here and there. A house to offer meals and a safe bed. All well and good, but where did these children go from here? How had his insignificant acts of charity in any way changed their lives? What had he done to keep them from ending up drunk or abused or dead on the streets?

There had to be something more that he could do. A house in the country where they could grow up healthy. A school where they could learn to fend for themselves. They needed something like a permanent home.

Suddenly, he found himself back at Berkeley Square, staring up at the darkened windows of his friends. Even the night and winter could not hamper the glow of warmth radiating from inside.

Nicholas was getting old and he was terrified of it. The admission hurt less than he’d imagined. But for so long, he’d been battling the emptiness and coldness of his life, that now coming to terms with his ailment was an incredible relief.

An image of the innocent face of the dead child came before his eyes. His life had become a waste and there was so much more that he could do. He would need to make a few changes, though. A new life for himself. A real home where he could truly influence the fate of these lost souls.

But such a thing required a wife, and where on earth would he find her?

2

Waterford, Ireland

August 1771

Through the stony fields the roaring fire moved, leaping ahead and coiling before jumping forward again, a monstrous living creature greedily devouring all before it. Smoke and ash swirled above, blotting out stars that had filled the night sky not an hour before and replacing them with sparks and cinders that climbed and glowed and quickly died away.

Legions of men armed with clubs swept down into the vale, torching the fields as they approached. The thatched roofs of the first of the clustered hovels flared up, and dozens of panicking men, women, and children ran in confusion into the night. There was no way of fighting such an onslaught. There seemed to be no escape.

From beneath a hide that served as a doorway of one of the hovels, a squalling baby crawled out into the madness.

In the rocky fields around them, crops that had been painstakingly sown and nurtured with toil and sweat flared up as the inferno spread. Barley, potato, cabbage, wheat—gone in moments while the consuming flames licked the smoke blackened sky.

A screaming mother, dragged away by others, looked back in desperation at the fiery mass that was once her cottage. Carried along by the swarm of cottagers, she was led toward the only place that was not ablaze, the marshy bog to the north of the huts. Beyond the fetid muck and swamp grass lay the safety of higher ground.

A solitary rider tore through the night and joined the group as they emerged, their dark shapes silhouetted by the inferno.

The ride overland had been hard, and there had not been time to raise help. The attack here had come without warning, without legal proceedings, without justice. The same was happening all over Ireland, and the rider looked out at the burning village. Tomorrow, these same brutes would be pulling down the walls. In a week, they would be digging ditches to enclose the fields. Next spring, there would be sheep and cattle grazing here, and these tenants would be wandering the byways of a dying countryside.

The desperate cries of a mother rang out across the hills as she ran to the mounted newcomer.

A moment later, the rider was skirting the edges of the marsh, spurring the steed toward the burning hovels. At the center of the cottages, the infant sat in the dirt with her hands raised to the sky, oblivious to the cinders raining around her.

Seeing the child, the rider drove the horse through the hellhole like one possessed. A hut collapsed with a loud crash, silencing the infant’s cries for only a moment. The rider dismounted as the marauders approached through the smoke and flames. Gathering the child up, the rescuer climbed back on the restless steed and raced away into the darkness.

On the hill, the mother ran forward to meet them, her face stained with tears and soot, her throat choked with emotion as she received her screaming babe into her arms.

“Bless ye, Egan!”

3

Cork, Ireland

One month later

The patchwork of tidy, newly harvested fields north of Cork City had long since given way to a wilder, rockier countryside, and the woman looked out the carriage window with an artist’s eye. This land was so different from the relentlessly flat plains around her own native Brussels.

It was certainly no less green than the lowlands to the south. Indeed, the darker hues of the pines so prevalent here served to set off the silvery greens of the birch trees. Now tinged with autumn yellows, the birches huddled in groves on the rugged hillsides rising abruptly from the valley floor. Looking at the azure sky above, marred by long scrapes of gray, she thought with satisfaction that they had suffered hardly any rain at all since crossing over from the bustling English port of Bristol.

The carriage, wending its way along a surprisingly good road, had been following the bends of the river at a leisurely pace. Occasionally passing a small cluster of cottages—some more rustic than others—the woman had also seen a number of handsome manor houses with fields of pastureland spreading out around them. The scattered forests were beginning to grow thicker now, and Alexandra Spencer turned her attention back to her two traveling companions with a content smile.

Her daughter was speaking with all the exuberance one might expect of a girl of sixteen years, and Lady Spencer broke in when she paused to take a breath.

“Really, Frances. Hanging from a castle wall…upside down…and kissing a stone just to win some dubious gift of eloquence? What nonsense you spout, young woman!”

“But it is true, Mother. They believe the stone is part of the Stone of Scone at Westminster. Not just one, but three of the sailors on the ship were telling me about the magic in kissing Blarney Castle’s stone.”

“Well, I for one have no desire to kiss anything that might have been sat upon by any king…English or otherwise.”

“Mother!” Frances replied with shocked delight.

“But more at issue, what were you doing talking to sailors? How many times do I have to tell you that a young woman should never engage in…?”

“But Nicholas was with me.” The younger woman moved to the seat across in the carriage and looped a hand through her brother’s arm. “There was a prize fight in the hold. I simply followed Nick down to watch the sport.”

“Nicholas Edward,” she started to scold, but changed her mind as her son’s sharp gaze moved from the passing countryside to her face.

Running a hand over the fabric on her skirts, Alexandra Spencer searched for the most appropriate way of expressing her disapproval. A difference of eighteen years in the ages of her two children had certainly been harmless when they were younger, but as Frances was now a blossoming young woman, she needed to find a way of instructing Nicholas on his brotherly responsibilities.

She gazed at her son as his attention drifted back to the window. When Frances had been an infant, Nicholas had been studying in Oxford. A few years later, when Fanny had started attending school, Nicholas had been fighting his way across the Plains of Abraham during the taking of Quebec. And shortly after that, when her husband had passed away, Nicholas had inherited his father’s title and estate. It was then that Alexandra had decided it was time to return to her own ancestral home across the channel where she could stay clear of her son’s affairs. Of course, she’d hoped he would use the time to start a life…and a family…of his own.

Well, that hadn’t happened yet, and Alexandra was afraid that she’d spent too many years away from Nicholas to be able to exert any kind of control over him now—any overt control anyway.

Frances started again, not sounding deterred in the least. “They tell me that one can also lie on one’s back now and lean out to do it with a pair of strong arms gripping one’s legs.” She paused with a frown. “I don’t think I should care to rely on anyone else doing that for me but you, Nick.”

“I don’t believe the world can stand any more eloquence in you, Fanny,” Nicholas replied passively. “You are far too perfect just as you are.”

The young woman giggled with delight. “You really should save these pretty words for your darling Clara, you know, and not waste them on your sister.”

“Darling Clara?” Nicholas Spencer asked with emphasis.

Frances darted a hesitant glance at her mother. After receiving an encouraging nod, she turned to her brother again.

“Well, we are headed to Woodfield House, are we not? You have accepted the invitation of Sir Thomas Purefoy, Clara’s father, to stay a fortnight on their estate in this ravishing country, have you not?”

“Frances, I do wish you wouldn’t use the word ‘ravishing’.” Lady Spencer put in.

“And you did escort that extremely attractive young woman to no less than three social functions this past spring in London, did you not? Shall I go on?”

“Don’t pressure me, Fanny. I can feel the noose tightening without any help from you or our esteemed mother.” He ran a finger inside the high collar of his crisp white shirt. He looked meaningfully from the younger to the older woman. “We’re making this trip for the benefit of the two of you, not for me. In spite of some contrary opinion, it is important in a young woman’s education that she be introduced to members of society outside of the circle of spoiled brats you’ve been associating with so exclusively at school.”

“Liar,” Frances slapped him on his arm.

Nicholas shrugged. “Very well. Have it your way, then. We’re here for me. Because of my love of horses. Sir Thomas is reputed to have one of the finest stables.”

“That’s so incredibly unmannerly, Nick,” Frances scolded, a practiced pout breaking across her young and beautiful face. She withdrew her hand and slid to the farthest end of the seat. “I must tell you that in lying the way you do, you’re ruining the very fine image I cherish of my only brother. There is no help for it…I shall not speak with you for the rest of this holiday.”

Seeing Nicholas’s obvious satisfaction with the state of affairs, Alexandra reached out and touched her son’s knee. “Pray resolve this right now. If she is not talking to you, then it means she will be complaining endlessly to me. So if you cannot make up with the little vixen, I would just as soon have you let me out at the next coach stop, where I shall find my way back to London without the two of you.”

For a longer span of time than his mother liked, Nicholas appeared to be considering the second threat. He finally turned to his sister, and his tone told Lady Spencer that all joking had been put aside.

“I have been very careful not to create any misunderstandings with regard to Clara and my intentions toward her. The girl is nearly half my age.”

“She is not half your age,” Fanny corrected, sliding over to her brother’s side. “Clara Purefoy turned eighteen this past winter. You are thirty-four. At no time since you’ve known her you have been twice her age.”

“By ‘sblood, what does one do with a child of eighteen?”

Lady Spencer arched a brow. “From the steady stream of rumors reaching me in Brussels, I might have been led to believe that you’re quite proficient in managing women of all ages.” Alexandra patted her frowning son on the knee. “Your uneasiness, my dear, stems from the thought of marriage and commitment. Clara’s age is only an excuse, and you will quell your fears quickly.”

“Truly, Nick…” Frances chirped from his side. “She is everything that you could possibly want in a wife.”

“And as an only child, Clara brings with her a great fortune.”

“Not that you need it,” his sister cut in.

“But considering your lifestyle, my dear, it never hurts to have a little more.” Lady Spencer gazed out the window, not wanting to pressure him too much at one time. “A matter which I find highly endearing, though, is how smitten with you the whole family appears to be.”

“But Mother, everyone knows how advantageous it is when a daughter marries someone with a title. After all, even a baronet with a reputation as bad as Nick’s is…”

“It’s not that.” Alexandra waved off her daughter impatiently. “It’s your brother’s warm personality that has charmed them. His education. His exemplary military service. His respectability.”

“Before the age of twenty.”

Lady Spencer directed a severe glare at her daughter. “Frances Marie, you will mind your tongue.” The older woman smoothed out the imaginary wrinkles on her skirts again and turned her full attention to her son, who was once again enthralled by the passing scenery. “Where was I?”

“You had just expressed your wish for me to stop this carriage,” Nicholas suggested darkly. “So that you both can find your way back to London.”

* * *

The old bishop and his secretary watched in terror as several of the white-shirted rebels whipped the flanks of the horses and sent the driverless carriage down the road. The bishop’s half-dozen attendants, who’d been forced from their places when the carriage was stopped, ran off down the country road after the horses.

“You cannot get away with this, you filthy ruffians.” The bishop’s voice shook with anger and some fear. “Your masks and your devilish linen shirts shan’t do you a bit of good when they put ropes about your necks and send you off to the Lord’s judgment. ‘Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord.’”

Five men on horseback looked on as twenty on foot encircled the two clerics. The silence of the group was unnerving. Before the bishop could speak again, his secretary—a portly younger man with flushed cheeks—saw one small opening in the ring of attackers. Seizing the opportunity, he dropped the satchel he’d been clutching to his chest and ran. A thick leather binder filled with papers and a very healthy-looking purse of coins spilled out onto the road. No one bothered to stop the terrified secretary.

“I know every one of you behind those masks,” the bishop bluffed. “I know your kin and I know the filthy hovels you each live in.”

A number of the assailants moved forward menacingly, forcing the old cleric back against a tree at the edge of the road.

“You touch me, you dogs, and I’ll call down God’s wrath on all of you. I’m the servant of righteousness, and you’re the spawn of devils. You are…” He gasped as a rope looped around his middle from behind, yanking him hard against the tree.

“This is for forcing the payment of the tithe on the tenants north of Kinsale who lost their crops to the tempest last month.”

The bishop looked fearfully at the masked man to his right who had spoken the words. Last spring, he’d heard of a papist priest who had been left tied to a tree near Kildare. The bugger had gone for two days without any food or water before someone had found him and let him go. There had been another incident involving a curate near Caher Castle not three weeks ago. He didn’t care to think of that one. Of course, neither of the clerics had been killed—only badly mistreated and frightened half to death.

Two men grabbed the bishop’s hands and tied a rope around his wrists.

“This is for refusing to baptize bairns in Ulster simply because the kin couldn’t afford your higher fees.”

“That was not I. I have no say what goes on up…” The bishop’s protest trailed off weakly as his bravado turned to fear. Another member of the group approached with a rope and dropped it deftly over his head. “No! I beg you.”

Instead of shirts of coarse white linen and the faces made unrecognizable by the masks, the clergyman’s mind conjured images from the meeting he’d had with the magistrate, Sir Robert Musgrave, not three days earlier. He’d been promised that all priests would be protected against such attacks by the Whiteboys. As a concession, he’d offered to support the landowners around Youghal who were forcing their farm tenants out to make way for pasturing, and in the end, his own safety had been guaranteed. Guaranteed! Where was that bloody magistrate now?

“Do you wish to say a final prayer, Your Excellency? Do you wish to ask forgiveness of the Lord for staining His good name? Perhaps for your shameful acts of greed?”

The clergyman’s eyes focused on the rope dangling from his neck. The clerics abused before had been simple parish priests. He was a bishop. He couldn’t help but wonder if these people would actually kill him to send their message loud and clear across the land.

The words that began spilling out were indeed prayers. Prayers asking forgiveness for exactly the things he was being accused of.

* * *

As the carriage suddenly slowed, Nicholas put his head out and looked beyond the horses. He’d heard that travelers occasionally encounter highwaymen on the roads—here as at home—but this was the strangest looking outlaw he’d ever seen.

Beyond a fork just ahead, where one road bent sharply to the right, a fat clergyman was puffing toward them, his arms waving madly in the air, his piteous cries nearly incoherent from his lack of breath.

Nicholas shouted to the driver and stepped out as the carriage rolled to a stop.

“Whiteboys…bishop…killing…there…there!” The man appeared nearly out of his mind with terror, grabbing onto him for support. “Save me…help…bishop!”

Nicholas detached the man from his arm, handing him over to his valet, who’d been riding behind on his master’s horse. He motioned to Frances to remain in the carriage as she opened the door to step out. He glanced in the direction that the clergy had come. The wooded slope running up to the west was dark and densely forested. There was nothing to be seen from here.

“’Twould be safest, sir, for the ladies if we was to keep moving,” the driver offered from his perch on the carriage. “Locals call ‘em Shanavests. That’d be Irish for Whiteboys. They’re a troublesome bunch…if ye be asking me.”

The cleric, who was slumped against the carriage and trying to catch his breath, suddenly straightened. “But…but you cannot simply…simply leave him…they’ll kill him.”

“May be,” the driver agreed. “But these boys would be armed to the teeth, sir. Rebels through and through, to be sure, and they always travel in fair sized numbers. ‘Twould be dangerous…for the ladies, of course…not to be going.”

“How many?” Nicholas addressed the priest.

“Five on horse. I’d say about two dozen on foot. I don’t know if I saw all of them or not.”

Nicholas took the reins of his horse from the valet.

“Can I come with you, Nick?”

He turned in time to see his mother pull the carriage door shut with a bang, squashing Fanny’s attempt to step out. As Nicholas directed the driver to go straight to Woodfield House, the valet took a place on the back of the carriage.

He turned to the cleric. “You, inside.”

Mumbling words of undying gratitude, the bishop’s secretary yanked open the carriage door and jumped inside with more nimbleness than his size warranted.

“The new magistrate, Sir Robert Musgrave, has a bounty set on the heads of these boys,” the driver said in confidential tones to Nicholas. “Word is, he’s planning to hang every Shanavest he catches in the old Butter Market in Cork. Now, if ye be asking me, that’s the wrong approach, what with most of the popish farm folk loving those rebels as their own. But I’m just a whip man…so what do I know?”

Lady Spencer poked her head out of the window before the carriage pulled away. “You can walk away from a fight, Nicholas. I’m concerned for you. There are too many of them, and this is a strange land.”

“No need to be concerned, Mother. I only intend to get near enough to keep a close watch.”

“Then why not wait until the following wagon arrives? With the servants to help you…”

“I’ll be fine.” He motioned for the driver to move on. “Just keep a firm hold on that sister of mine.”

Nicholas waited until the carriage disappeared along the bend of the road before climbing on his horse. Drawing his sword, he spurred the animal down the road.

* * *

The edge of the knife’s blade formed a thin white line in the ruddy wrinkled skin of the man’s throat.

The terrified bishop had offered everything he could think of in exchange for his life—from having bags of coin delivered wherever they wished…to waiving every church fee in the diocese for an entire year. Baptisms, marriages, funerals…everything.

They had accomplished what they had come to do, so the leader of the group motioned for the men to withdraw. The quivering cleric remained tied to the tree, his eyes tightly closed, his mouth now moving involuntarily as he mumbled prayers and promises with no particular rhyme or reason. The man’s fine clothes were stained with muck. A few scratches on the face were all that he’d suffered outwardly.

“The next time you think of making any deals with the magistrate, just remember this day,” a young giant of a man whispered menacingly in the bishop’s ear as he sheathed his knife. “We can always find you.”

The leader watched the same member of the Shanavest jab a fist into the cleric’s side before walking away. The ropes restrained the man from bending over in pain, but the grimace on the old face showed his distress.

The bag of coins was emptied. The loot taken from the bishop’s carriage earlier was piled into sacks and carried off. The group dispersed as quietly and unexpectedly as they had come. In a moment, only the masked leader remained, sitting on his handsome horse while the others got away.

* * *

With his mount tied to the branch of a birch down the road, Nicholas watched from the safety of a grove of pines. It was some time before the bishop lifted his head and looked up at the solitary figure.

“Please don’t kill me,” the man pleaded as horse and rider approached in measured steps. Nicholas’s fingers immediately tightened around the hilt of his sword, and he moved silently forward. The rebel leader had a single pistol tucked into his belt, but Nicholas knew he might be able to take the man by surprise, before he had a chance to draw and fire.

“I admit my guilt. I offer you every worldly possession I have…I…” The man’s face drained of all color as the rider quickly drew a knife from his belt. “I…I…”

Nicholas ran forward but stopped just before reaching the road when he saw the rebel lean down and cut the ropes binding the bishop’s hands.

“Teach mercy and compassion to your people, priest. They are virtues that are wanting.”

The voice was hoarse and low, and yet something in the tone caused Nicholas to pause. He immediately drew behind a tree again and sheathed his sword as the rider wheeled his horse in his direction. He listened to the sound of hooves starting up the road toward him.

As soon as the head of the horse passed the tree where he was hidden, Nicholas moved forward quickly, taking hold of the rider’s shirt and yanking him from the horse. They both tumbled to the ground, the rebel’s pistol bouncing into the brush at the side of the road.

Rolling away, the rebel leader picked up a rock, but Nicholas was faster. As the other man hurled it at his head, the Englishman raised a hand and deflected the gray slate away from his skull. Ready to face him again, he was disappointed to see his foe turn and run toward the woods. Without a second thought, Nicholas took off after him.

The man was small, but extremely quick and agile, and he moved speedily through the thick undergrowth. Nicholas’s long legs, though, enabled him to overtake the rebel not very far from the road. As he was about to tackle him from behind, the outlaw swung around, kicking viciously at his groin. Nicholas sidestepped the blow, and the kick struck him on the hip as he closed on the man.

Falling forward, Nicholas connected with a right hook a moment before leveling him with his body. Sprawled on top of the masked man, he pushed immediately to a sitting position, trapping the slight body beneath him and drawing back his fist to deliver another blow. He froze.

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’m willing to forgive you for the names you call me. But my father? Mother? Wife and horse? That’s 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’m 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’d 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 it’s undoubtedly an assumed name.”

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

4

“I definitely did not seeany 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’re 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’m 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’s quite interesting, 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 don’t believe they are accountable to any king or any religious authority, either.”

“Naturally, it’s 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’re 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’s 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.

After all, she thought, self-respect and character counted for much more than money. And even though they’d spent many of their recent years apart, she was fairly certain Nicholas would need a wife who did not lack confidence.

A shadow filled the doorway, and Alexandra’s gaze was drawn to the figure entering the parlor.

The woman was dressed completely in black.

The newcomer wore a fine black gown. The tips of black boots showed beneath. Black gloves, edged with Italian lace, were met at the wrist by the long sleeve of the dress. Her hair, pulled tightly back, matched the color of the garments, and large dark eyes provided a stunning highlight to a perfect ivory complexion.

Perfect, of course, except for the nasty bruise on the side of her swollen mouth.

No one else appeared to have noticed her arrival but Sir Thomas, and Alexandra arched an eyebrow at the look of open hostility that she saw pass between father and daughter as they stood glaring for a moment at each other.

A chair scraped against the floor in the far end of the room, and the newcomer’s gaze shifted in that direction. A look of shock immediately etched itself upon the young woman’s face, and Alexandra saw her reach out a gloved hand to steady herself.

Across the room, Nicholas was standing by the table looking as if he’d just seen a ghost.

“Come in, Jane,” Lady Purefoy said hesitantly. “Sir Nicholas, Lady Spencer, Miss Frances. I would like to present my older daughter.”

5

Jane only hoped that she looked less surprised than he did at this moment.

She stood straight and tried to gauge what the Englishman would do. If he revealed their earlier encounter, she was a doomed woman. Of course, she could deny everything—but she doubted that either her father or Sir Robert, the new magistrate, would take her word over an English baronet’s.

The silence hung like a shroud over the room. Jane averted her eyes, unsure how much more of this she could endure. Then, the middle-aged woman who had been standing and looking at one of the paintings approached her.

“Miss Jane…or rather, I should say Miss Purefoy, as you are the elder daughter.”

Jane stared in surprise at the extended hand of their guest. The Englishwoman appeared to be about the same age as her own mother, but the sharp blue eyes spoke of inner strength that far exceeded Lady Purefoy’s.

“Calling me Jane will suffice, m’lady,” she replied quietly, taking the hand and dropping a small curtsy. “I have been well beyond such formalities for some time.”

“Then you will call me Alexandra.” The woman didn’t release Jane’s hand immediately, drawing her into the room before taking her by the arm. “You don’t know how delighted we are to have finally met you. Your family has been very secretive about you, my dear. I cannot help but feel quite privileged to have been given a chance to meet Sir Thomas and Lady Purefoy’s hidden treasure.”

Treasure? Jane would have laughed if her mouth did not hurt when she smiled. She glanced at her father and saw him turn toward the hearth as he raised a tumbler of brandy to his lips.

“This is my daughter Frances. A more incorrigible young woman you will never meet.”

Slightly taller than her mother and wearing her dark blond curls fashionably styled, Frances was a younger image of Lady Spencer. She also showed a nature that was equally congenial, leaving the card table and approaching the two of them.

“My, but that’s a handsome cut on your lip, Miss Purefoy, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“Good heavens, Frances,” the mother remonstrated.

“Honestly, it calls to mind a few that I have seen Nicholas sporting after one of his boxing matches.”

“Fanny.”