The Jacobite's Return (The Georgian Rebel Series)

by Jane Godman

  “Thank you.” She took the glass from him and waited for him to leave. Instead, he leaned his shoulders against the door panels, continuing to study her with interest. For something to do, she took a large gulp of the fiery liquid and gasped in shock as it hit the back of her throat. Choking, she placed the glass on the dresser and watched helplessly through streaming eyes as Jack came forward to pat her vigorously between the shoulder blades.

  “You are not helping,” she spluttered eventually.

  “No, but I am enjoying the view.” She realised that she had let go of the towel. Her nipples were thrusting provocatively against the shirt, which had moulded itself perfectly to the contours of her body. She made a movement to cover herself, and Jack prevented her from doing so by catching hold of her hands. “Don’t,” he murmured softly, pulling her to her feet and drawing her close. Mesmerised by the glow in his eyes, Rosie remained still as he released her and slid his hands beneath the hem of her shirt, cradling the curves of her buttocks. “Since the brandy is not doing its job, let me warm you up instead.”

  Mrs. Cooper chose that very moment to burst into the room carrying a spare nightshirt for “Master Delacourt”. Seeing that young gentleman in a passionate embrace with his older cousin, whose hands—she later told Mr. Cooper, once the vapours had ceased—were actually cupping and stroking the cheeks of the youth’s bare backside, she let out a squeak of horror. Covering her eyes with her hands, she ran from the room.

  Rosie, very improperly, went off into a peal of laughter, and Jack, with a thunderstruck expression, decided the best course of action would be for them both to turn in for the night. Regretfully, he bade Rosie goodnight and returned to the room he was to share with Tom.

  * * *

  Rosie slept remarkably well and found that everything really did appear much better the next morning, even the weather, which was fine and dry. Slipping into her now-dry clothing, she made her way down to the taproom and found Tom—who, it seemed, would be quite happy to take up permanent residence at Mrs. Cooper’s table—essaying a hearty breakfast. Between mouthfuls of rare sirloin, he informed her that Jack had already gone to find the smithy in order to get the troublesome hired horse re-shod.

  Breakfast for Rosie was normally a frugal affair, consisting of bread and butter, or a slice of cake, washed down with tea. This morning, however, Tom watched approvingly as her appetite surfaced with ravenous intensity, and she devoured a large serving of ham and eggs.

  “What did you say to persuade Jack to join us?” Rosie could not resist giving in to her curiosity.

  “He needed no persuasion. All he did was change his clothes and dash off a letter to a friend then we were on our way.”

  “A letter to a friend? Which friend?”

  Tom shrugged. “He didn’t say.”

  Rosie mopped up egg yolk with a slice of Mrs. Cooper’s fresh baked bread. It was probably a letter to Lady Kendall informing her that he was going out of town. She tossed her head. Not that his private life matters to me. Suddenly, her appetite vanished as quickly as it had surfaced, and she pushed her plate aside.

  Jack returned and cast Rosie an expressive glance. It reminded her instantly of what had passed between them on the previous night and caused her to make an odd choking sound. Tom quirked an enquiring eyebrow in her direction but, blushing, she shook her head.

  “I have roused the smith from his breakfast, which did not put him in the best of moods. He has promised to shoe my horse today, but refused to be pressed for an exact time. We must kick our heels in this godforsaken place a while longer,” Jack remarked, reaching across Rosie to take a slice of bread. His next comment was added in an undertone, meant only for her. “I for one will be heartily glad to see the backside of it.”

  Rosie—as he had intended—gasped at this blatant reference to the previous night’s incident. She threw him a reproachful look, which he returned with one of bland innocence.

  When Mrs. Cooper came in to bring Jack a plate, it was glaringly apparent that she viewed him in the light of a monster sent straight from hell to disturb the quiet of her god-fearing existence. She cast an occasional scared but challenging glance in his direction. Muttering under her breath about “the ungodly gentry”, she busied herself removing Tom’s and Rosie’s plates, all the while keeping as far from Jack as was humanly possible.

  Tom, astonished at the landlady’s odd conduct, waited until she had left the room and then demanded an explanation. “For the lord’s sake, what have you done to Mrs. Cooper to cause the poor woman to look at you as if she suspects you of wishing to ravish her here on the taproom floor?”

  “Acquit me, if you will, Tom,” Jack drawled in his best affected-gentleman-about-town voice. “I never trifle with the inn-keeping classes. Now, shall I settle our shot here so that we are ready to continue our journey?”

  It was two hours later when the horse was finally shod and they were able to depart at last. Mr. and Mrs. Cooper watched them go with clearly differing emotions. Mr. Cooper obviously nourished the hope that such prestigious and open-handed guests might linger a while longer. Mrs. Cooper, on the other hand, drew Rosie to one side, her matronly bosom heaving with suppressed emotion.

  “You do hear such tales of base behaviour from those who call themselves nobles. I, for one, did not believe it until now. Having seen, with my own eyes, how a fine lordship conducts himself… Well, ’tis mighty glad I am to be of humbler stock! Now, my lad, you say the word if you wish to escape, and my Bert’ll get his blunderbuss out and chase him off, see if he won’t.”

  It took Rosie a few precious minutes to reassure her that she was mistaken about what she had seen and that Jack was innocent of the actions Mrs. Cooper ascribed to him. That lady maintained a dubious expression as she watched them depart.

  The ensuing journey soon became unbearably tedious, and Rosie was heartily sick of being on horseback for a second day. At least the sun put in an occasional appearance, and each mile covered took them closer to Xander—and hopefully Harry—and also to her beloved Derbyshire home. Another vast improvement, on the previous day, was the fact that the circumstances prior to Mrs. Cooper’s intrusion into Rosie’s room had led to a change in relations with Jack. It could hardly be said that they had resumed their former closeness, but Jack continued to make oblique references to the episode, which kept Rosie in a ripple of embarrassment that bordered on laughter. Tom, meanwhile, was left frowning in bewilderment.

  They left the road briefly and cut across open countryside. The ground was soft after the heavy downpour of the previous night, but Jack threw a challenge over his shoulder.

  “I’ll wager I can reach the bottom of that hill before you, Rosie!” He set off as fast as the hired horse would allow.

  Never one to resist a dare, Rosie spurred her horse into a gallop and thundered after him, reaching the appointed spot mere seconds later.

  “Dear, dear.” Jack flashed a piratical smile in her direction. “Just behind me, Rosie. I believe that makes me the winner, since you are once again bringing up the rear.”

  “I had quite forgotten about your feeble attempts at humour, Jack. Do you inflict them on everyone you know, or are they reserved only for me?” Rosie asked as they waited for Tom to catch up with them.

  “Strangely enough, my friends—notably Fraser and Perry—would tell you that my humour, as you call it, has deserted me in recent years.” His expression was enigmatic. “Doubtless they will be pleased to find it has resurfaced.”

  * * *

  Darkness had fallen, and Rosie was kept awake only by the lazy rhythm of the horses’ hooves and the knowledge that every mile closed the gap between her, Xander and, she continued to hope, Harry. They reached a small town, and Tom pointed out wistfully that his stomach thought his throat had been cut. With one accord, the weary trio of horses clattered onto the cobbles of an innyard.

  Jack sprang down
from his horse and reached up to help Rosie dismount. Too tired to maintain her pretence of masculinity, she slid gratefully from the saddle. So intense was her weariness that she was content to be briefly held in his arms and to rest her cheek against the hard sinews of his chest. They stood like that for a few long moments, and Rosie even imagined the feather-light touch of his lips against her temple before he spoke.

  “Tom has gone to bespeak dinner and rooms for the night. Get yourself inside while I see to the horses.”

  Rosie wrinkled her brow as she gazed up at him in the half-light. “You cannot intend for us to halt here. We must press on. I know it will mean pushing the horses hard, but we can reach Sheridan Hall before morning if we do.”

  Jack shook his head firmly. “No amount of pushing will do it. The horses need rest.” He touched her cheek briefly with one long finger. “And so do we. You are exhausted, sweetheart.”

  For the first time since they had met again, he used the endearment. Her mind flew back two years. It was what he had always called her. Resolutely, Rosie swallowed the annoying lump that appeared in her throat. Why should his gentleness overset her in this way? Overcome with exhaustion, she nodded her agreement and went inside to discover Tom in a private parlour, deep in conversation with the landlord. Casting off her cloak and hat and running a hand through her tumbled curls, Rosie sat on a settle close to the fire and wondered if she would ever have the energy to get up again.

  Jack, apparently untouched by any trace of fatigue, strode briskly into the room, and the landlord instantly bowed low. Jack had an undeniable air of command that proclaimed his status in life. Explaining that dinner would be ready in fifteen minutes, the landlord frowned when Jack asked to be escorted to their rooms so that they could freshen up before eating.

  “Sir, I have already explained to your companion here that we have only one room available tonight.” He glanced at Rosie, who was swaying with tiredness. “But if you and this other gentleman would care to take that room, perhaps your young relative would consent to share my son’s room?”

  The son in question lumbered in as he spoke, muttering under his breath and smelling of the stables. Crashing a full coal scuttle down next to the grate, he glanced at the assembled group from under jutting brows before giving a loud guffaw of laughter, for which his father reached up and clipped him sharply round the side of his head. The lad shuffled out again, grumbling and holding one ear.

  Rosie glanced up at Jack. Despite her tiredness, she smiled her recognition of the humour in the situation, and his lips twitched appreciatively in response.

  “My cousin”—he indicated Rosie—“sleepwalks. To prevent any nocturnal rambling on his part, he and I will share the room you have, and Mr. Drury here will keep your delightful son company.” Mr. Drury cast him a look of intense dislike.

  The landlord bowed himself out of the room, and Rosie went off into a peal of laughter that brought tears to her eyes. “Oh, I’m sorry, Tom, but it was the look on your face!” She rummaged in her capacious cloak pocket for a handkerchief. Recovering her composure, she added, “And Jack, you were so clever to think up that story about me sleepwalking all on the spur of the moment. But it will not do. We cannot share a room.”

  He regarded her thoughtfully for a moment, and she blushed, wondering if he, too, was remembering that one night in the past when they had shared a room, a bed and much more besides. “It is a little late to be thinking of the proprieties, do you not think?” He indicated her masculine garb. “You need not concern yourself. I will do my best to control myself, if you promise to do the same.”

  Rosie, her laughter banished by his indifferent tone, turned away to contemplate the fire. At that moment the landlord reappeared, announcing that dinner was served, and Rosie was able to hide her chagrin. She hadn’t meant to imply he would be unable to resist her! Why would that be the case when his beautiful mistress was the most notoriously skilful and sensual woman in London?

  Tom’s angry undertone broke in on her thoughts. “What the devil do you mean by consigning me to a night closeted in a room with that lumbering buffoon?” He turned to Jack with an expression of outrage. “If you do not find me with my throat cut on the morrow, it will be nothing short of a miracle.”

  “Nonsense,” Jack replied serenely. “I anticipate the start of a beautiful friendship, a meeting of minds, a melding of ideas…” His face took on a wounded aspect as Tom, in an expression of his extreme exasperation, forgot the difference in their social standing and dealt him a resounding blow to his upper arm.

  Once dinner was over, Rosie announced her intention of retiring to bed. Her companions bade her goodnight before returning to the serious business of sampling the very fine port offered by the deferential landlord.

  The bedchamber was small but comfortable, and the bed beckoned invitingly. It seemed she was destined to share it with Jack, since there was no alternative item of furniture for him to sleep on. It was most unlikely he would consent to sleep on the floor. In the circumstances, she kept her shirt and breeches on. It would look too much like an invitation, she decided, if she removed them. Placing the large bolster down the middle of the bed, she created a makeshift barrier. It would have to do. It was nonsensical to imagine that he would make any sort of advances towards her, but she wanted it to be absolutely clear that—even if he should choose to do so—they would not be welcome.

  Would they really not be welcome? She asked herself the question and almost laughed aloud at her own hypocrisy. If he touched me, I would melt into his arms. My husband and his mistress would matter not one jot. Her fickle body threatened to betray her every time Jack glanced her way. I would have no pride, no strength to resist him. Dare I admit it? Even the thought of Xander and Harry in danger would fade from my mind. She drew in a shuddering breath. Because I love him more than I love life itself. So, yes, the bolster was necessary, less as a barrier and more as a message. Stay away. But it was a reminder to herself rather than a message to Jack.

  Her thoughts were a jumble of emotion and apprehension. She was so tired she would probably have agreed to share a room with the landlord’s son after all. Anything to be able to get her head down and rest. Sliding between sheets that had been thoughtfully warmed by the chambermaid, she tumbled instantly into a deep sleep.

  Chapter Eleven

  When Jack entered the bedchamber, the light from the candle he carried threw his shadow eerily onto the ceiling. He pursed his lips thoughtfully as he took in the room’s meagre furnishings. The bed looked too inviting to refuse, and Rosie lay with her back to him on one side of a large bolster. Removing his jacket, stockings, shirt and shoes, he tiptoed over to the side of the bed.

  “Rosie?”

  She didn’t answer, but he was fairly sure she was awake. The bed dipped as he sat on it, and Rosie rolled closer to the middle, her body connecting with the bolster as Jack settled down in preparation for sleep. What sort of hellish torture was this? To be so desperately tired and yet have the woman he went to sleep dreaming of each night mere inches from his touch? Forcing himself to ignore the longing that surged through his veins with every breath he heard Rosie take, Jack eventually managed to fall into the deep, dreamless sleep of utter exhaustion.

  At some point in the night, he awoke, gasping for breath in the middle of his usual nightmare. Struggling to dismiss the bloody images of Culloden, he was pleasantly surprised to find Rosie’s warm body pressed up against him, her soft curls tickling his chin. There was no sign of the bolster, although he had no memory of either of them discarding it during the night. Jack considered the situation for a moment or two before sliding an arm around her and drawing her still closer. Her weight against him felt right, as though she belonged there, and he closed his eyes briefly, savouring the moment. Rosie murmured appreciatively in her sleep, and Jack smiled into her hair before closing his eyes once more. For once, the bloodbath was banished.


  Later again, Rosie opened her eyes, blinking as the light from the dying fire threw the unfamiliar room into focus. Jack watched her face, awaiting her reaction. When she realised she was in his arms, with her head resting on his chest, she promptly closed her eyes again. After a moment, she cautiously risked opening one eye.

  “Oh! I thought it was a dream.” She attempted to wriggle away from him, but he clamped his arms more tightly around her.

  “Do you dream of this often?” His voice was husky with desire. When she didn’t answer, he blundered on. “Because I do, and I am tired of pretending I don’t want you. Kiss me, sweetheart.”

  From the way Rosie’s eyes narrowed briefly, it seemed she was debating whether to object to this high-handed conduct. Giving her no further choice in the matter, he hauled her across his chest and, catching hold of the back of her neck, drew her mouth down to meet his. For a moment or two, Rosie remained unresponsive. Cursing his misjudgement, Jack was about to release her when, with a soft sigh of surrender, she relaxed against him and her lips parted. With a sound that was somewhere between a sigh of relief and laughter, Jack caught her tight against him, plundering her mouth with his. His tongue explored her mouth in an achingly intimate caress. Eventually, after a kiss that slowed the seconds to hours, he withdrew his lips from hers, and his tongue traced the curve of her bottom lip before dipping lower to find the exquisitely sensitive spot at the curve of her neck.

  Rosie pressed hard up against him, her hands tracing the ridges of his abdominal muscles so that he drew in his breath with a sharp hiss. It was such a longed-for moment that they both trembled, passion igniting as Rosie’s soft moans mingled with Jack’s ragged sighs. Nothing that had gone before or was to come mattered, there was only now. Tangling one hand in her hair, Jack slid the other down her body and over the adorable buttocks which had been the focus of his attention since he first saw her in her boy’s attire. Last night’s untimely interruption had only increased his longing.