The Rebel

by May McGoldrick

  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 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.

  CHAPTER 4

  “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.

  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.