Читать книгу Unlacing the Innocent Miss - Margaret McPhee, Margaret McPhee - Страница 8

Wolf woke at dawn to the sweet scent of a woman. He smiled and, still drowsy with sleep, reached a hand out to curl her soft body into his. His fingers contacted the thick fur lining of a cloak, a covering, but no woman. He cracked his eyes open and all of it came flooding back, Evedon, the job, Rosalind Meadow-field.

She was lying with her back snug against the hearth, curled on her side facing him, and he could see that in sleep her face lost its suspicious frown so that she looked younger than the twenty-five years Evedon had told him, and extremely innocent. But Wolf was aware of how very deceptive looks could be. Her hair was long and mussed, framing her pale face with its dark tendrils. Her cloak had become unfastened in the night and covered more of the floor than the woman. His eyes travelled lower to what the cloak had previously hidden, to the plain blue dress, prim and somewhat old-fashioned and, although clearly expensive, hardly robust enough for the journey ahead. Probably used to being ferried around in Lady Evedon’s fine carriage. She’d learn how the other half travelled long before they reached London, he thought grimly.

His eyes lingered on the pale slim neck and the way that her bodice strained tight across her breasts where her arms were bound behind her back. He thought of Evedon’s insistence on discretion. Just the same as the rest of the aristos, Evedon wanted his affairs kept quiet. Wolf supposed that it wouldn’t do for it to get out that his mother’s genteel companion had fleeced her and done a runner. He wondered fleetingly what Evedon would do once he had her. Arrange something between him and the woman’s father…or perhaps even with the woman herself? The latter thought stirred an unease within him. Deliberately he thrust it away. What Evedon did was his own business and, besides, Miss Meadowfield had a rich papa to protect her well enough.

Evedon had told him that Miss Meadowfield was from a wealthy genteel family. That fact alone had been enough to convince Wolf to take the job. It did not hurt that Evedon had offered a considerable reward for the quiet return of the woman. Evedon must want her back badly. And just for a moment, Wolf could almost feel sorry for her. Almost. But then he reminded himself of what she was—a gentlewoman who had used those around her—and Wolf knew well from personal experience the damage such people could do. His lip curled at the memory from across the years. And when he looked again at Rosalind Meadowfield, any hint of compassion had vanished and his heart was hard.

The woman seemed to be in the depths of sleep with no sign of waking. The shadows beneath her eyes suggested that it had not been so the night through and he remembered the way she had studied him as she lay sleepless by the fireplace. Campbell and Kempster still slept soundly behind him. None of them stirred as he slipped outside into the chill.

The darkness of the night sky showed the first hint of lightening from the east, its deep blue colouration fading. Wolf knew that dawn would come quickly and that, in order to cover enough miles, they would have to be on the road heading south before day lit the sky fully. He turned back to the cottage.

The woman and Kempster still slept, but Campbell was up, yawning and rubbing his hands through his hair. Wolf gestured towards the door and the two men disappeared back outside, walking away from the cottage and into the cover of the trees before they spoke.

‘What is the plan, then?’ Campbell yawned again.

‘We get on the road as soon as possible and start heading south. The woman will slow our speed a little, but we should still be able to cover about seventy miles a day. At that rate we’ll be back in London in, say, a week’s time.’

‘And then we’ll be in the money.’ Campbell rubbed his hands together.

Wolf smiled. ‘We will indeed.’

Campbell relieved himself behind the thick trunk of a tree. ‘Do you think the lassie could be telling the truth when she said that she didnae thieve from Evedon?’

Wolf’s lip curled with disdain. ‘She’s lying. The guilt was written all over her face. Some expensive clothes and a posh accent, and she’s got your head turned.’

‘You forgot the pretty face,’ teased Campbell, ‘expensive clothes, posh accent and a pretty face.’

Wolf gave a laugh and shook his head. ‘We best get a move on. You see to the horses. I’ll get Kempster and the woman moving.’

‘Right you are, Lieutenant.’

Wolf peered round at the big Scotsman with a baleful expression.

‘Sorry, it just slipped out.’ Campbell’s grin held nothing of contrition. ‘Old habits die hard.’

Rosalind awoke with the sensation that someone had stroked her cheek. And then she remembered where she was and the nature of her predicament, and her heart began to hurry. Her eyes flicked open, fearing what she would find.

A man was half crouched, half kneeling by her side.

Sleep left her in an instant. Her gaze flew up to find his face.

‘Awake at last, Miss Meadowfield?’ said Kempster.

‘What are you doing?’ The words were a shocked whisper.

‘What do you think? This is not Evedon House. You can’t be lying abed half the day. I’m wakenin’ you, sweetheart.’

His use of the endearment gave her a jolt of shock. She did not meet his gaze, just tried to sit up, wincing at the ache in her arms and shoulders as she moved. ‘I am quite awake now, thank you, Mr Kempster.’ Her voice was cold, offering the rebuke that her words had not.

‘So I see,’ he said, and, slipping a hand inside his jacket, produced a knife, its blade straight and wicked.

Rosalind’s heart hammered harder. Her eyes slid slowly from the blade to Kempster’s face, and such was the dryness in her throat that she could only stare at him and utter not a single word.

The clear blue eyes met hers. The knife raised in his hand.

Her breath held.

His mouth curved and with one swift strike, he severed the rope binding her ankles.

The gasp escaped her. She could not hold it back any more than she could stop the instinctive closing of her eyes or the way that she flinched at his motion.

He sliced the rope from her wrists and hauled her to her feet. ‘That’s better, ain’t it, miss?’ He smiled.

And when he moved away, she saw Wolf watching them from the doorway. ‘We leave in five minutes,’ Wolf said, and his gaze was cool and appraising.

Kempster’s blanket was already rolled and stowed away in his bag. He carried the bag out to his horse.

Wolf scooped his and Campbell’s blankets up.

‘Is there somewhere I might be able to attend to my toilette?’ Rosalind got to her feet, smoothing out the wrinkles in her skirt as she did so.

‘See to your business outside behind a tree like the rest of us.’

‘And water for washing?’

He raised an eyebrow and stared at her in mocking disbelief. ‘Shall I fetch it warmed and ready for you, m’lady?’

She felt her cheeks grow heated at his tone and glanced away as she made her way towards the door.

He followed, the tread of his boots close behind.

She stopped in the doorway, rubbing the stiffness from her wrists, and looked up at him with as much courage as she could muster.

‘Please grant me some little dignity, Mr Wolversley.’ Her heart was racing with her own boldness, but she knew that what she did now would set a precedent for the rest of the journey.

His silver gaze was searing, stilling the movement of her hands, before it rose to meet her eyes. A moment passed, and then another, and her heart skittered all the faster, so that she remembered last night and the intensity of his gaze and the look of his face without its harsh mask of cynicism. And she thought from the look in his eyes that he remembered it too. Finally, he gave a small acknowledgement of his head.

‘Play me for a fool, Miss Meadowfield, and I’ll forget all about your dignity.’

She nodded her reply.

Over at the edge of the clearing, Kempster and Campbell were seeing to the horses. She walked in the opposite direction, glancing back at the cottage when she reached the trees. Wolf still stood within the door frame watching her.

Even across the distance that separated them, she could feel his gaze upon her, brooding and watchful. She shivered and disappeared into the trees.

Wolf packed up the rest of the bags, keeping one eye, through the open door, on the patch of woodland into which Miss Meadowfield had disappeared. If she did not appear in the next few minutes, he would go out there and fetch her back, and never mind her damned dignity. He remembered her lying sleepless by his side in the night, and the way she had looked at him; her eyes not brown as he had first thought, but a strange mix of green and brown and gold, and filled with shock and fear and such beguiling innocence as to persuade any man. But Wolf was not fooled. He did not trust her. He had learned a long time ago that those who appeared the most genteel, the most respectable, the very epitome of everything that gentility encompassed, were the most corrupt. Such ugly beautiful people. A golden gilding upon a rotten core, just as it was with Miss Meadow-field. Such a proper gentle companion that she had exploited her employer’s weakness. The prospect of a ruined reputation would drive her to desperation; she would attempt an escape before too long, of that he was sure. And he would be ready for her.

Her delivery to Evedon would earn Struan and him a nice fat fee, but his main reason for taking the job was for the satisfaction of ensuring that at least one of their kind would be brought to face the consequences of their actions. He smiled at the thought of that, and the hurt that was buried deep within him eased a little.

By the time that she appeared a few minutes later, the baggage had been strapped on to the horses and they were almost ready to leave. The worst of the wrinkles had been smoothed from her dress. He could see that she had tidied her hair; its long dark curls were caught and coiled into a severe knot at the nape of her neck beneath her mid-blue bonnet.

She stopped, then backed away and stared at the four horses. ‘Where is the cart? I-I thought we would be travelling by cart.’

Kempster smiled ever so slightly. ‘We travel by horseback—Mr Wolversley’s orders.’

It seemed to Wolf that her face paled, and he wondered as to the reason. All women of her station could ride. Their parents bought them ponies as children, whereas in the streets of York, where Wolf had grown up, the children were lucky to have parents or food, never mind ponies.

He thought he saw something akin to terror flicker in her eyes. He frowned as the possibility struck him. ‘You can ride, can you not?’

She gave no answer, just continued to stand stock-still and stare at the horses. It seemed to Wolf that she was holding her breath.

‘Miss Meadowfield,’ he prompted in a harsh voice.

Campbell and Kempster looked on in silence.

‘I…I…’ She did not drag her eyes from the horses to look at him.

‘If you cannot ride, I shall take you up with me.’

She gave a slight shake of her head. Her cheeks were so white that he thought she might faint. ‘I can ride,’ she said so quietly that he had to strain to hear the words.

‘Are you unwell, Miss Meadowfield?’ he asked.

There was a pause before she answered in a calm voice that belied the rigid stance of her body. ‘I am quite well, thank you, Mr Wolversley.’

Just a bloody ploy to delay us, he thought but he saw the way she leaned her weight back against the tree trunk behind her. In truth, Wolf conceded, the woman looked as if she were about to faint.

‘Then what seems to be the problem?’

She hesitated again, before taking a deep breath and moving her gaze to meet his. ‘There is no problem. I felt a little faint, that is all. The feeling has passed. I am better now.’

‘There is some bread left from last night. Eat that. It will help,’ said Wolf.

She shook her head. ‘No thank you. As I said, I am feeling well enough now.’

‘Then you will delay us no further.’ Wolf turned away and swung himself up on to his horse.

Campbell and Kempster followed suit.

Wolf watched as the woman slowly pushed herself away from the tree and began to walk. There was a grim determination about her as she crossed the forest clearing. She stopped just short of the small bay mare that stood patiently waiting.

Wolf knew that she would be used to some servant rushing to help her climb upon the horse’s back. Even the sight of the sidesaddle irritated him. It was yet another sign of her status and all that she was. Common women rode astride the same as any man. She stood there, close by the horse’s side, neither attempting to clamber up, nor asking for assistance.

‘We’ll be here all day at this rate,’ muttered Kempster.

Wolf said nothing, knowing that Evedon’s man only spoke what he himself was thinking. Yet he wanted her to know what it was like to survive without servants rushing to dance upon her every whim. He’d be damned if he’d climb down there and act like her lackey, so Wolf sat stubborn and silent, and waited, allowing the woman’s discomfort to stretch.

It was Campbell who slipped down from his mount and moved to help her.

The big Scotsman stroked a hand against the mare’s neck. ‘She’s a docile wee thing,’ he said, and then bent and offered Miss Meadowfield his linked hands to use for her footing.

‘Thank you,’ she said quietly, and with a foot in Campbell’s hands and a hand against his shoulder she mounted the small horse.

They moved off slowly.

Miss Meadowfield sat on her horse tensely, and although she looked ill at ease in the saddle, it was clear that she could indeed ride.

A delaying tactic, indeed, surmised Wolf sourly, and met Campbell’s eye. They walked slowly and in silence through the trees and out on to the country road that lay beyond.

Wolf rode out in front, Campbell and Kempster at the rear. In between was Rosalind. She was managing quite admirably with the mare’s gentle walk until they came out on to the narrow country road and Wolf kicked his horse first to a trot and then a canter.

Rosalind’s horse came to a halt as her fingers tightened around the reins and she felt the panicked thudding of her heart. Her palms beneath the fine leather gloves were clammy. She wetted her dry lips and tried to swallow but her throat was so dry that its sides seemed to be in danger of sticking together.

Campbell and Kempster came abreast with her and she saw Wolf glance round, reining his mount in as he realized that her horse had stopped. He reeled around and drew up before her, his horse frisky with impatience.

‘You are trying my patience, Miss Meadowfield. We’ve Gretna to reach by nightfall, so start riding.’ Wolf’s face was hard and uncompromising.

Rosalind made no move. Just the thought of galloping brought waves of nausea rolling up from her stomach. She swallowed them down, forced herself to breathe deeply, slowly. I can do this, she willed herself, fighting down the panic. The urge to slide down off the horse’s back and run away was overwhelming. She glanced longingly down at the solidity of the road’s rutted surface.

Wolf frowned and brought his horse in close by her side, scrutinizing her.

Rosalind averted her face, frightened of what he might see.

But Wolf leaned across, touched his fingers to her chin, forcing her face round to his.

His eyes were no longer silver but the same pale grey as the daylight. ‘Any more delays and I’ll lead the damn horse for you.’ He released her and moved away.

She saw the cold dislike in his gaze and the bitter mocking tilt of his mouth and heard the promise in his voice. He would take her reins without a further thought and then the small mare’s speed would be completely out of her control. Rosalind knew that she could not let that happen and she’d be damned if she’d give him the satisfaction of knowing of her fear. Deep within, she felt her temper ignite and flare. The anger welled up strong and fast, so that her breathing turned short and ragged. She glared at him with ferocity. Damn Wolf, she thought, Damn his arrogant, abrasive soul. And she did not care that she was cursing; she did not care about anything at all, except her fury at the man before her and her need to escape him.

‘There would be no delay had my saddle been fitted properly,’ she heard herself say in an imperious voice she barely recognized. ‘It is slipping. And Lord Evedon wishes me to break my neck upon a scaffold, not for your incompetence to lead to me snapping it in a fall upon this road.’ Courage, Rosalind, she thought, for once in your life, have courage.

Wolf scowled at her tone.

She forced herself to sit very still as Wolf and the others jumped down from horses. It was Wolf himself that came towards her.

Wait, she cautioned herself, wait, and her heart was thudding wildly with the audacity of what she was about to do. And she did wait, waited until he had almost reached her, until he was extending his hand towards her to lift her down.

Her fingers pulled gently at the leather of the reins, and the mare stepped round until she was facing the opposite direction of travel to the other three horses, as if she were nervous and eager to be moving once more.

‘Keep her still,’ Wolf snapped.

Rosalind felt a stab of satisfaction as her fingers tightened on the reins and she suddenly kicked the mare to a canter and careered off down the road.

‘Hell!’ she heard his grunted curse, and the men’s shocked voices, but she was already leaving him behind as she sped off into the distance. Her heart was racing now in earnest and her mouth dry as a bone, but she knew that he was coming after her and that she would have to ride faster to outrun him.

Too soon she heard the rhythmic gallop of a single horse behind her. She glanced back to see Wolf on his great grey stallion storming after her.

‘Faster!’ she urged the little mare, her fear of the man pursuing her greater than her fear of the horse. She was galloping, clinging on for dear life, feeling precarious in the saddle as the road rushed by beneath her. She focused her mind and tried not to think about how fast she was going, tried not to think about the horse at all. A glance behind and she saw that Wolf was gaining on her. She kicked her heels by the mare’s side, urging her to gallop faster, praying that he would not catch her.

But it was too late. A few seconds more and Wolf drew alongside.

She tried to veer away, but there was nowhere to go other than the ditch and the hedge at the side of the road.

The mare grew confused and started to panic, just as the horse had panicked all those years ago, edging towards the ditch despite all of Rosalind’s efforts to guide her away. Rosalind tugged hard on the reins, knowing that she had to slow the horse’s reckless pace. But the mare did not respond, just galloped even faster, her eyes wild with fear.

Rosalind felt her seat begin to slip in truth. It was the nightmare from across the years all over again. In her mind’s eye, she saw Elizabeth’s body slip from the saddle and she knew the terrible fate that would follow. She could not scream, could not make a single sound. And still the mare pounded on along the road, and still Rosalind pulled uselessly at the reins, until the leather made her fingers red and swollen. And then another pair of hands were beside hers, taking the reins from her. Wolf. And the mare seemed to respond to his touch, to his strong, calm voice.

‘Whoa there, lass, whoa.’

The little horse began to slow.

He kept on talking. Rosalind could not hear the words, just his voice, low in timbre and reassuring, smoothing away the panic, loosening that terrible tight knot of fear. The mare finally came to a stop, standing still while Wolf’s hands stroked smoothly at her neck.

‘Poor lass,’ he was saying softly, ‘you’re safe now.’

Rosalind felt something of her terror lift away, watching the mesmerizing movement of his hand and listening to the calming tone of his voice. She forgot that she had been trying to escape, forgot too that Wolf had just stopped her. Her only thought as she slipped from the saddle was that he had saved her. The relief was overwhelming, and, light-headed with it, her legs seemed to melt beneath her, and she stumbled, falling down on her knees. She was alive, alive and unhurt, and she reached forward and clutched at the road’s dirt surface, revelling in the feel of its solid security. She was dimly aware of him guiding the mare away from the ditch, but she could not look to see, could do nothing other than cling to the road.

‘What the hell do you think you’re playing at?’ A pair of dusty leather boots appeared on the dirt before her.

She raised her eyes to look up at him.

‘You risked not only yourself, but a good horse, with your foolishness.’ The calm lilt of his voice was gone, only anger remained in its place. His eyes blazed with it, and appeared a deep dark grey as if all of the storm clouds had gathered ready to unleash their fury. He crouched low and looked into her eyes.

Rosalind felt the fear quiver deep within her.

‘If you run, I will find you,’ he said. ‘As Campbell said, we are very good at retrieving. So do not waste your time or mine trying to escape.’ He spoke quietly, softly almost, as if the anger was all reined in and the intensity of his words was all the greater for it.

His gaze held hers and she could not look away. ‘Whatever foolish plans you may have in your head, Miss Meadowfield, the truth is that you shall not prevent me delivering you to Evedon. You do not wish to go, but you should have thought of the consequences before you stole from him.’ He stood upright and reached his hand down towards hers to pull her up.

Rosalind stared at his hand, at the long strong fingers with their weathered tan. It was the first time since he had collected her in the cart from Blairadie Inn on Munnoch Moor that he had made any gesture of assistance. She turned her face away and, ignoring the dizziness in her head, rose rather unsteadily to her feet, alone.

‘You know nothing of the truth,’ she said and, because her eyes were blurring with tears, her voice was angry. ‘Nothing at all.’

‘I know a damn sight more of truth than you do, miss. I know of children who are starving as you sit at your fancy table laden with food. I know of soldiers, without eyes or limbs, who beg for a few coppers while you drive hurriedly by in your fancy carriage. I know of women who sell their bodies to any man that will have them so that their children might survive. And that men are hanged for stealing a loaf of bread to feed their families while you chat oblivious with Lady Evedon and her cronies over tea and cakes. This is the truth, Miss Meadowfield and what do you know of it?’ His eyes were hard as flint. ‘Nothing, I’ll wager. So do not dare to lecture me.’

They stared at one another, the air thick with their animosity.

‘Get back on your horse and try not to terrify the poor beast this time.’

Rosalind’s stomach tightened. ‘I would prefer to walk.’ She looked away and forced her chin up, determined that he would not see her fear.

‘We have not got all day, so mount the damn horse.’

Her heart was thudding fast and frenzied. Another wave of dizziness swept over her. She closed her eyes until it passed.

‘Miss Meadowfield.’

His voice sounded closer and when she opened her eyes he had stepped towards her.

‘I will not,’ she said, rather shocked at her own blatant defiance.

‘Get back on that horse or I’ll sling you face down across its saddle like a bag of grain and tie you in place.’

She felt the blood drain from her face, felt her stomach clench hard at the prospect. ‘You would not.’

He smiled his cold cynical smile. ‘Oh, I would do so most gladly, Miss Meadowfield.’

Her legs were trembling and her mouth was so dry that she could no longer swallow. He would do it, she realized. She felt the nausea roll in her stomach and tried to halt the panic before it ran out of control. There was little choice, so she turned and forced herself to walk towards the horse. She took a deep breath and, hoisting her skirt up, let him help her up into the saddle. He took his own saddle and, with her reins secure in his hand, led her back to where Campbell and Kempster waited.

And all that Rosalind could think was that she had never met a more hateful man.