Читать книгу Unlacing the Innocent Miss - Margaret McPhee, Margaret McPhee - Страница 9

The sky was beginning to darken by the time that Wolf led them into the yard of Gretna Hall. Her arms were aching, her backside was aching, her thighs were aching. Indeed, it seemed to Rosalind that there was not a bit of her that was not in pain. Her fear and anger had long since dwindled, and she was so tired that she did not think about being frightened of the little horse beneath her. So sore were certain areas of Rosalind’s body that she slipped to the ground without looking for anyone to help her, and stood there in blessed relief that the saddle was no longer beneath her.

She felt Wolf’s grip upon her arm escorting her with him across the yard and into the inn, but she was too tired to protest.

The inn was busy, most of the tables in the public room were filled, mainly with men. Men stood about the bar drinking their tankards of ale, turning curious eyes to the new arrivals. She heard the low tone of Wolf’s voice to the landlord, and was aware of the exchange of money. She was aware, too, of the way that the landlord’s gaze flicked over her before moving on to Kempster and Campbell and finally returning to Wolf, with unspoken speculation. But whatever the man saw in Wolf’s face made him nod his acquiescence and turn to fetch the keys for the rooms. He showed them up a small narrow staircase to a narrow corridor along which several doors could be seen. The two furthest doors led to the rooms for which Wolf had paid.

They were still standing in the second room into which the landlord had shown them. Wolf scanned around, peered from the window then inspected the door.

‘Dump the baggage and head downstairs. We’ll eat first.’ The bags were dropped on to the bare floorboards with a thud. He looked at Rosalind. ‘I’ll wait outside the door for you while you attend to your toilette.’

She nodded, knowing this was the best offer she was going to get, and watched the three men leave. As Wolf shut the door behind him, his eyes met hers in steely warning, and then he was gone.

Rosalind just stood there and stared at the closed door, hearing the other door open and close across the passage way, hearing the murmur of their voices. Her eyes shifted to the travelling bag on the floor just before her where Wolf had dropped it and she shifted it to lie across the door, as if she could block Wolf out with the bag. Hurriedly, she attended to her needs, washed her face and hands and tidied her hair.

He was leaning against the wall in the corridor when she opened the door, waiting as if patiently but it was not patience that she saw in his eyes when she looked at him. Not a word passed between them. A single movement of his head gestured towards the staircase. She began to walk along the dimly lit passage. There was the sound of a key turning in a lock before she heard his footsteps follow and sensed he was close. At the end of the landing she hesitated, and he passed her, taking the lead as they trod down the uneven staircase.

They were halfway down when he turned suddenly to her, surprising Rosalind so that she was too close to him. Standing on the stair above his, she found her eyes level with his for the first time. The light of the nearby flickering candles softened the angles of his face and made his eyes appear a smoky grey. He was so close that she could see the individual lashes, so close that it was all she could do to stifle a gasp.

She made to step back but her foot caught against the high-angled stair and only the sudden curve of his arm around her waist saved her from falling. He did not remove his hand, just left it where it was resting lightly against the small of her back. He stared at her, and she saw surprise in his eyes—and something else too, something that she could not name but that sent a quiver snaking throughout her body. He stared at her, and the moment stretched long so that she could feel the hard rapid thump of her heart and feel her blood coursing too fast.

The look of harsh cynicism had gone, leaving his expression unreadable. His breath was warm against her cheek, stirring the fine tendrils of hair that hung in spirals before her ears. The scent of soap and leather and masculinity filled her nose, and her heart tripped even faster so that she could hear the slight raggedness of her breath between them. His hold was so light that she could have easily broken free from it, yet she just stood there, as if entranced by the look in his eyes. It seemed to Rosalind that some strange force had come over her, enslaving her thinking, her body, so that she could do nothing other than stare at him. And the smoky eyes stared right back, and where his palm touched light against her back, her skin seemed to burn and pulse.

And as suddenly as it had arrived, it disappeared. She saw the moment that his eyes changed, reverting to a cool silver. He dropped his hand from her as if scalded, and she saw the flash of anger and loathing in his gaze. His expression was once more harsh and determined.

‘Behave yourself down here, Miss Meadowfield,’ he growled.

She was still reeling from the shock, not of his anger, but of what had gone before. ‘I will not deign to reply to that, sir,’ she managed.

She saw the slight curl of his lip. ‘You do not deign to do much do you? Besides help yourself to other people’s valuables.’

And then he turned and walked on, as if nothing at all had happened.

Rosalind stood stock still, trembling and shocked. What on earth had just happened? Why had she not moved away? Why had she let him stare at her in that…that inappropriate manner? Her heart was still beating too fast and her cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

He had reached the bottom of the staircase before he realized that she had not moved. The silver gaze met hers.

‘Miss Meadowfield.’ The words were uttered so softly that they barely carried up the stairs, yet the threat contained in them was louder than had he shouted at the top of his voice. The skin on the nape of her neck prickled and she hurried down after him, her hand gripping the banister rail.

Campbell and Kempster were seated over in a corner.

As she crossed the busy room with Wolf, she felt all eyes upon them.

‘We ordered some mutton stew and chicken pies,’ said Campbell in his gentle burr. ‘Couldnae wait all night for yous to come down.’ He grinned. ‘We’ve a jug of ale for while we wait.’

A serving wench, with what looked to Rosalind to be an indecently revealing décolletage, brought cutlery and plates to the table.

‘We are to eat…in here?’ Rosalind had never eaten in the public room of an inn before. She glanced anxiously around.

‘The food will be the same whether we eat here or waste our money paying for a private parlour,’ said Wolf as he gestured for her to take the seat beside Campbell on the inside of the table.

She did as she bid, trying not to notice the less than subtle interest from the people seated around them. From the corner of her eye she saw the landlord make his way over.

‘The rooms are to your liking, sir…’ His eyes dropped to her hand, pausing just for a second or two on the bare fingers of her left hand. Rosalind held her head up defiantly, determined not to be shamed even though she knew what the man must think her. But the heat in her cheeks betrayed her.

Wolf gave a curt nod.

‘And your lady?’ The landlord persevered.

Wolf turned a glacial eye upon him.

The landlord paled. ‘I’ll see to your food, sir.’

Rosalind dropped her gaze, wishing that the ground would open up and swallow her. Was it her imagination or was there a lull in the surrounding buzz of conversation?

Only after the landlord had departed did she whisper furiously at Wolf, ‘You should have told him I was not your lady.’

‘So concerned for his good opinion, Miss Meadowfield?’ He smiled a cold mocking smile.

Her cheeks burned all the hotter. ‘No, but he will think the worst of me. My reputation—’ She heard Kempster snigger, and broke off what she had been about to say, knowing how ridiculous her reaction was—for she had no reputation left to lose.

‘Pray continue. Your reputation…?’ Wolf raised an eyebrow.

She cast her gaze down, and spoke the words quietly, ‘I meant only that I did not wish him to believe me something that I am not.’

‘I see.’

She raised her eyes to his.

‘You wished me to tell him that you are not my lady but a thief.’ His words were spoken easily enough and in no hush.

‘Ssh! People will hear.’

‘Will they indeed?’

‘They are beginning to stare,’ she whispered in a panic.

‘Let them,’ he said. ‘I am quite used to it.’

She heard the slight bitterness in his voice, and her eyes traced the scar that marked the honeyed skin of his cheek. Shame washed over her at her insensitivity and she bit at her lower lip. ‘I did not mean…that is to say I was not referring to—’

His eyes met hers, and all of the words dried upon her tongue.

The awkwardness was broken by the arrival of the food. There was no more talk as the men devoured the stew and potatoes and cabbage and pie as if they had not eaten for a week, nor did the fact that it was scalding hot seem to slow them down any. The smell alone caused Rosalind’s stomach to rumble; indeed the mutton stew was thick and tasty, and the pie hot and flavoursome. But she ate little of them, and merely toyed with the rest. In truth her stomach was too tense for food.

Wolf said nothing to her but she frequently felt his gaze on her throughout the meal, which seemed only to make her stomach flutter all the more, until at last they were done. Leaving Kempster and Campbell to another jug of ale, he rose and took her with him.

Within the small bedchamber Wolf felt a stab of annoyance at the wariness in the woman’s eyes. As if he had no sense of honour as a man, as if he would force himself upon her like some kind of animal. Scarred or not, Wolf had no trouble finding willing women. And as for the forcing, she’d do better to look at her own class for that, he thought bitterly, and all of the memories were back again.

‘Be ready to leave at first light,’ he said, knowing that his voice was unnecessarily harsh. Indeed, all of his treatment of her had been too harsh. He knew that, but his heart was still hard, and more so because of his reaction to her upon the staircase earlier that evening.

She looked at him, and in the candlelight her eyes were as soft and dark as a woodland floor. He saw the flash of relief in them; she that had cared so much that people did not think her his woman. ‘Good night, Mr Wolversley,’ she said, and he had the sensation that she was dismissing him as if he were a servant. The thought irked him more than it should have. He would leave when he was damn well ready, and not at her say so. He stood where he was.

‘Next time, eat your dinner rather than playing with it. People starve while you waste good food.’

‘What I eat is none of your concern, sir.’

‘On the contrary, Miss Meadowfield.’ He walked up right up to her, feeling a savage stab of satisfaction when she stepped back to maintain the distance between them. He saw the fear dart into her eyes, but she held his gaze. ‘Until I hand you over to Evedon, you are mine and you will do as I say.’

She shivered. ‘Evedon will see me hanged. Your threats mean nothing in comparison with that.’

He knew that Evedon would not have her hang. He doubted if the earl even meant to report her, not when he was so concerned with keeping the matter quiet. Evedon would probably be happy with the return of his emeralds, a word in Miss Meadowfield’s father’s ear and the removal of the lady herself from his house. Still, Wolf had no intention of enlightening Miss Meadowfield to those facts.

‘There are worse things in life than death: things that you in your fine clothes, with your fine life, could not even begin to imagine. Sometimes the hangman’s noose can be a blessed relief.’ His voice was quiet. Wolf knew from bitter experience the truth in those words. ‘Good night, Miss Meadowfield,’ he said, and then turned and walked away.

As he closed the door behind him, she had not moved, just stood exactly as he had left her, staring after him. The look in her eyes made him want to call back the cruel words he had just uttered and made him think that he really was a bastard in every sense of the word.

Rosalind waited until she heard the key turn in the lock and the booted footsteps trace their path down the corridor before she allowed herself to sag against the wall, closing her eyes as she did so. Her legs trembled so much that she had been surprised that he did not hear her knees knocking together. She slid down the wall and crouched, wrapping her arms around her shins. And she wondered, really wondered, what on earth she was going to do. She had been so sure of her disappearance in Scotland. And now…Wolf’s words played again in her mind. There are worse things in life than death, things that you in your fine clothes, with your fine life, could not even begin to imagine. Oh, her clothes were fine all right—chosen and paid for by Lady Evedon—but her life was not fine at all; it had not been fine for such a long time, not since she was four years old. And the irony of his words drew a cynical smile which Wolf himself would have been proud to own, even as her eyes swam with tears she could not allow herself to shed.

When he looked at her, she could see the contempt that he made no attempt to disguise. He seemed to resent her very existence. And yet tonight, on the staircase, there had been no hatred. He had looked at her in a way that made her heart beat too fast, and not because of fear. In those few moments there had been a strange compelling force between them; the memory of it made the butterflies flock in her stomach, so that in her mind’s eye she saw again that handsome harsh face. She screwed her eyes shut to banish the image, but still it lingered and she knew that she had never met a man the like of Wolf. He was ill bred and bad mannered, a veritable rogue. But there was more to him than that: there was something in his eyes, something dark and dangerous…and strangely seductive. He possessed an underlying feral streak, an unpredictability that meant he did not act in the manner that she expected. She put her head down, resting her face upon her knee, feeling its hard press against her cheekbone.

He was a strong man—one prone to violence, if the scar on his face was anything to judge by—a man that no one would wish for their enemy, but that was exactly what he was to her, she thought dismally. And this man had roused in her such anger and pushed her from the reserve in which she normally held herself. This was the man that would take her to Evedon.

You are mine, he had said, and the thought of being completely under his control made her blood run cold. For she had only just begun to imagine what a man like Wolf could do to her. She remembered the way he had looked at her upon the staircase, and the warm press of his hand against the small of her back that seemed to scorch through all the layers of her clothing, and the clean enticing smell of him. She remembered, too, how she had been unable to move, unable to think, her own will seemingly sapped from her body, and how quickly the smoulder in his eyes had cooled and frozen back into hatred. Rosalind clutched a hand tight across her mouth to stop the whimper of shock that threatened to escape. He was both fascinating and frightening, and she did not understand the effect he had upon her. God help her, for he was harsh and ruthless and unstoppable. With Wolf as her enemy, she may as well flee back to Evedon and throw herself upon the earl’s mercy.

Against her ribs, she felt the warmth of the linen package where she had hidden Evedon’s letter, a reminder of what was at stake. Wolf might threaten her, but he would not kill her. Evedon would send her to the gallows. She squeezed her eyes tight, knowing what she was going to have to do. It had been difficult enough to escape Evedon; it was going to take a miracle to escape Wolf.

She clutched her knees tighter and began to pray.