An eerie silence fell over the Birch Path, the quiet honored by all but the gusting winter wind that sent flakes falling around her. On her. And she lay there, absolutely motionless, with her face buried in a slick patch of mud. She dimly registered a jagged rock ripping a hole through her glove and shredding her flesh.
Numb, Martha turned her head and stared beyond the nearest tree, unable to move.
This is what I’ve become. Her gaze locked on the faintest dusting of snow that lingered under a low-hanging branch, the white patch sullied by a smattering of dirt and brush. Stains upon what had once been pure. How did that hidden spot of snow come to be so marred? How, when it was tucked away, so neatly hidden under the protective cover of the High Town trees?
She felt something damp trickle down her cheek, and her heart stirred. She’d lost. Those drops had filled her eyes and, each time, had gone unshed. Until now.
She reached a quivering finger up and caught the bit of moisture, needing to see the stain upon her glove. To remember that she was capable of crying after all and that she’d not become the dead-inside figure that she so oftentimes felt.
Martha drew her hand back and didn’t blink.
Mud clung to the tips of her gloves.
Not tears. But grime and dirt that dripped from her ear and even now soaked her garments through.
With a half sob, Martha rolled onto her back and stared blankly overhead. I cannot even cry. She’d not managed that simplest of acts since her father had been carted off.
The wind continued to gust around the countryside. It sent the branches dancing overhead, parting and swaying to reveal the gray, heavily clouded sky.
Snow hung in the air. This time of year had once been her favorite as a girl, and then as a young mother who’d chased not one but three children through the snow-covered hillside.
Martha sucked in a shuddery sigh, and with the snow falling around her, she at last conceded the truth she’d kept from even herself.
I need help.
Chapter 5
Early on, Graham had perfected the art of silent footfalls.
That skill had come long before his training with the Brethren. As a boy in eternal competition with two older, and more accomplished in every way, brothers, he’d pushed himself in foot races until he’d proven the most fleet of foot.
As such, the reins of his mount loosely tied to a nearby birch, Graham ventured down the path Martha Donaldson had traveled a short while ago with those same measured steps, his gaze taking in everything as he went.
Everything with the Brethren, each assignment’s success, hung upon the art of timing: how long to wait before setting out in pursuit of one’s quarry, what pace one should set. All of it was more an art that ultimately decided one’s success. It was a lesson his mentor had delivered, and in those discussions, they’d always come back to one’s quarry being the enemy.
Martha Donaldson, however, was no enemy of the Crown. She was no threat to the country’s peace or wealth.
And yet, this search for her was no different.
Graham might resent the post he’d been given and crave the more worthwhile pursuits of other members of the Brethren. However, this was his mission, and he’d be damned if he’d fail at it. Particularly when everything about the task indicated it should be easy. He should complete it successfully, and then be on to the more meaningful work he craved.
Graham sidestepped fallen branches lightly dusted with snow and brush that would alert anyone of his presence. While he walked, he examined the narrow pathway, touching his gaze on everything, including broken twigs and footprints.
Three sets.
Two larger…
Graham stopped. And one smaller. He sharpened his stare on the delicate-sized imprint, the faintest fleck of white beginning to conceal the mark. Dropping to his haunches, he measured the indent with his palm.
Too large to be a child and too small to belong to most men.
Unease prickled at his nape, that innate sense that urged a person to flee or perish. It was that instinct that was to guide an agent of the Crown. A sentiment that wasn’t to be ignored.
She’d been followed. Set after by someone. Two someones.
With slow, measured movements, Graham straightened. He resumed his earlier march along the lightly snow-covered ground, registering a detail he’d failed to note before—the utter silence.
There was no distant echo of footfalls. There was… nothing but the forlorn whistle of the wind.
Cursing, Graham quickened his pace, weaving among the birch trees as he walked.
Then he heard it.
A tortured half sob echoed in the winter quiet, carried by the wind, made all the more explosive for the silence ushered in by the snow.
He took off at a dead run, measuring the distance in his mind between him and the owner of that expression of misery. His pulse pounded in his ears as he leaped over a log. Landing on his feet, Graham took off running again and then skidded to a stop.
Out on the main path, a slender figure lay sprawled, arms and legs outstretched, her wool cloak spread about her.
Martha Donaldson.
Panic knocked around his chest. By God, he’d not fail her or the damned mission. At last, Graham reached her.
The young woman opened her eyes. Those aquamarine pools went wide as terror filled their depths. A scream tore from her throat. She shot a foot up, nearly catching him in the groin.
Cursing, he stepped out of her reach.
For what the minx missed in efficacy, she made up for in determination. She rolled out of reach and then came at him from behind, launching herself at him, briefly upsetting his balance.
Graham came sprawling down hard on the earth. “Oomph.”
She made to deliver another attack, but he caught her by the ankle, toppling her. He rolled swiftly, bracing her fall so that she landed atop his chest.
“What are you doing?” she rasped, bucking against him. Her frantic breath stirred the winter air. She managed to wedge a knee between his legs, but again, he anticipated that strike, and her blow landed ineffectually.
Lessons. The young woman was going to require lessons in how to defend herself. Graham mentally filed that detail away. “I was saving you,” he gritted out. God, she was feisty. Spirited, and yet, unskilled in the fight. She expended more energy than her body could sustain.
Her teeth chattered in the cold. “I do n-not need saving.” She thrashed against him, and her frenzied movements twisted her cloak with his, hampering her efforts to dislodge him.
He’d known her less than an hour but would wager his coveted post with the Brethren that she needed precisely that—saving. He was also wise enough not to counter the avowal, particularly from a spitfire with fire glimmering in her eyes.
“I d-don’t,” she gritted, having followed his unspoken statement. She drew her boot back and kicked him hard in the shin, an impressive deliverance given the awkward angle of her body.
Graham allowed the young widow her fury, and when she showed no sign of quitting, he rolled her under him, effectively trapping her. “Enough,” he growled, catching her wrists, securing them with his left hand.
Her eyes bled fear. It spilled from every delicate plane of her expressive features.
His gut clenched, and damn if he didn’t feel like a bloody monster. When he spoke, he gentled his tones. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he assured. He made to reach for his cloak, but the young woman recoiled, and he abruptly stopped.
The terror only deepened in eyes that were neither blue, nor green, but a shade in between that conjured those mystical finned sirens his shipmates had told tales of.
“Get off me,” she panted, and despite the faintest tremble to that last syllable, there was a splendid display of resolve and strength. Not for the first time since she’d entered the White Stag, admiration stirred for the young widow.
When Graham had been a young man just entering university, his father had purchased, Scoundrel,
a prized thoroughbred from another nobleman. The previous owner had attempted to beat the spirited thoroughbred into submission. Not a single stable master Graham’s father had brought in to train the mount had succeeded. Only Graham had. Martha Donaldson put Graham in mind of that now loyal, affectionate mount.
Those lessons at the forefront of his mind, Graham came to his feet slowly and then backed away. “My name is Graham Malin.” He stretched out a hand.
And waited.
And waited.
Martha Donaldson eyed his fingers like they were the forbidden fruit that would doom all mankind to eternal sin if she touched them.
Everything, however, came back to the matter of timing, of knowing when to push and when to wait, and this woman, skittish like a wounded beast, required time.
And a good deal of it.
At last, she reached tentative fingers out and allowed him to help her stand. The moment she was on her feet, she took several quick steps away from him.
Graham noted the details that had escaped him during their earlier tussle. Crimson curls had come free of her long plait, with muddied strands plastered to her face and cloak. Dirt caked her cheeks and garments.
Again, Graham reached inside his cloak, and Martha Donaldson tripped over herself in her haste to put more space between them. “What are you—?” Her words cut off abruptly as he withdrew a white kerchief and held it out, a silent offering.
She hesitated before rushing over. She ripped the article from his fingers and hurried back to her respective spot. As she cleaned the mud from her face, she studied him over the top of the fabric.
Every woman of his acquaintance, his own mother included, filled voids of silence. As a rule, people were uncomfortable with them and prattled on in a bid to have something, rather than nothing, said. In those instances, agents for the Crown were instructed to gather every last revelation and later sort out what incriminating piece a person had shared.
Martha Donaldson, however, proved different once more. She owned the silence with a pride that not even the queen could command.
At last, she finished wiping off her face and tossed the kerchief back to him. A gust of wind caught the stained fabric and carried it closer. Graham shot a hand out to catch it.
A glob of mud remained at her temple. “You’ve missed some. May I?” he murmured. Taking her silence as a concession, he gently wiped away the last remnant of her fall. He should be singularly focused on the task, as pragmatic as tying a cravat, and yet, even as he reminded himself of that, his gaze took in details he had no place noting: the cream-white hue of her skin, dusted with the lightest swath of freckles. The delicate shells of her ears, the right lobe graced with a heart-shaped birthmark. Wide, crimson lips. Lips that were made for kissing.
I am going to hell…
Of course, that had been determined long ago… on the fields of Kent, to be precise, when he’d challenged his brother to that last, and fatal, race. His focus should be entirely reserved for how the woman he’d been tasked with looking after had come to be in such a state. “What happened?” he asked quietly after he’d finished cleaning away the mud.
She eyed him suspiciously. “What does it matter to you, Mr.…?”
“Malin. Graham Malin.” The two names had been decided by his mother, and he left off his first name, the hated one selected by his father.
“What does it matter to you, then, Mr. Graham Malin?” she asked, stepping around him, and for a moment, he thought she intended to march off and leave, as she’d done twice before. This time, however, she ambled around in a small circle, searching the ground as she went. There was no biting inflection to the question, but rather, a tiredness, the first hint of flagging from this woman.
“Because it does,” he said as she continued to walk about. And it did. She was his assignment, and it was his role to determine the state of her existence and report his findings to his superior.
Martha Donaldson muttered something under her breath as she wandered around in a little circle. “Where is it? Where is it?”
Graham did a sweep and swiftly located the leather satchel she’d been carrying. He jogged ahead, registering Martha Donaldson’s stare as he moved past her. “Here,” he called over, gathering the bag by its strap. Returning, he tossed it over.
The young widow caught it in her arms and clutched it close to her chest in a protective manner. “Thank you,” she said carefully.
He lifted his head.
“What do you want, Mr. Malin?”
“I told you—”
“No, really,” she said flatly. “You’re a stranger to High Town. No one comes to High Town.” And with good reason. The people were bloody horrid and the ale rot. Yes, there was little to recommend this corner of Luton. “You’ve come to my assistance now twice. Three times, if one considers your now dirtied kerchief.” She shook her head. “People don’t do that without reason.”
She was correct. Men and women of all stations were driven by ulterior motives. “Some do.” His, however, must remain cloaked in secrecy.
“Mmm-mmm,” she countered. “That is not my experience. Your horse.” She jerked her chin toward the end of the path. “Where is your mount?”
He furrowed his brow.
“I saw you,” she went on. “I watched you leave the inn. Your garments are coarse, your boots old. But your speech and the quality of your horseflesh don’t belong to a… man in search of employment,” she said in a flawless echo of the lie he’d given her at the White Stag Inn.
Bloody hell. The minx missed nothing. With her astuteness and clever attention to detail, the Brethren would be best served with her among their ranks. And he knew in that moment, if he didn’t offer her some truths, she’d stalk off one more time, and that would be the end of his efforts at employment in her household. “I spent a large part of my life in a nobleman’s stables.” Truth. “I was skilled with the mounts.” Also true. That skill, however, had only earned him his father’s ducal disapproval. “I aspired for more and believed the King’s Navy was my path to a greater opportunity.” The King’s Navy, that most glorified of all the navies in the world, had represented his hopes for leaving a mark upon the world for being something more than a duke’s third, and least clever, son.
Her features softened, but her eyes remained wary. “And it wasn’t?” she ventured quietly.
“It wasn’t.” He’d been searching years after and only just found it. “I returned home and sought employment. To no avail.” Which was also true. He’d been initially rejected from the ranks of the Brethren.
And Graham, who’d believed himself long jaded by life to cease feeling anything, felt his heart pull at the wariness from a woman just twenty-eight years old. What struggle had she known that she’d come to view the world with the same suspicions he himself carried? “I served in the Royal Navy, and after my service, when I returned to England…” He glanced beyond her shoulder. I was thrust once more into the mindless pursuits that existed for members of the peerage, an empty, purposeless existence.
Her soft, husky contralto called him back. “H-how did you come to be here?” she asked, rubbing her gloved hands together, her long digits close to her mouth, as if she sought to breathe warmth into them through the fabric.
He noted the fraying at her fingertips.
The lady was in dire straits. Whichever member of the Brethren had sought to see her looked after had failed in several regards.
She followed his focus and swiftly tucked her hands behind her back.
Wordlessly, Graham reached inside his jacket.
Martha Donaldson hesitated, but some of the tension left her when he handed over the advert.
With the snow falling around them, she accepted the page and read. “I sent this nearly three months ago,” she murmured, lifting the neatly clipped piece. The wind toyed with its edges. “No one responded. Why should you do so now?”
God, the young woman was clever. And not for the first time since she’d arrive
d at the inn, he acknowledged that he had dangerously underestimated both her and this assignment.
“Because my hopes for other work proved unfruitful.” He offered another truth there. “Have you filled the post?” Graham asked when she continued to study the words on the advert.
She shook her head. “I’ve… not.”
It was that moment, with those two words and a slight pause, when Graham knew. He knew, despite her earlier resistance, that she wanted to hire if not him… then someone. That, for her reservations and suspicions—both of which had proven correct—she wished to ignore her instincts and offer him the post.
In the end, her misgivings won out.
“I did seek an all-purpose servant. I haven’t since I sent that out. I stopped… I…” Martha trained all her focus on the advert. “I am… no longer looking for anyone.” The color deepened on her cheeks.
She didn’t have the funds.
Her eyes sparked in a fiery defiance that dared him to voice that understanding.
What had happened to Miss Martha Donaldson to see her both wary and impoverished? And why, when his work required neither of those details, should it matter? Aside from his case, why did he feel that familiar stirring of regret for what her life was and a need to know those answers?
It isn’t your need to know.
His superior and the Brethren could all go to hell with that directive. He served, but not blindly. He’d carry out his mission, but he’d not be content until he found out the secrets that this woman carried.
Sensing her weakening, Graham pounced. “I require a bed, food, and a roof over my head until I can secure other work. If you can provide those, I’ll oversee your livestock and tend your horses and serve in whatever capacity you require.”
Martha Donaldson warred with herself, the battle reflected in her expressive eyes. “I…cannot. Even if I wished to help you, I’ve other people who rely upon me, and I can’t afford to have strangers about.”
There was a finality to that rejection that indicated it would be the last she gave. Her mind wouldn’t be altered.
She was desperate for help, but not so desperate that she’d take it wherever it was proffered. Martha Donaldson resumed walking.
The Rogue Who Rescued Her Page 6