Rogue's Charade

by Kruger, Mary

  “Stop calling me that!” She set her lips. Damn him, she thought, relishing the unaccustomed curse. He was right. Traveling on darkened roads would not be safe for her, a woman alone, and might only raise suspicion against her. And she was an accomplice to his escape. Involuntary at first, true, but no one had forced her to clean and bandage his wound. That would be harder to explain. “I’ll find someone to take me in—”

  “And arrest you. And me.”

  “You should be arrested!” She spun to face him. “What would you have me do?”

  “Stay with me.”

  She gaped at him. “Oh, no,” she said, backing away. “You’ll not use me that way.”

  “Princess, I’m too tired,” he said, bluntly. “Believe me, I have no intention of making advances to you.”

  “Then why do you want me to stay?”

  “Because I got you into this.” His lips tucked back. “Because you were going about your life and I’ve gone and turned everything topsy-turvy. Because,” his voice softened, “I’ll worry about you.”

  He sounded sincere, she had to give him that. Looked it, too, standing there with his shoulders slouched and his hands tucked into his breeches pockets, looking at her with lowered head, like a little boy expecting a scolding. “Well, I can’t help that, can I?”

  “You could, if you stayed.”

  “How will I ever explain being away at night to Mrs. Wicket?”

  “How will you explain this day?” he countered, and she bit her lips. “I don’t think you’ve much choice, princess.”

  She glanced away. Through the branches she could see that the sky had darkened. Night was almost upon her. She could take the risk, of course, chance her safety and return to her employer’s house, but what would she meet with there? She could never explain her actions to Mrs. Wicket, who’d likely turn her off without a reference. Like it or not, she had no place to go. “Where will you stay?” she asked, finally.

  “Do you mean, where will we stay, princess?”

  She sighed. “Yes, I suppose I do.”

  “Don’t worry so.” He reached out to touch her hand, and she jerked it away. “Things will turn out right. I’ll see to it.”

  “Oh? Then do you plan to return to London with me tomorrow and tell everyone you held me captive?”

  “No. That generous, I am not. But the people where I am going will be able to help—”

  “You’ve a destination?”

  He looked away. “I’m a strolling player, princess. I know people everywhere.”

  Blythe frowned, suspicious of his answer. He had been too confident of himself all day, too sure. He had a plan, whether he would share it with her or not. “Come to think of it, how did you escape?”

  “You helped me,” he said promptly.

  “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

  “Aye. But ‘tis best you don’t know any more. If anyone questions you, you won’t be able to tell them a thing.”

  Blythe set her lips in a straight line. “If they’ll believe me.” How strange to think that, in the eyes of the law, she was guilty of aiding a criminal. That he had threatened her with dire harm would not absolve her completely. “Simon,” she said, speaking his name for the first time, and turned, gazing directly at him. “All those things you said today—you wouldn’t really have hurt me, would you?”

  He held her gaze, his eyes dark, inscrutable. “‘Tis true I am a condemned murderer.”

  “Who has had plenty of opportunity to do me harm.” She let the silence lengthen. “Well?”

  Simon stared at her a moment longer, and then turned away, running a hand over his hair. “No,” he said, so quietly it was almost a whisper. “I wouldn’t have hurt you.”

  She nodded. Somehow she’d known that, deep in her being, for quite some time. “Well.” Her tone was brisk. “We should be finding a place to sleep, and perhaps scavenge for something to eat. Berries, anyway, and perhaps some roots.”

  He grimaced. “Hardly tasty fare.”

  “No, but the best we’ll do for tonight. Unless you would care to go to an inn?”

  “No. I’m afraid ‘tis the open air for us. Come, princess—”

  “One thing more.” She held back from the hand he held out. “If you so much as touch me tonight, I will be sure to feed you psyllium seeds. Unsoaked psyllium seeds.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m not sure you want to know.”

  “Try me.”

  “Only if you wish to have an extremely upset stomach, and all that goes with it.”

  He stared at her for a moment and then put back his head, giving a shout of laughter. “I believe you would, at that.”

  “I would.” She nodded. “Consider yourself warned, sir.”

  “I do.” He was still grinning. “Madam, you have my word. Difficult though it is to resist the temptation you pose, I will strive to do so.”

  “Oh, go on with you,” she muttered, and pushed by him. “Well? Are you coming?”

  “Aye, princess.” He slung a companionable arm about her shoulder, removing it only when she gave him a distinctly cold glare. “Let us find a barn, or a least a hayrick. That way we’ll be warm.”

  “Very well.” Blythe nodded, falling into step beside him, watching her footing in the failing light. It was the best they could do for tonight, after a most extraordinary day. But she did not trust Mr. Simon Woodley. Oh, no. She would not, she resolved, sleep a wink tonight.

  Two tiny, beady eyes were staring her in the face. Blythe gazed at them in incomprehension for a moment, and then jerked back onto her elbows, completely startled out of sleep. “What in the—”

  “Breakfast,” Simon said cheerfully, rising from his crouch beside her. “Fresh-caught trout.”

  Blythe sat up, pushing her hair out of her eyes and feeling at a distinct disadvantage. “Where did it come from?”

  “From the stream. Wouldn’t happen to have a knife on you, would you?”

  “No.” Blythe knelt clumsily in the pile of hay. “Why?”

  “To clean the fish, of course. Ah, never mind, we’ll make do.” He squinted off into the distance. “In fact, I know where we can do well.”

  “Wait.” She pushed at her hair again. “I—how is your leg?”

  “Better, madam,” he said, and to her astonishment made her a sweeping bow. “You are a most admirable doctor. Mayhaps you’d like to see for yourself?”

  Blythe felt the color sweeping up into her face. “I probably should, yes. Where are you going?”

  He turned. “Don’t worry, princess. I’ll be back soon.” And with that he plunged into the woods edging the field where they’d spent the night, he in his hayrick, she in hers. He’d kept his word, hadn’t come next or near her. Not that she would have been able to do anything about it. A fine guard she’d turned out to be, falling asleep as she had. Anyone might have crept up on her.

  The thought made her rise in clumsy haste, brushing bits of hay from her clothes. No, she was alone. She breathed in relief at that. No farmer worked this field this morning, and that was a good thing. What would happen were she to be seen with Simon was not to be considered.

  Where had he gone, anyway? Frowning, Blythe walked toward the brook, not so very far from where she had cleaned and bandaged his wound. After washing her face and tidying up a bit, she looked around her, seeing her surroundings more clearly than she had last evening. Full country; one wouldn’t even know London was nearby. Return there she would, however, this morning, though she didn’t know how she could possibly explain her absence.

  In the distance a dog barked suddenly, angrily, fierce tones warning off an intruder, faintly at first and then louder. Blythe heard a crashing in the underbrush, and her breath caught. Had the pursuit reached this far? But as the sounds came closer they were joined by a cheerful whistling, making her relax. It was only Simon. Only! As if it were better to be found by a convict than by the law.

  Annoyed with herself, Blythe steppe
d back from the brook, reaching the woody path in time to encounter Simon, ambling along with hands tucked in pockets as if he hadn’t a care in the world. It infuriated her; the fact that he had somehow managed to club his hair neatly back so that he looked presentable, if disreputable, angered her all the more. “Must you make such noise?” she hissed. “You’ll have everyone in the county upon us.”

  “Why, princess.” A smile spread on his face. “I didn’t think you cared.”

  “For you, I don’t.” She flounced around, preceding him back to their campsite. “But I would like to get through this day with a whole skin.”

  “This way, princess.” He caught her arm, leading her toward the brook again, though to a different spot. “I’ve a fire going.”

  She shook her arm free. “Fire?”

  “Aye, and a few potatoes I don’t think will be missed.”

  “Where did you go?” she asked suspiciously, dropping down onto the ground near the small, well-banked fire. Buried in its embers were, indeed, potatoes, and suddenly she was hungrier than she could ever remember being.

  “Best you not know. Though you must have noticed the barn last night. No?” From his pocket he pulled out a knife, its blade rusty and pitted, and began to clean the fish. “I paid my first, ah, visit to it earlier and remembered seeing this knife. Don’t think it will be missed, either.”

  Blythe pulled her legs up under her. “And do you often resort to stealing?”

  “Only when I have to, princess. I’ve been told it leads to much worse things,” he said, and winked.

  Blythe’s lips tucked back. He was despicable, really, whistling as he cleaned and cut the fish, surprisingly deftly for a man who made his living on the stage. He was also far more appealing than she cared to admit. Though his shirt was stained, he wore it as if it were cloth of gold; though clearly he needed a shave, the stubble added interesting shadows and angles to his cheeks, pale from his incarceration. And he faced whatever was coming with a smile, which was more than she could say for herself. “You seem used to this.”

  “Used to it?” He’d taken up a stick and was now systematically sharpening the point. “Here, put the fish on this and hold it in the fire,” he said, handing her the stick. “Not used to it, precisely, but an actor’s lot is a precarious one. There have been times we’ve had to live off the land.”

  “We?”

  “Yes, my—” He shook his head. “No, the less you know about them, the better. Excuse me.” This as his stomach gave a loud growl. “I think ‘tis time to eat.”

  Blythe’s stomach growled as well. She hoped he hadn’t noticed. “Do you think the fish is done?”

  “Looks it. Come, we’ll have a veritable feast, milady.”

  He changed his personality as easily as his accent, Blythe thought, and yet she had to admit that the meal he’d prepared was a feast, indeed. They broke their fast with the trout and the potatoes, plucked hot from the fire. Blythe burned her fingers once or twice, but she didn’t care. Never had trout tasted so wonderful; never had a simple potato seemed such lavish fare, even without butter or cream. Better than dining at a fine inn, she thought, and knew she’d remember this meal for a long, long time.

  In the distance, the dog barked again. This time Blythe paid it no heed. “Where do you go after this?” she asked.

  “Wherever the wind takes me,” he said, though she was not fooled by his breezy casualness. “And you? Back to London, I suppose.”

  Blythe surprised herself by heaving a great sigh. Of course she would return to London, preferable as it was to camping out in a field. Yet she didn’t want to. Not yet, at least. “Yes, I’ve really no place else to go, though I doubt Mrs. Wicket will take me back.”

  The dog barked again, faintly. “What will you tell her?” Simon asked, finishing off the last potato and lounging back with the air of a man replete and well-satisfied with life.

  “The truth.” Blythe busied herself with gathering up the debris of their meal. “Though I doubt she’ll believe me.”

  “Not an understanding woman?”

  “No, not very. Likely I’ll have to look for other employment.”

  “Yet you mentioned family.”

  Blythe looked up, wary. “Yes, well?”

  “Are they in London, too?”

  “No.”

  If her curt answer bothered him, he didn’t show it. “Why not go back to them, then?”

  “Only if I have to. I—”

  “Wait.” He was holding his hand up, posture suddenly upright, face alert. “Listen to that barking.”

  “It sounds like the farmer’s dog you bothered before.”

  “Yes—no!” He bolted to his feet. “Bloody hell!”

  “What is it?” Blythe asked, alarmed, but not moving.

  “They’ve set dogs on us, that’s what they’ve done. Come on.” Grabbing her arm, he dragged her unceremoniously to her feet. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

  “But—”

  “There’s no time! Come on,” he said again, and this time tugged at her harder, so that, off-balance, she had no choice but to follow. She could hear the dogs now, a deep baying sound, such as hounds made when on the hunt. But hunting season was in winter, and what would be their prey now? She glanced back over her shoulder as she and Simon broke free of the trees, and she saw them, the dogs, coming on across the field as the tide. Behind them were men on horseback, garbed in red. Soldiers, she thought, and, hesitating no longer, pounded along behind Simon. The soldiers had found them.

  Chapter Five

  “This way,” Simon rasped, pulling Blythe back into the trees that edged the meadow. If they stayed in open country, they would be lost. The dogs would outchase them. In the woods they had more of a chance of escape, slim though it was. “Bloody hell.”

  “How—.” Blythe’s breath came in sobbing gasps. “How did they find us?”

  “I don’t know, but we left enough of a trail once we left the road.”

  “Simon, the brook—”

  “Yes, I know, but let’s lead them on a little farther before we take to it.”

  “But why? The water will hide our scent.”

  “Aye, but we need a place to hide.” His lungs burned like the devil, from the exercise after months of confinement; the wound on his thigh had broken open, judging by the wetness he felt trickling down his leg, and yet he felt a strange, fierce elation. He was alive! This time yesterday he’d expected to be hanged, and yet here he was, having feasted on good, plain fare, and holding the hand of a woman who, though not conventionally pretty, though past the first blush of youth, he was finding more and more appealing. Alive, aye, and he’d best take steps to stay that way.

  Abruptly Simon swerved from the path. Blythe, her hand tight in his, followed him unprotestingly into the undergrowth and down a steep bank that had them slipping and clawing for footing. At the bottom was the brook. He plunged in, gasping aloud as the icy water hit his legs. Sweet Jesus, but that was a shock! “This way,” he urged, pulling her along the stream bed. Blythe followed, stumbling behind him when he clambered onto the opposite bank. “And now this.”

  “What?” This as he plunged them into the brook again, retracing their steps. Blythe was panting for breath, her skirts, heavy with water, clinging to her legs and slowing her progress. “But that’s going back where we were—”

  “They won’t expect it. Besides, I spotted a good hiding place this morning, just in case.”

  “Then we could have gone directly there?”

  “Shh! They’re almost close enough to hear. We don’t want to give ourselves away.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Not far. That willow, ahead. If we duck under the leaves—there!”

  Silvery green fronds hit Blythe’s face, immersing her in a new world, an emerald world with sunlight filtering through the softly moving branches. The weeping willow hung out over the brook, its leaves hanging down, dancing upon the surface of the water. It was not a per
fect hiding place, but perhaps if they were very still, they would not be caught.

  Simon’s arm snaked about her waist, pulling her back against him, hard. “Not a word,” he said, very low in her ear, and she nodded, though her breath was labored and she was certain he could hear the pounding of her heart. Sound carried strangely in the woods. The dogs sounded now close, now distant. Mixed with their baying were the voices of men cursing and the clattering of muskets. Their pursuers had had to leave their mounts behind and continue the chase on foot. That was at least encouraging.

  “Over here!” someone yelled, much too close by, and she flinched. Simon’s other arm came about her, holding her almost protectively. “They went into the brook, here—damn!”

  “What is the problem?” This voice sounded cultured, almost bored.

  “The hounds have lost the scent.”

  “They can’t have got far. We’ll cross.”

  “But—”

  “Upon my soul, sirrah, move!” The voice was angry now. “There’s no place for them to hide, they had to get to land at some point. Now, move!”

  “Yes, sir. Move out!”

  “Sir!” Another voice, more distant. “The hounds have the scent again!”

  “Good.” The cultured voice again. “We’ll get them.”

  There was much splashing and stamping as the men crossed the brook, taking what seemed to Blythe to be a very long time. Were there that many in pursuit? She pressed back against Simon. He squeezed her waist encouragingly, and suddenly, in spite of the icy water, in spite of her fear, she felt a strange warmth spreading through her. Senses heightened by the fight for survival, she felt his hand as a burning brand, sinking into her flesh and marking her as his. His chest at her back was remarkably solid and remarkably broad, and his soft breath stirred her hair as his masculine scent stirred her senses. She was aware of him as she had never before been aware of any man, and he nothing but a convict.

  “Damn, damn, damn.” The cultured voice again, closer, coming from across the bank, very soft, and somehow all the more menacing for it. “Damn them for losing the scent.”

  “For the Lord’s sake, they can’t work miracles. If the pair of them went through the water—”