Rosalind lay there for a long time, just staring into the flames and listening to the men’s breathing in the single room of the cottage. She was acutely aware of Wolf lying so close behind her back. It seemed that she could almost feel the heat of him across the small space that divided them. The floorboards pressed hard against her hip and shoulder bones, and her limbs were uncomfortable from the restriction of her bindings, but the fatigue that had weighed upon her earlier had disappeared. Her mind was wide awake, flitting with thoughts…and fears.
She had trusted in the letter, guarding it as a talisman, believing that its presence would prevent Evedon involving the law. And indeed it had done just that. But she had not banked on Evedon hiring a couple of ruffians to pursue her…and the letter. She berated her naivety. Of course Evedon would not just let her go free. She had been a fool to believe it. He wanted his letter back. And now all her plans and her hopes lay in ruins. The men would take her back to London. Evedon would have his letter and, once it was safe in his possession, he would send her to hang, not caring who she told of his secret. Without proof, her words would be taken as the rantings of a thief, nothing more. But he need not fear, she thought bitterly, for even then she would not tell. Regardless of what Lord Evedon did to her, she had no stomach to destroy his mother.
They would hang her. Her belly tightened with the dread of it. She knew all that would happen, had read the old newspaper report a hundred times over. And all because she had been caught by Wolf and the Scotsman.
In the quietness of the night, she could hear the catching snore of Campbell masking any sound the others might have made. She eased herself round on to her right-hand side and studied her captors.
Farthest away from the fire, Pete Kempster was curled facing the opposite wall, his body rising and falling in tiny motions with the shallow steady breaths of sleep. Next came Campbell, lying on his back, mouth open, face slack. And then there was Wolf. He lay facing her, eyes closed, breath quiet and even. The flickering light of the flames was warm and golden, softening his face, erasing all trace of mockery and contempt, so that he was quite the most handsome man she had ever seen, and she could not help but stare. She studied the strong, lean angles of his face, the dimpled cleft within the squareness of his chin, her gaze moving to the pale skin of the scar that flicked across his cheek, wondering as to the violence that had caused such a wound. Her eyes slid back up to his.
The breath caught in her throat. She froze, her heart suddenly thudding with a fury, her face burning with embarrassment. For the silver eyes were looking right back at her, filled with warning—and something else.
Her blood was rushing so loud she was sure that he must hear it. And yet she could not look away, trapped as she was in the moment, transfixed by his gaze.
He did not say a single word. He did not need to.
The moment stretched between them. Campbell’s soft snores went unnoticed. Everything seemed to fade to nothing so that there seemed only Wolf and the power of the intensity that blazed in his gaze.
At last she managed to look away. She rolled to face the fire and lay as before, eyes open, aware more than ever of Wolf behind her: a man, dangerous and awake. The very air seemed to vibrate with the tension that emanated from him, and her skin tingled with it. This was the man who would take her back to Evedon. This was the man with whom she must travel the length of the country. And she trembled at the thought. Lord save me, she pled a silent prayer, from Evedon…and from Wolf.
Chapter Three
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 Meadowfield.
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 Meadowfield. 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 at tempting 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.
Unlacing the Innocent Miss Page 4