Unlacing the Innocent Miss

by Margaret McPhee

  ‘You all right?’ Campbell stood in the stable entrance.

  ‘I’m fine,’ Wolf said curtly and opened the stall gate.

  ‘You didnae eat your breakfast.’

  Wolf finished buckling up the leather straps around the horse’s girth. ‘I’m not hungry.’

  Campbell looked unconvinced. ‘Did you tell her there are no horses for hire?’

  ‘Didn’t get round to that.’

  A single eyebrow arched on Campbell’s face. ‘What did she say of her wee attempt at escape?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Wolf concentrated on finishing off fastening the tack.

  ‘Then you were discussing her thirty-mile walk?’

  ‘something like that.’ He did not look round at Campbell.

  ‘And will the lassie be walking the day?’

  ‘Not likely; her feet are cut to ribbons.’

  ‘Told you that did she?’ Campbell probed.

  Wolf ignored the question. ‘She’ll ride pillion as she’s told to.’

  ‘I’ll take your baggage upon my horse. Give you a bit more room for Miss Meadowfield.’

  ‘I’ll carry the baggage; the woman can ride with you or Kempster.’ What had just happened in her room was warning enough, and Wolf was no fool.

  There was a silent pause before Campbell moved to see to his own horse. ‘As you will, Lieutenant,’ and the fleeting gaze that met Wolf’s was too knowing. He lifted the saddle and sat it upon the horse’s back. ‘You were up in her room quite some time…’ He let the words trail off suggestively.

  Wolf recognized that tone. He turned a baleful eye on his friend. ‘What the hell is Kempster doing in there? We need to get moving. The sooner we are rid of Rosalind Meadowfield to Evedon, the better.’ And then he turned back to his horse.

  Campbell watched him with a thought ful expression upon his face.

  Rosalind sipped at her coffee, but could not bring herself to eat the fried food that lay on the plate before her. The cup was hot beneath her fingers, yet she was almost glad of its scald for it gave her something else upon which to focus. Although her gaze was lowered, she was aware of Kempster’s ill-tempered mood and the way that he was watching her.

  Wolf had touched the bare calf of her leg. And the way that he had looked at her, the feel of his touch…In those moments, there had been nothing of mockery, nothing of anger, and she had forgotten that he hated her, for gotten that he was dragging her back to Evedon. She should have thrust his hands aside and slapped his face and told him in no uncertain terms that she was not that sort of a woman. Instead, Rosalind Meadowfield had behaved like the worst of wantons, letting him touch her, encouraging him, waiting like a Jezebel for his kiss. She thanked God for Kempster’s interruption, that she had not made a worse fool of herself.

  Her face glowed hot at the memory of it, and she could have wept from the shame. And she did not know why she had behaved in such a ridiculous way. It did not make any sense. She did not even like Wolf. She hated him, hated him for destroying her chance of freedom, for his anger and for the way he made her feel. More than that, she thought, she hated herself for what she had just done. Wolf regretted it too; she had seen it in the way he had stormed past, his breakfast untouched upon the table, and in the angry slam of the door in his wake.

  Another sip of coffee, and she calmed herself, forcing herself to see the sense of the situation. She was far from home, far from friends, surrounded by enemies. Her feet were a sore mess and Wolf had been right: without binding, they would only get worse. And she had no wish to be carried as he had threatened. She had had little choice but to let him bind her feet. And as for the rest of it, she had been overcome by the softening in his harsh demeanour. The days of worry and fear over Evedon had taken their toll on her so that her thinking was confused.

  In a few moments, she must go out there and climb upon a horse and ride in Wolf’s wake all of the day. The thought of facing him again was anathema, but it had to be done. There could be no running away from it. She placed the cup down upon its saucer, marvelling at the steadiness of her hands. There were more important things at stake than Wolf’s or her own sensibilities. Quite simply, if she did not escape, she was a dead woman. It was the truth in all its starkness.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by Kempster getting to his feet. ‘After you, Miss Meadowfield.’ There was a sarcastic edge to his voice as he gestured her towards the door.

  She took a deep breath and walked, out of the public room, out of the inn, to the yard…and Wolf.

  Chapter Seven

  By the time they were standing in the inn’s stables with only the same three large horses before them there was a definite dread in Rosalind’s belly.

  ‘We have yet to collect the little mare’s replacement?’ she asked and saw the look that Campbell shot at Wolf. Something was wrong, and Rosalind had a horrible idea what that something might be.

  ‘There is no replacement,’ said Wolf harshly and fitted the battered leather hat back on to his head. ‘No horses for hire in this town.’

  ‘What of carriages? We could hire a carriage.’ The words were out before she could stop them.

  ‘Round this place?’ Kempster gave a laugh. ‘You must be joking!’

  ‘Then we are to wait here until a horse becomes available?’ She looked across at Wolf’s horse and saw her bag strapped beside his and knew her answer. And for all that she had been so calm and determined, she felt the stir rings of panic at the thought of riding up on one of the large horses with any of the men.

  ‘No,’ said Wolf succinctly.

  She began to back away.

  His cool gaze met hers. ‘You cannot walk,’ he said and swung himself up on to his horse.

  She shook her head in denial, feeling the dread gripping at her. ‘I can walk. My feet are not so bad.’ And even as she said it, she knew that it was not true.

  ‘You ride with Kempster.’ Wolf’s eyes were grey and implacable, his voice hard and resolute. There was not one hint of gentleness—nothing of the man who had bound her feet.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw a small smile play about Kempster’s mouth.

  A wave of panic threatened to rise. She damped it down, squaring her shoulders and facing Wolf defiantly. She damn well would not beg him. And the thought of her letting such a man touch her, of almost letting him kiss her, swept a blaze of anger through her, and the anger lent her courage. He would not have her dignity; he would not take her pride. With her head held high she walked over to Kempster and let him lift her up on to his saddle.

  Wolf watched as Rosalind sat stiffly on Kempster’s horse, her focus fixed rigidly on some distant point ahead. The colour had gone from her cheeks, the darkness of her hair rendering her face all the paler. For all that she was trying to hide it, he knew that she was afraid and, God help him, in that moment he was seized with the desire to take her up before him, to hold her there safe and secure, her body hard against his own. He thought of her legs bare within his hands, of his mouth moving to take hers, and something tightened within him. She was of the gentry, a social climber, a thief; a woman who thought she was above justice. He turned his gaze away and led out so that he need not look upon her. Behind him was only the clatter of horses’ hooves, no other sound. And against all logic, Wolf felt a sense of guilt.

  Sunshine warmed the chill from the air, birds were singing and the day promised to be fine, but Rosalind was oblivious to it all. It took all her concentration to stay balanced on Kempster’s horse without touching him. There was little enough room in the saddle and, no matter how far away she edged, Kempster’s leg seemed to brush against hers. Her left hip was hard against the pommel which she gripped tightly with both hands.

  When the horse began to trot, it was all she could do not to hold on to Kempster. Up ahead, Campbell rode beside Wolf; the burr of their quiet chatter drifted back to her.

  Impulse made her glance round at Kempster, and she saw that he was watching her. He smiled as her gaze met
his, but it did not set her mind at rest.

  In Evedon House all of the women thought Pete Kempster handsome, with his dark hair and pale skin, his straight regular features, and perhaps most striking of all, eyes that were of such bright blue as to quite take a woman’s breath away. He had a cheeky charm that won him many con quests. Even Lady Evedon had a soft spot for the footman.

  ‘You work quick, Miss Meadowfield. I’ll give you that much.’ His voice sounded close above her right ear.

  ‘I do not know to what you are referring, Mr Kempster.’

  ‘Don’t you?’ he asked, and she could hear the smile in his voice. ‘You and Wolf. Do you think that if you bed with him he’ll release you?’

  ‘Bed with him!’ She stared round at him aghast. ‘How could you think such a thing?’

  ‘How, indeed?’ He smiled again, that lazy smile of his, as if he had not just insulted her. ‘You seem to be forgettin’ that I saw what the two of you were up to this morning in your chamber.’

  ‘What you saw,’ she said coolly, ‘was Mr Wolversley binding my feet. Yesterday’s walking has blistered them. He was helping me, nothing more.’

  ‘Helping you? That’s a good one.’

  Her face flamed. She turned away, determined to ignore his crudity.

  But Kempster was not to be silenced. ‘I’m acting as a friend, so to speak, Miss Meadowfield.’

  She glanced back at him. ‘You say such things to me under the pretence of friendship?’

  ‘Why else?’ he answered and looked at her with such sincerity in his eyes that she almost believed him.

  ‘I’m just trying to warn you. Whatever he tells you, Miss Meadowfield, he’ll still take you back to Evedon. The sum of money his lordship has placed upon your head will insure that. And if you let him, Wolf will have his cake and eat it, if you catch my meaning.’

  ‘You are mistaken in thinking that there is anything between Mr Wolversley and me.’

  ‘You’re a thief, Miss Meadowfield,’ said Kempster soberly, ‘and he’s a thief-taker. And nothing that you do will change that in Wolf’s view.’ He shook his head, as if she were a simpleton believing it would be otherwise.

  ‘I am well aware of that, thank you, Mr Kempster.’

  ‘I’m not at all sure that you are, miss. You don’t seem to know who’s your friend and who’s your enemy.’ He paused. ‘Like back in Evedon House, keeping yourself apart from the rest of us. Ignoring them that would have offered friendship. Some, not me I hasten to add, saw it as you thinking that you were too good for the rest of us.’

  ‘It was not like that. I was Lady Evedon’s companion. I could not—’ She stopped. A man like Kempster would never understand what it was like to be caught between two worlds. She was neither like the other servants nor a member of the family. She belonged nowhere. Always an outsider, always looking in on where she did not belong. Besides, how could she strike a friendship with anyone when she had so much to hide? If the truth of her father was to have come out, she would have lost her position. Not that any of that mattered any more.

  ‘Could not what?’

  ‘It is of no matter.’

  He paused, watching her. ‘No, I suppose it ain’t, not now that you’re a thief.’

  His words hit home, and it hurt knowing that she could not refute them. She looked away.

  Time passed, until they reached the main road and Kempster geed the horse to a canter. Her hand swung to grab at the lapel of his jacket, gripping it hard to secure her seat. Her heart was pounding, her stomach clenching with the sudden spurt of fear.

  She felt Kempster’s arm snake around her waist, his fingers splaying over her left hip. ‘Best keep you safe, Miss Meadowfield. We don’t want you falling off, do we?’

  She said nothing, just swallowed down the memory that his words threatened to conjure.

  ‘Don’t be shy, miss. You can hold on to me; I don’t mind.’

  She felt him pull her closer. He was holding her so tight that she felt his fingers bite into her hip.

  ‘Mr Kempster!’ And despite the canter of the horse she struggled to keep some distance between her body and his.

  ‘No need to be shy, Miss Meadowfield. I know all about your little secret.’

  Even in the midst of her fear her heart missed a beat, and she felt her stomach plummet. Did he know of her father? Did he know who she was? ‘What do you mean, little secret?’

  ‘Why, your fear of horses, of course. What other secrets are you keeping?’

  Relief, in part. ‘I have no secrets,’ she lied with a bravado that she did not feel. ‘And you are quite mistaken in thinking that I am afraid of horses.’ She turned her face from his lest he see the truth in it.

  Kempster suddenly removed his arm from where it anchored her in place, letting it drop in a lei surely fashion to rest against his thigh.

  She felt herself sway at the sudden freedom and instinctively reached for security, wrapping her arm around his back, unmindful of the close proximity of their bodies.

  ‘Am I?’ His face was so close to hers that she could feel his breath upon her cheek, smell the scent of him, see every detail of that vibrant blue gaze.

  She closed her eyes, blocking out the sight of him, but she could not release where she held to him, no matter how much she willed it.

  ‘Shall we race Wolf and Campbell?’ She felt his whisper against her ear, the honeyed tone of his voice so contrary to the cruelty of his words. ‘Urge this gelding to a gallop? He’s a fast one, frisky too. Who knows what might happen if I—’

  ‘No!’ She clung all the tighter, wedging herself against him.

  ‘Then you admit you are afraid of horses?’ His words were soft as a caress.

  Even now she was determined not to make the ad mission. ‘I…’

  Kempster’s heels brushed against the gelding’s flank, urging him faster.

  Rosalind could bear it no more. ‘No! Please!’

  ‘Why not?’

  She shook her head, ashamed to admit the words.

  The horse responded to Kempster’s spur, accelerating to a gallop, over taking Wolf and Campbell to leave the two men in the distance.

  His lips touched to her ear. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I am afraid of horses!’ she cried, and she could hear the thump of hooves directly behind them, and a shouted command.

  ‘Kempster!’ the angry voice roared. Wolf. ‘Pull up!’

  The footman slowed the horse in an instant.

  ‘I am afraid of horses,’ Rosalind said again, quietly this time, and she did not know whether she was saying the words to herself, or to Kempster or to Wolf. She was aware of nothing save the humiliation of the admission and the pain of memory it brought with it.

  ‘That wasn’t so hard, was it?’ he said softly, as if nothing had just happened.

  ‘Kempster!’ Wolf barked again, and this time the horse stopped.

  She looked neither at Wolf or Kempster, nor did she loose where she held to the footman so tightly. The knuckles of her left hand gripping the saddle’s edge shone white and bloodless. ‘I think that I am going to be sick.’ She swallowed hard, forced herself to breathe, trying to still the rebellion in her stomach. She could not even look round at Kempster.

  Still she could not release where she gripped so tightly. She was not even aware of Wolf dismounting, just that he was there, lifting her down to the ground. Her stomach heaved. unmindful of her sore feet, she ran towards the hawthorn trees that bordered the road, seeking some privacy. She was barely into the wood when she wretched and wretched, stooping to rid herself of a sickness that did not come. She heard Wolf’s voice and stumbled further into the wood, collapsing against the side of a tree, holding on to its over hanging branches to steady the swaying inside her head.

  And after a small while, there was the sound of a man’s tread through the under growth, following the path she had taken. She did not need to look round to know that it was Wolf.

  She was kneeling by the time
he reached her. She did not look up, but she recognized the scuffed leather of the boots that stopped close by.

  He set a silver hip flask down beside her, not saying anything. Even then, she did not look at him. She did not want him to see her like this: weak and dis advantaged, with no strength left in her to fight him.

  ‘Drink a little,’ he said, ‘and rest for a while, until you feel better. There’s a stream down there if you want to wash your face and hands.’

  And then he was gone, the sound of his boots swathing a path back through the grass and bluebells.

  She could hear the chirp of sparrows and from somewhere in the distance, the call of a wren. A breeze stirred the leaves in the trees all around, and she looked up to see the early blossom of the creamy white flowers upon their branches. The sun was shining in earnest, and the sky was the palest of blues. It was so peaceful. So calm and healing. The scent of spring with all its new growth surrounded her. She got to her feet, lifting the silver hip flask as she did so, and followed down the slope strewn with the bluebells with their broad deep green leaves and pretty violet-blue flowers. At the bottom of the slope was the stream of which Wolf had spoken. The water ran clear and clean. She crouched by its bank, sitting the hip flask by her side, and rinsed her hands. The water was cold and refreshing as she splashed it upon her face, dabbing herself dry with her handkerchief. The terrible nausea had gone, yet just the thought of climbing back up beside Kempster on his horse threatened to bring it right back again; Rosalind knew that, so she turned her mind away from the prospect.

  The hip flask was still by her side. She lifted it and, noticing the engraved words, examined it more closely— Lieu tenant Will Wolversley, 26th Regiment of Foot. So he had been a Lieutenant in the Army. The revelation was surprising, given that she had him pegged as some kind of semi-criminal ruffian. Even so, she could imagine that Wolf would make a very good Lieutenant. He was a natural leader: hard and ruthless and utterly determined, with an un doubted ability to kill. That thought made her shiver. With England still at war with Napoleon, she wondered why Wolf was no longer within the Army.