Unlacing the Innocent Miss

by Margaret McPhee

  Wolf leaned back against the door frame, tilting his head back to look up to the ceiling. ‘She went into the stables to save the boy.’

  ‘Hell!’ said Campbell and Wolf could see the way that Campbell looked at him. Another silence.

  ‘We’d best be away after her then,’ Campbell finally said.

  Wolf looked at him a moment longer. ‘There’s something else you should know, Struan.’ Campbell tensed.

  ‘The lad saw who started the fire.’

  ‘It was deliberate?’ He saw the shock register on Campbell’s face.

  ‘Aye, it was deliberate, all right,’ said Wolf quietly.

  ‘And who was it that the wee yin saw?’

  Wolf’s eyes met Campbell’s. ‘Pete Kempster.’

  Chapter Ten

  Rosalind was trudging along the road after Kempster. The dawn was grey and dismal, with a coolness in the air.

  ‘Not much longer now,’ Kempster said.

  Rosalind nodded. Their hurried walk through the darkness of the night had ruptured the blisters again on her feet. The sole on one of her boots had finally worn right through, and her stocking and binding was damp from the dew on the grass. Her head was pounding, her throat and top of her chest were aching, and her eyes felt red-raw. Yet she knew that it was imperative that they push on to put a big enough distance between themselves and Wolf.

  Wolf. Just his name sent a tremor through her. She knew that he must have discovered their absence by now and she could only guess at the level of his anger. He would come after them—she had no doubt of that—enraged and ruthless and determined to find them.

  She thought of him carrying the little beggar boy from the burning stables, of his gentleness as he had tried to rouse the boy. Come on, lad. Speak to me. She thought of him walking those long miles by her side. One thought led to another, and she was reliving the touch of his lips against hers, the tenderness of his kiss. Will you not trust me? he had asked. She closed her eyes to block out the memories. He was being paid by Evedon to catch her. He was a common rogue, a man filled with anger and bitterness whom she had known but a few days. It was only sense not to trust him. It was the right thing to run from him, to take her chance of escape.

  She knew all of these things, had told herself them again and again during her long march through the night. She was doing the right thing. So why did it feel so wrong? She seemed to hear the whisper of his words again: Will you not trust me? Rosalind had not trusted him. Instead she had accepted Kempster’s offer of help, choosing to trust the footman, who had taken such delight in frightening her, rather than Wolf. And her heart was heavy with the knowledge.

  Rosalind forced herself on with a determination that she had not known she possessed. Wolf would take her back to Evedon. The little boy’s near death in the fire, and exhaustion were making her thoughts foolish. She resolved to think no more, and beneath the layers of her clothes, the press of the letter against her skin reminded her that Evedon would show no mercy. Rosalind kept on walking.

  Wolf urged his horse on. They were covering ground fast, heading towards Leeming Lane seven miles to the south, where the mail coach to London stopped. They stuck to the main road, but scanned the surrounding countryside as they rode.

  Wolf knew that there could only be one reason for Kempster to have started the fire—and that was so that no one was looking when he slipped away with Rosalind Meadowfield. The memory of Miss Meadowfield following Kempster into the inn while Wolf knelt by the boy’s side flashed in his mind. There had been nothing of force there, nothing of coercion; she had followed quite willingly, more than willingly if her glance back had been anything to go by. He had seen the guilt as her gaze touched to his. He had not understood that look at the time; he understood it now. There had been every reason for guilt when she was running away, and with Kempster of all people. Had his taunting her upon the horse been all of an act to set up her miserable attempt at escape yesterday? Somehow he doubted it. But there could be no doubt over today.

  When had they planned it? It must have been when Kempster had taken up her tray of food last night. But to burn the stable…And the horrible thought was there again in the back of his mind, niggling at him, just as it had been since the lad had named Kempster as the fire starter and he had discovered Miss Meadowfield and the footman gone. Had she known what Kempster meant to do? Is that why she had stood by the window in her room looking down over the stables, still wearing her cloak—waiting for him to start the blaze?

  Was she complicit in the deed? Is that why she had cared so much for the life of a small beggar boy? The memory of her within that burning stable was one that would not leave him, and neither would the expression upon her face when she had looked upon the boy and wept. None of that had been feigned; he would stake his life on it.

  He had spent the past days believing the very worst of Rosalind Meadowfield. Indeed, he had been prejudiced against her before he had even set his eyes upon her. It was enough to hear from Evedon that she was the daughter of a rich gentleman—that fact alone had seen Wolf judge her. He had disliked her at first, despised her even, but the days since had changed that, those hauntingly beautiful eyes making him question all that Evedon had told him.

  Damn his own weakness. His attraction to her was blinding him to the truth. He could believe that she had gone willingly with Kempster, even after she had stood in that moonlit room, and he had felt the small stroke of her thumb against his. Such a minuscule action and yet, to him, it had meant so much. But what Wolf did not want to believe was that Rosalind Meadowfield had had any role in the fire. The irony of it struck him hard. He felt the bitter ness rise in his throat, and a sense of betrayal. She was everything that he had initially thought, so why did he feel that he had just been punched in the stomach?

  He thought of the attraction he felt for her, of the lust—for it could be nothing else. She represented everything that he had been raised to hate. She was the very antithesis of him, and yet he wanted her, wanted her with a desire that he had not previously been willing to admit to himself. He admitted it now. And the knowledge filled him with self-loathing.

  He thought of Kempster and of all the women that the footman had tumbled since setting out from London. Kempster, with his tongue so silvered that he could seduce the very birds from the trees. He told women what they wanted to hear, words of love that meant nothing, words that, coupled with his dark pretty-boy looks, had the women hitching up their skirts and splaying their legs. Two chamber maids, three serving wenches, a landlord’s wife, a rich widow and the widow’s daughter. Wolf had seen Kempster at work, and he did not suppose that the footman would make an exception for Miss Meadowfield. And maybe Miss Meadowfield would not want him to. Maybe she would want what all those other women had wanted. Maybe she would want Kempster.

  He thought of Kempster’s perfect face, and charming words. He thought of him lighting the fire that could have killed the little lad in the stables. He thought too of him seducing Miss Meadowfield, of the footman kissing her, touching her, bedding her. And deep within Wolf, a cold determined rage flared. In his mind, he saw himself smashing his fist into Kempster’s jaw again and again and again, and the feeling was good.

  He glanced over at Campbell and spurred his horse on faster.

  Rosalind waited outside while Kempster took the last of her money into the Royal Oak Inn. It was still early in the morning, and they had some time to wait before the mail coach’s arrival. Stable boys went about their business cleaning out the stables of the post-horses, sweeping and shovelling and forking, until the stalls were clean and sweet smelling.

  Rosalind stood close to the inn’s door, trying hard to merge with the wall behind her. She knew that she must present a dismal sight with her head uncovered, her red-rimmed eyes and the remnants of grime that still clung to her face and hands. Her dress was dirty and snagged, her boots scraped and worn. A strand of hair that had escaped her pins curved against her throat, while several others wisped
against her cheeks and forehead. Self-consciously she tried to tuck them back into place, seeing the curious glances that the stable boys were sending her way. She was a far cry from the Miss Meadowfield that had stepped from the coach on Munnoch Moor to find the tall silver-eyed man waiting for her. Wolf. She glanced towards the road outside, feeling the beat of a thousand tiny wings rise within her stomach. Was he searching for her even now? Part of her dreaded it, and part wished it was so.

  The door opened and Kempster reappeared, stuffing something into his pocket. ‘London mail is in one hour.’

  ‘London?’ She stared at him, feeling the shock jolt her. ‘But I thought to go north.’

  ‘Wolf would catch you again too easily there. London’s a big place, big enough for a lady to disappear in, never to be found.’ He smiled reassuringly.

  ‘I am not so convinced.’

  ‘You worry too much, Miss Meadowfield. Trust me when I tell you that London is a far safer bet than the wilds of Scotland.’

  She bit at her lower lip, reticent to go anywhere near Evedon House ever again.

  ‘Besides I’ve already bought the tickets.’

  ‘Tickets?’ She stared at him, her heart beating suddenly too fast. ‘Have I need of more than one?’

  ‘It ain’t safe for a lady travelling on her own these days. Should anything happen to you, I could not live with myself. It’s safer if I escort you.’

  ‘But if you do not go back to the inn, then Mr Wolversley will know that you are helping me, and Evedon will learn of it too. I thought—’

  ‘Don’t worry so, miss. I’ll find a way round it, but for now, speak no more on the matter, for my mind is quite decided.’

  Yet she was worried, and her under lying unease with Kempster was growing by the minute. Everything had seemed clear last night, but now with his insistence on accompanying her, it all looked very different.

  ‘How do I know that you will not take me to Evedon yourself?’

  Kempster’s eyes widened as if he was wounded by the very suggestion. ‘If I wanted to see you hang, then I’d have left you with Wolf—not risked my neck to help you.’ His gaze was filled with such sincerity that her suspicion seemed unreasonable.

  ‘Mr Kempster, I am sorry but I cannot let you travel with me. I thank you for all that you have done for me but, please, go back to Mr Wolversley. Leave me here to make my own way.’

  Kempster turned the blueness of his gaze upon her. ‘You know that I cannot do that, Miss Meadowfield.’

  ‘I will be safe enough on my own, and I have no wish to cause you trouble with Mr Wolversley or Lord Evedon. Indeed, I insist upon travelling alone.’

  There was only the sound of the stable boys sweeping. And when Rosalind glanced round, she could see that the boy closest to them was listening.

  ‘We should continue this discussion somewhere more private.’ Kempster took hold of her arm.

  Little bells of warning began to sound in Rosalind’s head. She stopped where she was.

  ‘Unless you want the whole yard to hear your business, miss, and somehow I don’t think that that’s such a good idea, do you?’

  He was right of course. She nodded and let him lead her out into the street and down a nearby alleyway. Only when they were within the narrow shady alleyway did he stop.

  ‘Your concern for my welfare is touchin’, Miss Meadowfield, but I assure you that I have no intention of allowing you to travel alone.’ His voice was still deep and charming, but Rosalind thought she could detect an under tone of irritation.

  ‘No, Mr Kempster—’ she began, but he did not let her finish.

  ‘You travel with me, or not at all, Miss Meadowfield,’ he said, and there was a distinct chill in his gaze.

  The hand of fear stroked the nape of her neck so that she felt her skin prickle with foreboding. ‘Then take me back.’

  He looked at her strangely for a second, as if he could not believe what she had just said. ‘I’m offering you freedom and you choose to go back?’

  ‘You wish to take me to London, Mr Kempster. Forgive me if it does not much seem like an offer of escape. I have made a mistake. I wish you to take me back to the inn.’

  ‘To Wolf?’ There was an element of ridicule in his words.

  ‘Yes, to Wolf.’

  His eyes narrowed and their blueness seemed to intensify. ‘You’re right, Miss Meadowfield, you have made a mistake,’ he said softly. All the charm had gone, and when she looked at him, there was an unmistakable cruelty about his handsome features.

  She tried to turn away, to leave the isolation of this dank alleyway filled with shadows, but Kempster stepped closer, trapping her where she was.

  ‘You’re travellin’ to London with me, miss, if I have to knock you un conscious and carry you on to that mail coach myself.’

  She felt the dread con strict her chest and the shock of his threat ripple through her. ‘You are taking me to Evedon!’ She stared at him aghast.

  ‘Dear lady.’ He smiled a small sly smile. ‘Where else would I be taking you?’

  ‘I do not understand why you should do such a thing, and neither will Lord Evedon.’

  ‘Evedon will not care, as long as he has you. Besides, I find I have a need to get back to London in a hurry: Wolf’s asking too many questions.’

  ‘What sort of questions?’

  ‘Questions about you; questions that make me think he’s havin’ doubts over your guilt.’

  ‘He believes me innocent?’ Kempster’s revelation came as a surprise. She knew that she had been wrong to accept his offer of escape.

  ‘Did you persuade him while he was binding your feet?’ His chuckle had an unpleasant ring to it. He leaned his face down to hers, his arms snaking around her body. She shrank back, but her head and spine hit against cold stonework.

  ‘No need for such pretence,’ he murmured. ‘You were not so coy with Wolf, or with Evedon for that matter.’

  ‘I do not know what you mean.’

  Kempster smiled with a leering insolence that made Rosalind more afraid than ever. ‘I saw you with Wolf, remember, having your feet bound, and I saw you with Evedon too. I was there the night the jewels were found, when Graves fetched you both from the study. I saw your hair all long and wanton. I saw your rosy flushed cheeks and the way your dress gaped from your shoulder. One look and I knew what you’d been up to. Quite the little whore, ain’t you, Miss Meadowfield?’

  ‘You have run mad!’

  ‘Oh, cease your game, miss, I’m better looking than the two of them. I’ve had my share of noble ladies—countesses, duchesses even.’ He leaned in and licked the length of her cheek.

  She yanked her face away. ‘Stand away from me, Mr Kempster. I want none of this.’

  ‘You cannot possibly prefer that scar-faced bastard to me. He is a bastard, you know. Did he not tell you that little detail when he was binding your feet?’

  ‘How dare you?’ she gasped.

  But his mouth closed over hers and he was kissing her, forcing his tongue between her lips. He was pressing his body too close to hers, sliding his hands over her, one hand groping at her buttocks while the other closed around her breast.

  She struggled against him, pushing him off, all of her anger and indignation and fear lending her a strength that she did not know she had. ‘Unhand me!’ she cried. ‘Leave me alone.’

  But he did not. He pulled her closer, trying to kiss her, his hand fondling her breast. ‘Which petticoats are you wearing, Miss Meadowfield, which shift? The one with the lace, I hope.’

  She pushed hard against him, but he did not budge. ‘Cease this!’ she yelled.

  ‘It was such a pretty match for that black silken rope. Do you know that some women like to be tied up while they are ridden by a man? Maybe I should bind you with some rope,’ he whispered against her ear and pressed his crotch into her hips.

  Within those vulgar horrible words Rosalind heard the truth. She stopped struggling then, and looked at him. ‘It was you
,’ she whispered, her face aghast. ‘You stole the jewels and hid them in my chamber.’

  ‘Now you know why I am eager to return to London—before Wolf works it out.’

  ‘Then you admit your guilt?’

  ‘Gladly.’ He smiled. ‘No one will believe you, Miss Meadowfield. You’ll be a desperate woman trying to save her reputation. Besides it was Graves that found the diamonds in your shift, not me. He’s a butler beyond reproach. Surely you know that?’

  ‘Why do you hate me so much? Because I would not walk out with you?’

  ‘I do not hate you, Miss Meadowfield.’

  ‘Then why do such a thing?’

  ‘Money,’ he said simply. ‘Someone offered me a lot of money to set you up as a thief. I found the offer too good to refuse.’

  Her blood ran cold. ‘Who?’ she whispered.

  ‘He did not exactly introduce himself. A gentleman, a stranger, dark, mysterious, a bit of a foreigner, I think. Asked all sorts of questions about you, Miss Meadowfield. He did not like you too much. Oh, and the rope was at his instruction. Tied it like a noose himself. Said you would understand its meaning all too well.’

  She shook her head, unwilling to believe that it was a reference to her father and his execution. She had changed her name, severed contact with her mother, with Nell, all so that the Evedons would not discover her real identity. And yet a dark stranger had known that a silken noose would have a significance for her.

  ‘Whomever is behind this, Mr Kempster, wishes me to hang for a crime I did not commit. If you return me to Evedon, you may as well place the noose around my neck with your own hands.’

  Kempster laughed. ‘They’ll not hang you, Miss Meadowfield, we all know that. You’re a lady, a gentle woman; they do not hang the likes of you. The gentleman just wants to see you ruined, so he said. Shame about Evedon wantin’ it all kept quiet. And just so you know, I’ve already sent the gent warning that Evedon means to hush up the scandal.’ He smiled and stroked her cheek. ‘I’m sure that he’d want to know of it. Very generous gentleman he is, very generous indeed.’