The Rogue Returns.smashwords

by Leigh LaValle

  Helen knocked the knife from her throat and stumbled forward. Sam swore and folded over, holding his ballocks. He tried to stand tall, to wield the knife, but Helen must have knocked him good. He was red in the face, breathless from the pain. Roane quickly kicked the knife from the man’s hand and punched him in the gut, taking away what was left of his breath. Then he grabbed the knife from the mud and stood watch over the men.

  “There’s rope in my saddle bag. And a pistol.” He didn’t look at Helen as he gave the orders. “Get them quickly.”

  She ran across the meadow. Moments later she reappeared with the length of rope and his loaded gun. The sound of her sharp gasps sliced the quiet night.

  Roane held out his hand for the rope, still not looking at her. He shook with the need to fight the men, to finish what they had started. To see the fear in her eyes would be his undoing.

  He took three breaths and modulated his tone in a calm voice. “Buttercup, I need you to hold the gun. Keep it pointed at the men.”

  He felt her hesitation, but then she steadied the weapon in her shaking hands. Sensing the danger of the situation, neither man struggled as he bound their hands and feet.

  Satisfied the men were tied tight, Roane took the gun from Helen’s hands. “Wait for me by my mount,” he instructed, still not looking at her. His control was a precarious thing.

  When she was out of earshot, he palmed the knife in one hand, the gun in the other. “Who sent you?”

  Neither man said anything.

  Roane approached them, letting anger contort his features.

  “No one sent us,” Billy stammered. “We’ve been watching the gel. We knew she was up to something.”

  Roane flipped the hilt of the knife in his palm, considering. He could probably drag more information out of the men, but his priority was Helen. He needed to get her to safety before anyone else came.

  He ripped apart Sam’s dirty shirt and gagged the men. “I don’t want to see either of you again.”

  Calming his rage, he took their weapons, crossed the meadow and tossed the guns into the swift stream. The knife he kept. Finally, he went to find Helen.

  She was leaning against a tree by Zeus, everywhere trembling and pale. He grasped her shoulders and hauled her up against him, anchoring her to his chest. “Are you hurt?”

  “No.”

  “Good.”

  She nodded, then started trembling even worse. She was shaking in his arms like she’d just taken a cold plunge in harsh waters.

  “You were very brave,” he murmured into her hair.

  “I stomped on his foot and smashed my fist into his…into his… ” She pulled out of his arms and folded over at the waist as if she might wretch.

  “Shh… it’s over now, buttercup.” He brushed her hair back from her face and brought her back to standing. “You did fine, sweetheart.”

  “I’ve never…I thought you…” She shuddered. “I abhor violence.”

  Roane regretted that she had been forced to touch that man. This was an ugly world in which she did not belong. “We have to ride away from here, buttercup.” He held her hand and led her toward Zeus. Quickly, he strapped his saddlebags in place. “I wager the men brought horses with them to make their escape.” Guiding Helen with one hand and Zeus with the other, he picked his way through the trees until he found what he was looking for. The thieves’ horses were handsome beasts, and not what Roane had expected from coarse laborers. He checked them over and chose the smaller of the two. “This will be your mount.”

  Helen was frozen in place. She looked even paler, if that were possible. “We cannot steal a horse.”

  “One is not stealing if protecting oneself from attempted murderers and thieves.”

  “What logic is that?”

  “My logic.” He stood next to the mount and linked his fingers together. “Step up.”

  She shook her head.

  “Hurry, Helen.”

  “I cannot.” Her voice was barely audible.

  He had no time to argue. He picked her up by the waist and nearly threw her atop Zeus. Then he mounted behind her.

  He led both thieves’ horses out of the clearing. “I don’t want to make it easy for them to follow us.”

  “So you think they will?”

  “They’ll try.” He let go of the larger mount and yelled, sending the horse fleeing into the darkness. The smaller horse strained to follow, but Roane held tight to her reins. Helen would need a mount in the morning. “If we see them again, let me do the talking, all right?”

  With a glance up at the dark sky, he headed north.

  “I knew what I was doing. It’s not like I was being foolish without a purpose.” Her voice still quivered. “Wait, where are we going? Cromford is the other direction.”

  “It’s too late for town, buttercup. We are headed into the mountains.”

  ***

  The rain held off until the deep dark of night, when it let loose in torrents and buckets. Raindrops pattered on the thick canopy of leaves overhead, and the silent forest became a symphony of rhythm and motion punctuated by gusts of wind. Roane wrapped his cloak around her, keeping her dry, but Helen barely noticed.

  That man had pointed a gun at her face.

  She wiped away the splatter of a raindrop and burrowed against Roane’s chest. It did no good to recall the scene by the meadow, but she could not wipe the memory from her person as easily as she did the rain.

  That man had pointed a gun at her face, had placed his disgusting hands on her, and held a knife to her throat. She’d faced danger before, or so she’d thought. Ugly men, mostly money lenders, who needed to be scolded away from the elegant front door of the Gladstone’s townhouse. Rude, powerful dowagers who disparaged her family and needed to be charmed into place. Handsy suitors who thought, in her dire circumstances, she’d be as fast and loose as her family’s reputation.

  But this was something else entirely. She was alone in the woods with only a stranger to help her.

  Her plan to find the gold had gone quite awry.

  Her teeth chattered, and not from cold. Roane’s arms tightened around her, and she pressed her eyes closed, leaning deeper into him. His chest was warm and solid and surprisingly comforting.

  “I am being a fool.” Her words came in tight little puffs against his damp linen shirt.

  “It’s not foolish to be afraid,” he said. Though she could not imagine him being afraid of anything. He was like a warrior from another time, fierce and confident on his great big beast of a horse, his every instinct attuned to the forest around them as if alert for trouble at any moment. She was very, very grateful he had arrived early for the gold.

  The rest, she would think about later when she was not so raw. “I would give anything to be back home in London right now with my eight thousand pounds.”

  “I don’t doubt that.” Roane’s voice was a deep rumble that vibrated through her bones. She liked it. Probably too much. “You could be shopping for another gown the perfect shade of puce.”

  “You are teasing me.”

  “Perhaps a bit. I should know better than to come between a woman and her love for fashion.” He leaned down and whispered in her ear, “But you have stopped shivering.”

  His nearness, and his breath against her sensitive skin, sent another round of shivers coursing through her for an altogether different reason.

  He said nothing more, just held her tight against him. She would never have thought she could doze while riding precariously high off the ground, but she must have. Suddenly, they were no longer moving, and she jerked awake. His arms were steel around her. “We’re here,” he rumbled.

  Helen lifted her head and looked at the dark forest. Here didn’t appear any different than the last few hours of terrain. Roane hopped down, then reached up for her. His hands were warm and spanned her waist as he easily lowered her to the earth. She quickly stepped away from the horses and the
ir sharp teeth and fierce kicks.

  “Your bonnet, my lady.” He handed her a warped, muddy, sorry excuse for a bonnet. Apparently, she’d forgotten it at the clearing and Roane had dragged it behind the horses all night.

  “Thank you.” A lady always remembered her manners, even when her last bonnet had been ruined.

  “There is a cave just up the hill.” He nodded toward the steep incline beside them. “We’ll sleep there.”

  “Pardon me?” Could this night get any worse? A cave? With bats? And snakes? “Tell me you jest.”

  He removed the saddlebags from his horse. “I do not jest. It’s the safest place I know in these woods.”

  Tossing the saddlebags over his shoulder, he started up the hill. Helen lifted her muddy skirts and followed. Tears burned behind her eyes but she was not going to cry. She’d survived days of digging, being abandoned by her servants, and the horror of a cold knife against her throat. Surely she could survive a cave.

  “Come along.” Roane turned and grabbed her hand, then hauled her up a particularly slick section of the hill. The mouth of the cave loomed dark and terrible behind him.

  Muttering a curse worthy of her brothers, she followed him into the black mouth of doom. He stepped deeper into the cave, away from the splashing rain, and shook the water from his hair and clothes. Then he rummaged through his bags and withdrew a carefully folded bit of leather containing a tallow candle and tinderbox. With much grumbling, he struck the crosier against the tinder and was able to light the linen wick of the candle. An eerie glow illuminated the cave, sending monsters and beasts flickering in every shadow.

  “Come, Helen. I cannot let anyone see this light.”

  “Are there snakes?”

  The scuff of his footsteps echoed against the stone walls as he stepped away from her, taking the light. “No. The cave is empty.”

  “Bats?”

  “No, come away from the entrance.”

  She bit her lip and picked her way through the burnt logs scattered near the mouth of the cave. “Might we have a fire as well?”

  “No.” The candlelight flickered over Roane’s features. He looked almost haunted as he inspected the stone walls. He dropped his saddlebags and turned to her. “We will bed down for the night here. Are your clothes damp? I don’t want you catching a chill.”

  “I am warm in your cloak. Are you—”

  “I’m fine.” He rummaged through his bag, then stuffed a roll of wool in her hands. “Use my bedroll if you get cold, but try not to get it wet. I need to see to the horses.”

  “You’re leaving me here alone?” Her shrill voice pinged off the rock walls.

  “You will be quite safe.” He threw her a smile. “I promise.”

  Then he abandoned her with the bats and spiders and goblins.

  Helen stomped about for a bit, preferring her anger to cowering in a corner. Finally, she removed Roane’s cloak and lamented the ruined state of her clothing. Her shoes were muddy, her gloves ripped. The hem of her gown had fallen and her bonnet was stained and misshapen. It was useless to even attempt to repair her wardrobe. After swallowing a few bites of food, she dug through the saddlebag and opened the map.

  ***

  The night was pitch black, without so much as a glimmer from the moon. Clouds churned in the sky and a light mist fell over the world.

  It smelled like trouble.

  Roane fed and watered the horses, then secured them on a line strung high between two trees. Zeus was well familiar with sleeping out under the stars. He should help the mare settle down. Roane could only hope Helen would prove as amenable.

  With one last scratch behind Zeus’s withers—he’d heartily missed this horse—Roane sat under the cover of a pine and turned the thieves’ saddle over in his hands. Whoever the men were, they had expensive taste in horseflesh and tack. The mount he’d grabbed for Helen was a well-trained quarter horse, with trimmed hoofs and a gentle temperament. Someone had spent a pretty penny on the mare. Much more than these thieves could afford on their own, given the state of their garments.

  Either the thieves had stolen their mounts, or someone had equipped them for the job.

  But who? And why?

  Roane knew of any number of wealthy men who could afford such horseflesh. And men who couldn’t but would lie and steal to get it. Any of them were angry with him—and dangerous. Certainly not someone he wished to have on his tail.

  And here he’d hoped his return to England would go unnoticed. He scrubbed a hand through his hair, annoyed by the emotion spiking through him.

  How had his past caught up to him so quickly? For he didn’t believe these men were just after Helen, as they claimed. They were after him. And they were after his gold.

  He’d not written anyone, save James, of his plans to return. Even Roane’s own sister, Mazie, didn’t know he’d been at leave to come home. Though he was anxious to see her and trusted her with his life, he didn’t trust her household with the news.

  Yet he’d been found all the same. And, after only three days on English soil, three days in which he’d planned to avoid trouble at all costs, he’d broken a man’s nose, been held at gunpoint, and stolen a horse. To top it off, he must hide in the woods like old times.

  He was not the same man who’d sailed from London that cool June morning. More than just three years had passed—he’d gained a lifetime of experience and hard-learned lessons. Now, he had plans for his future.

  Plans that would be for naught if he didn’t hurry. He needed to be in Stamford in two weeks time with gold in his pockets.

  First things first, he needed to be rid of Lady Helen Gladstone. She was no match for the danger inherent in this journey. With thieves threatening from behind and difficult mountainous terrain ahead, Lady Helen needed to go back to London where she belonged.

  While he wouldn’t mind warming her up, she was trouble. Plain and simple.

  He’d be rid of her in the morning.

  Roane pressed to standing and, with his eyes trained on the shadows within shadows, he walked the area twice more. He scaled the hill and studied the nearby terrain. Visibility was limited with the rain, but no one was about. They had escaped their would-be robbers. For now.

  Silently, and without need of a light, he slipped back into the familiar cave. Helen had left the candle lit as if he had excess wax to spare.

  “You’re returned.” She looked up from her needlework. It seemed she was repairing the hem of her cloak.

  “Yes.” He wished he’d brought her anywhere else but to this cave. The walls felt too close. The dampness too dank. Like a prison cell.

  “I tried, but I cannot sleep.” She put down her needle and thread, then stretched her arms to the side and yawned.

  “No?” He dragged his gaze from her breasts back to her face. She’d taken off her corset.

  “The ground is too hard and cold.” She glared at him as if it were his fault the stone was not soft as feather. “And it is very dirty in this cave.”

  “That is because you are lying upon the dirt.” He bit back a smile and crossed toward her. The ceiling was just tall enough that he needn’t duck his head, though God only knew what bats and other creatures would be about in the dark. He looked down at her frowning, dirty, exhausted face. His bedroll was laid out beside her, unused. “You are not inside my bedroll. Is it damp?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “No, but it smells like horses. Rather awfully,” she added, noticing the look of consternation on his face.

  Smelled like horses? She definitely had to go. “Have you eaten?”

  “A few bites.” Her eyes slid away from him. “I didn’t want to take all your food.”

  “I’ve set up some traps. If we’re lucky we’ll have rabbit for breakfast.” A smudge of dirt marked her cheek. He lowered himself to her side and withdrew the sack of food from his saddlebag. She was correct; there wasn’t much left. He’d not expected to spend the night hidi
ng in a cave with another belly to fill.

  “You finish.” He held out the last of the bread and cheese. She was a lady and knew nothing of hardship. But he knew how to be hungry. Was all too familiar with it. “I could drag in some pine boughs from the forest,” he offered.

  Helen tilted her head to the side. She looked so damn adorable, he had to look away.

  “Pine boughs?” she said. “Is that truly more comfortable?”

  Roane shrugged. “No, not really.”

  They shared a smile and she nibbled on a corner of the bread. “I don’t like this cave.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “It’s too wild.” Her voice trembled as she looked around. “It makes one think of goblins.”

  “Would you rather be in the dark woods?”

  “With the thieves? And highwaymen? And wolves?” She shuddered.

  “There are no longer wolves in England, princess.” He couldn’t help himself, he leaned over and wiped the smudge of dirt from her cheek. Her skin was soft silk, fine as down. A world he did not know, had never known.

  She drew back, her blue eyes round with surprise. She glanced away before meeting his gaze again. “But there are ruffians in the woods, highwaymen like the Midnight Rider.”

  “Yes, there are thieves like the Midnight Rider in these woods.” Ah, the irony. It almost felt like humor. “But you hardly seemed worried about the ruffian earlier. You were fairly singing the highwayman’s praises, curtseying to the robbers and going on about telling your friends you met the famed criminal.”

  “It was an act.” She twisted her lips sheepishly. “I truly have no wish to meet the Midnight Rider. I’m certain he is a scoundrel of the worst sort.”

  Roane held back a snort. “You don’t need to worry about him. Not tonight, anyway.”

  Seemingly satisfied with his answer, she ate the last of his bread. Again and again, she scanned the cave for monsters. Little did she know the real threat was seated beside her.

  Roane pressed his fingers to his lips, wondering what Helen would say if she knew the