He turned in the saddle and offered her a winning smile. “Perhaps.”
Her face was no longer pale but pinkened from the wind and sun. She looked alive and so damn beautiful he ached. Her silly bonnet, crushed from the day before, stood no chance against the wild elements, yet she clung to it and all it represented. He wanted to throw the thing under his horse’s hooves and stomp it into the mud.
And then he wanted to kiss her. He couldn’t seem to get that off his mind.
“Bastard,” she muttered.
Roane bit back another smile. He should not enjoy baiting her so. “Such language for a lady.”
“Oh, I’ve brothers. I can do better than that, you beslubbering, muddy-mettled arse.”
“My goodness.” He raised both brows. “Just through that valley, there”—he pointed west—“there is a school for young ladies. Perhaps I should leave you in their care. They could teach you better manners.”
Helen huffed behind him. “And what do you know about a school for young ladies?”
“More than you would think.” Back in his wild youth, he’d snuck into that building more than once. “In fact, I do think this is a grand idea. I could leave you at the school, rather than take you to the coaching inn. They are your people, after all.”
“My people?”
“With the gowns and wrist bags and such.”
“Yes, they would agree that a lady—”
“Never leaves the house without her ridicule. So you have said.”
Helen treated him to stony silence for the next half mile as they crossed the high plateau. The trail skirted a broad pond that sparkled in the midday sun.
Again, Helen slowed to a standstill. Roane smacked his hat against his thigh, exasperated. “Why must you keep stopping?”
“’Tis not my fault, it is this mare. She keeps pulling up short.”
“I do not think she likes your bag banging against her neck. What is in there, anyway?” He eyed the frivolous bit of silk.
“My things.”
Her things. “Your ridiculous fripperies,” he muttered.
She exhaled. “I do not insult your belongings. These are important to me.”
He pulled Zeus alongside the mare. “Might I help you with that?” She held out her wrist, presumably thinking he would secure the bag tighter. Instead, he slipped the damn strap over her hand, leaned back and tossed the bag as far as he could. It landed with a quiet splash in the middle of the pond.
“What?” she shrieked. Both horses skittered sideways at the ear-piercing sound of her dismay. “What have you done?”
“I have done you a favor. You may thank me.”
“Thank you? The map was in there.”
Now it was his turn to draw back in surprise. “You…I…”
She crossed her arms and raised her brows. Roane didn’t waste time looking in his bag to see if she spoke the truth. He jumped down from his mount and ran into the pond, frantically searching for her sinking bag in the muck. He dove under the surface of the water but it was useless. He could see nothing.
He straightened, wiping grime and God only knew what off his face, and the sound of Helen’s laughter drew him up short. He whirled toward her and slipped in the mud.
Water plants clung to him and muck sucked at his boots. He was not amused. “Where. Is. The. Map?”
She shrugged one shoulder. “In your bag, I presume. I have not touched it.”
Roane tossed his wet hair out of his eyes and slogged out of the pond. Helen continued to laugh, a high feminine sound that he could not properly appreciate under the circumstances. “You think it so amusing that I am wet?”
She could only nod, her laughter stealing her words.
He should have realized the map would never have fit in her tiny little bag, but he’d always been one to act first and think later.
“You will regret this.” He grabbed his hat from where it had fallen in the weeds and climbed atop his mount. She was not going to like this. “I suspect your skirts are damp as well.”
Her smile turned to a look of puzzlement. “How could they be damp? It has not rained.”
“No.” He shook his head and scanned her dainty walking boots, slim calves and the shape of her legs beneath her damp skirts. Anticipation made him smile. “Not rain.”
“I do not understand.” She furrowed her brow and turned to look at the back of her skirts, which were partially fanned out over the horse’s back. He knew the exact moment she saw the stain of wet on her gown. “However…?”
Her voice trailed off and Roane gave her a moment to think about what, exactly, was dampening her skirts. When she turned back to him, her face in a bewildered frown, he smiled. “Let’s continue on while you think about it.”
***
Helen watched roane grin and ride off. She pulled her skirts back over her leg, trying to understand how they had become damp. It was her only dress, unfashionable as it was, and she needed to keep it clean and in good repair for the duration of her journey.
Roane was already moving, and she quickly set her mare to a walk. Her eyes were glued to his wet shirt, and the muscles she’d glimpsed beneath. She’d seen him bare to the waste before, felt the truth of those muscles beneath her own fingers, yet still she was…shocked. Startled or unprepared in a way that left her breathless. His was not an anatomy she would become accustomed to.
They turned onto another open, blustery hill and rode past squat, scrubby trees that grew horizontally in the wind. The sun beat down on her useless bonnet and Helen, no longer in possession of her handkerchief due to the unforeseen loss of her reticule, used the back of her glove to blot the sweat from her brow.
Sweat.
She swiveled and stared at her skirts.
Horse sweat.
The horse had sweat through her skirts.
My God.
She shrieked, stood up in the saddle, and promptly plopped back down. Onto the sweaty horse.
How horrible! And disgusting! She pulled her mount to a stop.
That was it. She’d had enough.
She was not going any farther.
Helen fisted both her hands. She could scream—really, really scream. Never had she been so dirty. So afraid. So pained in unnamable places. And so dreadfully weary.
Roane must have noticed she’d stopped, for he halted his mount. He said something, but his words were lost on the wind.
The soulless, flesh-stripping wind that had been blowing all morning.
Helen held her hand up to her ear in the universal gesture that she couldn’t hear him.
He waved her forward with an impatient hand. The universal gesture to come along, already.
She sat back and crossed her arms.
His gaze flashed down to her breasts so quickly she might have missed it, were she not trying to gauge his expression. Then he shook his head, his lips moving as he muttered something. He waved her on again.
She was not going any farther. She had already decided.
Even from this distance, she could see his chest rise and fall with a heavy sigh. He led his huge black horse back to her. “We are not stopping yet.”
“We may not be stopping. But I am.”
“Helen.” Her name was more of a growl than a word. “This is not a good place to stop.”
“No? It seems just fine to me.” A gust whipped up, and she had to hold her bonnet to her head, even with the ribbons tied securely beneath her chin.
Roane lifted a brow. He needn’t make a mockery of her when nature already was. “Only a little ways and we will be in town.”
“And how much is that?” She knew she sounded petulant, but she did not care.
“At this pace? An hour.”
“An hour?” Good God. “An hour is not just a little. Ten minutes is just a little. An hour is an eternity.”
“An hour is an hour.” He jammed his hat further down on his head.
; “I’ll wait here.”
“Wait here? For what? An afternoon thunderstorm?”
“I’ll wait here until I feel like riding.”
He half laughed. “This is not a ballroom, princess. We are in the middle of nowhere. You cannot wait here. It is not safe.”
She put her nose in the air, ignoring him. Exactly like the princess he accused her of being.
It was the wind. The wind was blowing its way into the nooks and crannies of her being. It was making her crazy. Frazzled.
Roane took a long breath and looked away, then back at her. “Are you in pain? It takes a few days to get used to the saddle.”
Now he was being nice to her? She wanted none of it. “No.”
His eyes roved over her, and she heated, loving his attention as much as she hated herself for it. “Hungry? I have a bit of bread you could eat as we ride.”
“I am not hungry.” Now she was just lying to spite him. Oh, she was a foolish girl.
“What is it, then? Tell me so I can make it better.”
“You truly want to know what is wrong?” She threw her hands up in the air. “To begin, my skirts are damp with horse sweat. My body hurts in places it should not hurt, unless it were caused by a husband. My skin is raw, my hands are sore, and my spine is jamming into my skull. I am covered in dirt. I am certain to get freckles. No poultice or tonic will be enough to dislodge the muck from my skin. And my hair. Don’t get me started on my hair.”
He must have seen something on her face, for he backed his mount away.
“And that is not the worst of it,” she continued, louder now. “You”—she jabbed a finger in his direction—“are trying to scare me, with these cliff-edge walks, as if climbing atop my dreadful mount wasn’t enough. And James, the fool, should have left us our eight thousand rather than plan this ridiculous treasure hunt. And Harry should be here, not I. My brothers find death more appealing than living. Our tenants are hungry. The estate manager did not protect the lower fields from the spring rain, and the doctor moved away. Not to mention my suitors, if one can call them that, are waiting for my ultimate ruin so they can buy me, simply because I refuse to be owned. Argh. I am sick to death of men.”
“Er, I’ll just give you a moment, shall I?” Roane didn’t await her answer but rode ahead a few yards. She didn’t know if he was wise or a coward. Why didn’t he gloat? Why didn’t he tell her she hadn’t the strength for this adventure?
He was probably just biding his time, waiting to be rid of her in Bakewell.
Well, she wouldn’t be left so easily. She sat up straighter and tried to find relief in the pop of her low spine. The wind blew sand in her face.
She blinked her eyes and, rather than seeing dirt, she saw inspiration. The hillside was covered in rock and grit. No green grasses or pretty flowers here. Shale, dust, stone. She would be like the landscape.
She took a deep breath. Somewhere in her, there was grit. A mettle she had relied on in the past. She simple needed call it up for the next few days, until the gold was found.
She would be firm and unwavering, like the stone. Harsh and strong, like the wind.
She could do this. She could survive this. She’d already come so far.
Then, when she returned to London, she would call on the apothecary for oils and ointments and take the longest bath of her life.
And she would refuse, absolutely refuse, to let Harry touch one shilling of the fortune. Certainly he’d be too lazy to fight her, as long as he was fed and clothed. And the money would be hers. Her future would be hers.
She spurred her mount ahead, regally nodding at Roane as she caught up to him.
“Better?”
“Much.” She lifted her chin, the Queen of Grit. The Princess of Dirt.
But Roane didn’t move on. He drew his mount closer, settling the horses with his voice so he could get near enough to touch her.
“You’ve something right here.” He rubbed his thumb against her temple, and she refused to consider what manner of muck was on her person. Instead, she thanked him, as if he’d told her she was the loveliest woman in the ballroom.
Satisfied, he drew back, looked her over from head to toe, and gave her a dazzling smile. “My fierce beauty rides on.”
“She does.”
He nodded, and she could have sworn, in that moment, he looked proud of her.
What may have been an hour felt more like an eternity. Finally, they rode down into Bakewell, with its stone buildings and church spires rising to the sky. They crossed yet another sheep meadow and approached an arched medieval bridge.
Roane pulled his mount to a stop beneath a thick copse of trees. Helen was beyond relieved to finally rest. Above them, a weeping willow dipped her long hair into the water by the bridge and provided a good hiding place.
Roane jumped down and left Zeus free to munch the green grass. “I need to go into town to get supplies before I head into the deeper hills. I will enquire about coaches to London.”
“Why ever for?” Were they back to this again? She’d thought they’d come to some sort of an agreement out on the hillside, Queen of Grit and all.
He blew out a breath. “For you. To go home.”
She sat up straighter and winced. She really was terribly sore. “Must we go through this again?”
Roane came to her side and lifted his arms to her. She nearly fell into him, she was that tired. He steadied her as she found her wobbly legs, and she may have pressed herself against his chest, just to remember exactly what he felt like. Hard. Warm. Powerful.
He gave her a little squeeze on the arms before he let her go, then plucked off her bonnet and stepped back so he could look her in the eyes. His amber gaze was serious. More serious than a rogue’s ought to be. “Yes, we must we. It is only going to get worse from here, buttercup. The terrain will be rocky and difficult; we’ll need to keep a faster pace. There is little comfort to be found sleeping on the hard ground, and there will be no baths. No elegant meals. No change of clothes. Just a hard press onward.”
Her stomach dropped with each word, but she refused to look intimidated. “I understand.”
He shook his head. “You are either admirably determined or idiotically stubborn. I am not yet sure which.”
“I vote admirably determined.”
“You are not up to this, princess.”
Her brows lowered. “I say I am.”
He smashed his lips into a firm line and she found herself staring at them. Such elegant lips for a man who slept in caves. “Don’t forget the danger you face. Not just from the hilly terrain and the exposed elements, but the men pursuing us as well.”
She nodded, not really wanting to think about that.
“And me.” He leaned toward her, his gaze dropping to her lips. His hand slid around her hip, and he tugged her closer. “Do not be so foolish as to think you will be safe with me.”
“I will be certain not to be foolish.” She stumbled back, away from his touch, sounding as shaky as she felt.
“You are as stubborn as James.” Roane walked her horse to a nearby tree and tied Starlight with a long rope, allowing her to graze but not run away. Helen followed on unsteady legs, hoping he didn’t notice how shaky she was.
“You think you are sore now,” he said over his shoulder. “It will only hurt worse. The third day can be excruciating.”
She did waver then. Just for a moment. A coach back to London certainly sounded preferable to pain and deprivation. “Thank you for your concern, but I am staying.”
He looked off into the distance, saying nothing. He was planning ways to be rid of her.
Desperation grabbed Helen’s throat with cold fingers. If she went home now, there was no hope. She tried to take a full breath. Everywhere there was death. Ruin. Chaos. “If you leave me, I will go straight to the magistrate.”
She hated to threaten him, but sometimes a woman had to throw her punches to get a man to l
isten.
He turned back to her, anger marking his features. “Tell me this, at least. What bad fortune brought you and me to the clearing on the same day?”
He had asked her this before. Helen supposed the answer could not hurt now. “Ah, the irony of it. ’Twas your own letter to James that sent me on this journey. Since Harry has proven to be as negligent an earl as James and my father, I have begun opening the mail. Your letter made it clear to me the gold truly does exist. I had always thought it a rather impractical tale, but the facts could not be denied.”
“My own letter.” He chewed on that thought in frustrated silence. “Wait here. You’ll be safe as long as no one sees you. I’ll be quick with my errands.”
She sunk to the earth, only too happy to rest behind the green curtain of the willow. The ground felt lovely. Too lovely. She pushed up against gravity, which seemed to have grown stronger. “Leave the map with me.”
“No.”
She frowned. “How can I be certain you will not disappear?”
“For one, the map is mine. Left for me. And, second, I cannot go anywhere without Zeus, now, can I?”
“You could find a different horse.”
His jaw slackened and he stared at her as if she were daft. “Your ignorance of horseflesh grows more appalling each moment.” With that, he turned on his heel and walked away.
She was left staring at the swaying willow branches, not wanting to investigate all the reasons she hoped he would return.
Chapter Eight
Roane hurried back to the bridge in less than thirty minutes, supplies in hand. Helen lay in the shade beneath the tree, grass and willow fronds spreading around her in all directions. The tree was a haven of peace and he felt inordinately welcomed as he stepped inside its branches.
He gazed down at Helen dozing in the wavering green light, and his heart listed to the side. It felt right, her waiting for him. And it felt like there never had been a question of her continuing on, not truly.
This was her quest as much as it was his. Who was he to decide what she could and could not do? He’d fought the world when it tried to press him into a corner; he would honor her freedom. Already she had faced countless obstacles and demanded to continue on.
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