The Rogue Returns.smashwords

by Leigh LaValle

  She looked over at her mount chomping on grass nearby. Her expression lacked the frozen fear he’d seen more than once yesterday. “A mountain pass?”

  “’Tisn’t terribly steep.”

  “Steep is steep, terrible or not.”

  “What happened to make you fear horses?” She needed to get over her anxiety if they were going to find the gold before Michaelmas.

  She peeked at him from under her lashes. “You could tell?”

  He snorted. Yes, he could tell. “You looked positively green. I thought for sure you wouldn’t last through the full day.”

  “Sixteen thousand pounds rather motivates one.”

  “Yes,” he agreed, thinking of the tracks he’s seen earlier. “It does.”

  She brushed out her hair with her fingers. “To be honest, I wasn’t always afraid of horses. I begged my father for a pony as a girl and loved that animal more than anything. I must have been fourteen or so when I last rode. I was one of those who fell off and never got back on.”

  But she’d persisted yesterday, when he’d tested her on the cliff. Hers was an odd sort of bravery, but there all the same. “Did you fall off your pony?”

  “Good heavens, no.” She laughed at the thought and shook her head, her blonde hair sparkling in the morning sun. “She was a rather large mare. I was trying to keep up with Harry and James. We launched over a dry stream, and I fell upon landing. I wasn’t injured, but I was bruised and terribly scared. My brothers were not suitably worried and of no help.”

  “Brothers seldom are.” Roane would know. He’d placed his own sister in a dangerous situation and not been suitably worried. He supposed Mazie had insisted on helping him as the Midnight Rider, but once the magistrate had captured her, he should have stopped his activities. Instead, he’d gambled on horses in Ascot (and won the sixteen thousand in question), had led the Bow Street Runners on a merry chase, and had held a clergyman at gunpoint. A corrupt clergyman, but a clergyman nonetheless. He’d only put Mazie in greater danger with his actions.

  With a rustle of leaves, Mittens came charging out of the undergrowth, half running and half hopping. Helen scooped him up in her arms. “Where is your mama, little one? A kitty needs a mother.”

  Everyone needs a mother. “Maybe his mother died.”

  Helen looked up and scowled. “What a thing to say. Maybe she was hurt.”

  “Or eaten by a fox.”

  “Shh.” Helen covered Mitten’s ears, as if he could understand. “Why must you be so heartless?”

  “About a wee lost kitten?” Roane shrugged. He didn’t feel particularly heartless; he was simply speaking the truth. Sometimes, mothers became deathly ill and left their infant sons behind to fend for themselves. And sometimes older brothers did not suitably protect their younger sisters. This was an inherently vulnerable world. One learned to move on.

  Helen worried her lower lip and looked around the clearing. Her gaze fell on the small wicker basket he’d emptied for the fish last night. Mittens tucked against her elbow, she picked it up.

  Roane did not like where this was going. Before she had a chance to say anything more, he cut her off. “No.”

  “But—”

  “Definitely not.” She was not putting that kitten in his basket and strapping it to a horse.

  “He will—”

  “It’s not my problem.”

  “I can’t—”

  “You must.”

  “I won’t.”

  “You will.”

  Helen wrapped both arms protectively around Mittens. “I am not going without my kitty.”

  “You are not—” Roane ran his hand through his hair, tugging it from the roots.

  “We do not have time to worry over a kitten, Helen. There is gold to be found. Thousands and thousands of pounds worth of gold.” And dangerous men riding north. And his future at risk.

  She turned and walked away, kitten and basket still in hand, as if he'd not spoken.

  He shook his head at her back. “You cannot put a kitten on a horse.”

  “Oh no?” Helen circled the campsite, picking up dried leaves and moss and placing them in the empty basket. Then she put the kitty inside as well. “Perfect.”

  Meow! Meow! Meow! The lid to the basket bumped open.

  “It does not seem your Mittens likes his new home.”

  “He will.” Helen bent down and whispered to the basket. “Quiet down or you will stay here to be eaten by the foxes and owls.”

  Meow!

  “He listens about as well as you do, I see.”

  Helen shot him a look. The basket wobbled as if the kitty were throwing himself from side to side, seeking escape. She held it firmly in two hands and marched toward her horse. Starlight looked at the meowing basket with the same disdain Roane felt. “You wont even know he is here,” she told the horse.

  It took some effort, but finally she secured the basket to the side of the saddle. Unlike her late reticule, she made certain the basket would not swing. “I will leave him as soon as we find a safe spot. The nearest barn.”

  “Bloody foolish princess,” Roane mumbled under his breath.

  “Pardon?” Helen asked sweetly. “I did not hear you.”

  “I was just saying I hope your kitty enjoys horses.” Roane stomped off to break camp. In a matter of minutes, they’d gulped down their coffee and were on the trail north.

  The kitty meowed balefully all day.

  Chapter Ten

  Green hills rolled out before him like waves in the sea, extending to the horizon in each direction. Overhead, towering clouds raced west and cast wavering shadows on the world beneath. Roane relaxed back in his saddle and drank it all in. He loved this swath of trail, had traversed it many times. Up here, on the Great Ridge, one felt as much part of the sky as part of the hills below.

  It fit him, this sense of being in two worlds, loving the sky and loving the earth. For he was a man of two worlds himself—never quite belonging in one, never quite sure of the other. He was at home here in the mountains, as much as he was at home anywhere.

  He supposed some would say his home had been with his Aunt Pearl. His mother died when he was a baby, leaving him an orphan on his father’s estate—if one could call the man a father. The gentleman had made no claim on his bastard son and was content to let Roane sleep on a palate before the hearth like a dog. But when his Aunt Pearl finally found him, she treated him like her own son, secured a cottage on his father’s estate where they might be safe, fed him in body and mind, and loved him. And he had loved her, there was no doubt in that. His half-sister, four years his junior, had snuck out from the main house and come to visit as often as she could. Though their father discouraged their alliance, they shared a bond only siblings could, fraught with teasing and jealousy and unconditional love.

  Roane was grateful for all his aunt had done for him, beyond grateful truly, but her cramped cottages and dusty knickknacks had felt more like a resting place than a true home for the wild boy he’d been. And his sister had always returned to her life of privilege—a life that had no place for a bastard-stable hand-half-brother.

  These hills had called to him.

  These hills had welcomed him, just as he was. Had given him a place to feel wild and free and enough.

  Soon, he would have a new home, with his own green valleys and sparkling streams to explore. He’d build a barn to house his prized horses and turn the fields into emerald pastureland. His future was so close he could taste it in the wind.

  Mittens meowed mournfully behind him, breaking into his thoughts. Roane rubbed his temple, wishing Helen would let the wee kitten go. The poor thing’s wailing was making his head ache.

  He dropped his hand and watched Helen approach. She was studiously not looking at the open view before them. This mountain pass did not suit her, but she was keeping a better pace today.

  “See that?” He pointed when she stopped behind him, k
eeping her mount far from the edge. “The castle, there, on the crag above town? I’ve always had a fondness for that castle.”

  She squinted in the distance. “Because of its handsome and rugged power?”

  Roane laughed. “Now what would make you say that? Could it be you think I am handsome?”

  “I’m exhausted. I don’t know what I am saying.”

  She didn’t appear exhausted, not as she had yesterday. Her cheeks were pink from what he suspected was a blush and her eyes were bright. “The castle was built by the illegitimate son of William the Conqueror.”

  Helen looked at him dubiously.

  He grinned, more out of habit than amusement. “I am a bastard myself, you know.”

  “I could have told you that,” she said smartly, but he saw something else in her eyes. Judgment? Sympathy? God, he hoped it wasn’t that. He’d rather she judge him than feel sorry for him

  “Behind the castle there is a network of caves famous for the rope workers that lived there.” The clouds were moving faster now, sending great big splashes of shadow onto the valley below. One such shadow passed over them and Roane felt the coolness on his skin. It would rain soon. Best they move off this hilltop. But he didn’t want to rush. He wasn’t ready to go yet. “Their specialty was the Hangman’s Noose.”

  She made a face. “You cannot be serious.”

  “I am.” And he was. It hadn’t escaped his notice that the only use for a bastard’s castle was to make a weapon of torture in the dark caves.

  The world had no use for a son without a father.

  He’d learned this before he could walk.

  Another dark cloud raced overhead, and Roane decided it was time to go. He let Zeus pick his way along the narrow pass. They headed east to Hollins Cross, then turned toward Edale. The north-facing hillside was cooler, with damper vegetation, and more herbs and woodland plants than flowers. Roane could practically hear Helen’s relief as they rode off the ridge and away from the windy mountaintop.

  They were halfway to the valley floor when a light rain began to fall. Mittens did not like being wet, and his incessant meowing scraped across Roane’s nerves.

  “I think Mittens would enjoy a midday break,” Helen called.

  “I think Mittens would enjoy being free.” Roane glanced around. “This seems like a lovely, safe place to leave a kitten.”

  “We cannot.” Helen protested. “He is so young. Nearly a baby still.”

  “I’m sure he’d rather be free than cooped up in your basket.”

  “Better a few days in my basket and a nice long life in a warm barn than being dinner for a fox.”

  Roane pulled his hat low over his eyes to ward off the worst of the rain. “Maybe the fox has babies to feed, Helen. Such is the circle of life.”

  “I cannot believe you would be so heartless.”

  “I told you, I am not a good man.”

  “I think there is more sweetness in you than you like to show. I saw how you cuddled him last night.”

  He pulled his horse to a stop and waited for Helen to come alongside him. “Have you ever been held captive, Helen?”

  “Isn’t every female a captive of some sort?”

  “I am talking about hunger. Filth. Fear. Not silken ties and broken dreams.”

  She glanced down at the mewling basket, a line of worry between her eyes. “No.”

  “Once one has the experience of being held in a dark, small space, one cannot do the same to another being, animal or human.”

  She looked like she wanted to ask him something. Her mouth formed words, but he didn’t want to know what they would be.

  This was not a part of his life he wanted to talk about. He wasn’t sure why he’d brought it up to begin with.

  Silence settled, with only the gentle patter of the passing shower falling on the green things around them. Helen turned in her saddle and unlocked the lid to Mitten’s basket. “He’s asleep.”

  Roane didn’t answer. He’d said too much as it was. He needed to leave his past where it belonged—behind him. That part of his life was over.

  But something about Helen made him want to open his mouth and jabber away. And that foolishness could lead to nothing but trouble.

  The less she knew about him, the better. For both their sakes.

  Roane let helen set a slower pace, but they rode all day, not stopping until they’d crossed the high plateau of Kinder Scout. Luckily dusk came late this time of year, for they needed all the hours in the day they could get. From what he could decipher of the map, Roane estimated the gold was still another hundred miles away.

  At this pace, it would take them four or five days to collect the treasure. Then, another day or two to find Helen an escort and private coach and see her off to London. If nothing else went wrong, he’d just make it to Stamford before the land auction.

  He did not like the odds.

  Helen devoured her simple dinner and fell asleep before Roane had finished tending to the horses. He finished his chores in the dark and sat beside the cooling embers of their small fire, keeping watch until the blackest hours of night. Finally, exhaustion overcame him and he lay down in his bedroll, knowing from experience he needed to balance vigilance with rest.

  But he did not sleep the deep sleep of the peaceful, hadn’t for years. So, as the footsteps inched toward camp, he was instantly awake, his mind clear, his pistol in hand. The faint rustling came from the east. Only one set of footsteps. Whoever was approaching was alone, but others could be nearby.

  Moving quietly, Roane rolled over, careful to avoid Mittens sleeping at his feet, and laid his hand across Helen’s mouth. Her eyes popped open and she struggled to sit up. Silently, he shook his head.

  “Quiet,” he mouthed.

  Meow, said Mittens.

  Roane slipped out of his bedroll and put himself and his pistol between Helen and the intruder. Blood pumped through him, filling his muscles, making his thoughts alert and sharp. He was ready for action, ready to fight. He could bloody well see in the dark, he was so awake.

  Behind him, Helen must have grabbed the kitten because Mittens let out a mewling protest. Roane shook his head again. “Hidden,” he whispered, not daring to turn and look at her. Christ, she was so vulnerable, all tender sensibilities and a bloody kitten in her arms. Fabric rustled as she tucked herself into her bedroll. He could only hope she’d listen to him and not try to interfere.

  Silence settled once again, but it was a fraught silence. The sound of a blade lifting before it fell.

  To Roane’s left, the long shadow of a rifle, and then the form of a man appeared in the dim light of the clearing.

  “Who goes there?” Roane lifted his own pistol. It could be anyone. The robbers following them. A band of thieves. Anyone with intent to harm or not. Whoever it was, they’d met their match in him.

  “I’m the keeper of this land. We don’ take kindly to trespassers.” The man stepped further into the clearing, his rifle pointed at Roane’s heart. He wore the garb of a gamekeeper —simple and well-kempt. His gun was an expensive-looking hunting rifle.

  Bloody wonderful.

  Moving slowly, Roane lowered his pistol to the earth. This was not the fight he was looking for. A gamekeeper was greatly protected by the law. And the best way to keep Helen safe was to use words rather than might. “My humblest apologies, sir. We’ll leave at once.”

  “What’s yer business? You in trouble?”

  “No sir. My brother and I are just passing through on our way north.”

  “Yer brother? Where is he?”

  “Sleeping off his drink. He’s dead to the world.” Roane hoped Helen would take the hint and not move.

  “Going north, eh? What kind of business?”

  “Family matters, we—”

  Meow.

  Roane talked louder, over the sound of the cat. “We are looking for something our eldest brother left before he died.”


  Meow.

  “Is that a cat?”

  Before Roane could answer, the man poked Helen’s bedroll with his boot.

  “Ooaaf.” She let out a very ladylike grunt, nothing at all like the drunken lout she was supposed to be.

  “Come on out, then,” the man insisted.

  Helen pulled the covers back. The gamekeeper took a good long look at her, and she smiled up at him.

  “She ain’t no brother.”

  Roane groaned inwardly. “No, sir.”

  “Yer a liar, then.”

  “Bribe him,” Helen whispered.

  Roane shot her a look, willing her to be silent. Willing her to trust him.

  “What’s that?” the man asked. “You ain’t a liar?”

  “No sir. I mean yes, sir.”

  Helen couldn’t stay quiet. She scrambled to her feet. “Please, sir, there has been some kind of misunderstanding—”

  “Quiet.” The gamekeeper turned his rifle toward Helen and Roane saw red. His muscles itched to fight, but he could not risk the possibility the rifle would discharge.

  Helen bit her lip. Roane could see the effort it took her to say nothing more.

  He stepped between Helen and the gun, his hands in the air. If he harmed the gamekeeper, the law stated he could be deported, or worse, hanged. His only option was to talk his way out of this. “We will pack up and be on our way at once. You’ll hardly know we were ever here.”

  The man narrowed his eyes. “Maybe ye’ve been up to trouble. I ain’t letting you go till I know.”

  Roane forced a smile. “Fair enough. We can—”

  “You’ve already lied to me once. Maybe I should send for the magistrate. He can hold you while I see if you’ve been poaching on my land.”

  God’s teeth, the last thing he wanted was to be held by the magistrate. Who knew what crimes the lawman would charge him with. No, he needed to deal with the gamekeeper, convince the man to let them go without a struggle.

  Roane glanced at Helen, willing her not to ruin this for him. Relying on his instincts, he rolled into his familiar act. “I’ve an idea, good sir. We truly are honored to pass through your land and would like to offer our labor as reimbursement.”