Abandoning a bit of his ruse, he lifted his head to do a more thorough search of the area.
A rustling came from behind him, beneath the wagon. An animal seeking shelter from the rain?
Then something touched his hands.
Though his fingers were numb to the point of tingling, he hadn’t lost all sensation in his hands yet. There was enough feeling left to know that it was not an animal nosing at his bound hands.
It was another pair of hands.
His shoulder screamed at him to stop, but he twisted anyway, throwing his legs to the side in order to angle his body around.
A blue skirt spread along the ground under the wagon. He followed the line of the skirt up to a riding jacket. He couldn’t twist enough to see the head, but he knew that riding habit and the body that was in it.
How on God’s green earth had Miranda managed to find him?
“Miranda.” He kept his voice low, little more than a breath.
The fingers running over his ropes disappeared. More rustling, and then Miranda’s dirt-streaked face appeared by the wheel. Ryland was torn between the desire to kiss her or throttle her. Of course, if he had the mobility to do either of those things, he wouldn’t be helplessly tied up, awaiting her rescue.
“If we get you out of here, can you walk?”
Ryland nodded, even as he listened for his captors to move. Miranda wasn’t experienced at keeping her voice down.
“It’s going to take me a bit to untie you. I can’t see anything down here.”
“Shh.” Ryland had to get her to stop talking. Her clearly enunciated t’s could be the death of them. “A knife. On my leg.”
He’d lined the narrow blade up with the seam in his trousers. Unless someone was doing a very thorough search, they’d pass right over it.
Her head disappeared and more rustling noises drifted through the night. He closed his eyes, praying it wasn’t enough to wake Smith or Donkey, as he’d decided to call the guy he’d seen around the town’s inn but didn’t know by name.
Small hands shot out from under the wagon, hesitating above his feet. Ryland twisted his right leg until the inside seam was facing her, but her hands still didn’t move.
“Along the inner seam,” Ryland whispered.
Her hands balled into fists for a moment before the fingers stretched for his ankle, pulling the fabric as far away from his leg as she could. Even then, he felt the coolness of her skin as she reached for the knife. He told himself to think of her as he would any other agent, doing what needed to be done to stay alive.
It didn’t work. Miranda moved slowly, as if she had to thoroughly think through every move she made. Each time her hand brushed his leg, his breath hitched. Finally she slid the knife out.
The sight of her fingers wrapped around the weapon stole his breath entirely. It was wrong, seeing a knife in her hands. They were hands created to sip tea and embroider cushions. She was being sullied by the entire encounter. He hated it. Knowing that this kind of darkness existed and seeing it with your own eyes were two different things. The price of Ryland’s freedom was going to be a piece of Miranda’s innocence.
He heard her scramble back to the wagon wheel. “Cut at the knot.”
This time he knew why she hesitated. The knot was pressed against his wrist. There was no way to cut the rope without pressing the knife to his skin. “Do it, Miranda.”
He kept the knife sharp, so the nick he felt as she slid the knife under the rope didn’t surprise him.
Her fingers smoothing over the slight wound did.
It took a long time to cut through the rope. Ryland kept it as taut as he could, but there was nothing he could do to hurry her along. It was impossible to see what she was doing to know how to instruct her to speed things up.
The tension suddenly released on his arms, and a subdued cheer of victory emerged from the shadows, making Ryland smile.
“Ah, you’re awake.”
Ryland’s eyes snapped forward. Smith was standing on the other side of the low wall, arms crossed over his chest, gun dangling from one hand. Ryland wrapped his hands around the spokes of the wagon wheel so he wouldn’t give away the fact that his bindings were gone.
Something pressed against his fingers and he turned his hand to grip his knife. His admiration for Miranda grew even as he called her a fool. She had no way of knowing how skilled he was with a knife, but she had still given him her only means of protection.
Smith snarled. “Well, well, Mr. Marlow. Seems His Grace is going to have to look for another valet. Perhaps Lambert will apply for the job.”
Until that moment, Ryland had hoped they thought him a simple valet who had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. But if Smith knew that Ryland knew about Lambert, then he knew that Ryland was at Riverton for a reason.
Which did beg the question of why Ryland was still alive.
“Who sent you?”
Question answered. They knew what he was doing, but they didn’t know why. Ryland smirked.
Smith extended the gun.
Ryland threw the knife.
His arm protested the sudden movement, but his aim remained true as ever, sending the knife spearing through Smith’s gun hand. The man screamed and jerked in pain, squeezing the trigger and sending the bullet into the wood of the wagon.
Behind him, Miranda whimpered.
Bile rose in Ryland’s throat. A few inches lower and that bullet could have hit Miranda.
“What’s going on over here?” Donkey came stumbling across the old cottage floor, obviously unhappy about being awoken by the commotion.
Hoping his legs wouldn’t give out on him, Ryland pushed off the wagon and jumped to his feet. Two long steps and he was shoving Smith over the short wall, the man still clutching his hand and howling.
Donkey jumped into the fray, and all three men hit the dirt.
Ryland took a punch in the ribs but delivered an elbow to a nose and a kick to someone’s knee. Fists were flying everywhere, and he was pretty sure Smith hit Donkey at one point. Rain had turned the ground into a giant mud puddle, making it nearly impossible to gain any footing.
He dug his toe into the mud, preparing to use it as leverage over his attackers.
Then he got a faceful of tree branch.
Over and over the tree branch fell on the group of men. It wasn’t thick enough to do any damage but the many small twigs and branches protruding from the limb threatened to stab into his eyes if he wasn’t careful.
He threw his right fist toward Donkey’s face and plowed into a mess of wet, clingy leaves instead. “What are you doing?” he yelled.
“Helping!” Miranda lifted and lowered the limb again, smacking a startled Smith in the mouth.
“Me or them?” Ryland groaned at the looks on his abductors’ faces. The odds had just jumped considerably in their favor.
“What?”
Ryland didn’t have time to see if her face matched the adorably confused tone in her voice. He had to act fast and get himself and Miranda away from these men. If he were on his own he’d press them for what they knew and who they worked for, but Miranda’s survival was more important than that information.
Donkey grabbed the limb and shoved a foot into Ryland’s stomach. “Well, well, what have we here?”
Struggling to regain his breath, Ryland knelt on Smith’s chest and threw his fist in Donkey’s direction. What the punch lacked in finesse it made up for in power. The man’s head snapped sideways, and his eyes rolled back before he fell into the mud.
“How can I help?” Miranda’s yell pulled his attention. He looked over his shoulder and had to smother a laugh even as he struggled to restrain Smith. Miranda was dancing around on the low stone wall, wanting to help but afraid to get near the man’s flailing legs.
Ryland stood and hauled Smith to his feet. With air back in his lungs and firmer control of the situation, his voice was calm. “What are you doing here?”
“Do you really think th
is is the best time to discuss that?”
She had a point. He punched Smith in the nose, sending him toppling over Donkey on his way to the ground. “Get me that rope.”
She nodded and jumped to the ground to retrieve the rope. The gun was nowhere to be found, likely buried in the mud in their scuffle. Ryland looked down at his assailants, now harmless in their unconsciousness.
He’d have some explaining to do.
Then again, so would she.
Miranda was thankful Marlow’s calm command gave her something to do that didn’t frighten the wits out of her. She scooped up the rope and ran back to Marlow, hiking her skirt up to jump the wall. He was pulling his knife from Smith’s hand as she approached. He wiped the blade on Smith’s pant leg.
What kind of valet kept a knife in the seam of his trousers?
She tossed the rope at him. He caught it and began looping it around both men’s wrists, effectively tying them back-to-back. His coat and vest had been disposed of at some point in his adventure and his white shirt was plastered to his body. She tried not to notice how the muscles bunched and moved as he pulled the rope taut, but she was too fascinated to look away.
Marlow was incredibly strong. Stronger than she’d realized when she’d seen him in his tailored coats. She’d never known a body could look like that, so alive and capable. What would those bunching muscles feel like?
She groaned as she lowered into a sitting position on the wall. The attraction was inappropriate in so many ways that she couldn’t even begin to list them all.
“Let’s go.” Marlow stepped over the wall, hauling her to her feet as he passed.
He stopped by the donkey. Three quick yanks of the knife and the animal was free. A swat to his backside sent him bleating his way back toward the road.
Miranda started to follow the donkey. They could use her fabric markers to retrace their steps and get home. It would take them all night but they’d make it.
Marlow wrapped a hand around her arm and redirected her. Air hissed through her teeth in reaction. His grip loosened instantly, and he shifted his hand to her lower back, pushing her away from the lane and deeper into the woods.
Miranda glanced around, confusion warring with the unexplainable instinct to trust his direction. “Where—”
“We can’t go that way. It’s not safe.”
Her confusion shifted away from wondering where they were going to wondering who she was in the woods with. He had fought very well for a valet. Trent often boxed and was very good at fisticuffs, but even he would have been unable to handily defeat two abductors. And Marlow’s skills with the knife . . . ? Aside from the fact that he’d thrown the knife through a man’s hand, Marlow had cut through two leather straps and a rope in seconds whereas she’d spent several awkward minutes hacking through his bindings. Who was this man?
“Wait! Wait!” Miranda jerked to a stop, her body screaming in protest about all it had been through in the past twelve hours. Before she got too far from the lane, she had to be sure she trusted him.
“We have to go.” His voice was firm and calm.
“But the road is that way!” Her voice managed to rise an octave over the course of a single sentence. She was panicking. She didn’t want to panic. She wanted to be calm, collected, controlled. Midnight escapes hadn’t been covered in ladyship lessons, though valet training appeared to offer extensive instruction in that area.
“What is going on?” Miranda whispered.
He sighed and began pulling her along, disregarding her cry. “They aren’t alone, Miranda. They talked about meeting someone, and I don’t have a weapon aside from this measly little knife. So if Lam . . . I mean, if the others show up, we’ll be in trouble.”
“Trouble . . . I . . . Who are you?”
His silver eyes seemed to emit rather than reflect the moonlight as he stopped to stare down at her. She wasn’t sure if hours or mere minutes passed as she stood there, trapped in his gaze, so close that their breath mingled in a frosty cloud between their faces. Why didn’t she feel cold anymore?
Rain rolled down his cheek, finding the lines that marked the tension in his face. Her arm hurt, but what kind of pain must he be in?
“Do you trust me?” His voice was quiet but firm.
It wasn’t an answer to her question, and yet it was. Something was very wrong here. Things had been strange since the day this man came to work for her brother. Regardless of that, Miranda felt that he was a man she could trust. There was nothing particular to point at, no definite reason that she should place her life in his hands, but she trusted him.
More importantly she trusted herself. Who would have thought she was capable of what she’d done under the wagon? On the road? God had given her sterner stuff than she’d given Him credit for.
“I trust you.” She placed her hand in his and they ran.
Chapter 13
They ran for hours. Or minutes. Or days. Miranda lost touch with the concept of time and focused on putting one foot in front of the other and not landing on her face in the mud. They left the woods and crossed fields. He gave her a break here and there, but then threw her over hedges and followed her in a single leap. Whether by design or chance they never saw any dwellings. They just ran.
By the time Marlow slowed and led them into a shed, the sun was peeking weakly over the horizon through thin rain clouds. Miranda leaned against the wall and began to feel every ache and pain her body had managed to ignore during their midnight flight.
She was too tired to weep but too miserable to fight the tears. They ran unchecked down her cheeks in a silent flood as her body collapsed. Strong arms lifted her and carried her to the back corner of the shed. She felt scratchy hay against one cheek and a soft caress against the other. Already, the blessed darkness of sleep was beginning to creep across her mind.
“Sleep, Miranda. I’ll keep you safe.”
The rough whisper was all the permission her body needed.
She was beautiful. Her hair was an utter disaster, her face smudged with dirt, her riding habit torn and filthy. There was a scrape on her right temple and mud caked halfway up her boots. She resembled a half-drowned street urchin.
And no woman had ever looked lovelier.
He sighed and leaned his head back against the wall of the shed. The chance of the conspirators finding them was small enough that he felt he could allow himself to rest, but he still put himself between Miranda and even the slimmest chance of danger.
There was only one door, and the building wasn’t all that large. He had placed her on a scattering of hay near the back corner, a larger pile of hay between her and the door. She was peaceful now, more unconscious than sleeping. When she woke, pain was sure to be her first greeting.
Ryland stretched out his legs, twinges and aches of his own making him wince. He needed sleep as well, though he intended to take his rest in a seated position. It would keep him from falling so deeply asleep that he couldn’t notice the door opening or hear suspicious movements outside. He allowed his head to loll to the side so he could look at Miranda once more.
Foolish girl. Every possible reason he could fathom for her to be under that wagon was so unbelievable that he couldn’t even complete it. He was grateful, though. Without her, he’d probably still be tied to the wagon wheel—or worse.
He knew his captors had been waiting for Lambert but had no idea what they’d planned to do when the butler got there. Ryland sighed. He’d be lucky if he could find Lambert again. If the man was indeed following his comrades to the ruined cottage, he would find them bound or at least the abandoned wagon. He would soon be fleeing the district, if not the country.
Ryland rolled his shoulders, trying to work out the stiffness from his confinement. Sleep pulled at the edge of his mind, but he held it off a bit longer. He needed to think. Rain was still coming down, which was to their advantage. Whoever’s shed they were in would be doing only the most pressing chores this morning.
A few broken pi
eces of equipment, some hay, and a small stack of farm tools indicated this was a surplus shed. Their unwitting host was unlikely to head this way.
His tongue filled his mouth as he tried to swallow.
Water. They were going to need water very soon. He pushed himself to his feet, stifling the low groan that threatened to emerge. Poor Miranda. She had to be in worse shape than he was. Yes, his head hurt and he’d taken a few punches, but she had walked for miles and crawled beneath that wagon. Nor was her body used to the sort of punishment he regularly put his through.
Two buckets lay amid the broken tools. He shook them out as best he could. The water would be a little dirty, but at least they’d have something to drink.
He eased the door open and slipped outside to place the buckets under the water cascading from the roof.
Light was just beginning to fill the early morning sky. Shining weakly through the clouds, it wasn’t bright enough for him to make out more than a few shapes. None of those shapes appeared to be residences, which surprised him. A dense copse of trees extended out to his right. The farmer must have elected to live on the other side for a bit of privacy and shelter from the wind.
There was another, bigger building on the far side of the field, likely the barn. A scattering of cows ranged between the two structures.
The urge to search the distant barn for more food or weapons warred with his desire to stay close to Miranda. After only a moment’s hesitation, he jogged across the sodden field to investigate the barn. Knowing that they weren’t completely safe, however, had him taking quick glances over his shoulder to ensure the shed remained undisturbed.
Once inside the barn, though, he couldn’t see the shed. He sacrificed thoroughness for speed, and after locating a dull knife and someone’s forgotten lunch—an apple and cheese wrapped in muslin—he darted back into the rain.
He searched the area as he made his way back to the shed. Everything looked clear.
The door creaked as he reentered the building. The rain was muffled, but he was glad to see it was coming down hard again. It would easily fill their buckets in a couple of hours.
A Noble Masquerade Page 11