Once the door was snugged back into its frame, he heard the soft snore from the other side of the room. It made him smile.
He settled back down on the floor, making himself as much of a barrier as possible. No one would be able to get to Miranda without crawling over him or over a stack of hay taller than he was. Under the circumstances, it was the best protection he could offer. He leaned his head back against a pile of hay and allowed sleep to claim him.
Ryland woke with a start, taking a moment to determine what had disturbed his sleep.
A low moan echoed from the corner. Miranda was still asleep, but her body must have rested enough to begin to feel the aches and pains. She would wake soon.
Easing himself from the floor, Ryland fought to contain his own moans of discomfort. He checked the water buckets, pleased to find them both full. Rain fell softly now, and the sky had lightened to a murky grey. The storm would pass soon and they could get on with the business of getting home.
Ryland shut the door and lugged the sloshing buckets back to the corner. After drinking his fill and washing his face, he settled in to wait for Miranda to awaken. Hopefully she would sleep for another hour or so.
After all, he had a story to concoct.
Miranda popped the last bite of cheese into her mouth and chewed. Her brain churned, still sluggish from the previous day’s experiences. She was trying to get Marlow’s explanation straight in her head.
To buy herself more time, she took a long drink of water. The water had been a welcome surprise when she woke. After drinking deeply and washing herself off as best she could, she had poured the remaining water into the other bucket. She turned her bucket over and now used it as a low stool. It was the most ladylike seating position she could find in the shed.
“A lady never sits on the floor.”
A lady probably wasn’t supposed to crawl on her belly through the dirt either.
“Let me see if I understand correctly.” Miranda shifted her legs, trying to find a more comfortable position. Buckets made for horrible chairs. “You stumbled upon Smith and this other fellow stealing something from the house?”
Marlow nodded.
“What were they stealing?”
His eyes darted to hers. It was enough to make her wonder how much of the story was true.
“I couldn’t see it,” he said.
“But I thought you said you caught them.” Miranda’s eyes narrowed. She wanted to believe him, because if he was lying she would have to lower her opinion of him. She may not be willing to admit her infatuation with a servant, but she didn’t want to blacken his character in order to cure herself of it.
“A few days ago, I saw something that made me curious. I didn’t know enough to report it, but they must have thought I did. They conked me on the head and dragged me away.”
“You said there was someone else as well. Do you know who?”
“They didn’t say his name in the wagon.”
He hadn’t actually answered her question. She debated pressing him, but if she pushed too much, he might leave her there. She had no idea where “there” was. She decided to accept everything for now, or at least appear to.
“So they put you in the wagon and drove you through the woods.”
Marlow tilted his head in her direction. “You would know more about that than I would.”
She acknowledged that with a wave of her hand. He could hardly know what happened when he was unconscious. “You were coming to as you got to the clearing?”
“Yes.”
“And then what?”
His sigh was more of a deep breath, but it was enough to tell her he really didn’t want to go into details. “They tied my hands together, but they didn’t have a gag, so I decided to try talking my way out of it. Donkey didn’t—”
“Who?”
“The other guy with Smith. Donkey. I decided he needed a name.”
He had been rather brutal to that donkey. “I see. Continue.”
“Donkey didn’t appreciate my humor, and he hit me with the butt of his gun. When I came to again I was tied to the wagon, soaked to the skin.” Marlow rolled his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. It wasn’t a very subservient position, but Miranda couldn’t fault him, given the situation.
She smiled at the disgruntled look on his face. “What did you say to him?”
“I insulted his shoes.”
Her eyebrows climbed to her hairline. “I beg your pardon?”
“He had ugly shoes.”
There was no making sense of that statement. How could she respond to that?
They sat in silence. One thing, one question lingered in her mind. Could she voice it? So many potential problems could arise from her asking about it.
Finally curiosity could be held back no more, though it came out as more of an observation than a question. “You called me Miranda. Four times.”
Marlow had been sitting, head against the wall, arms draped over raised knees, perfectly still for all intents and purposes. But somehow he managed to freeze at her statement. To Miranda it looked as if his breathing halted and his entire body seized up without him changing his position in the slightest. It was more of an impression than anything she could actually see.
In minute increments, his body seemed to relax. He opened his eyes and shot his piercing grey gaze directly at her. Miranda gulped. Why had she given in to her curiosity?
“My apologies, my lady.”
She released her pent-up breath. That wasn’t so bad. It made way for a good plan. Acknowledge the event and move on with her life, both of them still firmly in their correct social places.
But then he opened his mouth again.
“I can only blame the tense moment in which we found ourselves. I confess that I was not born and raised a servant. It is a position I came to later in life. Occasionally I fall back on old habits. I shall try not to do it again, my lady.”
The bucket, which had never been overly comfortable, was now a torture device. Miranda felt like an utter fool. Here they were, in a potentially dangerous and definitely desperate situation, and she was worried about maintaining social status. It was enough to make her sick.
Miranda darted a look at Marlow. She should accept his apology. He was always working, doing things for Griffith long into the evening and early in the morning. He was an exemplary servant and—
Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, frozen before she could utter a syllable. The second part of Marlow’s statement was sinking in. He hadn’t been born a servant. The implications swirled in her mind, refusing to form a solid thought, leaving her unsure of herself and what she wanted.
“You are, of course, correct, Marlow.” She smoothed her skirts to give her hands something to do. What fabric remained of the riding habit had been trampled in the mud. “This is a most remarkable situation. We are relying on each other for our very safety. There is no reason to stand on ceremony. We shall be equals for as long as it takes us to return home.”
She felt quite proud of herself as a flash of shock flew across Marlow’s face. This was the perfect solution. They could get to know each other better. Surely when the mystery wore off her confounded attachment to this man would fade. Once they returned to the estate, their relationship would return to normal. It was perfect, as long as Marlow agreed.
“My given name is Ryland.”
Their eyes met and held for a long moment. Miranda’s heart beat loudly in her chest. Ryland Marlow. The roar of blood surging through her ears seemed to carry his name, making him even less of a servant in her mind. He didn’t seem to move as he stared at her, daring her to make good on her plan.
“Ryland.” It came out a strangled whisper as she nodded her head in his direction, as if this were their first introduction.
“Miranda.” His voice felt like crushed velvet running over her skin. Maybe the plan wasn’t so prudent after all.
Chapter 14
A thick drizzle was all that rem
ained of the rain as they left the shed. Ryland poked his head out the door before opening it wide and bowing Miranda through. She swept out, pretending she was entering London’s most exclusive ballroom.
Her foot sank in the mud.
“Oh, bother.” She tried to tug her heel out of the sucking mire without lifting her skirts. The blue woolen riding skirt was already a lost cause, while her dignity and modesty had yet to suffer a fatal blow. She wanted to keep it that way.
“What’s wrong?” Ryland asked. How surprisingly easy it was to think of him as Ryland.
“My boot. It’s stuck.” Miranda tried once more to tug her heel free. All she managed was to work more of her foot into the ooze.
Ryland knelt by her feet. “Let me help you.”
“Have you bacon for brains?” She swatted at his hands reaching for her leg. “You cannot grab my leg.”
He sighed. “Then I’ll pry out the foot.”
“I am certainly not lifting my skirt.”
He propped his arm on his raised knee and glared up at her. She crossed her arms and stuck her nose away from him.
Ryland rubbed his hand over his face and through his long hair. He had long since lost the strip of leather tying his hair back and his dark locks were as disheveled as her own. “What do you propose, my lady?” His voice was slurred as if spoken through gritted teeth.
She was being silly, trying to maintain propriety in the middle of a cow pasture. There was nothing proper about this scenario.
“A lady never shows a man her ankles.”
Miranda frowned at her mother’s voice. A lady was never supposed to spend the night in a shed or walk alone in the woods either. Perhaps it was time for practicality to rule over lady lessons.
“Be quick about it.” Miranda squeezed her eyes shut and lifted her skirts the barest of amounts.
Even though she knew it was coming, it still startled her to feel Ryland’s strong hand wrap around her ankle. No one but herself and Sally had touched her feet in years. Certainly a man had never had cause to do so.
“On three,” Ryland said quietly.
Miranda eased her eyes open and looked down, expecting to see Ryland’s bent head. Instead she became snared in his intent gaze. A twirl of excitement flittered from her throat down her spine.
No wonder ladies weren’t supposed to let men touch their feet.
“One, two, three.”
Miranda forgot to pull her foot until she felt the tugging against her ankle. She yanked, grimacing at the slushy sucking noise that accompanied her foot’s freedom.
She stumbled forward, and Ryland landed on his backside.
With a grunt, he jerked to his feet, diverting his gaze to the surrounding area.
“Thank you.” She primly set her clothing to rights as well as she could.
“Do you know where we are?”
Miranda looked around, trying to find a significant landmark. They’d had no sense of direction last night, had only run blindly. “I don’t recognize a thing, which makes me think we went east. Griffith’s lands extend quite far to the north, and the village is to the south.”
“So we could be west as well?” Ryland looked at the sun peeking through the clouds, clearly trying to orient himself for heading off in their chosen direction.
“Unlikely. Had we gone west we would be on Raebourne’s land. I have spent a great deal of time there the past few years.”
Ryland raised a single brow.
Miranda blushed. “With Griffith, of course. The two are quite close. I would never visit the marquis on my own. Besides the man is married now. Happily. To Amelia. You have not yet met Amelia.”
She should stop talking, but as the insufferable man kept standing there, one eyebrow hitched up his forehead, condescension oozing from his eyes, her mouth just wouldn’t listen to her brain.
“Not that a valet would normally meet a visiting marchioness, but Amelia’s different. She meets everyone. Even knows my scullery maid, Lisette. She and Anthony took a belated honeymoon trip. They should be back before Christmas. May even be back now.”
Every time she finished a sentence, she thought surely she was done spouting off information he didn’t need or care for. But one glance in his direction set her off again, further explaining ridiculous things. She bit her tongue to keep silent.
“What about Crampton’s land?”
Miranda shook her head. He knew an awful lot about the local gentry. Did he and Griffith discuss the area often? “The earl’s house lies between ours and Anthony’s, but his lands do not extend so far.”
“Then we head west.”
They trudged across the field with the watery sun at their backs. The rain stopped, leaving a thin film of grey clouds floating across a sky that was trying its best to become cheerful. He led her around the farm buildings, taking care to avoid the notice of anyone going about their morning chores.
“Why don’t we ask them for help?”
He sent a speaking look across her appearance. “They’re from this area. Do you really want them seeing the duke’s sister looking like that?”
She sighed. He had a very good point.
Not far from the farm, they came to the top of a small hill. Miranda squealed and clapped her hands as she jumped up and down. “Look!”
Ryland looked where she was pointing, but the only things visible were fields of crops and a crumbling stone tower. Had she lost her mind? “What am I looking at?”
“The tower.” She grabbed his hand and started pulling him between the dormant crop rows at a brisk pace. “That’s the old watchtower on the corner of Griffith’s property. I know where we are.”
“Oh. That’s good.” Ryland needed to get her home so he could track down Lambert, Smith, and Donkey. He shouldn’t be enjoying every minute he spent with her away from their normal societal roles.
“It’s still a two-hour walk to the house, but at least we’ll know where we’re going.”
Two more hours, then. Two more hours where he was Ryland and she was Miranda.
They reached the crumbling stones at the base of the tower. Miranda veered off, sure of her direction but no longer running. She didn’t let go of his hand, and he didn’t mention it.
He’d traveled to this side of the estate once, but his search had been concentrated near the house. Miranda would know the landmarks better than he, so he let her take the lead. Though he had to question the meandering path they were taking. . . . “Are you sure you know the way home, my lady?”
Miranda looked up, mud streaked along her cheek. She let go of his hand and grinned. “I thought I was Miranda until we reached Riverton. I am certainly no one’s idea of a lady right now. And yes, I know the way home. I also know where all the crofters’ homes are and I’d just as soon not run into them in this state.”
He looked her up and down, taking in the torn, muddied dress. Her hair was a tangled mess around her grimy face, long tendrils escaping halfway down her back. Her hair was longer than he’d initially thought. “No matter your appearance, you are every inch a lady, Miranda.”
“Thank you.”
He offered his arm to escort her through a sheep pasture, the woolly creatures paying them no heed. “I think your habit is ruined.”
Miranda frowned. “I know it is ruined. Sally will faint away when she sees what I’ve done to it. Thankfully Mother isn’t home to see it. This is not the way a lady should look.”
“Given the circumstances, I think your mother would allow you some lenience in your appearance.”
“Possibly. Although involuntary bodily functions have never been an excuse, so I don’t see how a deliberate trek through the woods could be.”
Ryland choked on air. Involuntary bodily functions? Really? Surely he was not actually discussing—
“I sneeze constantly. It drives her mad.”
He sighed in relief. Sneezing. He could discuss sneezing. It was still a rather inappropriate topic, but he could muddle through it. “You snee
ze?”
“Whenever I go outside, it seems. Particularly if it’s a sunny day. I can feel in top form and still sneeze. Mother says it will send her to Bedlam one of these days. A lady simply cannot show the world such an unnatural weakness if she wants to be taken seriously.”
What could he say to that? There wasn’t a whole lot to say about sneezes, and there was virtually nothing he could say about being a lady.
They lapsed into silence, trudging along, occasionally changing directions or climbing a fence. The aches and pains of the night before became more prominent, and he could feel the exhaustion seeping in. Part of him wanted to walk in dazed silence, allowing as much of him to rest as possible. But she had declared them equals for the day, and he didn’t want to waste that opportunity.
“Do you often defy your mother’s idea of being a lady?” It was a dangerous question. From the letters he knew that she did, indeed, chafe under some of her mother’s stricter rules. He would have to be careful not to betray his knowledge if they followed this line of talking.
She laughed as she kicked a pebble and sent it plopping into a puddle. “I still remember my first lady lesson. I was five, and I wanted to ride like the boys did. She caught me coming back to the stable with a leg on either side of the pony and the groom with me as red as could be. She took me to her office, sat me in that blue chair, and proceeded to tell me how a lady should ride.”
The endearing picture made him laugh. Before long the conversation flowed freely from riding to favorite foods and even childhood memories. Ryland had to constantly remind himself to be careful how much he shared. While he was fairly certain he’d be leaving Riverton before the day was through, he couldn’t cast aside his disguise until the mission was finished. “How much farther do you think?”
“I don’t think it’s much farther. We’re closer than I thought we would be this morning.”
The escaped locks of her hair danced in the breeze. He loved her hair. It was like sunshine. Not the sunshine he saw here in England, but the all-consuming sun found on the open water, traveling between England and France. The vast spread of waves magnified the glory of the sun by reflecting it back on you until the golden glow swallowed you whole. That was her hair.
A Noble Masquerade Page 12