They both whirled, only to see two more ruffians coming purposefully from the opposite direction. They were trapped.
An earshattering whistle split the air as Dafydd Jones grasped the situation and acted with a speed that belied his slowmoving appearance. His whistled commands ordered the dogs to turn the last group of bullocks and bring them back along the street at high speed.
A welltrained herd dog does not question a command, no matter how contrary to custom. Within seconds, the street was blocked by churning, confused bullocks. Harried by the sharp nips of the dogs, some turned quickly and galloped fullspeed along the cobblestones. Others milled and bellowed in confusion. It was a scene straight from Bedlam.
Robin grabbed Maxie's arm and called, "Many thanks!"
Mr. Jones waved and yelled, "Luck to you!"
Maxie caught a last glimpse of Simmons's furious face. He and his men were trying to fight their way through the clamorous, blaring oxen, but without success. They'd be lucky not to be trampled flat.
After that, she concentrated on escape, following Robin toward the next alley. The cattle kept a small distance away from the faces of the buildings, so it was possible to force a passage along the edge of the street. She felt small and horribly fragile as the massive bullocks jostled by, but as long as she and Robin stayed by the walls, they were safe.
After a chaotic interval of battling along the street, they reached the mouth of the alley and darted inside. Robin paused, touching her elbow lightly. "How are you faring?"
"Bruised but unbowed." She dragged a dusty hand across her forehead. "Do you know your way around Market Harborough?"
"No, but we're about to learn," he said with a flashing smile.
She felt a burst of irrational exuberance. Robin might be a rogue, but under these circumstances, she couldn't imagine a better companion.
If the truth be known, she couldn't imagine a better companion for any circumstances.
Desdemona reached street level and flung the front door of the inn open just as the steady stream of oxen disintegrated into chaos. Aghast, she stared into the milling, bellowing mass. Bullocks were much larger close up than they appeared from above, and their horns a great deal sharper.
Angry shouts pierced the general clamor. She looked down the street to see two roughlooking men forcing their way through the cattle. Grimly she decided that if they could do it, so could she. She stepped out onto the street.
From behind her came a horrified cry from the landlord of the Three Swans. Ignoring his shout, she flattened herself against the front wall of the inn and began edging her way up the high street. She should have brought her coachman. No, her guard, he was bigger and stronger. He probably also had too much sense to do something this stupid.
Tenaciously she worked her way toward where she had seen Maxima. Ahead of her, the two ruffians disappeared down an alley. In the distance were two men of similar stamp, but not a sign of her elusive niece. Furious with exasperation, she rose on her toes and shaded her eyes, trying to see what was going on.
Her action was a disastrous mistake. A horn from one of the crowding bullocks caught the sleeve of her pelisse and dragged her sideways. When she tried to regain her balance, she became tangled in her skirts. The fabric of her pelisse ripped away entirely and she fell, sprawling across the filthy cobblestones.
She looked up to see the ironshod hooves of a bullock descending on her, and knew that she was going to die.
Maxie and Robin followed the alley until it emptied into another street that paralleled the high. As they turned into it, a shout echoed behind them, proof that Simmons and his companions were too close behind.
The new thoroughfare was busy with traffic displaced from the high street, and they had to zigzag around incurious citizens. When the narrow road was blocked by a massive dray unloading goods at the rear of a shop, Maxie dropped to the ground to scramble under it, Robin right behind her.
They regained their feet on the other side of the wagon to find a draper's shop directly in front of them. After dusting his knees, Robin led the way inside and gave the woman behind the counter a smile of paralyzing charm. "Sorry to disturb you, madam, but we have urgent need of your back door."
As the dazzled female made confused sounds, he crossed the sales room and opened the only other door. Half expecting to have a bolt of fabric hurled at her, Maxie hastened after him.
A narrow corridor led to a kitchen at the back of the building. Robin gave the startled cook another disabling smile and they walked through into the garden. The iron gate at the bottom was unlocked and opened into another alley.
Like many old towns, Market Harborough had grown up on a twisted medieval street plan. Through pure bad luck, their route swung back and brought them into the view of one of Simmons's bruisers. The man shouted for his fellows. Even the background sounds of the cattle drive did not drown the sound of heavy pounding feet coming to join the pursuit.
Maxie and Robin pivoted and began racing through the tangle of alleys and lanes at top speed. If it had been dark, they would have been able to shake the hunters easily, but in daylight, the advantage was to Simmons, and the choice of routes was limited.
The next turn took them up a steeply angled lane where empty wooden casks were piled behind a tavern, redolent with the tang of hops. Struck by inspiration, Maxie panted, "Wait, Robin."
She tipped a cask on its side and waited for the pursuers to reach the mouth of the lane. Within seconds, the whole pack of them roared around the corner and started upward.
Gleefully she kicked the cask down the sloping ground, then reached for another. With a breathless gust of laughter, Robin joined her and they sent half a dozen casks crashing downward, booming and cracking as they collided with walls and one another. Filthy curses and abruptly curtailed squawks of protest followed the fugitives as they took off again.
Though the few seconds of rest had helped, Maxie's lungs still burned with strain. Nonetheless, she continued running, grateful for the active life that had given her stamina. Robin was paying her the compliment of assuming she was equal to what was necessary, and she would be damned if she would falter.
The next alley turned sharply to the right. When they swung around the corner, she gasped with dismay.
The alley ended in a brick wall, well over the height of a man's head, and there was no way out.
Desdemona was rolled onto her side by the grazing hooves of the first bullock, and her breath was knocked from her lungs. Even as she struggled to rise, she knew that her attempt would fail. In another few moments she would be past caring.
Then strong hands seized her and jerked her from the street to the relative safety of a shallow doorway. She came to rest with her face pressed into the shoulder of a wool coat.
Even without seeing her rescuer's face, she knew it was Wolverton. He swung her around so her back was to the door, his body shielding her from the buffeting of the oxen.
Fingers gripping his lapels, she went into a paroxysm of coughing from the dust she had inhaled. She realized with resigned selfmockery that a female could hardly appear at worse advantage, than she did at the moment. It was the first time she had wanted a man to admire her since she was eighteen.
The thought was outrageous and unwelcome, but she did not push away. Wolverton's embrace was too welcome.
An amused baritone sounded in her ear. "Did anyone ever tell you that your courage greatly exceeds your common sense?"
A bubble of laughter escaped her. "Yes. Frequently."
Behind them the noise and turbulence of the cattle was diminishing. With regret, Desdemona stepped away from her rescuer. Her wobbly knees immediately betrayed her, but before she could fall, he caught her arm again.
Unsteadily she said, "I'm quaking like a blancmange."
"A perfectly normal reaction. You had a narrow escape."
She leaned back against the door, willing her body to behave. "Still, I'm very much in your debt, Wolverton. You might have been trampled yourself."
He gave a deprecating shrug. "I spend a fair amount of time with cattle, so I'm used to their ways."
Even though most of the British aristocracy derived their fortunes from the land, few of the men Desdemona knew in London would so casually confess to being farmers. Perhaps she spent too much time in London.
She pushed at her tumbled hair with a trembling hand. Her gown and pelisse were ruined, and her bonnet lay smashed in the street. "If I'd known that I was going to take part in a cattle riot, I would have dressed differently."
Behind them, the now orderly oxen had settled down and resumed their progress to market. The drover who had been at the end of the herd approached, concern on his weathered face. "I hope ye took no harm, ma'am," he said in a rolling Welsh accent. "I'd not forgive myself if you'd been injured."
"I'm fine." To prove it, she took a cautious step away from the door. This time her knees supported her. "It was foolish of me to come into the street when the drive was going through."
As the drover started to move away, Wolverton asked, "Why did you turn the cattle like that? It was dangerous."
The drover stopped, an opaque expression in his eyes. " 'Twas a mistake, sir. The dogs misunderstood the command."
Still pleasantly but with a hint of steel, the marquess said, "I've heard that when a drive is over, the herd dogs make their own way home all the way from southern England to Wales or Scotland while their masters return by coach. Hard to believe that dogs so intelligent would misunderstand a whistle."
"You've caught me out, sir." Though the Welshman's voice was properly abashed, there was a gleam of humor in his eyes. "The problem was not the dogs' lack of wit, but mine. I gave the wrong signal, and the dogs obeyed. Lucky no damage was done."
"I'm sure you will tell me that turning the cattle had nothing to do with the two people who were with you, and the four men who were after them," Wolverton said dryly.
"Nay, not a thing." The drover touched the brim of his hat with two fingers. "I must look to my beasts now. Good day to you and the lady."
Desdemona stared after the Welshman's broad back. "You mean he did that deliberately to help Maxima and Lord Robert escape?"
"Undoubtedly. That was definitely Robin, though I didn't see much of his companion under that dreadful hat." He smiled a little. "My brother has a talent for enlisting allies."
Desdemona frowned, perplexed. "Why would there be four men pursuing them?"
The marquess tucked her hand under his arm and headed toward the Three Swans. "We can discuss it over luncheon."
Desdemona opened her mouth to disagree on principle, then closed it again. She really didn't want to protest.
Chapter 17
Undaunted by the sight of the brick wall ahead, Robin ordered, "Wait here."
He sprinted down the alley, his pace quickening. A stride from the wall, he hurled himself upward. His leap was just high enough for his outstretched fingers to catch the edge of the wall. Making it look easy, he swung lithely onto the wide brick top. Then he unslung his knapsack and lowered it strap first.
Maxie grabbed the strap. It stretched under her weight, but held. As Robin lifted, she walked up the wall. He grinned as he gave her a hand up beside him. "It's clear you didn't spend your childhood on useless things like embroidery."
She grinned back. "It was a point of pride for me to outrun, outswim, and outclimb all of my Mohawk cousins."
Their pursuers were almost to the foot of the brick wall. Robin gave a jaunty wave before the two of them swung down on the far side of the wall. He dropped to the ground first, then reached up and caught her hips to bring her safely to earth. She was acutely aware of the strength of his hands, and of the involuntary reaction of her body. A good thing they were running for their lives.
They found themselves in a welltended garden behind a sizable town house. Directly in front of them was an archery target with bow and arrows lying beside it in the grass, as if someone had gone inside for a cup of tea and would be back soon.
As Robin started to cross the garden, she said, "Wait a moment." She picked up the bow and flexed it a few times, getting the feel. Then she nocked an arrow and waited.
After angry muttering and scuffling sounds on the other side of the wall, a pursuer heaved gracelessly into view on the shoulders of one of his mates. Coolly Maxie took aim, then sent her arrow through the man's hat. He howled like a banshee and disappeared from view.
"Well done!" Robin said, his voice full of admiring laughter.
She laid the bow back on the grass, not without a certain smugness. Being a savage had its advantages.
"Gawd a'mighty, did you see what that little bitch did?" Simmons's associate retrieved his arrowpierced hat, his face white under its habitual grime. "I coulda been killed!"
"If she wanted to kill you, she'd've done it," Simmons said brusquely. Even as he let loose a string of oaths that should have scorched the whitewash on the alley walls, the Londoner had to admit to himself that the two fugitives were worthy game.
Another of his men snarled, "I'm not goin' over that wall after 'em."
Simmons broke off. He knew Market Harborough, and he should be using that knowledge instead of wasting time. "We don't have to. There's a way around. If we hurry, we should be able to catch them. Now move your bloody backsides!"
As Maxie and Robin raced across the garden, an angry shout came from a window of the house.
'Try not to step on any flowers," Robin warned. "Hell hath no fury like an English gardener whose roses have been profaned."
They were rapidly approaching a wall covered with espaliered fruit trees. The branches were trained into stately lattices and tiny green peaches were visible among the leaves. Breathlessly she asked, "Are we allowed to profane fruit trees?"
"It's a grievous crime, but not so bad as injuring roses," he assured her as he swarmed up the espaliered branches.
The trees made an excellent ladder. Before anyone could emerge from the house and give chase, they were over the wall and down the other side on a quiet street.
As they paused to take stock, Robin said soberly, "The pursuit is amazingly tenacious. Your uncle obviously wants you back a great deal."
"So it seems," she agreed, her expression grim as she speculated about what Collingwood was trying to conceal. But when she looked at her companion her voice faltered. "I'm sorry to have involved you in this. It's more than you bargained for when you offered your escort."
He smiled, his blue eyes warm and intimate. "I didn't offer my escort, I forced it on you. And I'm not sorry at all." He gestured to the left. "A canal runs norm from Market Harborough to Leicester. I think we should follow the towpath. It's less likely to be watched than one of the roads."
"Do you really think all of the roads are watched?" she said with alarm. "Simmons would need a small army for that."
Robin shrugged. "Perhaps the roads are safe, but when in doubt, assume the worst."
That made sense; she was sure that his experience of being chased greatly exceeded her own. She fell in beside him, trotting as quickly as her tired limbs could manage.
This section of the town was empty of traffic, but in the middle distance were several large buildings that looked like warehouses. Probably the canal was on the other side.
Before they could reach the warehouses, Simmons came pounding out of a lane in front of them, a smile of wicked satisfaction on his face and one of his cohorts at his heels. With sickening anxiety, Maxie glanced behind and saw two more men emerging from another alley. She and Robin were trapped, and this time there was no helpful Dafydd Jones with a herd of oxen.
They came to a halt facing Simmons. He waved a band at his men, who fell back into a silent circle as the Londoner growled, "You're not getting away this time. The wench is going back to her uncle, and you, my pretty lad, are going to be taught a lesson for attacking me from behind."
"You should be glad I fought as I did-it gave you an excuse for losing." Calmly Robin handed hi
s knapsack to Maxie.
Appalled, she hissed, "For God's sake, Robin, surely you're not going to fight him. He's twice your size."
He smiled and peeled off his coat. "One can refuse a man's invitation to dine, or to play a game of cards, but if he wants to fight, one must oblige him."
Overhearing, the Londoner said explosively, "You're damned right you'll oblige. And I don't care how good you are-a good big man will beat a good little man every time."
"That depends on how good the little man is, doesn't it?" Under cover of a sunny smile, Robin whispered to Maxie, "Simmons's men will be absorbed in watching the fight. Take advantage of that to escape." Seeing her about to protest, he said sharply, "No arguments. Don't worry, he's not going to kill me-it would get him into more trouble than it's worth."
Before he could say more, Simmons came up and began searching his opponent, his large hands patting pockets and around the tops of Robin's boots. Robin said pleasantly, "Are you looking for concealed weapons, or is it just that you can't keep your hands off me?"
Revolted, Simmons spat, "Filthy pervert!" and swung a wild fist at the other man's jaw.
Robin sidestepped neatly and caught his opponent's arm. Then he twisted it, at the same time rapidly pivoting. The larger man spun and crashed to the road with numbing force.
For a moment Simmons lay stunned. Then he rose to his feet, eyes narrowed and anger tempered by caution. "You didn't learn that in Jackson's salon."
"No, I didn't." Robin looked slight and elegant, a David to Simmons's Goliath. But his stance was that of a fighter as he balanced on the balls of his feet, knees bent, arms relaxed and ready. "I never claimed to be a student of Jackson's. I learned in a harder school, where the stakes were higher."
"So did I, laddie boy." The Londoner fell into the same stance. "If that's the way you want it, you've got it."
Maxie surreptitiously slid her hand into the pocket of Robin's coat and locked her hand around the striking stick. Then there was nothing to do but watch, half suffocated with tension. In spite of what Robin had said, she had no intention of abandoning him. Perhaps Simmons didn't intend murder, but there was a horrible chance that he might kill without meaning to. That was less likely if Maxie was a witness.
Angel Rogue fa-4 Page 16