Giles was debating whether to offer a bribe for more information when a horse whickered outside.
Simmons peered out the window. "It's me 'orse! Bloody bastard probably couldn't ride. 'Ope 'e broke 'is neck when the nag threw 'im."
The marquess had never seen a horse that could throw his brother, much less a tired hack like this one. Robin must have turned the beast loose. Thank God he wasn't adding horse theft to his other crimes.
What the devil had Robin gotten himself mixed up in?
The horse was caught and tethered to the back of the carriage, and they proceeded to the next town, Worksop. Simmons fell silent, leaving Giles to his speculations. At a guess, the Londoner was the man Lord Collingwood had sent after his niece. Rather a rough sort to charge with escorting a gently bred female, though the more Giles heard about Maxima Collins, the more he doubted her gentility.
Obviously Lady Ross hadn't yet found the fugitives. With luck, Giles would reach them first. When he did, he was going to have a great many questions for his wayward younger brother.
At Simmons's request, Giles left him at an inn that was little better than a hedge tavern. He himself stayed at the best inn Worksop had to offer. It fell well short of the standards of Wolverhampton, but at least the sheets were clean.
When he fell asleep, his dreams were not of the runaways and potential scandals, but of Lady Ross. She really was a rather splendid Amazon.
* * *
Simmons had worked in this part of the country before, and within an hour of reaching Worksop he had purchased another pistol and recruited several men to aid him in his pursuit.
Later, as he held a piece of raw beef to his black eye and gulped pints of local ale, he thought about the blond swell who had jumped him from behind. Collingwood wouldn't like it if his precious niece was harmed, but there was nothing to prevent Simmons from breaking her fancy man in half.
As he drank his ale and brooded, he planned what he would do when he met the slick bastard in a fair fight.
Chapter 10
They walked for nearly an hour before finding a sufficiently isolated shed. If they had stayed in their original camp, Maxie would have stewed some vegetables and ham together, but under the circumstances, they settled for bread and cheese.
After they finished, Robin leaned back against the hay, his pale hair silvered by the moonlight that washed in through a high, narrow window. "I think it's time for you to explain what is going on. Is the road to London going to be filled with large gentlemen who want to abduct you?"
Though Maxie was not used to confiding in anyone, she owed Robin an explanation. He was far too skilled at lies and casual theft, she didn't know his real name, and he was almost certainly some kind of swindler, but he had helped when she needed it.
She reached up to release her hair for the second time that evening. "I'm not quite sure what is going on. I don't even know where to begin. What do you want to know?"
"Whatever you are willing to tell me," he said gently.
Suddenly she wanted to reveal everything, about her strange background and how she came to be an alien in England. "My father, Maximus Collins, was a younger son of what is called a 'good family.' His expectations were not great to begin with, and he quickly wasted them in gaming and dissipation."
She smiled wryly. "My grandfather decided that Max was a useless, expensive nuisance, which was probably true. He offered to settle the debts if Max would remove himself from England. Max had no choice but to agree. I expect that bailiffs were about to overtake him. He decided to go to America."
Rain was beginning to patter on the roof. She burrowed deeper in the hay and wrapped her cloak around her shoulders, wishing it were thicker. "My father wasn't a bad man, merely rather casual about things like money and propriety. He quite liked the New World because the customs are less rigid. Max stayed in Virginia for a time, then wandered north.
"After a spell in New York, he made the mistake of trying a winter journey from Albany to Montreal. He almost died in a blizzard, but was rescued by an Indian, a Mohawk hunter. Max ended up spending the rest of the winter at the hunter's longhouse. That's where he met my mother."
She paused, wondering what Robin's reaction would be to the knowledge that she was a half-breed. Such an ugly word, half-breed, more American than English.
His voice revealing only interest, without a shred of distaste, Robin commented, "The Mohawks are one of the Six Nations of the Iroquois confederacy, aren't they?"
"Yes," she said, surprised and pleased at his knowledge. "The Mohawks were Keepers of the Eastern Door, defending the Nations from the Algonquian tribes of New England. Four of the six tribes live mostly in Canada now because they were loyal to the British during the American Revolution. But at least my mother's people survive with their pride and traditions. Not like the Indians of New England, who were virtually destroyed by disease and war."
"It's not a pretty story," Robin said quietly. "From what I've read, the Indians were a strong, healthy, generous people when the Europeans first came. They gave us corn, medicines, and land. We gave them smallpox, typhus, measles, cholera, and God knows what else. Sometimes bullets." He hesitated, then asked, "Do you hate us too much?"
No one had ever asked her that, or guessed at the buried anger she felt on behalf of her mother's people. Oddly, Robin's perception eased some of that anger. "How could I, without hating myself? After all, I am half English. More than half, I suppose, since I spent less time with my Mohawk kin. They accepted me with more warmth than my English relations did."
She shivered with a chill that came from inside. Even among her mother's clan, she had not truly belonged.
Hearing the faint chatter of her teeth, Robin moved over and put his arms around her. She tensed, not wanting passion, then relaxed when she realized that he was only offering comfort.
With one hand stroking her back, he murmured, "Families can be the very devil."
"Can't they just?" Her head rested against his shoulder, and slowly his warmth and nearness dispelled her chill. She felt so much at home in Robin's arms.
Too much so. Reminding herself that the last thing she needed was a man as charming and heedless as her father, she straightened and took up the story again. "My mother was young and restless, interested in the world beyond the longhouse. In spite of the vast differences, she and my father fell in love."
"They were both rebelling against the lives they were born to," Robin observed. "That would be a strong bond."
"I think you're right. It didn't hurt that my mother was very beautiful, and my father quite dashing. When spring came, Max asked her to come away with him, and she did. I was born a year later. We lived most of the time in Massachusetts, but every summer we would visit the longhouse. My mother wanted me to know the language and ways of her people."
"Did your father go with you?"
"Yes, he got on famously with my mother's kin. Indians are a poetic people, and love stories and games and laughter. My father could quote poetry by the yard, in English and French and Greek. He spoke the Mohawk language well, too." She laughed a little. "Lord, that man could talk. I remember him holding the whole longhouse spellbound as he recited the Odyssey. Now that I've read it myself, I know that he translated it rather freely, but it was still a magnificent tale."
Her smile faded. "There were two other babies that died soon after birth. My mother died herself when I was ten. Her family offered to take me, but my father refused. He'd never found a steady job that suited him, so after Mama died he became a book peddler and took me with him on his journeys."
"So you grew up traveling. Did you enjoy the life?"
"Most of the time." Maxie turned around so that her back nested against Robin's chest. "Books and education are revered in America. Since many of the farms and villages are very isolated, we were always welcome wherever we went."
Her voice became dry. "Too welcome, sometimes. Indian social customs are very different from European ones, and unmarr
ied women have a degree of freedom that is often considered wantonness by European standards. There were always men interested in testing the virtue of a half-breed like me."
His arms tightened protectively. "No wonder you learned to be so wary."
"It was necessary—if I'd told Max about such things, he might have killed someone. Or more likely been killed himself—he was a talker, not a fighter." Before today, she would have said the same about Robin, but no longer. "I'm not ashamed of the ways of my mother's people. Why shouldn't women have the same freedom before marriage that men do? But the choice had to be mine, not something forced on me by a drunken backwoodsman who assumed that I was a woman of easy virtue."
"Only a fool would believe that," Robin said softly.
Glad he understood, she went on, "We had a regular route through New England and northern New York. Besides a standard range of books, we would also bring special orders to people."
"Fascinating." Robin linked his arms around her waist. "What was your usual stock?"
"Mostly New Testaments, chapbooks of sermons and songs, pirated editions of English books. But there were other kinds as well. A farmer in Vermont ordered one book of philosophy every year. On our next visit, he and my father would discuss the previous year's book. We always stayed two days with Mr. Johnson. I think it was the high point of his year."
She smiled. "Peddlers like my father did a good business, enough so that publishers put out books just for the traveling bookseller trade. Things like The Prodigal's Daughter, which piously decried immoral behavior."
"In great detail, no doubt," Robin said with amusement.
"Exactly. How could people know how wicked the behavior was unless it was described?" She chuckled. "We sold a lot of copies of that one."
Her story made it clear to Robin why Maxie was such a remarkable mixture of maturity and innocence. What an unusual life she had led, being raised between two cultures, not quite belonging to either, and living an unrooted existence. Clearly her father had been well educated and charming, and she had adored him. Equally clear was that Max had been feckless to a fault. Robin would lay odds that Maxie had grown up managing their business and generally taking care of her casual parent.
And that strange background had produced this independent young woman who fit so perfectly in his embrace. Holding her had certainly dispersed the damp chill of the night, and Robin was warm in a way that had nothing to do with the temperature.
Reminding himself sharply that the last thing she needed right now was for him to become amorous, he remarked, "An interesting life, but an unsettled one."
"I used to think there was nothing I wanted more than a real home," she said a little wistfully. "We spent winters in Boston, staying with a widow whose children had grown. I was always glad to return there and know that we would be sleeping under the same roof for the next few months. But all in all, it was a good way to live. There was always enough to eat, plenty of books, and people to talk to. Being a peddler suited my father. He had restless feet."
Robin was not surprised to hear that. But at least Maximus Collins seemed an affectionate father, more so than the late, upright Marquess of Wolverton. Though the world would not agree, he thought that Maxie had been more fortunate in her parents than he had been in his. "What brought you to England?"
"Max wanted to see his family again. He wanted me to meet them, too."
Robin felt her tense. She had implied rather strongly that her father's relatives had been less than gracious. Knowing the English gentry, he was not surprised. "Your father died here in England?"
"In London, two months ago. His health hadn't been good. In fact, I think that is the main reason he came back—to see England once more before he died." Her voice broke for a moment. "Max was buried at the family estate in Durham. Then, right after I had decided that it was time to return to America, I overheard a conversation between my aunt and uncle."
Maxie recounted what she had heard, and how she had decided to go to London to investigate. She even included her fears that her father might have decided to try some genteel extortion, her flat voice refusing any possible sympathy.
"That brings us to the present," she finished. "I still have trouble believing there was foul play involved in Max's death. Yet the fact that my uncle sent someone like Simmons after me seems to confirm my worst suspicions. It may be solicitude, but it seems more likely that he is determined to prevent me from learning the truth. What do you think?"
"Obviously your uncle is concealing something," Robin agreed, considering the possibilities. There was at least one that did not involve criminal behavior on anyone's part, but he preferred not to speculate about it to Maxie. "I agree that your best chance of learning what happened lies in London. But it could be dangerous, and nothing you learn will bring your father back. Is it worth the risk?"
"I must know the truth," she said, her voice hard. "Don't try to persuade me otherwise."
"I wouldn't dream of it," Robin replied mildly. "In the meantime, it's late and we're both tired. Morning will be soon enough to decide how to avoid Simmons and reach London."
"You'll help me?" she asked uncertainly.
"Yes, whether you want me to or not. I have nothing better to do, and this seems a worthy task." Robin lay back in the hay, taking Maxie with him.
She tried to wriggle away. "It's been a long day, and I really don't want to end it by having to fight you off."
"You 're still underestimating my intelligence," he said soothingly. "Not to mention my sense of self-preservation. I'm well aware that you will stick a knife into some cherished part of my anatomy if I become unruly. However, it's a cold night, and we'll both be warmer if we cuddle up together. Agreed?"
With a soft sigh, she stopped struggling. "Agreed. I'm sorry to be so suspicious, Robin."
"Now I understand why." He brushed a very light kiss on her temple, then tucked his blanket around both of them.
The hay made a soft, fragrant bed. She relaxed, her back curved against his front.
"Like Mrs. Harrison kept saying, you're just a little bit of a thing." He looped an arm around her waist and drew her closer, spoon-style. "I thought Indians were a tall people."
"Every race has exceptions. My mother was small, and I ended up the shortest person on either side of my family."
"But fierce to make up for it." There was a smile in his voice. "Do you have a Mohawk name as well as your English one?"
After a moment's hesitation, she replied, "To my mother's kin, I am Kanawiosta."
"Kanawiosta." The name rippled from his tongue. Except for her father, Robin was the only white man ever to speak it. "Does it have a particular meaning?"
"Nothing that is easily defined. It implies flowing water, and also improvement, making something better."
"Flowing water," he said thoughtfully. "It suits you."
She laughed. "Don't romanticize my name. It could just as easily be translated as 'swamp beautifier.' How many English folk know the original meanings of their names?"
"Robert means 'of shining fame,' " he said promptly.
"But you prefer Robin, as in Robin Hood." Did the fact that he knew the meaning prove that Robert was his real name? Given his magpie assortment of knowledge, it probably meant nothing.
The chill was going from her bones, dissolved by the warmth of his embrace. He made a wonderful blanket. Sleepily she said, "This is rather like bundling."
"Bundling?"
"A frontier custom for courting couples," she explained. "Distances between homesteads mean that sometimes young men must stay the night at their sweethearts' houses. Guest rooms are rare, so they'll share a bed, both of them wearing clothing to keep matters from getting out of hand. Usually the bed will be divided by a board down the middle, with jagged teeth on top."
"Sounds like a custom the English could practice profitably. Over here, being caught in a garden kissing a girl can lead to a fast and unwelcome marriage." He smiled into the darkness. "I'm s
ure your countrymen realize that neither bundling board nor clothing will stop determined people."
"Jumping the board is not uncommon," she admitted. "There are a number of bundling ballads that say things like 'Bundlers' clothes are no defense,/ Unruly horses push the fence.'"
Robin laughed and she joined him. His laughter was as warming as his arms. "Sometimes the wedding takes place sooner than expected." She yawned again. "But farms need children, so most people don't think it any great sin."
Then, warm and secure for the first time in far too long, she drifted into sleep—listening to the wind, the rain, and the steady beat of Robin's heart.
Chapter 11
Maxie awoke in a haze of warm pleasure. The scent of hay filled her nostrils, and Robin's slumbering body protected her from the damp dawn air. One of his hands was resting on her breast. It felt nice—very nice—but it wouldn't do for him to wake and think a precedent had been set. Gently she moved his hand down to neutral territory.
Her movement roused him. Lazily he rolled onto his back and stretched, his body going taut alongside hers. She propped herself up on one elbow, admiring his tousled golden hair. He must have looked very like this when he was a little boy who had longed for a pirate patch and saber scars.
She smiled. "Good morning. I slept well. Did you?"
He smiled back, with such stunning effect that all she could think of was how wonderful it would be to see him like this every day for the rest of her life. "Very well indeed," he said in a husky morning voice.
He put a casual hand on her shoulder as he settled into the hay again. At least, it started as casual. Their gazes met, and there was a long, dangerous moment of intense mutual awareness.
Slowly, as if against his will, his hand began sliding down her sleeve. His warm palm brought the flesh under it to vibrant life. As her breath quickened, she thought of the bundling song, and of how clothing was no barrier to determined couples.
His eyes darkened and his hand paused so that his thumb could stroke the sensitive inside of her elbow.
Angel Rogue Page 11