Angel Rogue

by Mary Jo Putney

  "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 north 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 hand 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 his 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.

  The two men slowly circled each other, their taut wariness sporadically interrupted by brief, violent clashes. Robin kept his distance as much as possible, moving in for a lightning hit, then darting out of range again. He had the edge in speed, but the other man had the lethal advantages of reach and weight.

  To Maxie's disgust, she realized that Simmons was enjoying himself. After a particularly clever sally on his opponent's part, the big man said approvingly, "You're damned good, 'specially for a gentry cove."

  He accompanied his words with a series of murderous punches to the head and shoulders. Robin skipped back, but was unable to block the barrage entirely. Several blows landed, leaving him gasping and off balance.

  Simmons followed up his advantage with a fist in Robin's midriff that sent the smaller man to the ground. Crowing with triumph, the Londoner moved in to finish the fight.

  A good deal less defeated than he looked, Robin knocked Simmons from his feet with a scythelike sweep of his leg. Even as the larger man was falling, Robin exploded into a blur of movement too swift for Maxie to follow. It ended with the Londoner face down on the ground and Robin's knee in his back.

  His hands applying a wrestling hold that could break the neck of a man too foolish to surrender, Robin snapped, "Yield!"

  Even furious, Simmons was not a fool. He reluctantly raised one hand in submission.

  Unfortunately, his cohorts were unwilling to accept the result. With snarls and no thoughts for sportsmanship, two of them went after the man who had defeated their employer.

  Maxie screamed, "Robin!" She dropped his coat and scooped a handful of dust and gravel from the road with her empty hand, then flung it in the faces of the bruisers. The men howled.

  Robin used the moment's warning to leap to his feet. A perfectly aimed kick knocked one man down. Without losing a second, he whirled and caught the second man's arm, then flung him to the ground. Though his lightning-quick moves had a dancer's grace, they left both opponents sprawling, one with his arm bent at an unnatural angle.

  As Robin disposed of his two attackers, the third man grabbed a rock and swung it at Robin's skull with lethal force. Maxie dived at him and clutched his arm, using her whole weight in an attempt to deflect the blow. As he staggered, she smashed her fist and the striking stick into his breast bone.

  When her blow rammed home, he gave a strangled squawk, but her assault was only partially successful. The stone struck Robin just above the ear with a sickening thud. Though she had managed to reduce the force, the impact was enough to send Robin crumpling to the cobblestones.

  Furious and terrified for Robin, she slashed at the third man's face with clawed fingers. As he tried to protect his eyes, she kneed him viciously in the groin. Then she jabbed him in the throat with the striking stick. He made an indescribable sound and folded over on himself like a suit of empty clothes.

  The least damaged man present, Simmons lunged to his feet and grabbed Maxie in a bear hug, trapping her arms and legs. Thrash as she might, she couldn't free herself, though she managed a few good butts and bites.

  "Stop that, you little hellion!" Simmons gasped, locking her hands behind her back in one meaty fist. With the other, he wrenched the stick from her hand and tossed it away. "My lads shouldn't've interfered in a fair fight, but by God, if you don't behave, you'll regret it."

  Recognizing the need for a strategic truce, she stopped struggling. Her terrified gaze went to Robin. He lay senseless in the dust, his blond hair stained by the slow seep of blood.

  Keeping a firm grip on her, Simmons scowled at the two men who were stumbling to their feet. "'You fought like a bunch of girls," he said contemptuously. "Worse! This little wench has more spit and vinegar than the three of you put together!"

  His expression vicious, one of the bruisers drew back his foot to kick Robin.

  Simmons snapped, "Touch 'im and I'll break your arm myself. You get over to the livery stable and bring the ca
rriage 'round."

  In a cloud of surly muttering, the two men left. The third bruiser still lay in the road, sublimely unaware.

  Maxie wondered angrily where the citizens of Market Harborough were, but this was a drab backstreet, more warehouses than homes, and no one came. "Let me go so I can see to Robin," she said tightly. "He may be badly hurt."

  "He'll survive, though it might 'a gone hard with 'im if you hadn't grabbed Wilby's arm." Simmons shook his head. "Wilby really shouldn't 'a done that. It's hard to get reliable help."

  Maxie's sympathy was nil, but for the moment discretion was the better part of valor. Trying to sound resigned she asked, "What are you going to do with us?"

  "You're going to Durham, trussed like a Christmas goose if necessary. Now, as for your friend, that's a question, and no mistake." Simmons frowned. "I could just leave 'im here, but 'e might come after me. 'E seems the stubborn sort. Mebbe I'll give 'im to the local constable, say 'e stole my horse."

  After a moment's thought, he chuckled. "Aye, that's the ticket. By the time 'e's brought up to the magistrate, you'll be in Durham, and then you're Collingwood's problem." He rubbed his cheek, where a wide bruise was forming. "Better 'im than me."

  As he talked, his grip on her hands loosened. Deciding that there was no time like the present, Maxie tried to wrench herself from his grasp. She managed to break away for a moment, but before she could get clear, he grabbed one of her wrists.

  Another furious skirmish followed. Even knowing it was hopeless, she continued to struggle. She managed to get a good swipe at Simmons's face with her fingernails, scratching his bruised cheek until it bled.

  "I warned you, you little vixen!" Simmons dragged Maxie over to the low brick wall that bounded the street and sat down. Then he turned her over his knee and began to spank her with a hard, massive hand.

  For a moment, she was stunned with disbelief and the sheer indignity of what he was doing. The Iroquois did not believe in being violent with children. Her father had also preferred reason to force, so she had never been spanked in her life.

  The fighting that had gone before had been fierce but without deadly intent. Now the last traces of her English restraint dissolved.

  Maxie inhaled a deep lungful of air, then gave a Mohawk war whoop that vibrated the panes of glass in nearby windows. It was a savage explosion of sound unlike anything heard in England since the natives wore blue paint.

  Simmons gasped, his hand suspended in midair. "Gawd a'mighty, what was that?"

  And in the moment he was distracted, Maxie twisted, pulled the knife from her boot, and came up slashing.

  Chapter 18

  Robin never wholly lost consciousness, but for a time he was very disconnected from his surroundings. His body and mind became reacquainted in time for him to see Simmons put Maxie over his knee. Robin wanted to warn the Londoner that spanking her was not a wise idea, but his voice didn't seem to want to work. With dizziness and near blackout, he slowly pushed to his knees.

  Maxie's war whoop gave an electrifying jolt to his system. He raised his head to see her swinging her knife at Simmons's jugular. Swearing, the Londoner dodged back. The glittering blade barely missed his throat, grazing his shoulder instead.

  Before his bloodthirsty comrade could try again, Robin managed to croak, "Stop it, Maxie!"

  Her wild brown eyes shifted to him. She hesitated, rage and reason warring in her expression.

  In a moment before something worse could happen, Robin staggered over to Simmons, coming from an angle where the Londoner couldn't see him. Then he rendered the other man unconscious with the blood-stopping hold he had used before. It was dangerous, but Simmons's chances of survival were greater if he was knocked out this way than if Maxie was the one to end the fight.

  Simmons made a choking noise, then keeled off the wall, almost taking Robin down with him. Maxie caught Robin swiftly, her hands supplying much-needed support. Her words, however, were tart. "You should have let me take care of him."

  Robin clung to her as his eyesight darkened around the edges. For once, he scarcely noticed the delicious feel of her. "Sorry," he said unsteadily, "but I really don't like seeing people killed."

  She made a sound that suggested both disdain and that the conversation would be continued at a more suitable time. But with an admirable focus on the immediate, she asked, "Can you walk? The others will be back soon."

  He folded down on the wall and buried his face in his hands, trying to think his way through the shattering pain in his skull. "I'll need help."

  She briskly resheathed her knife and helped him into his coat. Then she retrieved the striking stick, slung both knapsacks on her own back, tugged Robin to his feet, and pulled his arm over her shoulders.

  As they wove their way down the street, he reflected with dizzy appreciation on how much strength was in her petite frame. Still, it was fortunate that the canal was only on the far side of the warehouses.

  The question was, what would they do when they got there?

  * * *

  As soon as they entered the inn, Giles ordered a private parlor, with brandy immediately and food to follow. Lady Ross was still shaken by her narrow escape, and she let herself be escorted to the parlor with a docility that Giles did not expect to last long. Her face was gray beneath the flamboyant red hair.

  After guiding her to a chair, he inspected her upper arm where the ox horn had gored. The pale skin visible through her slashed clothing was lacerated, but the wound was superficial, with little blood. "No serious damage done, though you'll have heavy bruising."

  A maid brought the brandy. Giles poured a glass for his companion. She choked on the first mouthful, but color began to return to her face. "There will be bruising in a number of less mentionable places as well," she said with a crooked smile.

  "You would know that better than I."

  She pushed her loose hair off her brow with fingers that were almost steady again. "Give me a few minutes to go to my room and make myself presentable. Then I want to hear about the men who were after Maxima and Lord Robert."

  Lady Ross restored herself to thunderous respectability very quickly. When she returned, her hair had been tamed and hidden under a cap, she had changed into another dress as drab as the previous one, and her full figure was swaddled in a shawl. Giles preferred her disheveled. Even so, her restrained appearance did nothing to slow the hot pulse beat of sexual awareness.

  The meal that had been ordered was brought as soon as she reached the parlor. By tacit consent, they ate before addressing the serious issues. When they had reached the stage of coffee, Desdemona cocked a brow at the marquess. "About those men?"

  "One of them I recognized, and I suspect that he is the agent your brother sent after Miss Collins." Wolverton explained how he had aided the man called Simmons several days earlier. "So not only are you and I hot on the trail, but apparently Simmons and his helpers as well."

  "There is an element of farce to this." Desdemona's mouth quirked in an unwilling smile. "But from what little I could see, I didn't like the looks of Simmons and his associates."

  "Men who do such work aren't drawn from the most genteel ranks," the marquess said dryly. "If they had been hired to take Miss Collins back to Durham, I don't imagine they will hurt her, but they might not be so careful of my brother."

  "From what you've told me, Lord Robert seems to have won every round so far." Desdemona took a deep swallow of scalding black coffee. "You said that he has been out of England for a number of years. Was he a diplomat or in the army?"

  Wolverton sighed and toyed with his own cup, visibly weighing how to respond. "I'll tell you on the condition that you speak of it to no one."

  "His behavior was that disgraceful?"

  The marquess lifted his head, his slate eyes colder than she had ever seen them. "Quite the contrary. But what he did was highly confidential and there may be ramifications for years, even decades, to come. Nor is the story mine to tell."

  "You
r brother was a spy?" The deduction was not difficult. She added with heavy sarcasm, "One can see how he developed his notions of honorable behavior."

  Wolverton's eyes narrowed at her tone. "Yes, he was a spy. A practitioner of the most dangerous and unrespected kind of warfare, utterly essential and utterly secret. Robin was hardly more than a boy, traveling on the Continent during the Peace of Amiens, when he stumbled over something he thought the Foreign Office should know. He was asked to stay on, and for the next dozen years he risked his life and sanity a thousand times over to protect his country and end the war sooner."

  The marquess stopped, his silence gathering menacing weight, then finished in a soft, hard voice, "And so that people like you could sit safe and smug in England and judge him."

  Blushing was the curse of the redhead, and Desdemona was true to her breed. Waves of hot, humiliated color spread from her hairline to her collar and below. "I'm sorry," she said painfully. "No matter how angry I am about what your brother has done to my niece, I should not have spoken as I did." She was more than ashamed; she also felt bereft at the withdrawal of Wolverton's usual warmth. To her relief, his expression eased.

  "Your reaction is not unusual," he said. "Spying requires nerves of steel and a number of skills a gentleman shouldn't have. Robin was very, very good at it, or he would never have survived. He has been tested in ways that would break most men, and that very nearly broke him."

  "Is that why you're so protective of him?" she asked quietly.

  "I would be anyhow. He's the only family I have left, and even though I know he's ferociously competent, he's still my little brother." Wolverton sighed. "I know very little beyond what he has chosen to tell me since he returned to England, and I am devoutly grateful that I wasn't better informed during the years he was abroad. God knows it was bad enough wondering if I would ever see him again, or if he would simply disappear, one of the nameless unmourned dead, and I would never know how or when."