His mouth twitched. “Certainly. Who knows what vile tricksters might be lurking around the corner, ready to prey on an innocent young female?”
He put an emphasis on the word “innocent” that made her roll her eyes. Just because she’d visited Mistress Riviere’s establishment didn’t make her a bawd. Why wasn’t there a pile of fresh horse dung when one wanted some? She felt much inclined to push Sir Robert into a heap of it.
“Apologies if my following you makes you uneasy. I do it to deter predators. My blade is yours to command, as would my longbow be—if I had it with me.”
Predators, indeed! She could easily accuse him of being one such, with his feline ability to appear silently at her side. And like cats, his pounce—as she knew to her cost—was decisive. Before she could prepare a cutting rejoinder, there was a shout behind them, signaling that the wagon was ready to trundle off again.
Sir Robert was still limping, she noticed, as they returned to their fellow passengers. But there was naught wrong with the strength of his arms as he hoisted her onto the cart.
She had dreaded his touch, but it was unavoidable without causing a scene. The sensation of his hot hands around her waist filled her with all manner of wayward imaginings. These included daydreams about kisses and the things she’d seen in paintings at her mother’s bawdy house. Furious at herself, she leaned back as soon as she’d resumed her seat and pretended to be asleep. Although she could feel Sir Robert’s gaze on her, she refused to open her eyes and, instead, set herself to the problem of what she could do next to find her father and escape Lord Brooke.
Which was why she was completely unprepared when the wagon suddenly lurched and precipitated her forward, right on top of Sir Robert Mallory.
Chapter Nine
Robert was contemplating Madam Mystery’s delightful features and wondering if she was as innocent as she looked when she was suddenly gifted to him by a rut in the road. Her hazel eyes flashed open, her cheeks reddened, and her chest heaved in a way he found deliciously arousing.
Reluctantly, he helped her back onto her pack of clothing, then realized the wagon was no longer moving. Worse still, it had tilted over to one side.
Jesu! He needed no delays when he had an urgent dispatch for Walsingham. Surely, all his patience and trouble could not have been in vain?
He’d picked up the document late last night, having waited until he was confident of being unobserved. Learning from his bribed network of street urchins that this first wagon heading out of Southampton would be early, he’d decided not to risk sleep, lest he miss it.
He’d known it wouldn’t make a comfortable journey but had eschewed the idea of traveling by horse or litter. The latter two modes of transport would make him vulnerable to enemies, for if any traitors knew of the dispatch, they’d watch the roads and intercept it. At least on a country cart, he’d have the company of his fellow passengers. The muscled bulk of the carter himself would be invaluable against any attackers. It was a long way from Southampton’s port to London, and he needed to be alert for every single mile.
He’d deliberately dressed down for the journey, donning the unostentatious attire of a country yeoman. His doublet was of cheap, homespun wool but just like his others, it boasted a hidden pocket. This he patted, to reassure himself that the oilskin-wrapped dispatch was still there.
He felt the cart shift and realized its driver had leaped down. There was more to this halt than just going through a rut, then—something was amiss. Forcing a smile, he glanced at his fair companion. “I’ll jump down, too, and see what’s wrong. Mayhap I can help.”
But as he sprang down from the wagon’s tail, he was nearly bowled over by another passenger, clearly bent on the same purpose. As he fought for balance, the fellow pulled him upright and assumed a contrite expression.
“Apologies, sir—I wasn’t looking. No harm done, I hope?”
Robert eyed the stringy little fellow with distaste. The man reminded him of a rat, skulking and predatory. Or even a weasel, with beady eyes and a rapid, darting way of moving.
Pulling his doublet back straight, Robert replied, “I accept your apology. A mere accident.” Thinking no more of it, he hastened off to join the carter, who was peering under the vehicle. The weaselly man stepped past him to hold and calm the lead horse.
The carter straightened and glanced at Robert. “The axle’s got a crack in it after that pothole. I reckon I can splint it up soundly enough to get us to the next village where the cartwright can do a proper job on it. But I’d like to get a bit of the weight off, and lift the cart up so I can get under there.”
“Of course. We’ll help howsoever we can.” Robert returned to the tail of the cart and relayed the news. But he didn’t give the passengers time to fret or complain. Instead, he immediately began giving orders and assigning tasks. Madam Mystery assisted the remaining passengers down and helped disembark their luggage, while he and the weaselly man rolled the alum barrels to the wagon’s rear. The carter, exhibiting the strength of an ox, hefted them to the ground, then stood a large barrel upright beside the vehicle.
“We need the height. If we can lever up the corner, we can prop the cart on the barrel while I make a repair.”
It was a hot day for such work, but Robert couldn’t remove his doublet because of the dispatch. He’d just have to take a dip in the nearest stream to cool himself as soon as he had the chance. As he bent his back to a hefty pole to lever the cart up, he kept an eye on his traveling chest. It contained a knife, drugs, poison, and a brace of dags, the smallest firearms he could find. Not very reliable, but an essential part of any spy’s arsenal these days. They were worth a pretty penny, too, so it wouldn’t do to lose them.
Eventually, the job was done, and he took himself off to the shade of an oak to get his breath and wipe the sweat from his brow.
And overhear, as it turned out, an entertaining conversation between the egg-woman and Madam Mystery, who were strolling about together on the verge behind him. He heard the older woman introduce herself as Goodwife Ramsay and held his breath. Was he finally going to discover the identity of his enigmatic damsel?
“Chloe Emmerson—pleased to meet you. I hope this won’t delay us long.”
“Chloe Emmerson.” Robert tested out the name. It was one he didn’t know, and it might not be her real name, of course, but it was a beginning.
“My Hal will be sore if I don’t get back by nightfall. He doesn’t fare well by himself.”
“Nightfall?” Mistress Emmerson sounded shocked. No matter. He’d ensure she was safe. There was bound to be an inn nearby with rooms available where he could watch over her. Indeed, if he was right about their current location, the White Hart was only a few miles farther on.
“You’re worried about that young fellow taking advantage.” Goody Ramsay’s voice had a conspiratorial edge.
“He’s not my young man,” Mistress Emmerson responded crisply. “I barely know him.”
“I can tell that, wench. But he’d like to know you better, methinks. I know his kind—charming on the surface but a hot-blooded rogue beneath. Ah, the way he looked at you as you slept! You seem a proper gentlewoman, and I’d not want to see you fall prey to a handsome devil like that. If you’re not on your guard, he’ll be in your bed before you can say ninepence.”
The loud sound of hammering drowned out the next exchange between the two women, and by the time it had stopped, they were out of earshot. Silently, Robert congratulated himself on his skill at espionage—neither of the women had had any idea of his presence. Although he didn’t care for Goody Ramsay’s opinion of him.
The carter called out that his vehicle could be reloaded again. Scrambling to his feet, Robert ran his tongue over his dry lips. He, for one, would be grateful for a stop at the White Hart, before he died of thirst.
No one would be going anywhere until the precious cargo of dye fixative was loaded back on the wagon. It would be a hot job—dare he take off his doublet and work in
shirt sleeves? He could tuck the dispatch into the top of his upper hose and keep it in place with his belt.
He patted his hidden pocket.
There was nothing there.
Chapter Ten
It was the carter himself who helped Chloe and Goodwife Ramsay back onto the wagon. Sir Robert seemed to have forgotten Chloe’s very existence, giving the lie to Goody Ramsay’s assertions. He leaned still as a stone in an oak’s leafy shade, one hand pressed to his heart as if he had a pain there. Suddenly, he bent, skirted the tree, and scanned the ground round about as if looking for something.
Chloe tutted to herself. Surely, he hadn’t lost his locket again? Whatever it was, he refused to abandon looking for it until the carter started grumbling that it was time to be off. Sir Robert stalked across and heaved himself atop the wagon.
As he sat opposite her once more, she saw his expression was grim, and his face pale. Concerned despite herself, Chloe pulled the stopper from her costrel and offered him what remained of the elderflower wine. He accepted it, sniffed at it—then gave it back to her, scowling.
“You look unwell, sir. I fear you’ve overexerted yourself in this heat.”
He raised an eyebrow and leaned closer. “Are you telling me you don’t know what’s amiss?”
“Of course not,” she whispered back. She realized he was simmering with fury, but trying not to show it. He glared at her for a moment, then bent his blue gaze on the man she’d decided to christen Weasel Face. Before she could question Sir Robert any further, the wagon lurched off, and she had to cling on to avoid being jolted about.
He didn’t deserve her concern. He was a nuisance, an inconvenience—and she wasn’t in the least bit flattered by his interest in her. There was nothing noble about his intentions, and she thoroughly disliked his lack of trust in her.
Nothing more was said, but Sir Robert’s mood weighed her down and leached all pleasure from the day. It was a relief when they trundled to a halt before an inn bearing the name of the White Hart. He was out of the cart before anyone else, helping the passengers down. She was left until last but, this time, his hands didn’t linger, and he immediately turned away. She hung about uncertainly in the yard while the other passengers disappeared, and the cart headed off to be repaired.
Would they have to spend the night at this inn? It couldn’t be much past midday now, but she’d no idea how long it would take to fix the axle. She’d stayed at an inn on her journey south, but she’d been in the guise of a boy then. She didn’t feel half so safe in her present garb. Mayhap she could share a chamber with Goody Ramsay and her basket of eggs.
“Carry your bag, Mistress?” A boy emerged from the doorway and gave her a gap-toothed grin.
“Greetings, Sim! How goes it?”
He’d done it again—Sir Robert had snuck up on her.
He seemed to know the potboy. “Sir!” The lad gave an awkward bow. “I’ll run in and tell them you’re here.”
Chloe sighed. It looked as if she’d be carrying her own bag.
Sir Robert seized it from her. “I’ll take this. My chest is already gone inside. I’m sorry you were left until last.”
Though he smiled, there was no warmth in his voice. Whatever had angered him had not yet been resolved. She hoped it was nothing to do with her.
“You know that boy?” she queried.
“Sim? Aye. I’ve been this way before. The landlord is called Hazelthwaite—a sound fellow.”
“Shall we be forced to stay here, think you?”
“I’d bespeak a room, if I were you, just in case. We shall, at the very least, be taking our midday meal here. Dine well and rest while you can—the carrier won’t want to make too many more stops now that he’s been delayed.”
Chloe stepped through the shadowy tavern doorway and waited for her eyes to get used to the gloom. The coolness of the flagstones was welcome, and the smell of baking bread enticing. Some of the tension left her.
“Hazelthwaite!” Sir Robert had a mighty loud voice when he chose to use it. Chloe jumped, then glanced around to ensure no one had seen her.
The taproom was empty but for Weasel Face, who touched his cap at her, then continued with his drink.
A thin-faced man strode in and beamed at Sir Robert.
“All is in readiness, sir. I made sure no one took your preferred room as soon as I spied you arriving.”
“You have my thanks, Master. But you have another customer waiting.” Sir Robert bowed and indicated Chloe.
The landlord’s face fell. “Begging your pardon, Mistress, but that was the last of the rooms. Someone will put you up in the village for a groat or two, I’m sure—I’ll send Sim to knock on a few doors.”
Chloe’s heart sank. This was a complication she could do without.
“I won’t hear of it.” Sir Robert nodded in her direction. “Mistress Emmerson must have my room. I’ll go to the village, or make up a pallet in your hayloft.”
Her urge to be impressed by his generosity was eclipsed by the fact that he knew her name. How long had he known it? Why call her Madam Mystery if he knew who she was—what manner of game was the man playing?
“Nay, indeed, sir. Don’t put yourself out.” Her voice sounded tight.
“I’ve dealt with worse than old Hazelthwaite’s hayloft. Besides which, I swore to be your guardian, did I not? So we must remain close.”
She resisted the urge to suggest he sleep outside her door, like a faithful guard dog. Honestly, why did the man insist on clinging to her like a leech?
The boy, Sim, reappeared and hoisted Chloe’s bag over his shoulder.
“One moment.” Sir Robert turned to her. “Would it inconvenience you too much if I bestowed my chest in your room? It would be safer with you than in the hayloft.”
“I can lock it in the cellar if you—”
He silenced the innkeeper with a wave of his hand. “Nay. I’m certain Mistress Emmerson’s room will be secure enough. I wouldn’t place her in it otherwise. I’ll just take out a couple of things I need.” He removed a few items, then nodded at Chloe. “Now, follow Sim, and I’ll see you when ’tis time for our repast. I’m off to find the nearest well and wash off the stink of toil.”
Chloe followed Sim, the heavy oak stairs creaking beneath their feet as they ascended to the inn’s first floor. The building must be of some antiquity—there wasn’t a single right angle in the place. Everything smelled of wood smoke, and the few tapestries gracing the walls had no more than the ghosts of images on them, the cheap dyes having failed over the decades.
Her room was at the end of one wing. The bed—though narrow—looked tempting, and she realized how enervated the heat and excitement had made her. Could she face being sociable over a meal? Nay, she’d rather have something brought upstairs and enjoy some peace and quiet.
Sitting down, she pressed her hands on the mattress. It crackled back at her—straw, not horsehair. But the bedding looked clean and smelled of lye soap. Sighing, she discovered she was not only hungry but thirsty, too. No one had come to see what she wanted, so she must go below after all. As she crossed to the door, her gaze was drawn to Sir Robert’s traveling chest.
What did he keep in this precious box of his? She was about to determine whether or not it was locked when a rap on her door had her starting back guiltily.
“Come!”
The boy, Sim, entered, bearing a covered tray. He bowed and placed it beside the bed.
“Compliments of Sir Robert, Mistress. He thought you might be too tired to face company, so has sent you up some vittles.” Without giving her time to respond, he backed out of the room and shut the door.
Curse Sir Robert Mallory! Just when she’d made up her mind to dislike him, he was piling one thoughtful deed upon another.
She removed the cloth and revealed a stout pitcher with a horn beaker beside it, some salt gammon, pears, fresh bread, and a portion of sweet onion and currant tart. She sniffed at the pitcher. It smelled like small beer,
but with a bitter note to it. No matter—she was thirsty enough to drink anything.
Kicking her heels against the side of the bed, she consumed her meal and gazed through her tiny window, between the leafy branches of a nearby ash to the hills beyond. It was a pleasant spot, in truth. Why should she care if she must delay returning home? In fact, any delay would be welcome, as it afforded her time to consider her next move.
Mercy, but she was sleepy! When she tilted her head to drain the last of the beer, the room spun around her.
“This. Is. Peculiar.” She felt as if she were being pressed down onto the bed, her limbs weighted with lead. She closed her eyes, but still felt as if she were moving, spinning giddily out of control.
Something was very wrong. Sliding off the bed, she attempted to crawl to the door, meaning to call for help.
But darkness descended before she reached it.
Chapter Eleven
Robert waited until dusk, though the suspense was gnawing at his nerves. It was a devilishly tricky ruse, knocking someone out with poppy juice. One had to account for their size and weight, consider which of the four humors reigned over their anatomy, and measure the drug with pinpoint accuracy.
Mistress Emmerson would be weary, in any case, from the heat. By his reckoning, she’d be insensible until nightfall, and then sleep a natural sleep until dawn. By which time, he would have recovered his dispatch, and both he—and it—would be on a fast horse on their way to London. The local authorities could deal with Mistress Emmerson. He could imagine the Catholic plotters sending one spy, but he doubted they’d send two, so the rest of his journey should be clear of danger once she was behind bars. If he was this vulnerable to pickpockets, he’d have to get someone to sew his dispatches into his clothing.
He knocked loudly on Mistress Emmerson’s door, then called her name, but there was no response. Glancing quickly around, he let himself into her room with his spare key and locked the door behind him. It was always useful to have duplicate keys to his “favorite rooms” at his regular stops between Southampton and London.
Lord of Mistrust (Trysts and Treachery Book 4) Page 5