A subtle shake of his head. ‘No.’
‘You will allow me to continue walking?’ He could see the suspicion in her clear hazel eyes as if she did not quite believe him.
‘For today,’ he said.
She gave a cautious nod.
He slipped from his horse and walked towards her, seeing the way she tensed ready to run. ‘Your cloak.’ He stopped short of reaching her, and held out his hand.
And beneath the suspicion he saw surprise.
She hesitated, and her eyes raised to his as if in question as she handed him the cloak. ‘Thank you.’
He rolled the cloak to a ball and fitted it into his saddlebags.
‘Thank you,’ she said again, and Wolf knew that her gratitude was not because of the cloak.
‘Start walking,’ he said in a harsh voice, lest she think that he was softening.
He took the horse’s reins in his hand and leading the animal behind him, he began to walk by her side.
She stopped suddenly, stared at him with wide wary eyes. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Ensuring you keep to the pace,’ he lied.
She looked uncertain, as if she was not sure whether to believe him or not. ‘Can you not do so equally well on horse back?’
‘No.’ He did not elaborate the untruth.
She swallowed down what retort she would have given, and nodded cautiously.
They walked on in silence, side by side.
Rosalind was acutely conscious of Wolf’s proximity, of his tall frame and long muscular legs. She knew without looking how easy his stride was, how relaxed and how unchallenged his breathing; clearly he was used to walking, unlike herself. She wondered why he was walking with her rather than riding behind. She should resent it, she thought, but she could not for she knew how easily he could have taken her up on his great grey stallion. Why he had chosen not to was a mystery.
She risked a subtle glance across at him. His face was just as hard and just as handsome in profile. He faced forward, his focus trained some distance ahead. Beneath the battered leather of his hat, feathers of fair hair fluttered in the breeze. She scanned the straight line of his nose, the angle of his cheekbone, and the scar that sat upon it. Her eyes traced the strong line of his jaw, up to his lips that for once were not pressed firm and hard together, and found herself wondering what he would look like if he were to smile, properly smile a smile of happiness instead of the cynical curve of his mouth she had seen.
Without warning, he turned his head and met her eyes, catching her quite unaware so that she blushed. She rapidly averted her gaze but not before she had felt the questioning intensity of his stare. She walked on—increasing her pace, not slowing it—and the whole right-hand side of her body, by which he walked, seemed to tingle with a strange awareness.
The hours passed slowly until the air had lost its warmth and the light was dimming as the clouds began to gather overhead. Miss Meadowfield was still walking. Wolf had not thought that she would last so long.
Her head was still held high, yet she was unable to hide the slight droop of her shoulders or the slowing of her pace. He knew that she must be exhausted and her feet sore, for he was weary enough and he was used to walking and had walked a good number of hours less.
Wolf slipped back up into his saddle and rode past her to Campbell and Kempster. ‘Penrith’s a mile ahead. That’s where we’ll stop for the night.’
‘You should have taken her up on your horse. We’ve lost too much time. Evedon’ll be getting jumpy if we’re delayed.’
Wolf turned a hard eye on Kempster. ‘Evedon will have her in plenty of time. You need not concern yourself with our schedule, Mr Kempster.’
‘Just sayin’’ said Kempster with a shrug.
‘Best to say nothing, laddie.’ Campbell smiled but the smile did not touch his eyes.
‘Ride on ahead to the Crown Inn and secure us a couple of rooms. Here.’ Wolf drew a leather purse from his pocket and threw it to Kempster.
The other man gave a nod, and manoeuvred his horse out to the middle of the road.
‘And Kempster,’ called Wolf.
He looked back. ‘It’s counted.’
Kempster’s mouth tightened, but he said nothing, just kicked his heels into his horse’s flanks and rode off.
Campbell waited until Kempster was out of earshot before speaking. ‘He’s right you know.’
‘He is that.’ Wolf’s horse kept on walking. He glanced behind at where Miss Meadowfield followed.
Her face was pale and covered in dust, but her eyes met his and held before she averted her gaze.
‘You’ve punished her enough, Wolf, I doubt she’ll try another escape after this.’
‘This is nothing of punishment, Struan. What the hell kind of man do you think me?’
‘One that hates everything that Miss Meadowfield represents.’
He gave a sigh. ‘I cannot argue with that, but the greater punishment would have been to take her up with me.’
Campbell’s brow knitted. ‘You’re makin’ no sense. Come the morn’ she’ll be begging for you to take her up.’
‘On the contrary, Struan, Miss Meadowfield would rather crawl on all fours than climb up beside me.’
‘Taken a bit o’ a dislike to you has she? Cannae think why.’ Campbell raised an eyebrow in an expression of irony.
‘The mare bolted when she was trying to make a run for it yesterday. She lost control of the horse and it gave her one hell of a fright, not that she’d admit as much. She’s a poor horse woman; you saw how uneasy she was around horses even before yesterday’s episode. The woman’s terrified of riding again.’
‘That explains why she had a face white as chalk when you brought her back. But she was riding the mare then.’
‘Aye, she was that, but only because I forced her back in the saddle straight off. Best thing after an incident like that. Usually conquers the fear.’
‘Except it doesnae seem to have worked in Miss Meadowfield’s case.’
‘No, Struan, it does not.’
‘The lassie’s dead on her feet. Maybe this day of walking will make her change her mind.’
‘Somehow I do not think so,’ said Wolf grimly. Her discomfort served her right, he told himself, but he did not believe it. She had been so damned insistent on walking. It was not anything that the poor did not do every day of their lives. But Rosalind Meadowfield was not poor. She had not walked to collect water, walked to rummage in midden heaps to find food, walked the streets because there was nowhere else to go. She knew nothing of survival, and what was so wrong in letting her taste a little of how the other half lived? Yet still he dropped his horseback until he was level with her, and swung himself down to walk once more by her side.
She briefly glanced in his direction before turning her face forward once more, but not before he saw how pale she was and the unmistakable fatigue that shadowed her eyes. He felt the hand of guilt squeeze at his innards.
‘One more mile,’ he said to her.
She nodded. He doubted she had energy enough left to speak.
They continued on, the silence only broken by their footsteps and the clop of his horse’s hooves behind. He did not look at her, not once, and yet he was aware of her every breath, of the slight awkwardness in the light tread of her boots through the dust of the road, and of every tired nuance in her frame. And although she still represented everything that he had been raised to hate, he found perversely that there was a part of him that was willing her on, step by step of that last mile.
A mile had never seemed so long, yet Rosalind gritted her teeth against the pain and kept going. Only when they had finally reached their destination and she was alone within the bedchamber of the Crown Inn did she give in to it. She was so tired she could not think straight, so tired that she could not stop the flow of silent tears that leaked down her cheeks. And she did not even understand why she wept, only that she felt so small and weak in comparison to the task that lay ah
ead.
He would come for her in a minute, to take her down to the public room. She thought of how he had walked by her side, and there had been nothing of mockery and anger in him then. Indeed, she had the feeling he was supporting her, buoying her up, willing her on. And then there was the way that he had not taken her by force upon his horse, allowing her to walk, almost as if he understood her fear. A ridiculous notion for sure. Wolf was harsh and cruel. He hated her. He was taking her to Evedon. Wasn’t he? But his actions today ran contrary to all she thought of him. This day had not been as she expected. He had not been as she expected.
She felt numb from exhaustion, numb, and yet she still she wept. Her cheeks were hot, even though the bedchamber was cool and the grate empty. No candles had been lit and there was a sense of comfort in the dusky shadowed grey light. She sat down upon the bed, wiping the tears from her face with dust-stained fingers, knowing she could not let him see her like this. The bed was narrow, its covers coarse and worn. Yet she lay her length upon it as if it were a silken luxury, easing the weight from the throbbing ache in her legs. Two minutes. Just to rest for two minutes. The pillow was soft as down beneath her head. She closed her eyelids against the hot grittiness of her eyes and welcomed the darkness.
Wolf was feeling uneasy about the day as he knocked upon Miss Meadowfield’s door. The woman had surprised him this day. He had seen the fear that she tried to hide and he recognized the dogged determination that sprung from it. Thirty miles, and not one word of complaint. The incident with the little mare must have scared her more than he had realized. Only once had she looked at him, and he thought again of the faint colour that had warmed her pale cheeks as he had caught her.
No reply came from within the room, but Wolf waited where he was without a word just the same. The minutes passed. He knocked again and called her name. No response. No sound of movement of any kind. What game was she playing now? Had she sneaked away in those few moments alone, or was she blatantly ignoring him in an attempt to put him back in his place where he belonged? He felt the flare of his temper, and without further ado thrust the door open.
Rosalind Meadowfield lay on the bed, limp and motionless, her bonnet askew and crushed upon her head, her clothes still thick with the road’s dust. Dread twisted in Wolf’s chest, and all of his anger was gone in a second. He did not remember how he got there, just that he was by her side, leaning over her, examining, listening. Only when he heard her breath did he release his own in a gush. He saw then the tracks her tears had made through the dirt on her cheeks; something tightened in his stomach and he knew it was guilt.
Beneath the filth her cheeks were flushed. His hand moved to gently cup her heated skin.
She stirred in her sleep, opened her eyes to look at him. ‘Wolf,’ she murmured, forgoing her usual ‘Mr Wolversley’ for the first time, and there was such exhaustion in that one word that he felt it pierce his soul.
‘Forgive me, I—’ she said, and tried to sit up.
But he slid his hand down to gently still her.
‘Nay, lass. Rest a while. I’ll have a tray sent up to you. See that you eat before you sleep.’
She nodded and her eyes clung to his and what he could see in her gaze was pain and hurt and loneliness to rival his own. And for the first time since leaving London, a shadow of doubt moved over his heart.
Rosalind woke the next morning to a hand touching her shoulder.
‘Miss Meadowfield.’ A man’s voice, and one that she recognized. ‘Miss Meadowfield,’ he said again.
Sleep was heavy upon her and she forced herself to struggle out from beneath it and prise her eyes open. It felt as if she had only closed her eyes a few minutes ago. And for a moment, she thought she was back in her bedchamber in Evedon House, just for a moment, before she remembered and with memory came the fear twisting again in her stomach. She raised her eyes and found herself looking up into Wolf’s pale grey ones.
‘Wolf…?’ Her voice was hoarse and dry with sleep, her head still thick with it.
‘There is warm water upon the dresser. When you are ready, come down to the public room for breakfast. We shall wait for you there.’
There was nothing of mockery or contempt in his face this morning, and the harsh tone had gone from his voice. And she remembered her dream from the night of Wolf, of kindness and a touch so tender that soothed her hurt. But she was not dreaming now, and she wondered at this change in him.
‘Thank you,’ she murmured and her eyes held his, scared to look away lest when she looked again all of his resentment was back.
He gave a gruff nod. ‘I am trusting you, Miss Meadowfield.’ And then he rose and left.
She lay there listening to the sound of his boots receding along the passageway and down the staircase. His words whispered again through her mind, I am trusting you, Miss Meadowfield, and as her eyes swivelled towards the door she realized what he had meant. No key had sounded within the lock. She slipped from the bed, wincing as her feet touched the floor. And when she bent to examine them, she saw the clotted, weeping, bloodied mess where the leather of her boots had chafed the skin of her feet to rawness. Her feet had been sore yesterday, but nothing to compare with the pain of this morning.
She hobbled to the door. The knob turned within her hand, and the door swung open towards her. She heard the hurried thud of heavy footsteps upon the stairs and, quickly and quietly, closed the door again, leaning against its panelled wood while she waited, holding her breath in case it was Wolf returning. Only when the footsteps disappeared into one of the other rooms did she breathe again. But it did not prevent the small shiver that rippled down her spine at the thought of him. The door was open, but she could not run…yet.
Outside, crows were calling, their cawing loud and sinister in the morning air. Rosalind glanced around the small shabby room, her eyes stopping on a small table. It was not too heavy as she lifted it and positioned it to barricade the door, building herself a modicum of security.
The water within the cream china pitcher was warm, just as he had said. She stripped off her clothes. Chilled and vulnerable in her nakedness, she began to wash yesterday’s dust and sweat from her body.
Down in the public room was the smell of breakfast, of coffee and freshly baked bread, frying ham and eggs. But beneath it, last night’s beer, stale and uninviting, lingered faintly. The three men sat at the table, drinking their coffee, and did not speak.
The minutes ticked by and Wolf’s eyes shifted again to the door, wedged open in the corner of the public room, showing a clear view of the lower half of the staircase.
‘Forty-five minutes and still she is not down. Miss Meadowfield is slow in her appearance this morning,’ said Kempster.
Campbell murmured a caution beneath his breath and sipped at his coffee.
The footman chose not to heed Campbell’s words. ‘But then she is not used to dressing without the help of a maid.’
Campbell gave a slight wince at this and glanced at Wolf who was already getting to his feet. ‘Leave it, Wolf. The lassie will be here any minute.’
Wolf’s gaze met his friend’s. ‘She’s mocking us, Struan.’ He did not wait for a reply, just moved across the public room towards the staircase.
By the time he reached Miss Meadowfield’s bedroom, the slow burning fuse of his anger was already well ignited. He had trusted her and she had shown him that he was a fool to have done so. He strode along the corridor, his booted footsteps ringing loud. One glance from those hazel eyes and already he was forgetting what this was about. There he was feeling sorry for her plight! She, who was of the gentry, a woman who cared only for her own selfish gain, with no regard for who she trampled upon to obtain it. What compassion had she for those beneath her?
She was wrapped up in the pettiness of her reputation and Society’s opinion. A gentle woman with nothing of gentle ness, all of it a pretence to mask what lay below. Wolf hated the gentility and nobility with every fibre of his being. And just because she was
a woman, with eyes to haunt a man, she thought she could play him, blind him to what she really was. And he, like a fool, had fallen for it, his heart softening, when in reality she deserved everything that she got, and more. His anger was simmering such that, upon reaching her bedchamber, he did not even knock.
The handle of the door turned easily but the door did not open; he felt it contact something hard and heavy, and he knew that she had barricaded the door against him. He had trusted her, leaving the door unlocked, and this was how she repaid him. And all of that molten anger erupted in a blaze of fury both at her and his own stupidity.
‘Who is there?’ he heard her call.
He gave no reply, just leaned his shoulder on the door and pushed his weight against it. There was a sound of scraping wood and the door moved quickly.
‘Please wait!’ Miss Meadowfield’s voice sounded from the other side of the room.
He did not stop. something wooden and heavy fell over, hitting the floor with a loud thud and the door swung open.
She was standing fully clothed by the bed. He heard her gasp as he walked slowly across the threshold and carefully shut the door behind him.
Chapter Six
Any gentleness, any sense of reason had gone. Rosalind saw the hard set of Wolf’s jaw. She saw too that his eyes had changed from a cool silver to a stormy dark grey. Even the air around him seemed tense. He was wearing the leather trousers, worn and scuffed as his boots, the lace threading the outer seams running the length of his long legs. Beneath his jacket she could see no waistcoat, only a white shirt and neckcloth. He stood there, the door behind him, tall and powerful, his legs slightly apart as if he were balanced, poised, ready to strike. A man about to do battle, a man whose anger was unmistakable. Everything about him seemed to scream a warning of danger. She stepped back, feeling the urge to run, knowing that there was nowhere to run to; that Wolf stood between her and the room’s only exit.
‘What merits this behaviour, sir?’ She cleared her throat and braced her shoulders. ‘You did not need to resort to such violence.’ She glanced towards the table that now lay on its side upon the floor. ‘Had you knocked upon the door, I would have answered.’
Unlacing the Innocent Miss Page 7
