Unlacing the Innocent Miss

by Margaret McPhee

  She felt her heart give a flutter and her stomach suddenly tighten. She backed away from him.

  But Wolf was not to be thwarted. He closed the distance between them.

  She tried to step back farther but she felt the heavy material of the curtains framing the edge of the window and the firmness of the wall behind her.

  His fingers closed around her left wrist, effectively binding her to him. ‘Tell me of your parents, your background.’

  She caught her breath at his question coming so unexpectedly. Her heart was hammering within her chest and her blood rushing in her ears. ‘Of what interest can that be to you, sir?’

  ‘Of extreme interest, I assure you.’ The moonlight flooding the window lit his face well, showing every aspect of the features she had come to know, and revealing the scar that sat across the top of his cheek in clear detail. His jawline was square, hard and determined below a mouth that was sculpted and kissable. She remembered the feel of it pressed against her own. She swallowed hard at the sudden heat that shot low in her belly. Quickly her gaze moved on, taking in his straight manly nose, his nostrils slightly flared with the dark anger that simmered always so close beneath his surface. High angular cheekbones and those silver eyes whose gaze seemed to rake Rosalind’s soul.

  For a moment she was lost in his eyes, entranced so that she could not think straight, and then in the corner of her mind she remembered all she had to lose, and she gathered every last bit of her resolve and managed to break his gaze. And when she looked at him again she was stronger to resist.

  ‘There is nothing to say.’ She looked at him steadily, knowing that she needed every last ounce of determination to keep her nerve.

  ‘Why will you not tell me?’ he said softly.

  She swallowed and her throat was so dry that the sides of it seemed to stick together. ‘I have already told you the truth.’

  ‘Of what?’

  She glanced away, scared that he would see what she was trying to hide.

  He pulled her marginally closer, staring down at her with eyes that seemed to see her very core. ‘Kempster says that your father is dead. Is it true?’

  She jumped at his words, afraid that he was touching too close to her secret. Please make him stop questioning her. She did not want him to know of her real identity and of her father. ‘My family is none of your concern, sir.’

  ‘Have we not already been through the matter of what is my concern when it comes to you?’ His voice was soft as a caress, the words delivered as from one lover to another.

  Her eyes shut tered momentarily. He was standing so close that she could feel the warmth of his breath upon her forehead. She felt herself weakening.

  ‘Miss Meadowfield,’ he said gently and she opened her eyes to find the silver gaze fixed on hers. He released her wrist and moved to hold her hand. His fingers were warm as they encompassed hers, and she felt her skin tingle beneath his touch. ‘Will you not trust me?’

  Lord help her, but she wanted to. She wanted to tell him and for him to take her in his arms and hold her, just hold her. She wanted so much to be free of the burden she had carried for so long. Her steadfastness wavered.

  ‘Wolf,’ she whispered, and gently rubbed her thumb against his, where their hands embraced. ‘I…’

  And then the hint of smoke reached her nose, and instinctively she turned her face to the window and the cold moonlit yard.

  They both saw it, just as the hammering started at the bedchamber door, with Campbell’s voice yelling loud, and from below they could hear other shouts and the scrape and bang of chairs and stools against the wooden floor. Down in the inn’s stables was the flicker of flames.

  By the time Wolf reached the yard, the smoke was billowing thick and the flames had spread. From within the stables came the scream of panicked horses. Men were already leading some of the terrified animals out, taking them on to the road beyond, struggling to control their frantic responses. Women were screaming, men were shouting, running, drawing water from the pump, carrying buckets from which more water spilled than remained to be poured upon the flames.

  ‘Hell,’ Wolf swore softly beneath his breath, not wanting to be involved in any of this, but knowing he was all the same. He organized the rabble of men into a chain along which the buckets of water could be passed, minimizing spillage, allaying confusion, dowsing the fire. Wolf knew it was too late to save the stables, but there was still a chance to prevent the flames from reaching the inn building. There was chaos all around. The fire roared louder than the men’s shouts. Wolf ran into the stable to save the last of the horses.

  The heat and the smoke within the yard were bad enough; inside the stable, they were almost unbearable. He moved quickly, knowing that they did not have much time left before the whole place would be engulfed. He found the last remaining occupied stall, slipped the bolt on its door, and, grabbing the terrified gelding by the mane, led him towards the stable’s big open doors, towards fresh air and freedom. Campbell was running at the other side of the horse, coaxing the beast on, reassuring him with quiet words. They were nearly there when they passed Rosalind Meadowfield, still wearing her great long cloak, running the opposite way.

  Wolf’s gaze spun round after, unable to believe what he thought he was seeing, but then Campbell was shouting her name, and he knew that he had not been mistaken.

  ‘Get yourself and the horse out,’ he yelled at Campbell ‘I’ll fetch her.’

  ‘Be quick, Wolf, or the whole damn place will be down on both your heads.’

  But Wolf was already running, clutching his hand kerchief to his mouth and nose, trying to stave off the worst of the thick acrid smoke.

  She was running towards the ladder that led up to the hayloft, and he sprinted across to head her off. He grabbed her round the waist just as she set foot on the bottom rung, hauled her off and began to carry her towards the door. But she fought him, just as strongly as she had done in the woods earlier that day.

  ‘No!’ she screamed and struggled all the more to get back to the ladder.

  ‘What the hell are you doing? We’ll both die in here if you do not move!’ He lifted her body and moved to swing her over his shoulder.

  ‘The boy,’ she yelled. ‘The little beggar boy is in here. I saw him come in earlier this evening.’

  ‘He’ll be gone.’

  ‘No!’ she wriggled so hard that he almost dropped her, and had to clasp her firm in place as he began to stride away.

  ‘Please, Wolf! Do not leave him to burn!’ She was still struggling against him, and then he heard the weak cry from above and, glanced back to see the small terrified face staring down from the hayloft.

  ‘Mister!’ the boy shouted; his voice was wavering with fear.

  Wolf set Miss Meadowfield down on her feet. ‘Get out of here fast,’ he instructed. ‘I’ll fetch the lad.’ He gave her a push towards the door, and turned back towards the ladder. The heat was unbearable as he climbed its rungs as fast as he could, the wood sliding beneath the sweat where his fingers gripped. He grabbed the boy just as part of the hayloft collapsed and the flames began to lick around the ladder. He looked over the edge, gauging the distance to the ground, and unbelievably, saw Miss Meadowfield standing there, staring right back up at him.

  ‘You will have to drop him over. I will try to catch him,’ she shouted up at him.

  She was right, he realized. There was not time for anything else. He shouted a warning and then dropped the boy towards her. He saw her reach for the small body, and catch him, the impact sending her sprawling on to her back. But Wolf had already jumped and was lifting the boy and dragging Miss Meadowfield up. With the boy in his arms and Miss Meadowfield by his side, he ran for the door, as behind him the last of the hayloft disintegrated and the fire roared with a raging intensity at being deprived of its victims.

  He carried the boy out on to the road before laying him down.

  The child lay there still and unmoving, his little face all black ened by
smoke.

  Wolf slapped gently at the boy’s cheeks, muttering soft words. ‘Come on, lad. Speak to me.’

  And then he saw Miss Meadowfield unfasten her cloak and crouch down by the boy’s body to put the thick fur-lined material over him. ‘Is he…’ Her eyes met Wolf’s in the moonlight, and in them he could see the dread that he heard in her voice. Her gaze moved to the boy, and she reached a hand down to tenderly stroke his face.

  The boy moaned and then began to cough a terrible hacking cough, coughing and coughing until he rolled on his side and was sick.

  ‘He’ll live,’ said Wolf, and saw her shoulders slump with the relief of it.

  ‘Thank God,’ she whispered.

  ‘How did you know he was still in there? He might have left since you saw him go in.’

  She shook her head. ‘I was by the window for most of the evening and I did not see him again. I followed you down and checked round all of the crowd; the boy was not amongst them. Then one of the ostlers told me that the child Sometimes slept in the hayloft.’

  ‘You could have been killed,’ said Wolf harshly.

  ‘No more so than you,’ she uttered defiantly. ‘I could not leave him to burn.’

  ‘Aye, happen you could not,’ and his voice was less hard this time and she saw the understanding in his eyes.

  It was his gentleness that was her undoing. She stared at Wolf and could no longer hide her anguish. ‘He must be all of five years old and he sleeps alone in a hayloft.’ Her voice broke and she began to weep.

  Wolf began to reach for her but then Campbell was there and Kempster and more people, including a doctor, and Rosalind Meadowfield was swallowed up by the crowd.

  Rosalind felt a hand close around her elbow, and she looked up into the face of Pete Kempster. He helped her up, as people closed in all around her hiding Wolf and the child. She felt Kempster take her arm, and guide her through the crowd.

  ‘Come on,’ he said as they reached the edge where the density of people thinned.

  She shook her head and tried to pull free from his grip. ‘I should help Wolf with the boy.’

  ‘Ain’t nothing more you can do for him. Get moving.’

  She started to walk towards the inn.

  ‘Not that way.’

  He caught her back, then pushed her in quite the opposite direction.

  She looked at him in bewilderment. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘You want to escape, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘Then get going before it’s too late. I’ll take you to the next mail stop.’

  She stared at him, unable to believe what he was saying. ‘Why would you help me?’

  ‘Maybe I don’t like the thought of Evedon hanging you after all.’

  ‘But they will know that you helped me.’

  ‘I’ll be back before they even notice that I’ve gone.’

  ‘But the fire…the boy… I cannot leave now. In the morning—’

  ‘It’ll be too late by the morning. We go now, or not at all.’ Kempster was still holding her arm. His face was flushed and dirty with black smudges smeared across his cheeks. ‘Make your choice, Miss Meadowfield: escape, or will you let Wolf cart you back to swing from a Newgate scaffold?’

  He was right. There was nothing more she could do to help the boy. Tomorrow there would be Wolf to face once more, and his questions and this thing that was growing between them. She did not think that she had the strength to resist him. And for all that was happening to them both, he would still take her to Evedon.

  Kempster was right: she had to go now. It was her last chance, her only chance. But the decision sat uneasy with her, for she wanted to know of the little boy’s health, of where he would stay and who would care for him. She wanted to thank Wolf for saving him. Wanted to look into those silver eyes one more time. She caught back the thought, knowing that her mind must truly be befuddled. Survival was her priority. She must go now while she still had the chance.

  She turned to Kempster. ‘I must fetch my bag first.’

  ‘Forget your bag.’

  ‘If I am to survive alone, I will need it,’ she insisted.

  ‘Then be quick about it, or your chance will be lost.’

  She gave a nod, and with his hand still around her arm he steered her towards the inn. One last glance back and the crowd parted momentarily so that she was granted a final glimpse of Wolf. And then Rosalind was hurrying alongside Kempster, feeling every inch a rat deserting a sinking ship.

  Wolf carried the boy to a nearby cottage and saw that he was settled, before returning to fight what was left of the fire. Men were still passing buckets of water along their human chain, throwing water upon the flames. The stable building had all but collapsed and the ferocity of the fire was waning, but Wolf knew the danger to the inn itself was still there. He organized a second chain of men working parallel with the first to increase the water being thrown at the fire, hefting the buckets alongside Campbell, sweat soaking his body, his muscles aching from the relentless toil. His eyes were still stinging from the smoke, and the skin on his face and the backs of his hands felt as if they had been singed by the flames. Yet Wolf knew there was still much work to be done to ensure the safety of the inn.

  They worked without rest, for hour after hour, all the men of the village, all the men of the inn, locals and guests alike. It was the early hours of the morning before the flames were finally dead and the remains of the stables stood as a black smouldering heap. Only then did the men wash the filth from themselves in buckets and troughs, drying themselves on towels supplied by the innkeeper’s wife, before heading back to their homes and their beds.

  Wolf slipped away to check on the boy before returning to the inn.

  Campbell was sitting at the bar when he came in, a half-full tankard of ale before him. His face was pale even beneath the light of the candles and the layer of smoky grime that still clung to it. His eyes were red and sore from both fatigue and smoke.

  ‘You all right, Struan?’

  ‘Aye, I’m all right, Wolf, but I’m gonnae kick that Kempster’s arse when I find him, the lazy wee turd’s done a runner.’

  ‘I’m going to do a sight more than that to the little bastard,’ muttered Wolf. ‘Have you checked on Miss Meadowfield?’

  ‘Her door’s locked. You have the key. And I didnae want to wake her. The lassie looked wrung out the last time I saw her.’

  Wolf looked at him. ‘I left the key in the door.’

  ‘She must have locked it from the inside.’

  But Wolf’s instinct was telling him otherwise. He muttered a curse beneath his breath. ‘Wolf—’

  But Wolf was already moving, crossing the taproom floor to the stairs that would take him to Rosalind Meadowfield’s bedchamber.

  Campbell smiled at the landlord who was sitting on a nearby stool. ‘There’s no stopping a man wi’ the bit between his teeth.’ One last swig from the tankard and he was off and following in Wolf’s wake.

  Wolf ran up the stairs and barrelled down the corridor, only stopping when he reached the last room on the left. He knocked loud and long against the door. ‘Miss Meadowfield.’

  ‘Ssh!’ hushed Campbell from behind. ‘You’ll have everyone up.’

  ‘Miss Meadowfield!’ Wolf’s voice raised in volume.

  No sound from within.

  He tried the handle. It rattled uselessly within his fingers.

  ‘Feeling strong?’ he asked Campbell.

  Campbell smiled and then drew back as he and Wolf kicked the door open.

  The room was empty, of course, just as he had known that it would be. Of Miss Meadowfield and her bag there was no sign.

  ‘Where the hell is she?’ said Campbell from over his shoulder.

  ‘Run away with Kempster,’ said Wolf.

  ‘In the name of all that’s holy! She cannae have—’

  ‘Believe me, she has,’ said Wolf grimly, feeling like the biggest fool on earth.

&nb
sp; ‘They must have left hours ago. They could be anywhere.’

  ‘Not anywhere,’ said Wolf. ‘We know they’re not travelling on horseback, and with the fire there are no gigs, carts or carriages to be spared. They’re walking, Struan, and, because of Miss Meadowfield’s feet, their progress will be slow.’

  ‘Aye, maybe, but we’ve no idea of the direction they’ve taken.’

  ‘Where would you go?’

  A frown marred Campbell’s brows. ‘That would depend on why I was helping the lassie escape in the first place.’

  Wolf’s mouth curved to a mirthless smile. ‘I doubt he wants to save her. Kempster’s not the compassion ate type.’

  ‘Maybe he’s sweet on her. Maybe there was something going on between them in London.’

  Wolf shook his head. ‘There’s nought of affection in the way that he looks at her.’

  ‘So why is he helping her then?’

  ‘You’ve known lads like Kempster. What do they want?’

  ‘An easy ride. A quick coin with least effort.’

  ‘Exactly. So maybe he’s not helping her; maybe he’s helping himself. Maybe he’s taking her back to Evedon thinking to earn the fee for himself.’

  ‘The lassie wouldnae have gone with him were that the case.’

  ‘I doubt he’ll have told her his plan.’

  ‘Bastard,’ said Campbell, ‘I’ll wring his conniving neck.’

  ‘He’ll be looking to travel fast.’

  ‘The London mail then,’ said Campbell. ‘But they couldnae wait around here to catch it.’

  ‘The landlord will be able to tell us its next stop.’

  Campbell gave a nod.

  The two men’s eyes met.

  ‘I hope you’re right about this, Wolf. How can you be sure that she went with him of her own accord?’

  ‘Had Kempster abducted her, he would not have come back for her bag,’ said Wolf. ‘Besides, I saw her walking away with him and she looked willing enough.’

  There was a silence.

  ‘Why was she in the stables tonight?’ asked Camp bell. ‘If she’s so fright ened of horses, what the hell was she doing running in there when it was ablaze?’