Angel Rogue: Book 4 in the Fallen Angels Series

by Mary Jo Putney

  The hardest task proved to be writing a note. Having been a guest in the Collingwood home for months, it would be very shabby to disappear without a word. Odd how manners remained even when she was deeply suspicious of her host and hostess. More important, she did not want them to realize that she had overheard that cryptic, disquieting conversation.

  Maxie gnawed on the quill pen for some time before inspiration struck. All she had to do was say that she had decided to go to London to visit her other aunt.

  Desdemona Ross was the much younger sister of Cletus and Maximus, and a widowed bluestocking of ferocious and unbridled opinions. Since she was cordially loathed by Lady Collingwood, she seldom visited the family seat. Maxie had never met Lady Ross, but they had corresponded. In fact, a letter had arrived only the day before, so she would say that Desdemona had invited her niece to London.

  Maxie bent to the writing paper with satisfaction. It was rude and eccentric to leave at night with no warning, but no one would pursue her, which was all that mattered. She doubted that anyone would bother to wonder where she had gotten coach fare.

  In fact, she really would visit her aunt, whose letters had always been amiable and witty. It would be pleasant to discover some member of her father's family for whom she felt kinship.

  * * *

  Leaving Chanleigh Court was easy. Maxie was delighted to don her boy's clothes again after too many months in skirts. Among her mother's people, women wore leggings, and she was as comfortable in them as in the white man's gowns. Her farewell note was left in her room. With luck, it would not be found until well into the next day.

  She stopped by the kitchen for cheese, bread, tea, and a slab of ham, which would spare her limited funds at least until Yorkshire. After some hesitation, she also took an old map of the road to London from her uncle's study.

  She let herself out a side door. It seemed a good omen that the skies had cleared after an evening of intermittent rain. The night air was damp and rather chilly, but she drew it into her lungs eagerly, already feeling happier and freer.

  Her practiced stride took her swiftly down the drive, but she stopped for a last glance at the great house. Maximus had been glad to return to his family home, and wherever his spirit was now, he must be pleased that his bones rested here.

  But while Chanleigh had been her father's home, it was not hers, and it was unlikely that she would ever return. She had been a mere discordant ripple on the surface of a deep pool of Englishness, and like a ripple she would soon be forgotten.

  She covered five or six miles before the moon set. Seeing a small building silhouetted against the starlight, she picked her way across a soggy field to a storage shed. Remnants of the previous year's hay crop were stored inside, and it made a fragrant nest. She settled down with her pack for a pillow and her cloak as a blanket.

  It was not the first night she had spent in a barn, and it would not be the last. It was, however, the first time Maxie had been entirely alone. In the past her father had always lain an arm's length away.

  The thought produced an ache deep inside her, a pain that was both grief for her father and sorrow for her own isolation. On the verge of a sob, she curled her fingers around her mother's silver cross. She was a Mohawk, an American, and a Collins, and she would not feel sorry for herself.

  But as she drifted into sleep, her last conscious thought was to wonder bleakly if her father's death meant that she would spend the rest of her life alone.

  Chapter 2

  The brothers shared breakfast in a silence broken only by the occasional flutter of a newspaper page. However, the news was uninspiring as well as several days old, so the Marquess of Wolverton began studying his brother over the top of his Times.

  When they were boys, the five-year difference in their ages had been significant and Giles had been very much the elder brother. He had hoped that over the winter, they would finally have a chance to become friends as adults and equals.

  That hadn't happened. Robin had revealed some of himself his first evening at Wolverhampton, but after that night, he had withdrawn. He had been the perfect guest, always ready to talk, be silent, or participate in the neighborhood social rounds when required. Yet his thoughts and feelings were concealed behind the formidable barrier of his humor and charm.

  It wouldn't have mattered, except that Giles knew that something was gravely wrong. The zest for life that had been Robin's most vivid characteristic had vanished. Too often Giles had found his brother sitting silently, staring at nothing. The marquess wondered if the blame should be laid on the woman who was now the Duchess of Candover, or if the reasons were deeper and less easily defined.

  Whatever the cause, he felt that something in his brother had been broken, perhaps past mending. He grieved for that, for his own sake as well as for Robin's, but he had no idea what he might do to help. With a sigh, he laid his Times aside. "Do you have any plans for the day?"

  Robin hesitated. "Perhaps I'll take a stroll through the west woods. I haven't visited that part of the estate yet."

  Knowing he sounded overhearty, Giles said, "I can't believe what a tame life you're living. I keep expecting you to vanish."

  His brother smiled. "If that happens, don't worry. It would just mean that I found something amusing like a band of Gypsies and couldn't resist going off with them."

  Giles would be delighted if Robin did find something interesting enough to lure him to unpredictability. Rising, he said, "I have a magistrate's session that will occupy me all day. I'll see you at dinner, unless you find some Gypsies."

  After Giles left, Robin made his way to the kitchen to request food for his expedition. The cook gave him four times as much as he could possibly eat; she was determined to fatten him up. A pity his appetite wasn't better.

  Then he headed across the hills to the west woods. Too dense for easy riding, the area was best explored on foot, and walking suited his mood.

  He had hoped that the peace and familiarity of Wolverhampton would heal whatever ailed him. Up to a point, it had. He was physically stronger, and he had fewer nightmares. There was nowhere he would rather be—and that in itself hinted at what was wrong. In the past, Robin's usual problem had been deciding what fascinating activity should be tried next.

  Now he was submerged in a gray melancholy unlike anything he had ever experienced, a weariness of the soul rather than the body. Apart from a brief duty visit to Ruxton, he had spent the last six months sleeping, riding, tramping the countryside, and catching up on his reading and correspondence.

  His most energetic activity had been avoiding the lures of wellborn local maidens. The two eligible Andrevilles had been much in demand at winter social gatherings. While Giles had the title and the superior fortune, it was generally assumed that he was unlikely to remarry, so more feminine wiles had been exercised on Lord Robert. Besides his blond good looks, mysterious past, and more than adequate assets, the chance that he would inherit the title had added to his appeal.

  He sighed and hitched his bag of provisions over his right shoulder. He would not have objected to falling madly in love, but it was impossible to imagine marrying one of the vapid innocents he had met in the great houses of Yorkshire. He had not known Maggie when she was a proper young lady, but even at seventeen she would not have been so bland.

  The day was warm, and it was pleasant to reach the shady forest. Robin had worn old clothing, so he was unconcerned about the snagging undergrowth as he explored the winding paths made by deer and other wildlife.

  The sun was high when he reached a little clearing by the stream that wandered through the heart of the forest. He smiled at the sight of the fairy ring of mushrooms. The gardener had said that a ring this large must be centuries old. As a child, Robin had thought of the spot as magical. He would lie under the tree, dream of the world beyond Wolverhampton, and hope that a fairy might call. Perhaps he would find magic here again.

  He set down his bag and stretched out on the grass in the shade between
a tree and a bush. Arms crossed beneath his head, he gazed idly at the branches above.

  It was a mistake to let his mind become empty, for soon a dark thread of despair began winding through. Grimly he fought it off. It was possible to chase the demons away in the daylight, though he knew from experience that they would return as nightmares. Each spell was worse than the one before, and sometimes he feared that it was only a matter of time before he fell over the edge of sanity.

  But he wasn't there yet. He forced himself to think about his future. Despite Giles's generosity, Robin could hardly spend the rest of his life at Wolverhampton.

  He could travel. Though he knew Europe like a mother knows her child's face, he'd never seen the Orient or the New World.

  But he was weary of traveling.

  Giles had suggested Parliament; one of the Andreville-controlled seats would be vacant soon, and it would give Robin a forum for his opinions on public affairs. Another possibility, more in keeping with his temperament, was political journalism. Journalists were a rowdy and irreverent lot. He would fit in well, if he recovered his rowdiness and irreverence.

  Apparently the clearing was no longer magical, for his thoughts circled in the same vague paths as they had for months, striking no sparks of enthusiasm. Since the sun was warm and the grass scents sweet, it was easier to slide into sleep, and hope that the nightmares would wait for night.

  * * *

  Maxie enjoyed the coolness of the forest road after the heat of the midday sun. The farmer who had given her a wagon ride in the morning had done well to recommend this route. She had been avoiding the main highways in favor of quieter roads where a lone boy would attract little attention. This track was so quiet that she hadn't seen a person or dwelling for hours.

  The only drawback was that she had run out of food the day before and her stomach was complaining. From what the farmer had said, she wouldn't find a place to procure food until late in the day. In America she could have lived off the land, but England's ferocious game and property laws made her wary of doing the same here. Though if she got hungry enough, that would change.

  The sound of hoofbeats and wheels made Maxie stop and cock her head. A heavy vehicle was coming along the track behind her, and she would rather not meet anyone in such a remote spot.

  She scrambled up the bank into the underbrush, then swung away from the track into the forest. Skirting tollgates in order to save money had given her plenty of practice at such detours. In three days of travel, she had experienced no difficulties at all. Indeed, except for rides with two taciturn farmers, she had not so much as spoken with another person.

  Harness jangled and hooves clumped as a wagon rumbled by. She was about to return to the track when a bird trilled a liquid hu-eet, hu-eet.

  She paused, a smile spreading across her face. Discovering new creatures and plants was one of the pleasures of traveling. This birdsong sounded like one of Britain's famous nightingales. She thought she had heard one the month before, but her cousins had been unable to confirm it. The only birds they recognized were roasted and served in sauce.

  Silently she made her way through the underbrush. Her search was rewarded by a brief glimpse of brown feathers in a thicket ahead. She pressed forward through the shrubbery, her gaze on the leafy canopy above.

  Her carelessness caught up with her when she tripped over an unexpected obstacle. Swearing, she tried to regain her footing, but the weight of her pack wrecked her balance.

  She crashed with humiliating clumsiness, falling sideways so that her shoulder struck first. In the next instant, she realized that instead of hitting the cool forest floor, she was sprawled full-length on a warmer, more yielding object.

  Warm, yielding, and clothed.

  As she gasped for breath, she realized that she was lying on top of a man. Apparently he had been dozing, but he awoke with a start, his hands reflexively jerking upward, skimming her body before locking on her upper arms.

  The two of them were chest to chest and eye to eye. Startled alertness showed in the vividly blue depths, followed an instant later by amusement. For a long moment they stayed pressed together, strangers as close as lovers.

  The fellow's mouth curved into a smile. "I apologize for getting in your way."

  "Sorry," Maxie said gruffly. She broke away, giving thanks that her hat was still in place, shadowing her face. "I wasn't watching where I was going."

  She scrambled to her feet, ready to vanish into the forest. Then, like Lot's wife, she made the mistake of looking back.

  Her first impressions of the man had been fragmentary. Compelling eyes, fair coloring, a well-shaped, mobile mouth. It wasn't until she stepped away that she realized he was the handsomest man she had ever seen. His longish hair shimmered with every blond shade from gilt to dark gold, and the bone structure of his face would make angels weep with envy.

  A fairy ring in the center of the circle gave her the wild thought that she had stumbled over Oberon, legendary King of Faerie. No, he was too young, and surely a fairy would not be wearing such mundane clothing.

  The blond man sat up and leaned back against the tree trunk. "Females have thrown themselves into my arms a time or two before, but not usually quite so hard," he said, the skin at the corners of his eyes crinkling humorously. "However, I'm sure we can work something out if you make a polite request."

  Maxie tensed. Lowering her naturally low voice still further, she said brusquely, "You haven't woken up yet. My name is Jack, and I'm not a female, much less one interested in hurling myself into your arms."

  He raised his brows. "You can pass as a lad at a distance, but you landed with considerable force, and I was awake enough to know what hit me." A sapient gaze surveyed her from head to toe. "A word of advice—if you want to be convincing, make sure your coat and vest stay in place, or else find looser trousers. I've never seen a boy shaped quite like you."

  Maxie colored and tugged her rucked coat downward. She was on the verge of bolting when he raised a disarming hand.

  "No need to run off. I'm a harmless fellow. Remember, you assaulted me, not vice versa." He reached toward a lumpy bag that lay a few feet away. "It's time for a midday meal, and I have far more food than one person needs. Care to join me?"

  She really should put some distance between herself and this too-handsome fellow. But he was friendly and unmenacing, and some conversation would be pleasant.

  Her decision was made when he pulled out one of the odd-shaped meat pies called Cornish pasties. A fresh, delectable scent wafted toward her.

  Her stomach would never forgive her if she refused. "If you are sure you have enough, I would be pleased to join you." She lowered her knapsack to the ground, then settled on crossed legs beyond pouncing distance, in case young Apollo proved more dangerous than he appeared.

  The blond man handed over the pasty. Then he rummaged in his bag again, producing another pasty, cold roast chicken, several rolls, and a small jug. Uncorking the jug, he set it midway between them. "We'll have to share the ale."

  "I do not drink ale." She did, however, eat pasties. It was an effort not to wolf hers down. The crumbly crust and well-flavored shreds of beef and vegetables were delicious.

  He chewed and swallowed a bite of his own pasty before saying pensively, "In most circles, it is considered rude to eat with one's hat on."

  Maxie was reluctant to expose herself to the other's gaze, but she could not ignore the appeal to manners. The acceptance of hospitality imposed obligations. Raising her hand, she removed the shapeless hat, keeping a wary eye on her companion.

  For a moment he stared, face tightening. She had seen such reactions before, and her hand shifted so that she could reach her knife quickly if necessary.

  Luckily, he refrained from foolish or vulgar comments. After swallowing hard, he asked, "Care for some chicken?"

  Maxie relaxed and accepted a drumstick. "Yes, please."

  He took a piece for himself. "How do you come to be trespassing in the Marqu
ess of Wolverton's forest?"

  "I was walking along a track when I heard someone coming. I decided that being unobserved was the better part of wisdom, then got distracted by a nightingale. What is your excuse—poaching?"

  He gave her a wounded look. "Do I look like a poacher?"

  "No. Or at least, not a successful one." She finished the chicken leg and daintily licked her fingers. "On the other hand, you don't look like the Marquess of Whatever, either."

  "Would you believe me if I said that I was he?"

  "No." She cast a disrespectful eye over his garments, which were well tailored but far from new.

  "A young woman of excellent judgment," he said with approval. "As it happens, you are right. I am not the Marquess of Wolverton any more than you are British."

  "What makes you say that?" she asked, thinking her host was altogether too perceptive.

  "Accents are something of a specialty of mine. Yours is almost that of the English gentry, but not quite." His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "My guess is that you are American, probably from New England."

  He was good. "A reasonable guess," she said noncommittally.

  "Is your name still Jack?"

  Her eyes narrowed. "You certainly ask a lot of questions."

  "Asking is the easiest method I know for satisfying curiosity," he said with perfect logic. "And it often works."

  "An irrefutable point." She hesitated a moment longer, but could see no reason not to tell him. "I'm usually called Maxie, but my name is actually Maxima."

  "You looked more like a Minima to me," he said promptly, examining her scant inches.

  She laughed. "You're not precisely Hercules yourself."

  "Yes, but I'm not named Hercules, so I'm not trying to deceive anyone."

  "My father was named Maximus and I was called after him. No one thought to wonder if I would grow up to fit the name until it was too late." She finished eating her roll. "If your name isn't Hercules, what is it?"

  "It isn't a lot of things." He took a swig of ale as he weighed what to say. He was obviously a wayfaring rogue who had had so many names and identities that he didn't remember himself what he had been christened.