Angel Rogue: Book 4 in the Fallen Angels Series

by Mary Jo Putney

  With a touch of malicious amusement, Simmons wondered what Collingwood would say to the news that his niece was no better than she should be. Maybe his lordship wouldn't care; his main concern had been to prevent her from reaching London, where she might find out about her pa. Not that Simmons blamed Collingwood for wanting to conceal that nasty bit of business.

  Though he lost his quarry for a time when they decided to skip across country from one road to another, south of Sheffield he picked up their tracks again. They weren't more than a couple of hours ahead of him. Likely the girl and her fancy man were dossed down in a barn or a camp within the next mile or two. With luck, he would find them this very night.

  He gave a rusty chuckle. The chit might not want to leave her man to return to Durham, but no matter. Simmons was a match for both of them.

  Chapter 9

  Grateful that they had found a suitable campsite, Maxie swung her pack to the ground, then went to gather wood. By the time she returned with a load, Robin had laid a fire and was striking flint and steel together.

  He glanced up. "Once I get this going, you can keep an eye on it while I bring water for tea."

  She laid down the wood and rolled her tired shoulders. "I'll get the water."

  "Will you take it as a mortal insult if I suggest that you sit and rest for a while? You look tired, and the stream is a bit of a distance."

  The thought of sitting down was enormously tempting. Still... "I didn't ask for special consideration."

  "I know you didn't." The tinder blazed up. After blowing on it until the flames were crackling merrily, he stood, his blue eyes teasing. "However, considering the difference in the length of our strides, you've done about a third more walking than I. Since I had an easier day, I should haul the water."

  She laughed, and felt less tired. "An ingenious argument. You could sell rope to a man on the gallows." She subsided onto the grass and tugged off her boots. "Or if honest labor wasn't against your philosophy, you could have become a lawyer, arguing either side of any case."

  She pulled off her hat and unpinned her hair, sighing with relief as it spilled over her shoulders. She was getting very tired of boots, pinned hair, and bound breasts. The thought of a hot bath was enough to make her whimper with longing. "Actually, did you once read law? Sometimes you talk like a barrister."

  Robin shot her a horrified glance. "Good Lord, no. I may have done a number of reprehensible things in my life, but I do have some standards."

  Chuckling, she lay back on the grass, her hands tucked under her head. "Are you never serious?"

  There was a long pause, and she glanced up to find him watching her, an unreadable expression in his eyes. When he caught her looking, he smiled and said in his usual light tone, "As seldom as possible."

  He picked up the cooking pots, then went into the woods toward the stream.

  Maxie closed her eyes, half dozing. After the robbery, they had fallen into a safe, superficial routine. Robin had demonstrated no more kisses, and she had not suggested that he listen to the wind. It had worked well; there had been no more real closeness, but there had also been no conflicts.

  She turned her senses to the woods around her. Liquid bird calls. The sliding rustle of leaf on leaf. The sweetness of honeysuckle. Wholeness. Contentment.

  Listening to the wind, she drifted into sleep.

  * * *

  When Robin reached the stream, he decided to have a thorough wash. He thought about his companion as he splashed cold water over himself. He had known from the beginning that she had an exotically lovely face and a razor-sharp mind. It had been a surprise, however, to learn that she had a dash of witch in her.

  Or perhaps she was something of a saint. Nothing else could explain that strange episode when she had tried to teach him simplicity. He had willingly followed her lead, and been intrigued to discover that it was possible to sense the world around him in a way he had never experienced before.

  It had been very restful, and he had felt very close to Maxie. He had even considered kissing her again, in an entirely staid fashion, of course.

  Then something had jarred him from his relaxed state into an instant of flat panic that was like a waking nightmare. Perhaps he was not made for simplicity. It had been an interesting episode, but not one he cared to repeat. It was easier to drift from hour to hour, enjoying Maxie's company and living in the moment as he had not done for more than a decade.

  He dried himself, then filled the water pots and headed back toward the camp. At the edge of the clearing, he paused behind a screen of shrubbery. His dozing companion was an enchanting sight. She lay on her back by the fire, her head pillowed on one arm and her glossy ebony hair partially veiling her face. Her petite, curving form inspired an unsettling mixture of tenderness and desire. He wanted to protect her from the whole world. Except for himself, of course.

  Her worldly knowledge and contraceptive herbal tea strongly implied that she was a woman of experience, yet at the same time there was a kind of innocence about her. Probably that was a result of her natural directness. Whatever her past, it was safest to think of her as a virgin. That reinforced his restraint, which needed all the help it could get.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of twigs cracking under heavy footsteps. He glanced across the clearing and saw a tall, burly man approaching from the other side.

  A broad smile of satisfaction crossed the man's face at the sight of Maxie. "There you are, Miss Collins. Time to go 'ome now." The intruder had a thick London accent, and his superficial cheer did not disguise an air of menace.

  Maxie jerked awake and pushed herself to a sitting position. Her eyes narrowed. "I saw you at my uncle's," she said with admirable coolness. "Who are you?"

  "The name's Ned Simmons, and your uncle sent me to bring you back," he said, advancing toward his quarry.

  Mouth tight, Robin set down his water and silently began to work his way around the edge of the clearing so that he would be behind the Londoner if action proved necessary. Keeping a sharp eye on the scene in the clearing, he pulled his wooden "fidget stick" from his pocket and locked it in his left hand, half an inch of wooden knob showing above his fist.

  Maxie scrambled to her feet and watched Simmons warily, looking like a terrier facing a bull. "You have no right to force me to return to my uncle," she said, backing away across the grass in her stocking feet. "He is not my guardian, and I have committed no crimes."

  Still with that eerie geniality, Simmons said, "Come, now, miss, don't be difficult, or I'll have to take you to a magistrate and explain how you stole a map, and some food as well. In England, folks can be 'anged for crimes like that. Not that yer uncle will be difficult if you come along like a good girl." He reached out to grasp her shoulder. "Where's yer fancy man? 'E run off and leave you already?"

  Laying a hand on Maxie proved to be a mistake. She twisted away from his grip, at the same time kicking out with wicked intent. Robin winced; Simmons was lucky she was not wearing boots, for her aim and quickness were dead on.

  The man dodged, but could not entirely avoid the blow. He doubled over with a howl. "You little...!"

  The curse that followed was so filthy that Robin was glad it was spoken in thief's cant, which Maxie was unlikely to understand. Still swearing, the Londoner reached under his coat and pulled out a pistol.

  Before he could aim it, Maxie had dived at him and grabbed the weapon, using her weight to wrest it free. Her momentum carried her into a rolling, controlled tumble across the grass.

  She leaped to her feet while Simmons was still gaping with astonishment. The ugly click of hammers being cocked filled the clearing. "I would prefer not to use this, Mr. Simmons," she said in a low, dangerous tone, "but I will do so rather than go with you. Now turn around and leave."

  Simmons stared at her in stunned disbelief. "Put that down, you little bitch, or I'll make you sorry you was ever born."

  He was making the potentially fatal mistake of underestimating M
axie. Knowing that if he didn't intervene she might kill the man, Robin sprinted across the clearing as she raised her pistol and took aim.

  Since he was directly behind the large Londoner, Robin didn't know if she was aware of his approach. Hoping she would shoot high, he launched himself in a long, flat dive and caught Simmons around the legs. As they fell together to the turf, a shot blazed by too close for comfort.

  "You slimy, cowardly bastard! I'll teach you not to jump a man from behind," Simmons bellowed as he began grappling with this new threat.

  The cockney fought with skill and brute strength, but Robin had the advantage of surprise. He also had the knobbed stick in one fist, and it added ferocious power to his blows.

  Simmons staggered back from a hard hit to his jaw, then slammed his fist into Robin's shoulder. With the cunning of a street fighter, he grabbed the neck of Robin's shirt and tried to drag the smaller man close enough for a fight-ending blow.

  Robin yanked away at the cost of a tear that ripped his shirt to the waist. He feinted a right to Simmons's face, then used the other man's instinctive attempt to block as an opportunity for a numbing punch to the solar plexus.

  Eyes wide but muscles helpless, Simmons folded to the ground. Robin swiftly rolled him facedown in the leaf mold, then twisted the other man's right arm behind his back and held it at the excruciating point just short of breaking a joint. "The fancy man is still around," he panted. "You should have been more careful."

  Simmons had plenty of bullheaded courage and a high tolerance for pain. He began thrashing with such furious power that he threatened to break free. Robin leaned forward and applied intense pressure to precisely chosen points below the Londoner's jaw. The blood supply to his brain cut off, Simmons made a strangled noise and one last convulsive heave before slumping into unconsciousness.

  Maxie lowered the pistol. "That's an impressive trick," she said unevenly. "Will you show it to me?"

  "Definitely not. It's dangerous to use because it can cause death or permanent damage if held too long." Robin rolled Simmons onto his back, then used the man's own handkerchief to tie his wrists together. "Not to mention the fact that you might try it on me the next time I did something to irritate you."

  "Probably wise of you not to teach me," she agreed. For all the insouciance of her words, her dark complexion had a gray tinge. "When I lose my temper, anything might happen."

  "So I noticed," Robin said dryly. "Were you shooting to kill?"

  "No, though I was tempted." She retrieved her boots and pulled them on. "I was aiming to graze his arm, hoping that would stop him. I still had another barrel if it didn't." She tossed earth on the fire with trembling hands. "I'm sure we agree about leaving as soon as possible."

  "We do." Robin deftly searched Simmons's pockets. "He'll wake soon. I didn't tie the handkerchief very tightly, so it's not going to take him long to free himself."

  He removed the Londoner's concealed ammunition pouch and tucked it inside his coat. Continuing his search, he found that Simmons had little in the way of identification, but he carried a well-filled wallet.

  Robin considered the money thoughtfully. There was more than enough to buy two coach tickets to London, but, if the truth be known, he was in no hurry to deliver Maxie to her destination.

  "Are you going to rob him?" she asked disapprovingly.

  "Just of his pistol." He returned the wallet to Simmons's coat. "He's going to be quite angry enough when he wakes up."

  "So your honesty is a result of pragmatism rather than moral scruples?" She began pinning her hair up again.

  "Exactly so. Moral scruples are an expensive luxury," he said blandly.

  Her snort was an eloquent comment on his dubious logic.

  He grinned. "Theft is a fairly benign response to attempted assault. You are the one who was ready to blow his brains out."

  "Only if necessary." She tugged down her battered hat. "How was I to know you would come charging to the rescue?"

  He gave her a narrow-eyed look as he got to his feet. "Did you really think I would abandon you to your fate?"

  Their gazes caught and held for a moment before she turned to lift her knapsack. "There wasn't much time for thinking."

  And Maxie was not the sort of female to sit and wait to be rescued. Robin retrieved the water pots he had set down before attacking Simmons. He offered his companion a drink, which she accepted gratefully; she still looked shaky.

  He drank also, then dumped the rest of the water and packed the pots away. When they left the clearing, the only trace of their brief occupancy was Simmons lying peacefully on his back with his hands trussed up in front of him.

  As they made their way back to the road, Maxie said, "Your so-called fidget stick is a weapon, isn't it?"

  "Yes. After we met the highwaymen, I decided that some form of self-defense might be useful." He held back a branch so she could pass. "A fighting stick adds force to one's blows."

  "You are a never-ending source of alarming skills," she remarked, though her sarcasm lacked its usual bite.

  "Always used for the forces of good," he said piously.

  His remark elicited a faint smile, but she still looked far more upset than he would have expected. He guessed that what distressed her was not so much the attack itself as what it represented. He was going to have to insist on some explanations about her background and her mysterious mission in London.

  Near the edge of the road, a depressed-looking horse was tethered. Robin stopped and eyed it speculatively. "I suppose this belongs to your friend back there?"

  "He's no friend of mine, but I believe this is his horse. I saw it at... I saw it once before."

  "Good." He untied the reins and swung into the saddle.

  "You're not going to steal it?" she exclaimed. "What happened to pragmatism?"

  "I would have turned the horse loose anyhow to slow pursuit, so we might as well ride it and put a few miles between us and Simmons." He offered his hand to Maxie. "The poor beast isn't up to carrying two people very far, but it will give us a start."

  "You are nothing if not practical, Lord Robert."

  Her hand was icy cold when he pulled her up behind him, and her arms around his waist were tighter than the sedate pace of the horse required. He would wait until she had recovered some of her composure before questioning her.

  Several miles later, as the last light was fading from the sky, Robin halted at a fork in the road. "Time to send our fiery steed back to its owner."

  They dismounted and he turned the horse around, giving it a slap on the hindquarters to send it ambling back in the direction from which they had come. "Swinging west here, away from the direct route, might throw Simmons off the trail. I hope so. He doesn't seem the sort to give up easily." He put his hand out. "Give me the pistol."

  She handed it over, then gave a cry of outrage when he unloaded the remaining ball and pitched the weapon into a heavy patch of shrubbery. "Damnation, Robin! Why did you do that? A pistol could be very useful."

  "Guns are beastly things." He sent the ammunition pouch crashing after the pistol. "When they are present, people get killed unnecessarily."

  "Maybe Simmons will need killing!"

  "Have you ever killed anyone?"

  "No," she admitted.

  "I have. It isn't an experience one enjoys repeating."

  She flushed at the coolness in his tone. Most of the stories he had told her were pure fairy tale, but she did not doubt that he spoke the truth about having killed. "I didn't really mean that. About killing him, I mean."

  "I know you didn't." His voice softened and he put a comforting arm around her shoulders as they made their silent way into the night.

  * * *

  The Marquess of Wolverton was half asleep and thinking dourly that he should have stopped in Blyth when his carriage creaked to a halt. He looked out and saw his driver talking to a burly, disheveled fellow who had been trudging along in the dusk.

  Giles climbed from the carri
age. "More trouble?"

  The burly man growled, "I was robbed and me 'orse was stolen." After a glance at the crest on the carriage door, he said with a fair attempt at humility, "Could yer lordship give me a ride to the next town?"

  "Of course." Giles waved the man into the carriage, then climbed in himself, thinking that there was even more crime on the highways than he had expected. He lit two of the interior lamps, then pulled a flask of brandy from a compartment. "That's quite a black eye," he said conversationally as he poured a generous measure for his guest.

  "Won't be the first."

  Giles surveyed the other man's bulk. "I shouldn't think so. You're a boxer, aren't you?"

  "Used to be. The name's Ned Simmons, but I fought as the Cockney Killer." Looking pleased, he swallowed the brandy with one gulp. "You ever see any of me matches?"

  "Sorry, I don't follow boxing, but a friend of mine won a good sum on you once." Giles cast his mind back. "For defeating the Game Chicken in nineteen rounds, I believe."

  "Twenty-one rounds. Aye, 'twas the best mill of me life."

  "It must have taken several men to beat you tonight."

  The comment was a mistake. Simmons erupted with oaths and excuses, the gist of which was that he had been defeated unfairly. Giles listened with only moderate interest until the words "yaller-headed fancy man" caught his attention.

  Concealing his sudden interest, Giles said, "This blond man must have been a strapping fellow."

  Simmons hesitated, visibly wondering whether to admit an unflattering truth. "Kind of a skinny cove, actually, and talked like a swell," he said grudgingly. "Wouldn't have thought 'e could fight the way 'e did. Even so, 'e couldn't 'ave taken me if 'e 'adn't jumped me from behind, and if 'is wench 'adn't been pointing a pistol at me."

  Giles repressed a smile. Robin and the Sheltered Innocent must have been along this road very recently, and it sounded as if the latter bore some resemblance to her formidable aunt. "How did they come to attack you?"