Angel Rogue: Book 4 in the Fallen Angels Series

by Mary Jo Putney

  His eyes darkened and his hand paused so that his thumb could stroke the sensitive inside of her elbow.

  She caught her breath, shocked at how much sensation was there.

  He caressed her forearm until his hand came to rest clasping her wrist. The skin was bare, and her pulse throbbed against his fingertips.

  The rip in Robin's shirt exposed the hollow at the base of his throat. She wanted to lick it. She wanted to tear the rest of the shirt off so she could see and touch the lean, muscular body that had cradled her all night. She wanted to be a woman of the Mohawk who could give herself without shame or doubt.

  But one thing she had in abundance was doubts. Her face must have shown her thoughts, for he exhaled in a rush and abruptly rolled away. "A wonderful way to spend the night," he said breathlessly as he got to his feet, "except for the part about separating when we wake up."

  She ran unsteady hands through her hair. "P-perhaps it was a mistake to sleep that way."

  He looked offended. "I've never made a mistake in my life. At least, not any that I couldn't explain away afterward."

  She laughed, and suddenly everything was all right. "Next time, I'll make a point of getting up as soon as I wake."

  "I'm glad there will be a next time. We need practice."

  Still chuckling, she got to her feet and prepared to face the day. It was gray and chilly, but the rain had stopped. Robin had brought kindling into the shed the night before, so there was enough dry wood to build a fire just outside the door.

  Clear rainwater was available in a stone trough, so she made tea while Robin toasted bread on a pointed stick. With the last of Mrs. Harrison's sliced ham, it made a hearty breakfast.

  As Maxie steeped her herbal tea, Robin asked, "Do you mind if I shave inside this morning? It's rather raw out there."

  "Go right ahead." She eyed his ripped shirt, trying not to notice the bare chest below. "We'll have to find you another shirt. I think this one is beyond repair."

  He made a face. "I'm more than a little tired of it anyhow." He took out his folding razor and a piece of soap, then knelt by the pot containing the rest of the warm water.

  Robin was as religious about shaving as she was about her herbal tea, but it was a task he had always performed out of her sight. She guessed that he would have done so this morning if not for the increased sense of domesticity between them.

  "Have you considered not shaving?" she said. "I'm so nondescript that no one notices me, but you are much more distinctive looking. A beard would help disguise your appearance, which would make it harder for Simmons to track us."

  He lathered the soap in his palm, then spread it over his cheeks and jaw. "My beard grows out red, which is even more conspicuous than my normal appearance. But you're right that we must make some changes. We've been set on by highwaymen and are being pursued by Simmons. It's time for a new strategy."

  She studied him over the rim of her mug. There was something very intimate about watching a man shave. Though she had seen her father do it hundreds of times, she had never recognized how profoundly masculine whiskers were. "What do you have in mind? We still haven't enough money for coach fare. Unless you think you can earn enough by performing magic shows?"

  "I have an idea. It wouldn't be the fastest route, but we would be very hard to follow. Are you familiar with the drovers?" He stropped his razor half a dozen times on a short leather strap, then stretched the skin of his cheek so that he could removed a swath of red-blond whiskers.

  Those same whiskers had gently prickled the nape of her neck the night before. Her toes curled and she swallowed hard. "You mean the men who drive livestock to the cities?"

  "Correct. All cities must have food brought in, and London is so large that it draws supplies from the whole of Britain." He wiped the blade clean of soap and whiskers with a tuft of hay, then began work on the other side of his face. "Most of the cattle eaten in the city are driven in from Wales and Scotland."

  "All the way from Scotland?" She raised her brows. "It must be very tough beef by the time it arrives."

  "The beasts are generally fattened in southern pastures before going to market," he explained. "And it isn't only cattle, though they are driven the farthest. Drovers herd sheep, geese, pigs, even turkeys, though not over such great distances."

  Diverted, she asked, "How does one drive turkeys?"

  "With great difficulty," he said, a twinkle in his eyes. "It's quite a sight. At the end of the day, the turkeys will roost in trees for the night, hundreds at a time."

  She spent a delighted moment envisioning branches bowed with sleeping turkeys. It distracted her from thoughts of Robin's chiseled, soap-edged features. "What has this to do with us?"

  "The droveways follow the high country when possible, and they avoid toll roads. Frugal travelers sometimes accompany the drovers, for companionship and safety. Or sometimes just for the adventure of it." Having finished his cheeks and jaw, he stretched his chin to shave his throat.

  She watched in fascination while a glistening drop of water trickled into the hollow of his throat, then slid down the center of his chest, dampening the curling hair.

  Noticing her fixed stare, he asked, "Is something wrong?"

  "Mere female nerves," she said quickly. "Seeing a razor so close to a throat makes me nervous."

  He grinned. "I haven't done any serious damage to myself yet." With three smooth strokes, he completed the job, then wiped the blade clean and snapped it back into its horn handle.

  He may not have hurt himself, but he had certainly raised merry Hades with her peace of mind. Relieved that he had finished before she turned into a perspiring wreck, she said, "I see the advantages. Are there any droveways nearby?"

  "One runs west of Nottingham, a couple of days walk from here. At this season, there's a good chance of finding drovers on it within a day or so."

  "Have you traveled with drovers before?"

  "Yes. That's why I know this particular route." He dipped his facecloth in the warm water, then wrung it out and wiped his face and throat clean. "Once I fell in with a group of drovers when I ran away from home."

  Running away had the ring of truth. "You must have been a rare handful for your mother."

  After a long pause, he said, "Not in the least. She took one look at me after my birth and promptly expired from shock."

  No amount of insouciance could disguise the underlying pain of his statement. "I'm sorry," she said quietly.

  "Nowhere near as sorry as my father was." Robin went to the open door of the shed and tossed his shaving water outside. "I look just like her, according to the pictures. He couldn't see me without flinching."

  She wanted to weep for the child Robin had been. Instead, she asked softly, "Why are you telling me this?"

  He was silent for the length of a dozen heartbeats, his profile as cool and remote as the gray sky. "I don't know, Kanawiosta. Perhaps because sometimes I weary of being obscure."

  It made the back of her neck prickle to hear him use her private name. For the first time, he was voluntarily revealing something of what lay beneath his polished, impenetrable exterior. Perhaps it was because the night before, she had exposed so much of herself. Or perhaps sleeping in each other's arms had removed some of the barriers that had separated them.

  She thought of the traits she had sensed when trying to teach him to listen to the wind, and the woman he had wanted to marry who had refused him. Like a ball of yarn, he was made of tangled strands of humor and evasion, intelligence and guile, consideration and cool detachment. Now he was handing her a loose end of the skein to unwind if she chose.

  If she did, what would she find at the heart of his mystery, when all the complex strands had been raveled away?

  As soon as she formed the question, she knew the answer. At the heart of all that wit and easy charm lay loneliness.

  * * *

  Desdemona had been relieved when Lord Wolverton sent word to her after hearing reports of the runaways on t
he Rotherham road. At least the two were safe. However, the marquess had given her no other clues, and she had not seen him again. She would have to locate her quarry the hard way.

  Heaving a sigh of weary exasperation, she climbed out of her carriage in the dusty high street of still another village. It seemed as if she had been crisscrossing the north Midlands forever, seeking traces of her niece and the unprincipled rogue who was taking advantage of her. Her opinion of Lord Robert Andreville was not improved by the fact that the pair was still traveling by foot. One would think that any self-respecting rake would at least hire a post chaise. The fellow had no style.

  She had become adept at asking questions. The tiny villages, where all strangers were noted, were the best places for hearing news, and the best people to ask were the elderly folk who clubbed together at the local public house. Shopkeepers were also good.

  For the third time that day, Desdemona entered the only shop in a tiny village, Wingerford by name. As usual, the shop was a jumble of oddments such as needles and thread, bolts of plain fabric and cheap ribbons, pottery jugs, staple foods like salt and sugar, and jars of sweets for children. A ginger cat snored softly on a pile of used clothing, his nose covered by his tail.

  At Desdemona's entrance, the stout proprietress hurried forward to greet her, eyes sharpening at the sight of the expensively dressed visitor. "How may I serve you, my lady?"

  "I wonder if you might have seen my niece and her husband on this road within the last few days," Desdemona replied. "She's dark and quite small, only about five feet tall, and dressed like a boy. He's about average height, very blond and good-looking."

  "Aye, they were in this very shop yesterday." The woman's gaze held shrewd appraisal. "The gent had torn his shirt and needed a new one." She gave a modest cough. "He bought a hat and some undergarments as well. I didn't have anything as fine as what he was wearing, but he seemed satisfied."

  Desdemona went into her prepared story. "It is the greatest nonsense. My niece's husband made a silly wager about walking to London, and my niece decided to accompany him. They haven't been married long and she considered such a journey a great lark. I didn't approve, of course, but it wasn't my place to forbid it."

  She gave a doleful sigh. "There would have been no harm in it, except that the girl's father has taken seriously ill. We are trying to find them in hopes that she can reach her father before it is too late." Desdemona's voice had a slight quaver. If she told this story many more times, she would believe it herself. "Did my niece or her husband mention anything about the route they were taking from here?"

  "Indeed?" The proprietress raised her brows, her expression delicately conveying that she had grave doubts about the story but wouldn't dream of calling her distinguished visitor a liar.

  The next move was Desdemona's. A respectable woman like this one might be offended by an outright bribe. Something subtler was called for.

  She glanced around the crowded shop until she found an appropriate object. "Oh, what wonderful ribbon. I have been searching forever for just this shade of blue." She pulled a spindle from a mound of fabric trimmings. "Would you consider selling this to me for, oh, five pounds?"

  "Five guineas and it's yours." The ironic gleam in the shopkeeper's eye left no doubt that she knew what the real transaction was.

  "Splendid," Desdemona said heartily, as if she didn't know that the true value of the ribbon was less than a pound.

  The shopkeeper wrapped the spindle in a length of creased paper. "Happen that when I was in the back of the shop I heard the young couple talking. Something about droving."

  "Droving?" Desdemona said, perplexed.

  "Aye, there's a big droveway west of here. Maybe they intend to travel along with the drovers. Wouldn't be the first time that gentry folk decided to travel that way as an adventure."

  Desdemona pursed her lips. It made sense, while complicating her search still further. "Could you tell me exactly how to find the droveway?"

  The proprietress' eye drifted to her customer's hand. Desdemona handed the money over, and received detailed instructions.

  Before leaving, she asked one more question. "Were my niece and her husband getting on well?"

  The shopkeeper shrugged. "Seemed to be on easy terms. Leastwise, they laughed a lot."

  Desdemona gave a false smile. "So pleased to hear that. I was afraid the rigors of primitive travel might put them at odds with each other. That would be a pity when they are newly wed."

  As Lady Ross's carriage rumbled off in a cloud of dust, the shopkeeper permitted herself a wide, gap-toothed grin of satisfaction. That pair of young rascals were the most profitable customers she had ever had.

  The big Cockney, who claimed he was looking for two thieves, had been good for two pounds, but it was the nobleman with the crest on his carriage who had tipped her off that something strange was afoot. He was looking for two young cousins, off on a lark. That time the search was on behalf of a dying granny, not a father. His lordship been good for five quid. And now here was the lady, looking for her niece and nephew-in-law. Should have held out for ten pounds.

  As she lifted her skirt to tuck the five guineas into a purse slung around her waist, she wondered if anyone else would be along. More than that, she wondered what would happen to the fugitives when their pursuers caught up with them.

  She gave a cackle of laughter. She'd put her money on the blond gent. With a tongue as gilded as his hair, that young fellow could talk his way out of anything.

  Chapter 12

  They heard the lowing before they saw the small, windswept stone building. Aptly called the Drover Inn, it stood on the crest of a hill overlooking an expanse of rolling green hills. Soon they were close enough to see a vast herd of black cattle grazing in the meadow beyond the inn.

  "We're in luck," Robin said. "A good thing it's Sunday."

  She looked at him askance. "Why?"

  "Those are Welsh Black cattle. Good Welsh Methodist drovers won't travel on Sunday, which is why they are here and not some miles down the track."

  "I see." She gazed longingly at the inn. "Robin, do you think the treasury could stretch to getting a room for the night, and a hot bath with it?"

  "Luckily we've been getting ripe at the same rate, but I know what you mean. I'd wrestle Simmons with one hand tied behind my back in return for a bath." He looked thoughtful. "Perhaps it's time for a magic show. After a quiet Sunday, people will be in the mood for a bit of entertainment."

  He paused for a moment to place coins and a handkerchief in convenient spots. After he picked a pretty ox-eye daisy and made it disappear, they headed toward the inn.

  Drovers and assorted other folk lounged about outside, chatting, smoking, and enjoying the late afternoon sun. No one gave the newcomers anything more than a casual glance.

  Maxie followed Robin into the inn, where the landlord and his wife presided over the taproom. A subtle, quicksilver change passed through her companion. Though his features didn't change an iota, he took on a different personality.

  He announced himself as the Remarkable Lord Robert and began making coins vanish, then reappear in improbable places. He was greeted by waves of laughter. A handy pack of cards was pressed into service, witty jokes were made, and empty tankards were juggled in the air.

  Robin ended by producing the daisy from his handkerchief and handing it to the landlady with a bow. His performance was masterful, with a rippling flow of words that amused without becoming so glib as to make conservative country folk wary.

  Maxie watched a little wistfully, thinking that Robin was almost a stranger again. The closeness of the night she had told her story and the next morning had vanished as soon as they began walking. The day that followed had been mercifully uneventful. They had laughed and joked. They had even spent the night sleeping like two friendly spoons, and awakened without any unruly passions on either side.

  It had all been very pleasant and unthreatening. Yet she would like to have seen more of
the deeper, more complicated man who was the real Robin. She would like to know more about the hard roads he had traveled before they had met.

  Show over, her companion came to the corner where she was waiting. "Success," he announced. "There is a double room available under the eaves. The landlord and his wife will also throw in dinner, breakfast, hot baths, and washing water for the princely sum of four-pence."

  "Splendid. What do you have to do in return?"

  "Perform two shows in the taproom during the evening." His voice became reverent. "After which—a hot bath."

  "Life is good," she said solemnly.

  "So it is."

  For a moment, she thought there was a flash of the deeper Robin in his gaze, but he said only, "Now we must find the head drover and ask for permission to travel with the group. It will be off by seven o'clock tomorrow morning."

  She winced. "We'll scarcely have time to grow tired of civilized living."

  He grinned. "A rolling stone may gather no moss, but it does acquire a certain polish."

  Laughing, she followed him outside. Laughter was almost enough.

  * * *

  Maxie sank into the tin tub of steaming water with a shiver of ecstasy so intense that a Puritan minister would have sent her straight to hell. After days of hasty, partial wash-ups in cold streams, a real bath was bliss unbounded.

  When her skin started to wrinkle, she rinsed the soap from her hair and reluctantly emerged. The tub was set behind a screen, but she still preferred to be dry and clothed before Robin returned from his second performance.

  An image of him finding her in the bath flashed through her mind, followed by a highly erotic scenario of what might happen next. Cheeks flushed, she vigorously toweled herself dry. It wasn't Robin she needed to put a knife into, it was herself.

  She had watched his first show, laughing with everyone else. Then she had slipped upstairs and washed all of their clothing that wasn't currently being worn. The garments were now draped on a chair in front of the fire. They had to pay two pence extra for the coal, but it was worth it to know there would be clean, dry clothing in the morning.