There was also an odd kind of closeness. It must be rather like the feeling of soldiers who have survived a battle together. Thinking it might be good for him to talk, she asked, "What is Maggie like?"
He hesitated, weighing his answer. "Strong. Intelligent. Brave. Integrity to the bone. Rather like you, Kanawiosta, even though you look nothing alike." His arm tightened around her shoulders. "Except that you are both beautiful."
They fell silent, watching the sun inch above the horizon. She supposed that she should feel honored by his comparison, though it was not enough to eradicate the pain of knowing that he had been making love to her by accident, his drowsy mind filled with dreams of another woman. No wonder he had been ambivalent about the desire he felt for her.
She thought of the complicated mental landscape that she had dimly sensed when trying to teach him to listen to the wind. Some of the black places in his soul must be the agony of loss felt by a man who would not give his love often, but would give it wholeheartedly when he did.
She'd also sensed his bedrock core of honor. Though he loved another woman, he was also genuinely fond of herself, at least enough that he would not want to hurt her. That explained his restraint; an affair where her heart was available and his wasn't would definitely cause harm.
Her own ambivalence had not been eased. She felt a sudden, debilitating wave of bitterness at the way she was caught between two very different cultures, understanding both but belonging to neither. Among her mother's people, an unmarried woman could lie with a man without censure. If she were a true daughter of the Six Nations, living in her own home among her kin, she would have been proud to take a lover.
But she was not her mother. She was a half-breed.
True, she was no sheltered English miss, raised to bestow her body only on a man who would pay the price of marriage for the privilege of bedding her. But she was enough a product of her father's culture that she feared to express desire freely. To lie with a man without marriage would make her a wanton in the eyes of white society.
Yet there was no prospect of marriage with Robin. Life with her father had taught her that it was impossible to coax a restless man to settle down, a mistake to even try.
Even if Robin's loneliness had led him to make another quixotic offer, as when he had suggested going to Gretna Green, their backgrounds were too different to allow a permanent union. She would be a fool to hope for promises of love eternal, and a fool to settle for less. That did not mean there could be nothing honest and true between them, but giving in to passion would damage her heart and her future, possibly beyond hope of repair.
Refusing to let herself weep, she turned her face into Robin's shoulder. His other arm came around her.
"You must be sorry that we met," he said soberly. "I seem to be causing more trouble than I'm preventing."
Voice muffled against his fresh-scented shirt, she replied, "I'm not sorry if you're not sorry."
He pressed his cheek against her hair. "No, Kanawiosta, I'm not sorry."
Her throat tightened. Yes, there was something very real between them. But it would never be love.
She resolved that from now until they parted in London, she would behave logically. She would accept and enjoy his wit and his friendship, and she would not allow herself to wish for greater intimacy.
Yet in the privacy of her mind, she acknowledged that logic would make for cold memories when Robin was gone.
Chapter 14
The carriage pitched and swayed in the rutted track.
Desdemona Ross braced herself wearily, avoiding the long-suffering expression of her maid and hoping the vehicle wouldn't break an axle before they reached their destination, an isolated inn called the Drover. It was a regular stop for traveling herds, and more easily reached on hooves than wheels.
With a final lurch, the carriage halted. Desdemona let herself out without waiting for her coachman to open the door. For a moment she stood in the afternoon sunshine and savored the absence of rocking. The wind blew restlessly over the barren hilltop, rippling the grasses and twisting the clouds overhead. From the aroma, a herd had been through recently.
In spite of the directions she had received, it had taken time to find an accessible spot along the old ridge way. She wondered if Maxima and Lord Robert had been here. Well, she should soon know. She set off toward the inn, which was made of wind-eroded stone and had served drovers for centuries.
When she circled her carriage, she saw another vehicle, one with a familiar crest on the door. She gave a smile of satisfaction. Apparently she had moved fast enough to overcome the lead that the Marquess of Wolverton had achieved after the incident with the highwaymen.
Speak of the devil... The door of the inn swung open and the marquess himself emerged. The tall powerful figure paused in the doorway for a moment. Then he gave her such a pleasant smile that Desdemona was temporarily disconcerted.
Reminding herself that they were adversaries, not friends, she said, "Good day, Lord Wolverton. I gather that you have not found our mutual quarry."
"Not yet. Shall I share with you what I have learned?"
Desdemona hesitated, glancing at the inn, then back at the marquess. Reading her unspoken objection, he said helpfully, "You can always interrogate the innkeeper later to discover if I have been withholding information, but I think it would not be a bad thing if we talked."
Good Lord, was she that transparent? Desdemona sighed; yes, she was. No one ever had any trouble knowing what she thought, which was a drawback for a woman with political interests. "Very well," she said, knowing she sounded ungracious.
The marquess offered his arm as if they were in St. James's Park, then led her away from the inn. Though she was a tall woman, he towered over her.
He said, "I trust that you've suffered no ill effects from the attempted robbery."
"None whatsoever." She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, He really was a fine figure of a man. "I hope that you've suffered no effects from almost being shot by me."
His eyes twinkled. "On the contrary—my miraculous escape has made me appreciate life more than I have in years."
"If you wish me to take a wild shot at you sometime in the future, I shall be pleased to oblige."
He chuckled. "I'm not sure I'd trust you to miss a second time." When they were out of earshot of servants, he said more seriously, "A group of Welsh drovers came through two days ago. My brother and the Sheltered Innocent joined them here."
"Your brother and who?"
"Sorry, I've got in the habit of thinking of Miss Collins as the Sheltered Innocent," he said, not looking very repentant.
Her eyes narrowed at his impudence, but she held her tongue. She'd save any caustic comments until she'd heard what he had to say.
"They will be near Leicester by now," he continued. "I'm not positive about the identification of Miss Collins—she has a talent for remaining unnoticed—but someone entertained the drovers with juggling and sleight-of-hand in return for food and lodging. That had to be Robin. As a boy he was fascinated by legerdemain, and he practiced until he became quite adept."
It made the rogue sound rather likable. Fighting an inclination to soften, Desdemona asked, "Where was my niece while Lord Robert was playing the mountebank?"
"Upstairs taking a bath." The marquess gave her a measuring look. "Miss Collins has had ample opportunity to escape and hasn't taken it, which supports the conclusion that she is traveling with Robin of her own free will."
Desdemona made a growling noise deep in her throat.
After a startled moment, Wolverton's lips twitched, as if suppressing a smile. "I think it's likely that my brother has offered Miss Collins his escort to London. It's exactly the kind of eccentric, honorable thing he would do, and it would mean that she is in no danger. Quite the contrary. It also explains why the young lady has no wish to run away from him."
Though Desdemona admitted privately that the marquess might be right, she was unwilling to conc
ede that aloud. "Your imagination does you credit, but I am not convinced."
They came to a boulder on the brink of the hilltop. Since it was too steep to continue walking, she sat down, making sure that her voluminous cloak was thoroughly wrapped around her. "For all you know, Maxima may have been imprisoned upstairs rather than bathing. It's also true that when a woman has been bullied enough, she can become too intimidated to try to escape. I will not be satisfied until I speak to her myself."
"Somehow, I am not surprised to hear that," her companion murmured, sitting next to her and crossing his booted legs.
She gave him a frigid glance. "What are your intentions if you find the pair of them before I do? To buy your family name free of scandal, whatever the cost?"
"That's one possibility." His slate eyes were steady. "I won't know until the time comes."
"If you are forced to choose between justice and your brother, what will you do?"
The marquess sighed and looked out over the rolling hills. "I sincerely hope it does not come to that. You know the girl, Lady Ross. Is she so virtuous that it is unthinkable she could behave with less than perfect propriety? Your niece is no green girl, and I've heard that Americans are less rigid in their ways than we are."
Fairly caught by the question, Desdemona felt color rising in her face. Wolverton watched her quizzically, and she could see the moment when he made an intuitive leap.
"Just how well do you know her?" he asked, his gaze sharpening. "Miss Collins has only been in this country a few months, and you said that you were going to Durham to visit her."
She looked down at her parasol, toying with the jade handle. "We've never met in person," she said in a suffocated voice. "However, we have corresponded extensively, and I feel that I know her quite well. She has an educated, thoughtful mind. I have never seen any signs of coarseness or immorality."
"Good God, you've never laid eyes on the girl?" Exercising heroic restraint, the marquess continued more mildly, "Perhaps your concern for her is excessive. My inquiries imply that she is a very independent and forceful young lady. If she is also a virtuous innocent, she is in no danger from my brother. Perhaps you should wait for her in London. I'm sure she will arrive there soon, and you would be spared this tedious searching."
Lady Ross stood and glared down at him. "Perhaps you are right and Maxima will reach London safely. However, I lack your touching faith in your brother's integrity, so I will continue to search until I have personally assured myself about her welfare."
Giles would have been disappointed if she had let herself be dissuaded from her quest. He stood also, and studied her face, which interested him more than the fate of the Sheltered Innocent. The features shaded by her deep-rimmed straw bonnet were stronger than was fashionable, but well shaped and really quite attractive. A stray shaft of sunshine also penetrated the shadows and showed that the brows he had assumed were brown were actually auburn. "What color hair are you concealing under that very decorous bonnet?"
She stared a him, her gray eyes wide and disconcerted.
Though Giles was usually a model of propriety, he gave in to an irresistible urge to misbehave. Moving slowly enough so that she could stop him if she really wanted to, he untied her bonnet and lifted it from her head.
He caught his breath at the sight of the blazing red hair that coiled around her head in thick braids. A few bright tendrils had escaped and were curling down her long neck. She no longer looked like a high-minded reformer. If she loosed that hair, she would be a pagan goddess of the hills.
"You see why I cover it up." Lady Ross said, her expression vulnerable. "It is not decent hair. Men love it or hate it, but they never respect it. My sister-in-law, Lady Collingwood, was in despair when she brought me out. She said that my appearance was better suited to a courtesan than a lady."
Giles had never thought much about red hair one way or the other, but he found that he had a nearly overpowering urge to let hers down and bury his hands in it. He wanted those glossy, light-struck curls to flow through his fingers and coil around his wrists. He wanted to bury his face in the silky mass so that he could see and taste nothing but shining strands....
Good God, what was he thinking of? He was approaching forty, a model of sober, responsible behavior. Certainly he was well past the age where raw sexual heat should be scrambling his wits.
After drawing a deep breath, he said lightly, "There is nothing inherently moral or immoral about hair."
He touched one of the lustrous braids, half surprised to find that it didn't sear his fingertips. "Yours is very lovely, and not the least bit indecent."
"I'm not so sure," she said wryly. "I've found that if I wish to be taken seriously, I must cover it up."
Wanting to confirm a growing suspicion, he said, "I've thought all along that your concern for your niece is greater than the situation warrants. Why do you mistrust men so?"
She looked away. Her skin had the milky translucence of the true redhead. "I don't mistrust all men. Fathers and brothers are well enough, and some others."
That explained a great deal. Giles said quietly, "I recall hearing that your late husband, Sir Gilbert, was an unsteady sort of man."
Her head whipped around, her expression hardening. "You are presumptuous, my lord. If a man with your reputation for rectitude can be so impertinent, it is hardly surprising that your brother is a thoroughgoing rogue."
She snatched her bonnet from his hands and yanked it onto her head, covering her flaming hair, and with it her moment of vulnerability. As she stalked away, her back was very erect within the concealing folds of her cloak.
It occurred to Giles that he had never seen her when she wasn't wrapped like an Eskimo. What would she look like in less enveloping clothing? Though she was rather stout, she seemed to have an abundance of pleasing womanly curves. He liked a woman who was a proper armful. A pity her ladyship was so prickly.
The speed of Lady Ross's retreat was inhibited by her light slippers and the necessity of picking her way carefully through the grass. He caught up with her easily. "In two days, the drovers will be going through the town of Market Harborough. You can get there in time to intercept them."
"Will you be there, Lord Wolverton?" Her voice was chilly, her face now safely hidden behind the rim of her bonnet.
"Of course. I think it the best possible place to find our fugitives." In spite of his optimistic words, Giles doubted whether Robin could be intercepted unless he wanted to be. Elusiveness was surely an important skill for a spy, and his brother would not have survived so many years on the Continent if he weren't expert at avoiding detection and pursuit.
The marquess chose not to reveal one important fact. If Robin continued on his present path, he would pass near his estate, Ruxton. It was quite possible that he and the Sheltered Innocent might decide to go to ground there for a time, particularly if they suspected they were being pursued.
If he did not find them before then, Giles would seek the pair at Ruxton. Given Lady Ross's suspicious nature, it would be a good deal better for all concerned if he was the one to locate the fugitives.
Chapter 15
Maxie took a bite of her sandwich, a slab of ham between two thick pieces of fresh bread, then leaned back against the sun-warmed stone wall in contentment. "Traveling with drovers has only two drawbacks."
Robin swallowed a mouthful of his own sandwich and washed it down with a draft of ale. "What are they?"
"The noise of several thousand cattle, plus assorted humans and dogs. And the aroma. Especially the aroma."
He chuckled. "Eventually you won't notice."
"I live in hope." She swallowed the last bit of ham. "But I like the drovers. They remind me of the farmers in New England. They have the solidity, the realness, of those who live close to the earth."
"Because they're entrusted with their neighbors' money, drovers have to be good steady fellows. I believe they must be at least thirty, married, and householders to be granted a license.
"
She wrinkled her nose. "Too many things in England seem to require licenses and regulations."
"The price of civilization." Robin's eyes twinkled mischievously. "An Englishman who finds it burdensome can always go to America to find life, liberty, and happiness."
"Individuals have more liberty in America," she said slowly, "but one can pursue happiness anywhere. Unfortunately, no law can assure that one finds it."
He gave her a wry glance of acknowledgment, then turned to his sandwich. The herd was settling for the night and most of the drovers were having their evening meal inside the tiny inn. She and Robin had stayed outdoors, partly because of the fine weather, more because her masquerade depended on not being seen too closely. She was getting very tired of her infernal hat.
A flicker of movement caught her eye. She glanced up to see a maple seed spinning slowly to the ground. The sun struck the wing-shaped structure, turning it to translucent gold. Supported by a light breeze, it spun almost weightless for long, long seconds before it finally curved to the ground, landing only a foot or so from her hand. She released her pent-up breath and gave a smile of pure pleasure.
She did not realize that she had been observed until Robin said quietly, "When you watched that seed fall, your expression was that of a person having a religious experience."
She started to answer frivolously, then changed her mind. Perhaps Robin could not truly understand, but he would accept. "In a way, I was. Among my mother's people, all nature is seen as one great whole. A maple seed is as much an aspect of spirit as a cloud, the wind, or a human soul. If one takes some of a squirrel's hoarded nuts for food in winter, one must leave enough so that the squirrel and her family can survive, for they have as much right to the gifts of the earth as humans do."
His brows drew together with the total attention he gave to subjects that interested him. "That is utterly different from the European concept of nature as an enemy that must be mastered, or a servant to do man's bidding."
Angel Rogue: Book 4 in the Fallen Angels Series Page 14
