Angel Rogue fa-4

by Mary Jo Putney

  "After a spell in New York, he made the mistake of trying a winter journey from Albany to Montreal. He almost died in a blizzard, but was rescued by an Indian, a Mohawk hunter. Max ended up spending the rest of the winter at the hunter's longhouse. That's where he met my mother."

  She paused, wondering what Robin's reaction would be to the knowledge that she was a halfbreed. Such an ugly word, halfbreed, more American than English.

  His voice revealing only interest, without a shred of distaste, Robin commented, "The Mohawks are one of the Six Nations of the Iroquois confederacy, aren't they?"

  "Yes," she said, surprised and pleased at his knowledge. "The Mohawks were Keepers of the Eastern Door, defending the Nations from the Algonquian tribes of New England. Four of the six tribes live mostly in Canada now, because they were loyal to the British during the American Revolution. But at least my mother's people survive with their pride and traditions. Not like the Indians of New England, who were virtually destroyed by disease and war."

  "It's not a pretty story," Robin said quietly. "From what I've read, the Indians were a strong, healthy, generous people when the Europeans first came. They gave us corn, medicines, and land. We gave them smallpox, typhus, measles, cholera, and God knows what else. Sometimes bullets." He hesitated, then asked, "Do you hate us too much?"

  No one had ever asked her that, or guessed at the buried anger she felt on behalf of her mother's people. Oddly, Robin's perception eased some of that anger. "How could I, without hating myself? After all, I am half English. More than half, I suppose, since I spent less time with my Mohawk kin. They accepted me with more warmth than my English relations did."

  She shivered with a chill that came from inside. Even among her mother's clan, she had not truly belonged.

  Hearing the faint chatter of her teeth, Robin moved over and put his arms around her. She tensed, not wanting passion, then relaxed when she realized that he was only offering comfort.

  With one hand stroking her back, he murmured, "Families can be the very devil."

  "Can't they just?" Her head rested against his shoulder, and slowly his warmth and nearness dispelled her chill. She felt so much at home in Robin's arms.

  Too much so. Reminding herself that the last thing she needed was a man as charming and heedless as her father, she straightened and took up the story again. "My mother was young and restless, interested in the world beyond the longhouse. In spite of the vast differences, she and my father fell in love."

  "They were both rebelling against the lives they were born to," Robin observed. "That would be a strong bond."

  "I think you're right. It didn't hurt that my mother was very beautiful, and my father quite dashing. When spring came, Max asked her to come away with him, and she did. I was born a year later. We lived most of the time in Massachusetts, but every summer we would visit the longhouse. My mother wanted me to know the language and ways of her people."

  "Did your father go with you?"

  "Yes, he got on famously with my mother's kin. Indians are a poetic people, and love stories and games and laughter. My father could quote poetry by the yard, in English and French and Greek. He spoke the Mohawk language well, too." She laughed a little. "Lord, that man could talk. I remember him holding the whole longhouse spellbound as he recited the Odyssey. Now that I've read it myself, I know that he translated it rather freely, but it was still a magnificent tale."

  Her smile faded. "There were two other babies that died soon after birth. My mother died herself when I was ten. Her family offered to take me, but my father refused. He'd never found a steady job that suited him, so after Mama died he became a book peddler and took me with him on his journeys."

  "So you grew up traveling. Did you enjoy the life?"

  "Most of the time." Maxie turned around so that her back nested against Robin's chest. "Books and education are revered in America. Since many of the farms and villages are very isolated, we were always welcome wherever we went."

  Her voice became dry. "Too welcome, sometimes. Indian social customs are very different from European ones, and unmarried women have a degree of freedom that is often considered wantonness by European standards. There were always men interested in testing the virtue of a halfbreed like me."

  His arms tightened protectively. "No wonder you learned to be so wary."

  "It was necessary-if I'd told Max about such things, he might have killed someone. Or more likely been killed himself-he was a talker, not a fighter." Before today, she would have said the same about Robin, but no longer. "I'm not ashamed of the ways of my mother's people. Why shouldn't women have the same freedom before marriage that men do? But the choice had to be mine, not something forced on me by a drunken backwoodsman who assumed that I was a woman of easy virtue."

  "Only a fool would believe that," Robin said softly.

  Glad he understood, she went on, "We had a regular route through New England and northern New York. Besides a standard range of books, we would also bring special orders to people."

  "Fascinating." Robin linked his arms around her waist. "What was your usual stock?"

  "Mostly New Testaments, chapbooks of sermons and songs, pirated editions of English books. But there were other kinds as well. A farmer in Vermont ordered one book of philosophy every year. On our next visit, he and my father would discuss the previous year's book. We always stayed two days with Mr. Johnson. I think it was the high point of his year."

  She smiled. "Peddlers like my father did a good business, enough so that publishers put out books just for the traveling bookseller trade. Things like The Prodigal's Daughter, which piously decried immoral behavior."

  "In great detail, no doubt," Robin said with amusement.

  "Exactly. How could people know how wicked the behavior was unless it was described?" She chuckled. "We sold a lot of copies of that one."

  Her story made it clear to Robin why Maxie was such a remarkable mixture of maturity and innocence. What an unusual life she had led, being raised between two cultures, not quite belonging to either, and living an unrooted existence. Clearly her father had been well educated and charming, and she had adored him. Equally clear was that Max had been feckless to a fault. Robin would lay odds that Maxie had grown up managing their business and generally taking care of her casual parent.

  And that strange background had produced this independent young woman who fit so perfectly in his embrace. Holding her had certainly dispersed the damp chill of the night, and Robin was warm in a way that had nothing to do with the temperature.

  Reminding himself sharply that the last thing she needed right now was for him to become amorous, he remarked, "An interesting life, but an unsettled one."

  "I used to think there was nothing I wanted more than a real home," she said a little wistfully. "We spent winters in Boston, staying with a widow whose children had grown. I was always glad to return there and know that we would be sleeping under the same roof for the next few months. But all in all, it was a good way to live. There was always enough to eat, plenty of books, and people to talk to. Being a peddler suited my father. He had restless feet."

  Robin was not surprised to hear that. But at least Maximus Collins seemed an affectionate father, more so than the late, upright Marquess of Wolverton. Though the world would not agree, he thought that Maxie had been more fortunate in her parents man he had been in his. "What brought you to England?"

  "Max wanted to see his family again. He wanted me to meet them, too."

  Robin felt her tense. She had implied rather strongly that her father's relatives had been less than gracious. Knowing the English gentry, he was not surprised. "Your father died here in England?"

  "In London, two months ago. His health hadn't been good. In fact, I think that is the main reason he came back-to see England once more before he died." Her voice broke for a moment. "Max was buried at the family estate in Durham. Then, right after I had decided that it was time to return to America, I overheard a conversation between my
aunt and uncle."

  Maxie recounted what she had heard, and how she had decided to go to London to investigate. She even included her fears that her father might have decided to try some genteel extortion, her flat voice refusing any possible sympathy.

  "That brings us to the present," she finished. "I still have trouble believing there was foul play involved in Max's death. Yet the fact that my uncle sent someone like Simmons after me seems to confirm my worst suspicions. It may be solicitude, but it seems more likely that he is determined to prevent me from learning the truth. What do you think?"

  "Obviously your uncle is concealing something," Robin agreed, considering the possibilities. There was at least one that did not involve criminal behavior on anyone's part, but he preferred not to speculate about it to Maxie. "I agree that your best chance of learning what happened lies in London. But it could be dangerous, and nothing you learn will bring your father back. Is it worth the risk?"

  "I must know the truth," she said, her voice hard. "Don't try to persuade me otherwise."

  "I wouldn't dream of it," Robin replied mildly. "In the meantime, it is late and we are both tired. Morning will be soon enough to decide how to avoid Simmons and reach London."

  "You'll help me?" she asked uncertainly.

  "Yes, whether you want me to or not. I have nothing better to do, and this seems a worthy task." Robin lay back in the hay, taking Maxie with him.

  She tried to wriggle away. "It's been a long day, and I really don't want to end it by having to fight you off."

  "You're still underestimating my intelligence," he said soothingly. "Not to mention my sense of selfpreservation. I'm well aware that you will stick a knife into some cherished part of my anatomy if I become unruly. However, it's a cold night, and we'll both be warmer if we cuddle up together. Agreed?"

  With a soft sigh, she stopped struggling. "Agreed. I'm sorry to be so suspicious, Robin."

  "Now I understand why." He brushed a very light kiss on her temple, then tucked his blanket around both of them.

  The hay made a soft, fragrant bed. She relaxed, her back curved against his front.

  "Like Mrs. Harrison kept saying, you're just a little bit of a thing." He looped an arm around her waist and drew her closer, spoonstyle. "I thought Indians were a tall people."

  "Every race has exceptions. My mother-was small, and I ended up the shortest person on either side of my family."

  "But fierce to make up for it." There was a smile in his voice. "Do you have a Mohawk name as well as your English one?"

  After a moment's hesitation, she replied, "To my mother's kin, I am Kanawiosta."

  "Kanawiosta." The name rippled from his tongue. Except for her father, Robin was the only white manever to speak it. "Does it have a particular meaning?"

  "Nothing that is easily defined. It implies flowing water, and also improvement, making something better."

  "Flowing water," he said thoughtfully. "It suits you."

  She laughed. "Don't romanticize my name. It could just as easily be translated as 'swamp beautifier.' How many English folk know the original meanings of their names?"

  "Robert means 'of shining fame,' " he said promptly.

  "But you prefer Robin, as in Robin Hood." Did the fact that he knew the meaning prove that Robert was his real name? Given his magpie assortment of knowledge, it probably meant nothing.

  The chill was going from her bones, dissolved by the warmth of his embrace. He made a wonderful blanket. Sleepily she said, "This is rather like bundling."

  "Bundling?"

  "A frontier custom for courting couples," she explained. "Distances between homesteads mean that sometimes young men must stay the night at their sweethearts' houses. Guest rooms are rare, so they'll share a bed, both of them wearing clothing to keep matters from getting out of hand. Usually the bed will be divided by a board down the middle, with jagged teeth on top."

  "Sounds like a custom the English could practice profitably. Over here, being caught in a garden kissing a girl can lead to a fast and unwelcome marriage." He smiled into the darkness. "I'm sure your countrymen realize that neither bundling board nor clothing will stop determined people."

  "Jumping the board is not uncommon," she admitted. "There are a number of bundling ballads that say things like 'Bundlers' clothes are no defense, Unruly horses push the fence.' "

  Robin laughed and she joined him. His laughter was as warming as his arms. "Sometimes the wedding takes place sooner than expected." She yawned again. "But farms need children, so most people don't think it any great sin."

  Then, warm and secure for the first time in far too long, she drifted into sleep-listening to the wind, the rain, and the steady beat of Robin's heart.

  Chapter 11

  Maxie awoke in a haze of warm pleasure. The scent of hay filled her nostrils, and Robin's slumbering body protected her from the damp dawn air. One of his hands was resting on her breast. It felt nice-very nice-but it wouldn't do for him to wake and think a precedent had been set. Gently she moved his hand down to neutral territory.

  Her movement roused him. Lazily he rolled onto his back and stretched, his body going taut, alongside hers. She propped herself up on one elbow, admiring his tousled golden hair. He must have looked very like this when he was a little boy who had longed for a pirate patch and saber scars.

  She smiled. "Good morning. I slept well. Did you?"

  He smiled back, with such stunning effect that all she could think of was how wonderful it would be to see him like this every day for the rest of her life. "Very well indeed," he said in a husky morning voice.

  He put a casual hand on her shoulder as he settled into the hay again. At least, it started as casual. Their gazes met, and there was a long, dangerous moment of intense mutual awareness.

  Slowly, as if against his will, his hand began sliding down her sleeve. His warm palm brought the flesh under it to vibrant life. As her breath quickened, she thought of the bundling song, and of how clothing was no barrier to determined couples.

  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. "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 redblond 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."