"For pity's sake," Maxie muttered as she walked past the inn and Robin stayed at her side. The man was becoming a blessed nuisance.
An idea occurred to her. If she agreed to stop for dinner, she could surely find an opportunity to slip away from him. With a few minutes' lead, she could vanish into one of the small side lanes. The next day she would cut across to another southbound road and he would never find her. "You're right, a hot meal would be welcome, but I will pay for my own."
His blue eyes danced, and she had the uneasy feeling that he had guessed her intentions. She would have to relax and behave as if she had resigned herself to his escort.
They entered the inn and found seats in a high-backed booth in a corner of the smoky taproom. It was so dark that no one would notice that Maxie didn't remove her hat. There was no choice of meals. They ordered the specialty of the day and were served plates of food described as griskin and potatoes.
At Maxie's questioning glance, Robin explained, "Griskin is from the loin of a bacon pig. It's not bad."
Maxie took a bite and chewed it thoughtfully. "You're right. It's not bad. On the other hand, it isn't good, either."
"True, but it's hot, and it tastes better than one would expect anything named griskin to taste."
She hid her smile with a forkful of food. "I've had worse. Porcupine, for example, is good only if you're starving."
As they ate, she exerted herself to be friendly. It wasn't hard, but success proved treacherous. There was too much intimacy in laughing and sharing a table with an attractive man who gave her all of his attention. The darkness of the taproom made it seem as if she and Robin were quite alone. Even eating humble griskin couldn't destroy the romantic effect.
The thought strengthened her resolve. The last thing she needed was to take up with an alluring wastrel. She bent her attention to her plate and waited for a chance to slip away.
Robin finished before she did. His idle gaze went to the back wall of the booth, where devices made of hammered, interlocked iron pieces were hanging from nails.
"Do you have this sort of puzzle in America? The object is to take them apart, then remember how to put them together again." He took one of the devices down. "They're hard enough to solve when sober—frustrated drunkards have been known to use crowbars to rip the pieces apart."
"I'm familiar with tavern puzzles. They probably exist wherever there are blacksmiths to forge them, and taverns where people like to amuse themselves." She swallowed her last bite of potato. "I suspect you're rather good at solving them."
"On the grounds that I would excel at all useless skills?"
She had to smile. "Precisely."
He frowned at the puzzle. The outline was vaguely bell-shaped, with several interlocking circles and triangles attached to it. "I guess I haven't spent enough time in taverns lately. I'm not even sure which pieces are removable."
As she gazed at the device, she noticed that his left wrist and fingers were subtly misshapen from what must have been numerous broken bones. He had elegant hands that he used expressively, more like a European than an Englishman. A pity that one had been so badly damaged, especially since he was left-handed.
She studied the irregular contours more closely. The pattern of breaks was unusual, so regular that it seemed the result of a deliberate effort. Torture? A shiver ran down her spine. Perhaps an angry husband had chosen this way to wreak revenge for injured honor.
She reached across the table and took the puzzle from him. "This reminds me of a specimen called the devil's stirrup, only this version is more complicated. I think these pieces should come apart." After a minute of study, she made several quick twists and the puzzle separated into three sections.
He chuckled. "Which of us has the useless skills?"
"Taking it apart is only half the battle. Reassembling it is just as hard." She pushed the pieces across the table to him. "I'll wager sixpence that you can't get it back together by the time I return from the necessary."
"You're on." He lifted a triangle and a ring and tried to link them together.
The moment had come. No man would admit that a woman could best him at something like this. He would be so intent on solving the silly puzzle that he wouldn't miss her for the next hour.
Maxie slid out of the booth, holding her knapsack unobtrusively at her side. The food had been paid for when ordered, so she could leave with a clear conscience. She headed across the taproom to the door that led into the back courtyard. Once she was outside, she cut quickly through to the lane that ran parallel with the high street, behind the buildings.
Her sense of satisfaction was short-lived. The lane was only a dozen buildings long, and when she returned to the high street she almost collided with Robin, who was lounging against a garden wall, his arms crossed on his chest as he waited for her.
"Your opinion of my intelligence really is low if you thought I could be eluded so easily," he said with undiminished good nature.
She glared at him, for the first time believing that the imbecile man truly meant to accompany her all the way to London. "The issue is not your intelligence, but your presumption. I do not want your escort, your company, or your free meals. Now, leave me alone!"
She turned and started stalking down the street. Robin stayed at her elbow. Whirling angrily, she snapped, "I have warned you. Believe me, I am quite capable of defending myself."
She was about to say more when he cut her off with a sharp warning gesture. "People are coming. If you want to maintain your masquerade, don't make a scene here."
Several approaching locals were watching them curiously, but even so, Maxie would have exploded with fury if she hadn't been caught by Robin's gaze. His blue eyes had measureless depths, the eyes of a man who had seen more of shadows than sunshine.
He was also older than she had thought. She had assumed he was near her own age, but she revised that upward, past thirty. She stared at him, feeling that she was in the presence of a dangerous stranger.
Before she could react, Robin took a firm grip on her arm and started walking toward open country. As they passed the interested group of villagers, an elderly woman said in a broad Yorkshire accent, "Eh, Daisy, isn't that gent—"
"No, it isn't." Robin's clear tones cut across the woman's sentence. His interruption was accompanied by a dazzling smile that made her mouth go slack with admiration. Leaving a murmur of voices behind them, he marched Maxie down the road before anything more could be said.
Fuming, she considered calling to the villagers for help, but that would require endless explanations, and she was sure that Robin could talk his way out of any accusation she made.
Besides, she did not feel threatened by him. On the contrary, he was in far more danger from her than vice versa.
She waited until they rounded a bend and were out of sight of the village. Then she stopped and jerked free. "If I had any doubts about traveling with you, they are resolved," she said furiously. "You arrogant, egotistical—"
"You're quite right, I am presumptuous," he said in a steely voice. "But you had better accept that I intend to see that you reach your destination safely."
She reached for her knife, but he grabbed her wrist. Though his hold was light, it was impossible to wrench free.
"Don't do it, Maxie," he said, his gaze holding hers as implacably as his hand. "You are one of the two most formidable women I have ever known, but you are a foreigner crossing a country rife with unrest. Besides the usual bandits, there are starving soldiers released from the army and unable to find work, angry radicals who want to destroy the government, and God knows what else. You might be lucky all the way to London, but it's not likely. I guarantee you will be safer with me than alone."
She could have fought him, but the last few minutes had changed her views on his ineffectuality. His desire to protect her seemed genuine. Probably he had other, less honorable motives as well, but she was experienced at resisting seduction and didn't think it likely that he would force
her. If his fraudulent lordship wanted a woman, all he had to do was give out one of those melting smiles in a village and females would follow him down the street like mice after cheese.
Reserving judgment on whether she might choose to escape him in the future, she said coolly, "Very well, Mr. Andreville, I accept the inevitability of your company, at least for the moment. Just remember to keep your hands to yourself, or you will find them taken off at the wrist."
"I'd sooner tease a tiger." All traces of shadow vanished, and again he was the easygoing charmer she had met in the forest. But she would not forget what he had revealed of himself.
As he released her wrist, she found herself asking, "Who is the other of the two most formidable women?"
He grinned. "An old friend of mine. You'd like her."
"I doubt it." She turned and resumed walking down the road. It would be light for another hour, so they might as well cover more ground. "I hope that your pseudoaristocratic self can survive sleeping under a hedge when there isn't a barn."
"There are worse places to sleep than a hedge," he said as he fell in beside her. "Almost any jail, for example."
"Have you been in many jails?" She suspected that he had, and hoped it had been for no more than vagrancy, though doubtless he was guilty of much worse.
"A few," he admitted. "The best was a castle in France with very tolerable food and wine, and a duke for company."
From the glint in his eye, she guessed that he had invented this particular tale, and that he was aware that she knew it. "Sounds pleasant. If that was the best, what was the worst?"
He pondered. "That would probably be the prison in Constantinople. I didn't speak much Turkish, and I didn't even know the local gambling games. A sad situation. But I met the most interesting Chinese chap there..."
They headed into a stretch of barren moor, Robin's flexible tenor weaving an outrageously improbable and amusing tale of subversion and escape. He was undeniably a rogue. But while he spoke, Maxie could temporarily forget her grief for her father.
Chapter 4
Shortly before the sun set, they encountered a family of Gypsy tinkers heading north. As the two parties approached each other, Robin waved and called out something in a language Maxie had never heard before.
She said with surprise, "You speak Gypsy?"
"The language is called Romany, and I only speak a little." The corners of his eyes crinkled humorously. "But I need to buy a few tinkerish things, and if you address people in their own tongue, they won't try as hard to cheat you."
The wagon stopped and the driver climbed from the box. Though Robin deprecated his linguistic skill, he seemed fairly fluent. He and the man of the household began talking energetically, both with their hands flying. Despite his blondness, her companion looked very un-English.
Several children emerged from the wagon, followed by a handsome, brightly dressed woman with a baby on her hip. She sauntered up to Maxie and said something in Romany.
Maxie shook her head, "Sorry, I don't know your language."
"No?" The woman cocked her head to one side. In English, she said, "I thought you might be didikois, a half-blood Rom, and that you'd taught the Gorgio to speak our tongue."
"No, I'm from America."
The woman's eyes widened. "Did you ever see any of those bloodthirsty Indians?"
Maxie had been hearing equally silly statements ever since she had arrived in England. "Madam, I am one of those bloodthirsty Indians," she said dryly. "Just as you are a thieving Gypsy."
The woman's dark eyes flashed with fury and a child who had been circling ducked behind its mother's skirts. Then, understanding, the woman laughed. "People often have stupid ideas about those who are different, yes?"
"Yes," Maxie agreed. Though glad to have made her point, she regretted having spoken in front of Robin. She was not ready to share her past with a man who was such an enigma.
Luckily, he was still deep in his negotiations and hadn't heard her. She watched him in admiration; his haggling skills would do credit to a horse trader.
At a critical point, he produced a shiny sixpence from the ear of the nearest child, reducing the little girl to helpless giggles. Her doting father threw up his hands and concluded the deal, giving Robin a razor, some battered cooking and eating utensils, and a small, ragged blanket in exchange for the princely sum of two shillings. Robin also traded his well-made pouch for a shabby knapsack large enough to contain his new possessions.
They set off again after a round of friendly farewells. When they were out of earshot of the wagon, Maxie said, "Where did you learn Romany?"
He shrugged. "I've traveled with the Rom on occasion. Once they accept you, they are the most hospitable of people."
Before she could probe further, he continued, "The Rom, Gregor, said there was a good campsite about a mile from here."
She glanced around at the empty moors. "I hope he's right. We haven't seen a barn or shed for the last hour."
They continued until Robin pointed out a small pyramid of stones to the right of the road. "That's a Gypsy trail sign. The campsite is this way."
Ten minutes of walking along a faintly marked trail led them to a dip in the ground that was invisible from the road. Small trees gave protection from the wind, a stream provided drinking water, and there was a fire pit circled with stones. Maxie never would have found the spot on her own.
The air was already cooling, so as the light faded from the sky, they gathered firewood. Maxie used her flint and steel to start the fire, then rigged a crossbar to suspend a pot of water over it. As the water started to boil, Robin emerged from the dusk with an armful of large, springy ferns.
"Bracken," he explained as he laid down his load. "It makes quite a decent bed."
"I assume you mean it will make two quite decent beds?" she asked frostily as she poured steaming water over some tea leaves.
"Of course." Robin's voice was serious, but his eyes laughed at her suspicions. He made three more trips, shaping the bracken into pallets on opposite sides of the fire. All very proper, and surprisingly comfortable when she tested hers.
By the time the beds were made up, the tea had steeped. Maxie handed Robin a mugful as he settled cross-legged on the far side of the fire. "You're quite mad, you know. Surely wherever you slept last night was more comfortable than this."
"Correct but irrelevant," Robin replied. "I haven't enjoyed myself this much in a long time."
"Quite, quite mad." But harmlessly so. They sipped their tea in friendly silence. Though she had been wary about this strange partnership, Robin's matter-of-fact attitude made everything easy. Now that she was resigned to his presence, she felt remarkably at ease with him. It was hard to believe that they had met only a few hours earlier.
She put more water on to boil, and when her China tea was finished, she prepared a cup of her special herbal blend.
Robin wrinkled his nose at the odor of the steeping herbs. "What are you making now?"
"It's a tea for women," she explained.
"What makes it particularly female?"
With a mischievous desire to disconcert, she said, "It prevents conception. When I set out on this trip, I knew I couldn't necessarily avoid assault, but at least I can protect myself from the worst consequences."
His face went blank. After a long silence, he said, "What a remarkably cold-blooded young female you are."
She took a sip of hot, bitter fluid. "I have never had the luxury of being able to avoid unpleasant realities."
Very quietly, he asked, "Have you ever been raped?"
"No."
He stared down at his mug. "I'm glad. I've seen the results. That is not something I would wish on any woman." His face and voice were shadowed with the darkness she had glimpsed earlier.
She shifted uncomfortably. She had wanted to disconcert him, not trigger bad memories. Still, his few words made her utterly sure that whatever else might happen, she need never fear that he would force her.
As she played the plangent notes of a frontier ballad, Maxie studied her companion. His speech and obvious education marked him as a child of privilege. Why had he been banished to the world of ordinary mortals who must struggle for existence? Her father's sins had been the obvious ones of youth, gaming, and women, but there was something about Robin that made her doubt that the conventional vices had been his downfall.
The flickering firelight gilded the blond hair, and his profile was as remote as it was flawless. Perhaps he had not been cast out for his sins, but had come from a family that had fallen on hard times. Or perhaps he was illegitimate, raised with some advantages, then thrown into the world to make his own way. She would probably never know the truth about him.
Her music drifted between traditional ballads and themes from famous European composers. Finally, as the fire crumbled to embers, she began to play the music of the Iroquois. The first songs she had ever heard were her mother's lullabies. Later she had learned many of the ceremonial and work tunes of the Mohawks. Though there were no Indian instruments like the harmonica, with practice she had learned to approximate the plaintive intervals and strange, ever-shifting rhythms.
She had thought that Robin was asleep, but when the music changed, his head turned in her direction, his eyes shadowed and unreadable. She played a little longer, then tucked her harmonica away and pulled her cloak from her pack.
"Good night." Robin's voice was scarcely louder than the wind over the moor grasses. "Thank you for the concert."
"You're welcome." As she rolled into her cloak and settled into the bracken, she silently admitted that she would sleep better for having him near.
* * *
A strange sound brought Maxie instantly awake, her hand reaching for her knife. At first she thought the soft choking noise had been made by an animal. When it was repeated, she realized that it came from the other pallet.
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