“We should be thankful Goodwife Fairclough is an honest soul. And I’m sure Gough wouldn’t have given up the jewel had she not caught the pair of them red-handed. I thank Dame Fortune for its return.”
So, what was he to do now about naive, innocent “Claudette”? He’d have to return her belongings to her, not hold them as a surety as he’d planned. Could that wait until the morrow? He was already tired and his foot plagued him. He could be up at cockcrow and return her things to the Red Lion before anyone was astir.
“There was another item. Pushed under the door, you said?”
“Aye. A folded page. I haven’t opened it.”
Robert took the sheet of parchment she held out to him. He unfolded and recognized it immediately.
All weariness fled, and his heart pumped painfully, but he gave no outward sign of his excitement.
“What a bore. I have some business to attend to in London.” He cast the paper aside as if it meant nothing, then stretched and yawned.
“Thank you, Goody. That will be all—I shall head for bed forthwith. Be sure all the candles are snuffed and the door bolted. Rest well tonight, for if my business keeps me in town, I may send for you to come up, too.”
As soon as she’d gone, he tucked the paper inside his shirt and gathered up his clothing. He’d be getting dressed again later. The paper informed him that his new orders had been left in the agreed hiding place. Sir Francis Walsingham had a vital mission for him, and there was little chance he’d get any sleep tonight.
Chapter Eight
Chloe might have thought she’d dreamed that bizarre encounter with Sir Robert Mallory. Only, when she popped her head out the door in the morning, her bag was lying in the passageway outside.
She grabbed it, emptied the contents onto her bed and sifted through them. Nothing was missing as far as she could tell, thank heaven. She couldn’t trust the man not to have rifled through its contents, however. At least her most important possession was still on her person—the letter she’d purloined from Dela Riviere the previous day.
She was becoming quite the cunning fox, stealing information from her unsuspecting elders. Doubtless, she’d feel guilty about it at some point but, for now, she congratulated herself on being enterprising. She’d already discovered her mother and was on the way to uncovering her sire’s identity, too. Of course, it would have been much easier had her mother just told her his name, instead of forcing her to rifle through the room the instant she was left alone.
Fortunately, Dela had been gone for an age, giving Chloe time to discover a box of letters under the bed. There was no difficulty finding those from the year of her birth—the letters were bundled together by date. Presumably one didn’t get to be a successful “trader”—as Dela called herself—without being organized.
Removing the missive from under her pillow, Chloe crossed to the window to examine it again. Last night, she’d pored over it by candlelight, but the signature had remained indecipherable. Even in daylight she couldn’t make it out. Nor could she learn anything from the seal, which remained attached to the page, but she could research that when she returned to London.
But did she still want to find her father? The sentiments expressed in his letter to her expectant mother were unsympathetic. Even if Chloe discovered who he was, he might refuse even to see her, let alone rescue her from the prospect of wedlock with the soul-sucking Lord Brooke.
There was a knock on the door. Throwing her coat over the man’s long shirt she wore as a nightgown, she opened it a crack and saw young Frederick, her mother’s errand boy.
“God give you good day… er… Mistress.” He looked awkward, as if unsure whether he was meant to be talking to a male or a female. “My mistress sends her regards and a packet of food for the journey. She wishes you to know there’s a load of alum headed up to London at eight of the clock. The wagon has space for passengers as half the cargo was impounded at the customs house—she knows not why. The man will be glad of the extra coin, she says, as the dye-works he takes it to pays only for the number of barrels, not the cost of transport.”
Perfect. The wagon was probably not covered, but as it promised to be another fine day, that wouldn’t be a problem.
“What is the hour?” She hadn’t been paying attention to the cries of the Watch—she’d been too preoccupied. Not only by the letter, it must be said. The touch of Sir Robert Mallory had been looming larger in her thoughts than she cared to admit.
“It lacks a quarter of the hour. You must hurry… er… Mistress.”
Chloe accepted the cloth-wrapped bundle of food and bade Frederick a hasty farewell. Now—a vital decision must be made. Would she travel back to London as a boy, or as a maid?
The brash sunlight penetrating the leaded panes of her window made her mind up for her. She must travel as a woman. That way, she could wear her straw hat to protect her from sunburn. She’d just have to hope her fellow travelers weren’t a mob of lusty young men who’d give her grief the entire journey. Well, at least she had that trick with the knee now, and one or two other things she could try for self-protection.
No more than ten minutes later, she was on the alum cart, seated atop her bag and surrounded by barrels. There was no need to be uneasy about her fellow traveling companions—one was an elderly woman with a basket of eggs on her lap, the other a clergyman clutching a small, leather-bound book. Neither seemed overly inclined to speak, which mattered not at all. Relieved, Chloe opened up her food parcel to break her fast on game pie, hard cheese, and sweet apples. Her letter resided safely in her bosom, out of sight and out of danger of discovery.
The carter tapped on the tail of the wagon. “Master, mistresses—I’m not going off yet awhile. There’s a couple more gentlemen to come, and I can’t afford not to wait for them.”
Chloe nodded and continued with her meal, washing it down with elderflower wine from the small costrel her mother had given her. Despite Dela’s apparent disinterest, she had at least shown some care for her daughter.
It wasn’t the outcome Chloe had hoped for, however. It was imperative that she should not be wed to Lord Brooke, and she hadn’t yet solved that conundrum. Nor had she worked out what to do when she returned home. Her uncle would probably throw her in the cellar and feed her on last week’s pottage and small beer before marching her to the altar with Brooke.
Yet, return home she must, as she had nowhere else to go.
The wagon dipped, and she glanced up briefly from her meal as a gentleman ascended. She froze, stunned, and her pie slipped from her nerveless fingers to the cart’s dirty floor.
What in heaven was he doing here? She turned her face aside, hoping to hide beneath her hat, but it was too late. Sir Robert had spotted her. The next instant, he was crouching at her feet and gathering up the remains of her pie to toss over the side of the wagon.
“I don’t recommend eating alum dust, so best leave that for the rats. Good day to you, my Madam Mystery. Right glad am I that I returned your bag to you if it means seeing you in such fetching feminine apparel.”
He kept his voice low, but it was bright with amusement. Before she could protest, he’d hefted one of the heavy barrels across for a stool, and seated himself right in front of her. She hoped the shade of her hat hid her reddened cheeks. Damnable fellow—how dared he speak to her in such a familiar way?
“Tush, sir. That’s no way to speak to a lady.” Such a shame there were other passengers present. Otherwise, a couple of well-placed kicks to his shins would send him toppling backward—and take that smirk off his face.
“My apologies. Are you bound for London, too? If so, ’tis a happy coincidence, as I go thither myself.”
His nearness unsettled her, so she jutted her chin at him. “I’d have thought a nobleman like you could afford to ride in a litter, or on horseback. Or mayhap you are not the gentleman you claim to be. What do I mean, mayhap? I know you are no gentleman.”
“Pray lower your voice, Mistress.” The sen
suous mouth had flattened to a firm line. “I don’t wish to draw attention to either my name or my status. Consider me merely a fellow traveler, unable to resist admiring a beautiful woman. I’m sorry for the loss of your vittles. I shall purchase you something when we make our first halt by way of recompense. And as an apology for… the other thing.”
Damn the man! She’d been trying to forget the way he’d manhandled her last night. Those sure, masculine hands, laid so casually on his knees, had touched her where no one ever had before. To add insult to injury, he’d turned her upside down and stolen a kiss. But he had, at least, returned her belongings—so he was not a complete churl.
He’d leaned closer so they could talk without being overheard, and his proximity was becoming increasingly disturbing. How could she continue the rest of the journey with the man who’d mauled her yesterday mere inches away? If the wagon went through a rut, she’d end up sprawling at his feet or—even worse—upon his lap. And who knew to what ruses he might stoop to see if he could get another kiss or caress her again?
Hah! It was impossible—she’d have to endure his presence for hours. Rising swiftly, she dropped her bag over the wagon’s side, and jumped down. She’d taken no more than two steps toward the carrier to recover her fare when she felt a touch on her arm.
“Where are you going, Madam Mystery?”
If he didn’t want to attract attention, he was going about it the wrong way. A scene between a handsome man and a fair wench was even better than a play—they were sure to be observed.
“I shall find another carrier to take me. I think it for the best.”
“Do you fear me? Pray, let me assure you, there is naught to fear. Yesterday was a misunderstanding, and I acted like a knave. I mean to do penance for it—did I not return your baggage to you? Much as I wished to see you, to converse with you, I deposited it outside your door without troubling your sleep. I beg you, return to the wagon.”
He looked so solemn that she was tempted to trust his sincerity. But she couldn’t have him continue thinking her a whore. A glance back toward the wagon showed the cleric had laid down his book to stare at them. There was no denying her association with Sir Robert now. She ducked her head and moved farther away, toward the archway that led to the Red Lion’s stable yard. He followed her.
“How can I be anywhere near you after you molested me? You’re a villainous scoundrel, and I want you to leave me alone. And no more lewd suggestions, I pray. I am not, as I said before, what you think me.”
He pulled a wry face. “I can’t believe that a gently bred woman would do to me what you did yesterday—I bear the ache of it still. But let us not be enemies. Allow me to make my heartfelt apology. Shall we agree that I deserved my punishment and you need give me no quarter if I misbehave again?”
He grasped her elbow, propelling her into the shadow below the archway. Creaks and jingles reached her ears from the direction of the alum cart—they’d have to resolve their dispute quickly, or both would lose their transportation.
She lifted her head. “You have my ear. But be speedy.”
“Very well. Pray, don’t delay your journey on my account. I swear I won’t talk to you, unless you wish it. I shall—covertly—assign myself the role of your protector, as a lady should never travel alone. But if you detest me that much, I’ll find another means of getting to London.”
Pretty words. But could she trust him? His initial kindness, after her accident, had rapidly turned to mistrust at his ill-use of her. How could she put her faith in someone who didn’t believe her?
She decided to press him further. “What in heaven made you think I’d stolen your locket? I know I was dressed as a boy, but that didn’t make me a thief.”
He spread his hands. “I know, I know. The locket was restored to me when I reached my lodgings. It had been stolen, but not by you. Here. Can you understand why it’s so precious to me?”
He tugged at his neck and produced an ornate golden jewel suspended from a twisted cord. Snapping it open to reveal the portrait inside, he held it out to her. But getting a good look would mean coming too close to those muscular arms, those knowing hands. She nodded and stepped away, her breath coming in quick bursts.
“The jewel was taken from you after I collapsed?”
“While we were all fussing about you, aye.”
It might be the truth. Unless he’d had the thing all along and was trying to hoodwink her.
“So, you allow that you’re wrong about me?”
His gaze shifted before returning to her face. “You’re innocent of the theft, certainly. With regard to my other supposition—” He ran his eyes over her in a way that warmed every inch of her skin. “I confess myself disappointed if your charms are not to be bought, but remain strong in my resolve to proposition you no more. I behaved shamefully and disgracefully. It won’t happen again. Indeed, it cannot, for what sin could my lips commit beneath the censorious gaze of our fellow passengers?”
He had a point. Indeed, Sir Robert looked truly contrite. It was hard not to be taken in by those radiant blue eyes and the hopeful expectancy on his face.
“Very well. I accept your protection—temporarily. But any discourse between us must be commonplace. We shall forget what has passed.”
“Magnanimous lady—I would kiss your hand were it not for the curious eyes upon us. Come, let me fetch your bag and assist you back onto the wagon.”
The sensation of his hands around her waist as he lifted her effortlessly onto the cart kept Chloe preoccupied for some time thereafter. Despite their truce, she couldn’t relax in his presence, alarmed by her body’s traitorous reaction to his touch. Curse it—she liked the feel of that powerful, confident grip. It made her feel more of a woman. Here was a real man—not a cold-eyed, limp-handed, scrawny rake of a man like Lord Brooke.
She glanced up as the wagon rocked again, and the final passenger clambered up, a slender fellow with a weaselly aspect and unkempt beard. He settled himself next to the woman with the eggs, stared intently at his fellow passengers and then, content with a nod at each, folded his arms, and appeared to fall asleep.
The wagon lurched as the great horses took the strain. Chloe settled herself back against her bag as comfortably as she could as the cart got underway. Sir Robert unbuckled his sword and sat cross-legged opposite her, using his leather jerkin as a pad between his back and the nearest barrel. He leaned one elbow on a small chest beside him, which was presumably his luggage.
As the wagon headed out of Southampton, Chloe forced herself to stop thinking about him and take an interest in her surroundings. After all, she didn’t often get the chance to travel so far from home, and the world beyond London was just as interesting as the capital, in its own way. It was also pleasant to rest her eyes on the gently rolling hills and wooded valleys of the Hampshire landscape. There were some intriguing clumps of trees on the ridges, leaning in close like crones gathered around a cauldron.
All the same, it took great effort not to steal the occasional glance—or several—at Sir Robert. His incredible blue eyes reflected the intensifying color of the late summer sky, blinking but rarely, for he seemed wrapped in thought. As the sun rose higher, Chloe noticed the creases that furrowed his brow and the laughter lines at the corners of his eyes. He was older than she’d first thought, and more careworn—though he hid it well beneath his flirtatious grin and devil-may-care attitude. His face drew her eyes like a lodestone—he must surely be accounted exceedingly handsome, with his high cheekbones and straight nose. In truth, she’d never seen a better-looking man.
As if sensing her perusal, he turned suddenly toward her. “You see that great hill yonder, Mistress? Aye, the one just ahead. That is St. Catherine’s Hill, whereon stands a great earthwork from ancient times.”
“What manner of earthwork?” She didn’t know what an earthwork was but had no intention of displaying her ignorance.
“A pagan temple, mayhap. How is one to know? It could have been put
up by the Romans or by the Druids who preceded them. A place of wickedness and death.”
She refused to be frightened. “Why were the Romans vicious and cruel to their enemies? They seem so sensible in other ways, so civilized. I sometimes wonder if they knew and worshipped God in their own way, but called Him by many different names.”
He grinned. “Some of them were as ungodly as you could imagine. Take the Emperors Tiberius, Caligula, and Nero, for example. But as military tacticians, the Romans were unbeatable. I’ve studied Caesar’s works and learned much about strategy from them—’tis as viable on today’s battlefields as it was then.”
Chloe was interested in talking about the Classics—fascinated, even. Her own education had barely progressed beyond the practical. As a woman, she didn’t need to know much of history, politics, or warfare. But she refused to give Sir Robert the satisfaction of seeming impressed by his knowledge. Instead, she feigned a yawn, then unwrapped what remained of her provisions and concentrated on breaking a knotted biscuit into bite-sized pieces.
Hearing a snort of amusement, she looked up, but Sir Robert was staring at the scenery, a faint frown between his brows. Hah! He didn’t like being ignored, did he? He might pretend not to care for her good opinion or attention, but it appeared he did. Vain coxcomb!
She smiled and stared past the horses’ nodding heads toward the horizon. They were nearing Winchester, and she couldn’t wait for the chance to stretch her limbs and walk about a bit.
But, of course, she wasn’t permitted to enjoy her walk alone. No sooner had she alighted and strolled across to admire the pale stonework of the minster, than a familiar voice sounded at her shoulder.
“A great pity we have no time to explore this remarkable edifice. You seem to take a great interest in the things around you, Madam Mystery.”
“And you want to give the impression you know all about them,” she replied curtly. “Tell me—is your idea of protection to follow me at every step?”
Lord of Mistrust (Trysts and Treachery Book 4) Page 4
