Unlacing the Innocent Miss (14 page)

Campbell sighed and shook his head. ‘Wolf…’

‘I cannot let her go, not like this. She’ll not survive out there alone; you know she’ll not.’

Campbell massaged his fingers against his temples.

‘Please, Struan.’

‘I’m as much a bloody fool as you,’ said Campbell. ‘Come on, I’ll show you. But if she’s reached the woodland then I dinnae think that we’ll find her.’

‘We’ll find her,’ said Wolf grimly. ‘We have to.’

Rosalind had almost reached the beginning of the woodland when she saw the two riders in the distance. She knew without seeing, the identity of the horsemen: Wolf and Campbell. The grey horse was spurring on in the lead, its rider dressed in a long dark brown overcoat. And it seemed she could see across the vastness of the field to the man’s lean hard face, a face without a single line of softness in it anywhere and yet burned upon her mind for all eternity, so that she could imagine the steady focus of those silver eyes, and the utter determination that they held.

‘Wolf,’ she whispered.

And it seemed that he heard her for he seemed to look directly at her. He pointed in her direction.

Time stilled. She knew that he was coming. She whirled and ran the distance to the trees.

She continued running, dodging a path through the woodland, unmindful of her wet stockings or the worn soles of her boots through which the ground seemed to tear at the remnants of her blisters. The rain pattered on to the pale green canopy above, dripping through the leaves to wet her as she ran. It was raining in earnest now, so that the soil beneath her feet was growing softer and deep dark brown in colour. And the air was filled with the scent of rain and the dampness of earth. Her ankle turned on an exposed tree root sending her sprawling down, but she scrambled up at once and kept on running. Running and running, until her lungs were burning for air and no matter how hard, how heavy, how fast she breathed, there was not enough air to fill them. Her side was aching with a stitch and the soles of her feet were burning as if on fire. But none of it mattered. Rosalind forced herself on, knowing that this was her last chance. Knowing that, after this, she dare not face Wolf again.

The birds were not singing. There was no sound save for the rhythmic pelt of the rain. For all that sunset was far off, the light had dulled so that the woods seemed chilled and sombre, all of the lively colour of spring washed a dismal grey by the rain. Once she thought she heard Wolf coming through the woods behind her, but it was hard to hear over the loud ragged pant of her breathing; but when she held her breath and tried to listen, the sound was gone. She kept on running until she could run no more.

It was the river that stopped her; a river flowing fast and broad and deep across her path. The water was grey, frothed with white where it gushed and dropped over rocks, none of which were of any use as stepping stones. Rosalind’s gaze scanned frantically, seeking a way across, but
there was none. Over to the left was a great slope of soil, sheer in its increment but with bushes and trees growing upon its slope. She could see it was flat at the top. River or slope, she thought grimly, not much of a choice. But as she could not swim nor did she have a change of clothing with her, the choice was already made. She hurried to the bottom of the slope and began to climb.

She used the bushes and woody tree roots to pull herself slowly up the sheer incline, taking her time to gingerly test the strength of each root before leaning the whole of her weight upon it. The sweat was trick ling down her back, prick ling beneath her arms, but still she kept on climbing—glancing frequently down to check that Wolf had not yet caught up with her—until the river below looked very far away and she felt a sense of nausea so that she did not look down again.

There was not so very much further to climb, one more yard to the top. And for all that her muscles were aching and burning and crying for relief, she knew that she could keep going for that little distance. She reached for the last branch, ready to pull herself to safety, feeling the dampness and solidity of the wood beneath her fingers as her hand closed around it. One quick glance down below. No one. Thank God, she thought, and heaved herself towards the top. There was an almighty crack as the branch fractured into two. She started to slide back down the slope. A single piercing scream rent the air and Rosalind did not realize it was herself who made the sound.

Her hand flailed wildly, clawing until it fastened upon the thin wiry branches of a scrubby bush and she grabbed at the leaves. everything stopped. The silence echoed amidst the hush of rain. She hung there, secured by only the grip of a single hand, swaying in the lilt of the wind. Cau tiously, she probed with her feet, seeking something, anything on
which to find purchase, scared to move too much lest she loosen her grip. But there was nothing to be found. She shifted her weight, inch by tiny inch, until she could reach up with her other hand and anchor it too to the bush. There was nothing else within reach between her and the top of the incline, nothing else upon which she might climb. No way up, and only the land so far away below.

Rosalind’s arms trembled already with the strain and she knew that she would not be able to hold on for much longer. She was going to die, but she was not panicking, not as she panicked about horses and everything else of which she was afraid. Indeed, she was strangely calm. And she realized as she hung there that she had spent most of her life afraid. So much fear, and for what? Death was coming just the same, and in that thought was a peculiar freedom so that she thought again of Wolf: Wolf with his strength and his anger, all fearless and confrontational and passionate, the very antithesis of herself, and underneath it all, hurting just the same.

She was running from him, just as she had run from everything in her life. Running away when she wanted to run towards. She could already feel her grip beginning to weaken. Soon the thin wiry branches of the bush would slip right through her hands, and she would fall back down below. Below, where the river rushed so fast. Below, where Wolf would find her. And a pain seared in her heart for what might have been, for realizations come too late. The branch began to slip beneath her fingers.

‘Hold on, Miss Meadowfield!’ she heard him shout, and when she looked up to the top of the slope there was Wolf.

W
olf saw Rosalind clinging so precariously to the sheer face, and his heart seemed to still in his chest at the shock of seeing her in such danger. A whisper from death, he thought, and then thought no more.

‘Look up at me, only at me,’ he shouted. ‘Hold on.’

Her face was stark white. ‘Wolf,’ she whispered. Her eyes never left his face.

His gaze shifted to where her hands still gripped the bush with bloodless fingers, and he saw the strain in them and how easily her fingers would slip as the branch became wetter, and he knew that he must act right now if he was to save her. He pulled the rope from within his greatcoat before strip ping off his coat and jacket. One end of the rope he secured to the closest tree, the other he tied around his waist.

‘Please hurry,’ she cried, and he could see the infinitesimal movement of the branches through her fingers.

‘Hold on, Rosalind, just a few seconds more.’ He spoke
calmly, trying to allay her panic, as he backed off solid ground on to the slope. He half climbed, half slid down the sheer face, striving to reach her as quickly as possible. He could hear her laboured breathing, hear the tumble of pebbles and soil cascading down, rolling to land too far below. And the thought that Rosalind Meadowfield might follow them was unbearable so that, for the first time since he was a child, he prayed.

Dear God, save her,
he willed.
Take me in her stead, and save her. Please
.

He heard her sudden gasp of air. He heard her body begin to slide. ‘Wolf!’

And he was there, catching her in his arms, pulling her tight against his body, holding her secure.

‘Rosalind, I have you.’

She clung to him, burying her face against his chest.

A heart beat, and then another.

‘Wrap your arms around my neck and your legs around my body. I’ll get us out of here.’ Heaven only knew how much he did not want to let her go, not for one second, but he knew what he had to do.

She did as he instructed, holding tight to him.

Wolf focused, shutting every sensation out, single-minded, determined, ruthless. He climbed up the rope with his most precious cargo, and only when they were both safe, away from the precipice, did he release her long enough to unfasten the rope.

She stood before him, exactly where he left her, not moving, not shifting her gaze from his.

‘I thought…I thought that I would…’

‘I know,’ he said, and pulled her back into his arms. ‘I know,’ he said again and stroked the strands of loose hair back from her face. ‘But you are safe now.’

She nodded and closed her eyes against him. ‘I had
to run,’ she whispered, ‘I had to try. You understand, do you not?’

‘I understand.’ He rubbed a hand against her back. And God help him, but he did. She must really believe that Evedon would hang her, if she was willing to risk her life like this to flee him.

‘Evedon will not hang you. I was telling the truth when I said that he is most adamant in wanting the whole affair hushed up.’

She glanced away towards the slope’s edge, staring at it as if it held her mesmerized.

‘Rosalind,’ he said softly, trying to turn her from it.

She looked up at him then, her face pale, her eyes a dark mossy brown and shimmering with unshed tears. ‘I have not told you the truth of this matter and neither has Lord Evedon.’ She paused, taking a deep shaky breath.

‘It is of no consequence right now; let us speak of it later when you are recovered.’

‘No.’ She shook her head and her hair, all loose and flowing from their chase, swept against her face. ‘I need to tell you, Wolf. I want you to know.’

He nodded, feeling his chest tighten, and waited.

‘I
am
a thief. I
did
steal from Evedon, not the dowager’s jewels but…something else, something of which he does not wish the world to know. He believes me guilty of both crimes, but I swear to you, I took neither the diamonds nor the emeralds.’ She glanced away and bit at her lip. ‘I did not know whether you knew of the…’ she hesitated ‘…of the other item.’

‘Evedon employed me to bring you back for jewel theft, nothing else.’

Her eyes met his once again. Such dark troubled eyes, filled with sincerity and with pain.

‘What did you steal?’ he asked as gently as he could.

She bit her lip again, harder this time, so that he saw the tiny trickle of blood. ‘A letter. I did not mean to take it…but there seemed no other option.’ She swallowed and stared up into his eyes. ‘Please do not ask me,’ she said softly. ‘For all that Lord Evedon thinks, I will not betray him. Not for his sake, but for the sake of another. I know his secret. I have the proof, and because of that, he
will
kill me.’

And this time when she said the words, he believed her.

‘Wolf,’ and in that one word was both relief and fear. ‘What am I going to do?’

He could feel the tremble that raged through her body.

‘I’ll not let him hurt you; I’ll not let anyone hurt you.’ He pulled her to him, holding her as if he would protect her from the world, and dropped a single kiss to the top of her head.

And she believed him. For the first time in such a long time, she felt truly safe. He was strong and invincible, nothing could overcome Wolf she thought, as he wrapped his arms around her and just held her. Beneath the press of her cheek to his chest, she could feel the strong steady beat of his heart. A man of iron, so ruthless, so hard, and yet beneath, such gentleness; a man that fought for what he believed in, a man in whom she could trust.

Deep inside, an overwhelming tenderness for him welled up and over flowed, so that the tears spilled down her cheeks and she began to weep for everything that he was and everything that she was and all that could not be. Wolf held her and stroked her and whispered that he would keep her safe, until all her tears were cried and she rested against him spent and empty. He wrapped his greatcoat around her and gathered her up into his arms as if she were a child. And she let him carry her through the trees and
the teeming rain. There would be no more running. It was time to stop hiding from the truth.

They rode through the grey sheet of rain, Wolf careful to keep his horse at a slow steady pace for the sake of Rosalind who was riding pillion before him. She sat quiet and exhausted; the trauma of her ordeal seemed to have sapped all of her energy. After an hour of riding, he felt her relax against him, her head lolling into him as she dozed.

‘Well?’ said Campbell at last. ‘Are you still gonnae tell me that she’s just a capture?’ He looked point edly down at where Rosalind was sleeping in Wolf’s arms.

‘It’s more complicated than you think,’ said Wolf.

‘Aye, I think I can see exactly what kind of complicated it is.’

Wolf drew him a look.

Campbell stared back unrepentant. ‘Are we still taking her to Evedon?’

Wolf deliberately avoided the question. ‘She says that she did not steal the jewels.’

‘She’s been saying that all along.’

Wolf glanced down at the where Rosalind lay against him. ‘And maybe she’s been telling the truth all along.’

‘Maybe.’ He could hear the cynicism in Campbell’s voice.

‘She says she stole a letter be longing to Evedon, and it’s the letter that he’s after, rather than the jewels.’

‘Does it make any difference? She’s still a thief.’

‘Aye, it makes a difference. Evedon lied to us. Maybe there never was a jewel theft. This whole thing could have been about the letter all along.’

Campbell looked away, rubbed at the back of his neck and when he looked round again, his expression was grim. ‘What kind of a letter?’

‘One worth a hundred of Evedon’s guineas,’ said Wolf.

‘And does she still have this letter?’

‘I believe so.’

‘Easy enough to check,’ said Campbell and looked at him meaningfully.

Wolf gave no reply. He knew what Campbell was suggesting. Searching Rosalind would be no hardship. A vision of her naked flashed in his mind. He closed his eyes to dispel the image.

‘If she has the letter, then Evedon’s strange insistence that we search neither Miss Meadowfield nor her baggage makes sense.’

‘As I said before, maybe he wants an excuse to do the searching himself,’ said Campbell. ‘Maybe there’s more between Evedon and the woman right enough, just as Kempster said.’

‘Kempster’s a damned liar.’

‘Maybe he didnae lie about everything.’

It was a small horrible thought that Wolf did not want to dwell upon, for his imagination could reckon all too easily what might have passed between Evedon and Miss Meadowfield. He gritted his teeth and clamped down hard on his jaw.

Campbell slid a glance across at him. ‘So which one is playing us, the woman or Evedon?’

‘I think that Rosalind is telling the truth,’ said Wolf.

Campbell crooked an eyebrow. ‘
Rosalind,
now, is it?’

Wolf scowled as he felt his cheeks warm at Campbell’s tone.

‘And what if she’s lying? What then? Will you hand her over to Evedon?’

‘I don’t know, Struan.’ He pushed the thought away and looked across at Campbell. ‘We need to make a few enquiries
of our own about Evedon’s jewels. We’re not so very far from London: a couple of days at most by mail. Will you travel on alone and visit some of our old acquaintances? Find out if anyone’s fenced some emeralds in the past few weeks.’

Campbell gestured his head towards Rosalind. ‘And what about you and Miss Meadowfield?’

‘I’ll keep Rosalind at the inn we’re headed for, until we know what’s going on.’

Campbell nodded and his eyes met Wolf’s. ‘While you’re there bed her and be done with it, Wolf. Bed the lassie and get her oot your system. Do it for both our sakes.’

Wolf said nothing. Maybe Campbell was right. Maybe if he bedded Rosalind, this craving he felt for her would be sated. The confusion clouding his mind would be gone. Life would be simple once more, everything black or white, no more shades of grey. Life would go back to as it had been before Rosalind Meadowfield. He looked down at the woman he held secure against his body and wondered if that would ever be possible.

They rode on in silence.

Rosalind awoke to find herself being handed down into Campbell’s arms. The day was a dark dismal grey and the rain was still falling steadily from the skies. She stumbled to her feet.

‘Forgive me, I did not mean to sleep.’

‘Dinnae fash yersel’, lassie. We rode the quicker for it.’ Campbell said, not unkindly, but he did not smile.

She glanced between Campbell and Wolf, not sure of Wolf’s reaction to her, or if Wolf was aware of Campbell’s part in her escape. Wolf was staring moodily ahead, and she could not gauge either matter. The afternoon air was cool and the atmosphere between the men heavy and brooding. She shivered in the heavy dampness
of her clothes, even though Wolf’s greatcoat was still wrapped around her.

She did not understand what this thing was between her and Wolf, this force that had bound them from the beginning. He was her captor and she his prisoner. Was he still taking her back to Evedon? His whispered words from the cliff-top echoed in her head:
I’ll not let him hurt you. I’ll not let anyone hurt you.
Promises of safety and reassurance that no one else had ever uttered, his arms strong and protective around her. She turned away, and began walking towards the inn door.

The murmur of voices sounded behind her, Wolf’s and Campbell’s and then she heard the blast of the mail coach’s horn and the rushed gallop of hooves entering the inn’s yard. Her heart stuttered in a moment of panic.

‘Wolf?’ She swung round, suddenly afraid that he meant to abandon her.

But Wolf was standing where she had left him. It was Campbell who climbed on to the top of the mail coach. He raised his hand in a half wave, half salute at Wolf before the coach rolled through the gateway and disappeared out on to the road from which it had just come.

Her eyes cut to Wolf, the question hanging unspoken between them.

‘He has business to see to,’ he said.

‘Is he coming back?’

‘In a few days.’ He picked up his saddlebags and walked towards her. ‘Just you and me tonight, Rosalind,’ he said quietly, before he moved to open the inn door.

Her heart gave a flutter, and a shiver stroked from the nape of her neck to the base of her spine. She followed Wolf into the inn.

It was a comfortable room, much more expensive than any that they had stayed in during their journey. A fire
blazed on the hearth, warming the gloom. Wolf dumped the baggage on the rug by the doorway and drew the dark heavy curtains across the window, shutting out what was left of the day and causing shadows to flicker against the pale blank walls.

She stood there motionless, the rain still dripping from his greatcoat that was wrapped around her.

Just the two of them alone in a bedchamber. The tension was so tight that he could almost feel his body spark with it. Rosalind could feel it too; he could see it in her face, in the parting of her lips, the slight heaviness of her breathing and the dark dilated pupils of her eyes.

He swallowed hard, his mouth dry with a sudden un expected nervousness. His body ached for her. He stepped closer.

She did not move away, just stood there, her gaze never leaving his. And in her face was such trust, such warmth, such goodness that he felt a heavy ache in his chest where his heart would have been—if he still had a heart. And he knew then that he could not do it. He would not bed her, no matter how his body willed it, nor for any words that he and Campbell had spoken. It was not her fault that he wanted her. She did not know the dark deeds of which men were capable. He would not ruin her to satisfy his own lust.

He opened his mouth to say the words. But it was Rosalind who spoke first.

‘You saved my life today. Had you not arrived…’ Emotion thick ened her voice and she caught at her bottom lip with her teeth, holding it back until she was once more composed.

‘I did not thank you.’ Two steps and she was right there before him, staring up into his face. ‘Thank you, Wolf,’ she whispered, ‘for today, for Kempster, for everything.’
She reached up and cupped her hand with the utmost tender ness against his scarred cheek.