Unlacing the Innocent Miss (6 page)

He was a strong man—one prone to violence, if the scar on his face was anything to judge by—a man that no one would wish for their enemy, but that was exactly what he was to her, she thought dismally. And this man had roused
in her such anger and pushed her from the reserve in which she normally held herself. This was the man that would take her to Evedon.

You are mine,
he had said, and the thought of being completely under his control made her blood run cold. For she had only just begun to imagine what a man like Wolf could do to her. She remembered the way he had looked at her upon the staircase, and the warm press of his hand against the small of her back that seemed to scorch through all the layers of her clothing, and the clean enticing smell of him. She remembered, too, how she had been unable to move, unable to think, her own will seemingly sapped from her body, and how quickly the smoulder in his eyes had cooled and frozen back into hatred. Rosalind clutched a hand tight across her mouth to stop the whimper of shock that threatened to escape. He was both fascinating and frightening, and she did not understand the effect he had upon her. God help her, for he was harsh and ruthless and unstoppable. With Wolf as her enemy, she may as well flee back to Evedon and throw herself upon the earl’s mercy.

Against her ribs, she felt the warmth of the linen package where she had hidden Evedon’s letter, a reminder of what was at stake. Wolf might threaten her, but he would not kill her. Evedon would send her to the gallows. She squeezed her eyes tight, knowing what she was going to have to do. It had been difficult enough to escape Evedon; it was going to take a miracle to escape Wolf.

She clutched her knees tighter and began to pray.

W
olf took a hearty swig of the ale in his tankard. ‘I needed that.’

‘Gave you a hard time, did she?’ Campbell asked with a twinkle in his eye.

‘Hardly,’ said Wolf. ‘She seems to be under the impression that Evedon will push to have her hanged.’

‘And no doubt you did nothing to dissuade the lassie of that belief.’ Campbell cocked an eyebrow.

‘Why should I? Let her sweat a bit.’ Wolf took another swig of his ale. ‘This journey is likely to be the worst of her punishments.’

‘What do you mean?’ Kempster looked up from his beer. ‘Evedon’ll haul her through the courts. He’ll not see her hang what with her being a lady, like, but she should get a spell in the gaol. Whatever he does, she’ll be utterly ruined.’

‘There will be no scandal.’ Wolf gave a cynical laugh. ‘Evedon wants the affair kept quiet. Why else do you think he’s employed us? He wants her delivered back to him with
the utmost of discretion. He has no intention of publicizing the fact she’s done a runner with his mother’s jewels.’

‘But he cannot mean to let her off with stealing from the dowager?’

Wolf gave a hard mirthless smile at the outrage in Kempster’s voice. ‘You’ve much to learn of men like your employer, Mr Kempster.’

Kempster shook his head as if to deny Wolf’s words.

‘She’s a pretty wee slip o’ a lassie, Kempster,’ said Campbell. ‘Maybe Evedon has his own reasons for wanting her theft hushed up.’

But Kempster was not listening.

Campbell smiled.

‘It doesn’t matter what the hell she is, other than a thief,’ said Wolf sourly. ‘All we have to do is deliver her to Evedon. What he does with her then is none of our concern. And if we let her think the worst of it, then all the better. It is less than she deserves.’

‘You’re a hard man, Wolf,’ said Campbell, ‘a hard man indeed. Is that no’ so, Mr Kempster?’

‘Yeah.’ Kempster brought his gaze back from the distance, and wiped the pensive expression from his face. He drained his glass. ‘I’ll fetch us another jug.’ He gestured to the empty jug of beer standing in the middle of the table. ‘Put it on Evedon’s account as expenses.’ He stood raising his hand to attract the serving wench’s attention.

‘Leave it,’ said Wolf. ‘We’ve an early start in the morning and a fair distance to travel. We’ll need clear heads not beer-sopped groggy ones.’

‘One more jug won’t do no harm,’ countered Kempster.

Wolf said nothing, but his hard gaze met the footman’s and held.

‘Now that I think about it, I might just go and stretch my legs before getting my head down.’ Kempster went over
and whispered into the serving wench’s ear, before heading outside.

Two minutes later and Wolf and Campbell watched the girl follow Kempster.

‘Young lust,’ Campbell commented and set his tankard down on the table.

A vision of Rosalind Meadowfield flickered in Wolf’s mind, of her clear hazel eyes and full pink lips and the dark curl of her hair swept back in its prim chignon. He swallowed hard, forcing the image away, and scowled at Campbell’s quip.

‘We should get some sleep,’ he said and his voice was edged with the anger that he felt at himself for thinking of the woman.

Campbell drew Wolfe a quizzical glance but said nothing.

The two men retired for the night.

The next morning, Rosalind steeled herself not to flinch at the sight of the little mare in the yard. She could see that Wolf was watching her, his expression hard, his pale gaze cool and unyielding. And for all that her stomach was squirming with the prospect of riding, she knew that she would rather die than let Wolf know it. Kempster watched too, but there was no smirk upon his face today. She turned away from them, gathered her courage and, hiding her reluctance, let Campbell help her up into the mare’s saddle.

She was careful to let nothing of her fear or apprehension show upon her features as they rode out of the inn’s yard, following the same format as the previous day: Wolf riding in front of her, Campbell and Kempster behind. The road was in such a bad state that they could move no faster than a walk. But Rosalind was grateful for the pot holes
and uneven surface, for fear held her tense in its grip and it was all she could do to mask it. They had ridden for almost an hour when Rosalind felt her horse react.

‘Whoa, stop there, lassie,’ she heard Campbell shouting behind her, before riding up and dismounting. She jumped down from the saddle while he examined one of the mare’s rear legs. She watched how gentle and quiet his manner was for such a big strong man. And then Wolf was there, sliding down from his saddle to crouch at Campbell’s side.

‘We’ve got a problem: she’s lame.’ Campbell tipped his head towards the mare.

Wolf nodded. He did not look happy.

‘We shouldn’t be too far from the next village. Riderless and with a slow enough pace the mare should manage the distance. Campbell, you see to the beast; I’ll see to Miss Meadowfield,’ said Wolf and climbed back up into his saddle.

Campbell transferred her travelling bag from the mare to his own mount.

Rosalind did not like the sound of ‘Wolf’s seeing to Miss Meadowfield’ one little bit. She looked at the great grey stallion by Wolf’s side and a tremor of panic flitted through her. ‘I can walk.’

‘Really?’ he said. ‘I thought it was carriages and sedan chairs every where for ladies like you.’

She glared at him, wanting to tell him that he was more wrong than he could imagine, that he had no right to be here forcing her on to horseback; no right to be dragging her back to Evedon at all.

Wolf glared right back, the animosity crackling between them, his expression hard and uncompromising. Beneath him, his horse stared at her with an equally hard eye. She averted her gaze from the meanness contained in the beast’s stare, and tried to ignore the horse’s sheer
size and the power and strength emanating from both horse and rider.

The proximity of his horse and the prospect of being taken up upon the massive beast was making her legs tremble and her stomach roil. She locked her knees and swallowed down the nausea. ‘I would not wish to inconvenience you, sir.’

‘I assure you that it is never an inconvenience bringing in a captive.’ And when she looked again, his pale gaze was on hers. ‘Miss Meadowfield.’ He reached his hand down to her, ready to pull her up on to the saddle before him.

She stepped away, afraid of both the man and the horse, feeling the quickening thump of her heart and knowing that she must let nothing of her fears show. ‘If the horse is lame, then we can travel no faster than her walk.’

‘True. And?’

‘I will walk,’ she said too quickly. ‘Do not fear that I would delay our pace, for I assure you I am quite capable of walking at an equivalent speed.’

‘It is thirty miles to our destination this day.’

She gave a slight shrug of her shoulders as if what he said was of no great consequence. ‘I said I will walk, sir.’

‘Thirty miles?’ He laughed, which served to stir her anger. ‘Have you any idea of that distance?’ The scepticism on his face made her all the more determined.

‘I have walked further; thirty miles is no great matter,’ she lied.

He looked at her as if he knew that she was lying. ‘I think your memory is playing you false, Miss Meadowfield.’

‘My memory is perfectly fine, Mr Wolversley,’ she insisted.

He stepped his horse towards her.

She backed away in alarm, thinking he meant to snatch her up on to the beast.

He stopped where he was, and the cool silver gaze scrutinized her for a moment more. ‘Very well then,’ he said at last.

He glanced away. ‘Campbell, you and Kempster ride in front with the mare. I’ll stay behind with Miss Meadowfield.’

She sagged with the relief of not having to share Wolf’s horse.

The small party moved off. Campbell led the mare, riding abreast with Kempster, then came Rosalind on foot, and finally Wolf.

There were no replacement horses in the next village. They left the little mare there and continued on.

Rosalind walked, and amidst the relief at having won this small battle was the awareness of the man that rode behind her. She could hear the steady rhythmic clop of his horse’s hooves on the hard surface of the road. She tried to force her mind to turn away from him, to think other thoughts, to see anything but him, but all of her determination was useless. There was only the long road that stretched ahead and Wolf behind.

Miss Meadowfield had been walking for three hours when Wolf decided that he would have to intervene. Not one word of complaint had she uttered, nor one single glance back in his direction, not even when they had made a brief stop to let the horses and themselves drink had she looked at him. The thick fur cloak hung heavy over her arm, her cheeks were flushed prettily from fresh air and exertion, several dark tendrils of hair had escaped
her bonnet to snake against her throat, and there was an undeniable weariness in her step.

He drew his horse alongside her.

‘You’ve made your point, Miss Meadowfield. You can climb upon my horse without any injury to your pride.’

She did not turn her face to his, just kept on walking at the same steady pace. ‘I prefer to walk, Mr Wolversley.’

‘No doubt you do, but I’ve a mind to reach our next stop before nightfall.’

She glanced over at him then and he could see the wariness on her face. Her pace increased, her feet stepping out faster over the uneven surface of the road. ‘I can walk faster.’

He edged his horse over to block her path. ‘You have walked enough this day.’

‘No.’ She backed away from him, the pink of her cheeks draining to leave her face pale. The look in her eyes was one of terror. Had he been so hard on the woman as to cause such a response of dread?

‘Miss Meadowfield,’ he said more gently.

‘No!’ And this time he could hear the under tone of panic in the word. ‘I wish to walk. I will not climb upon that horse. You cannot make me.’

Up ahead, Campbell and Kempster had stopped and were watching their exchange with interest. Wolf knew that, but his attention did not waver from the woman standing before him.

‘We both know that I can,’ he said softly.

‘And do you mean to?’ she breathed, and her gaze held his with an intensity that seemed to shake all of his convictions. She was trying desperately to hide her fear and failing miserably. His horse gave a whinny and turned his head in her direction.

Miss Meadowfield jumped, her face washed powder-
white, and his suspicion was confirmed. It seemed that forcing her back on to the mare after her fright yesterday had not prevented her fear running out of hand. Forcing her on to horseback now would only make things worse.

A subtle shake of his head. ‘No.’

‘You will allow me to continue walking?’ He could see the suspicion in her clear hazel eyes as if she did not quite believe him.

‘For today,’ he said.

She gave a cautious nod.

He slipped from his horse and walked towards her, seeing the way she tensed ready to run. ‘Your cloak.’ He stopped short of reaching her, and held out his hand.

And beneath the suspicion he saw surprise.

She hesitated, and her eyes raised to his as if in question as she handed him the cloak. ‘Thank you.’

He rolled the cloak to a ball and fitted it into his saddlebags.

‘Thank you,’ she said again, and Wolf knew that her gratitude was not because of the cloak.

‘Start walking,’ he said in a harsh voice, lest she think that he was softening.

He took the horse’s reins in his hand and leading the animal behind him, he began to walk by her side.

She stopped suddenly, stared at him with wide wary eyes. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Ensuring you keep to the pace,’ he lied.

She looked uncertain, as if she was not sure whether to believe him or not. ‘Can you not do so equally well on horse back?’

‘No.’ He did not elaborate the untruth.

She swallowed down what retort she would have given, and nodded cautiously.

They walked on in silence, side by side.

Rosalind was acutely conscious of Wolf’s proximity, of his tall frame and long muscular legs. She knew without looking how easy his stride was, how relaxed and how unchallenged his breathing; clearly he was used to walking, unlike herself. She wondered why he was walking with her rather than riding behind. She should resent it, she thought, but she could not for she knew how easily he could have taken her up on his great grey stallion. Why he had chosen not to was a mystery.

She risked a subtle glance across at him. His face was just as hard and just as handsome in profile. He faced forward, his focus trained some distance ahead. Beneath the battered leather of his hat, feathers of fair hair fluttered in the breeze. She scanned the straight line of his nose, the angle of his cheekbone, and the scar that sat upon it. Her eyes traced the strong line of his jaw, up to his lips that for once were not pressed firm and hard together, and found herself wondering what he would look like if he were to smile, properly smile a smile of happiness instead of the cynical curve of his mouth she had seen.

Without warning, he turned his head and met her eyes, catching her quite unaware so that she blushed. She rapidly averted her gaze but not before she had felt the questioning intensity of his stare. She walked on—increasing her pace, not slowing it—and the whole right-hand side of her body, by which he walked, seemed to tingle with a strange awareness.

The hours passed slowly until the air had lost its warmth and the light was dimming as the clouds began to gather overhead. Miss Meadowfield was still walking. Wolf had not thought that she would last so long.

Her head was still held high, yet she was unable to hide
the slight droop of her shoulders or the slowing of her pace. He knew that she must be exhausted and her feet sore, for he was weary enough and he was used to walking and had walked a good number of hours less.

Wolf slipped back up into his saddle and rode past her to Campbell and Kempster. ‘Penrith’s a mile ahead. That’s where we’ll stop for the night.’