Unlacing the Innocent Miss (7 page)

‘You should have taken her up on your horse. We’ve lost too much time. Evedon’ll be getting jumpy if we’re delayed.’

Wolf turned a hard eye on Kempster. ‘Evedon will have her in plenty of time. You need not concern yourself with our schedule, Mr Kempster.’

‘Just sayin’’ said Kempster with a shrug.

‘Best to say nothing, laddie.’ Campbell smiled but the smile did not touch his eyes.

‘Ride on ahead to the Crown Inn and secure us a couple of rooms. Here.’ Wolf drew a leather purse from his pocket and threw it to Kempster.

The other man gave a nod, and manoeuvred his horse out to the middle of the road.

‘And Kempster,’ called Wolf.

He looked back. ‘It’s counted.’

Kempster’s mouth tightened, but he said nothing, just kicked his heels into his horse’s flanks and rode off.

Campbell waited until Kempster was out of earshot before speaking. ‘He’s right you know.’

‘He is that.’ Wolf’s horse kept on walking. He glanced behind at where Miss Meadowfield followed.

Her face was pale and covered in dust, but her eyes met his and held before she averted her gaze.

‘You’ve punished her enough, Wolf, I doubt she’ll try another escape after this.’

‘This is nothing of punishment, Struan. What the hell kind of man do you think me?’

‘One that hates everything that Miss Meadowfield represents.’

He gave a sigh. ‘I cannot argue with that, but the greater punishment would have been to take her up with me.’

Campbell’s brow knitted. ‘You’re makin’ no sense. Come the morn’ she’ll be begging for you to take her up.’

‘On the contrary, Struan, Miss Meadowfield would rather crawl on all fours than climb up beside me.’

‘Taken a bit o’ a dislike to you has she? Cannae think why.’ Campbell raised an eyebrow in an expression of irony.

‘The mare bolted when she was trying to make a run for it yesterday. She lost control of the horse and it gave her one hell of a fright, not that she’d admit as much. She’s a poor horse woman; you saw how uneasy she was around horses even before yesterday’s episode. The woman’s terrified of riding again.’

‘That explains why she had a face white as chalk when you brought her back. But she was riding the mare then.’

‘Aye, she was that, but only because I forced her back in the saddle straight off. Best thing after an incident like that. Usually conquers the fear.’

‘Except it doesnae seem to have worked in Miss Meadowfield’s case.’

‘No, Struan, it does not.’

‘The lassie’s dead on her feet. Maybe this day of walking will make her change her mind.’

‘Somehow I do not think so,’ said Wolf grimly. Her discomfort served her right, he told himself, but he did not believe it. She had been so damned insistent on walking. It was not anything that the poor did not do every day of their lives. But Rosalind Meadowfield was not poor. She
had not walked to collect water, walked to rummage in midden heaps to find food, walked the streets because there was nowhere else to go. She knew nothing of survival, and what was so wrong in letting her taste a little of how the other half lived? Yet still he dropped his horseback until he was level with her, and swung himself down to walk once more by her side.

She briefly glanced in his direction before turning her face forward once more, but not before he saw how pale she was and the unmistakable fatigue that shadowed her eyes. He felt the hand of guilt squeeze at his innards.

‘One more mile,’ he said to her.

She nodded. He doubted she had energy enough left to speak.

They continued on, the silence only broken by their footsteps and the clop of his horse’s hooves behind. He did not look at her, not once, and yet he was aware of her every breath, of the slight awkwardness in the light tread of her boots through the dust of the road, and of every tired nuance in her frame. And although she still represented everything that he had been raised to hate, he found perversely that there was a part of him that was willing her on, step by step of that last mile.

A mile had never seemed so long, yet Rosalind gritted her teeth against the pain and kept going. Only when they had finally reached their destination and she was alone within the bedchamber of the Crown Inn did she give in to it. She was so tired she could not think straight, so tired that she could not stop the flow of silent tears that leaked down her cheeks. And she did not even understand why she wept, only that she felt so small and weak in comparison to the task that lay ahead.

He would come for her in a minute, to take her down to
the public room. She thought of how he had walked by her side, and there had been nothing of mockery and anger in him then. Indeed, she had the feeling he was supporting her, buoying her up, willing her on. And then there was the way that he had not taken her by force upon his horse, allowing her to walk, almost as if he understood her fear. A ridiculous notion for sure. Wolf was harsh and cruel. He hated her. He was taking her to Evedon. Wasn’t he? But his actions today ran contrary to all she thought of him. This day had not been as she expected.
He
had not been as she expected.

She felt numb from exhaustion, numb, and yet she still she wept. Her cheeks were hot, even though the bedchamber was cool and the grate empty. No candles had been lit and there was a sense of comfort in the dusky shadowed grey light. She sat down upon the bed, wiping the tears from her face with dust-stained fingers, knowing she could not let him see her like this. The bed was narrow, its covers coarse and worn. Yet she lay her length upon it as if it were a silken luxury, easing the weight from the throbbing ache in her legs. Two minutes. Just to rest for two minutes. The pillow was soft as down beneath her head. She closed her eyelids against the hot grittiness of her eyes and welcomed the darkness.

Wolf was feeling uneasy about the day as he knocked upon Miss Meadowfield’s door. The woman had surprised him this day. He had seen the fear that she tried to hide and he recognized the dogged determination that sprung from it. Thirty miles, and not one word of complaint. The incident with the little mare must have scared her more than he had realized. Only once had she looked at him, and he thought again of the faint colour that had warmed her pale cheeks as he had caught her.

No reply came from within the room, but Wolf waited where he was without a word just the same. The minutes passed. He knocked again and called her name. No response. No sound of movement of any kind. What game was she playing now? Had she sneaked away in those few moments alone, or was she blatantly ignoring him in an attempt to put him back in his place where he belonged? He felt the flare of his temper, and without further ado thrust the door open.

Rosalind Meadowfield lay on the bed, limp and motionless, her bonnet askew and crushed upon her head, her clothes still thick with the road’s dust. Dread twisted in Wolf’s chest, and all of his anger was gone in a second. He did not remember how he got there, just that he was by her side, leaning over her, examining, listening. Only when he heard her breath did he release his own in a gush. He saw then the tracks her tears had made through the dirt on her cheeks; something tightened in his stomach and he knew it was guilt.

Beneath the filth her cheeks were flushed. His hand moved to gently cup her heated skin.

She stirred in her sleep, opened her eyes to look at him. ‘Wolf,’ she murmured, forgoing her usual ‘Mr Wolversley’ for the first time, and there was such exhaustion in that one word that he felt it pierce his soul.

‘Forgive me, I—’ she said, and tried to sit up.

But he slid his hand down to gently still her.

‘Nay, lass. Rest a while. I’ll have a tray sent up to you. See that you eat before you sleep.’

She nodded and her eyes clung to his and what he could see in her gaze was pain and hurt and loneliness to rival his own. And for the first time since leaving London, a shadow of doubt moved over his heart.

Rosalind woke the next morning to a hand touching her shoulder.

‘Miss Meadowfield.’ A man’s voice, and one that she recognized. ‘Miss Meadowfield,’ he said again.

Sleep was heavy upon her and she forced herself to struggle out from beneath it and prise her eyes open. It felt as if she had only closed her eyes a few minutes ago. And for a moment, she thought she was back in her bedchamber in Evedon House, just for a moment, before she remembered and with memory came the fear twisting again in her stomach. She raised her eyes and found herself looking up into Wolf’s pale grey ones.

‘Wolf…?’ Her voice was hoarse and dry with sleep, her head still thick with it.

‘There is warm water upon the dresser. When you are ready, come down to the public room for breakfast. We shall wait for you there.’

There was nothing of mockery or contempt in his face this morning, and the harsh tone had gone from his voice. And she remembered her dream from the night of Wolf, of kindness and a touch so tender that soothed her hurt. But she was not dreaming now, and she wondered at this change in him.

‘Thank you,’ she murmured and her eyes held his, scared to look away lest when she looked again all of his resentment was back.

He gave a gruff nod. ‘I am trusting you, Miss Meadowfield.’ And then he rose and left.

She lay there listening to the sound of his boots receding along the passageway and down the staircase. His words whispered again through her mind
, I am trusting you, Miss Meadowfield,
and as her eyes swivelled towards the door she realized what he had meant. No key had sounded within
the lock. She slipped from the bed, wincing as her feet touched the floor. And when she bent to examine them, she saw the clotted, weeping, bloodied mess where the leather of her boots had chafed the skin of her feet to rawness. Her feet had been sore yesterday, but nothing to compare with the pain of this morning.

She hobbled to the door. The knob turned within her hand, and the door swung open towards her. She heard the hurried thud of heavy footsteps upon the stairs and, quickly and quietly, closed the door again, leaning against its panelled wood while she waited, holding her breath in case it was Wolf returning. Only when the footsteps disappeared into one of the other rooms did she breathe again. But it did not prevent the small shiver that rippled down her spine at the thought of him. The door was open, but she could not run…yet.

Outside, crows were calling, their cawing loud and sinister in the morning air. Rosalind glanced around the small shabby room, her eyes stopping on a small table. It was not too heavy as she lifted it and positioned it to barricade the door, building herself a modicum of security.

The water within the cream china pitcher was warm, just as he had said. She stripped off her clothes. Chilled and vulnerable in her nakedness, she began to wash yesterday’s dust and sweat from her body.

Down in the public room was the smell of breakfast, of coffee and freshly baked bread, frying ham and eggs. But beneath it, last night’s beer, stale and uninviting, lingered faintly. The three men sat at the table, drinking their coffee, and did not speak.

The minutes ticked by and Wolf’s eyes shifted again to the door, wedged open in the corner of the public room, showing a clear view of the lower half of the staircase.

‘Forty-five minutes and still she is not down. Miss Meadowfield is slow in her appearance this morning,’ said Kempster.

Campbell murmured a caution beneath his breath and sipped at his coffee.

The footman chose not to heed Campbell’s words. ‘But then she is not used to dressing without the help of a maid.’

Campbell gave a slight wince at this and glanced at Wolf who was already getting to his feet. ‘Leave it, Wolf. The lassie will be here any minute.’

Wolf’s gaze met his friend’s. ‘She’s mocking us, Struan.’ He did not wait for a reply, just moved across the public room towards the staircase.

By the time he reached Miss Meadowfield’s bedroom, the slow burning fuse of his anger was already well ignited. He had trusted her and she had shown him that he was a fool to have done so. He strode along the corridor, his booted footsteps ringing loud. One glance from those hazel eyes and already he was forgetting what this was about. There he was feeling sorry for her plight! She, who was of the gentry, a woman who cared only for her own selfish gain, with no regard for who she trampled upon to obtain it. What compassion had she for those beneath her?

She was wrapped up in the pettiness of her reputation and Society’s opinion. A gentle woman with nothing of gentle ness, all of it a pretence to mask what lay below. Wolf hated the gentility and nobility with every fibre of his being. And just because she was a woman, with eyes to haunt a man, she thought she could play him, blind him to what she really was. And he, like a fool, had fallen for it, his heart softening, when in reality she deserved everything that she got, and more. His anger was simmering such that, upon reaching her bedchamber, he did not even knock.

The handle of the door turned easily but the door did not open; he felt it contact something hard and heavy, and he knew that she had barricaded the door against him. He had trusted her, leaving the door unlocked, and this was how she repaid him. And all of that molten anger erupted in a blaze of fury both at her and his own stupidity.

‘Who is there?’ he heard her call.

He gave no reply, just leaned his shoulder on the door and pushed his weight against it. There was a sound of scraping wood and the door moved quickly.

‘Please wait!’ Miss Meadowfield’s voice sounded from the other side of the room.

He did not stop. something wooden and heavy fell over, hitting the floor with a loud thud and the door swung open.

She was standing fully clothed by the bed. He heard her gasp as he walked slowly across the threshold and carefully shut the door behind him.

A
ny gentleness, any sense of reason had gone. Rosalind saw the hard set of Wolf’s jaw. She saw too that his eyes had changed from a cool silver to a stormy dark grey. Even the air around him seemed tense. He was wearing the leather trousers, worn and scuffed as his boots, the lace threading the outer seams running the length of his long legs. Beneath his jacket she could see no waistcoat, only a white shirt and neckcloth. He stood there, the door behind him, tall and powerful, his legs slightly apart as if he were balanced, poised, ready to strike. A man about to do battle, a man whose anger was unmistakable. Everything about him seemed to scream a warning of danger. She stepped back, feeling the urge to run, knowing that there was nowhere to run to; that Wolf stood between her and the room’s only exit.

‘What merits this behaviour, sir?’ She cleared her throat and braced her shoulders. ‘You did not need to resort to such violence.’ She glanced towards the table that now lay
on its side upon the floor. ‘Had you knocked upon the door, I would have answered.’

Still he said nothing, just stood there looking at her, silent, unmoving, and his very calm made her more nervous of the storm that she was sure he was about to unleash. Her stomach somersaulted, and she felt her throat grow dry. ‘You have damaged the floorboards.’ She gestured towards the marks that the table legs had scraped. ‘The landlord will be angry and…’ Her words petered out as her eyes came back once more to Wolf. He was not looking at the table or the scraped floorboards. His gaze was fixed quite firmly upon Rosalind, and the look in his eyes made her begin to tremble. She gripped her hands together that he would not see her nervousness.

‘Mr…Wolversley,’ she started, trying to ignore the tight feeling around the base of her throat.

He moved then, so fast that she had little time to react. Crossing the room, closing the distance between them until there was none.

She tried to back away, but his hands were on her pulling her close, holding her secure so that she had no hope of evading him.

‘Three-quarters of an hour,’ he whispered softly, his very breath suffused with danger and threat. ‘Forty-five minutes.’

Her breathing was ragged and loud. ‘I am almost ready,’ and her voice trembled.

‘Almost?’ He raised his eyebrows as if he found her incredulous. ‘Perhaps you think my words are not worth heeding.’ He leaned closer until his breath tickled against her cheek. ‘That they are uttered so idly that you seek to try me over this most trivial of matters.’

She shook her head in denial. ‘I assure you that is not the case.’

‘And yet you do try me most sorely, Miss Meadowfield.’

There was nothing she could say to that. Her heart skittered in her chest. She waited for what he meant to do.

‘Kempster tells us that you cannot ready yourself in forty-five minutes for you cannot dress without a maid. Is it true?’ he demanded, still in that same softly spoken voice.

‘Of course not.’

‘But you did use a maid to help you at Evedon House.’

She swallowed hard, knowing that it would be pointless to deny the truth, and gave a small nod.

She saw the curl of his top lip, as if his contempt was so great that this one small betrayal slipped out when all of the rest of him was so still and so controlled.

‘Should I then act as your maid, Miss Meadowfield?’

The shock jolted right through her. ‘No!’ She tried to pull away from him, but there was no yielding in the grip he had upon her.

‘Forty-five minutes,’ he said, ‘and still you tell me that you are not ready.’

‘I am ready, sir,’ she countered.

‘Almost, you said but a minute since.’

‘I was mistaken. I am ready now.’

The silver eyes bored into hers. ‘Maybe it’s about time that someone taught you how to dress yourself.’

‘I know full well how to dress. I need neither a maid nor a lesson.’ She stared up into his eyes, seeing the danger that lurked so shallow beneath his surface.

‘Then pray tell me, Miss Meadowfield, what exactly took you so long that my breakfast is no doubt growing cold down stairs while I am up here fetching you?’

She shook her head feeling the slight warmth in her cheeks.

‘Miss Meadowfield,’ he said with such loaded warning in those soft quiet words. ‘Do not make me ask you a second time.’

She shut her eyes then, closing herself against his scrutiny, knowing that she would bear his wrath rather than tell him the truth.

‘I had to wash, put some semblance of order to my hair and brush my clothes,’ she said steadily. ‘A lady’s toilette takes time.’

‘Indeed?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Perhaps you do not realize the fragility of your position, Miss Meadowfield, to bait me so sorely.’

And even though she was quaking inside, she met his gaze. ‘On the contrary. sir, I understand exactly my predicament and to where it will lead.’

‘I do not think that you do, miss.’ He stepped closer and his eyes were dark and deadly.

Her heart gave a somersault. She gathered her courage. ‘I took too long to ready myself this morning. Do you intend to beat me over it?’

‘Never in my life have I raised a hand to a woman.’ But he did not release her.

‘Then what do you wish? That I beg your forgiveness?’

‘It would be a start,’ he said coolly.

She stared at him, the flare of her own anger tempting her to defy him, yet the small voice of reason urged her to finish the matter.

He stared right back, the smoulder of his anger rendering hers small and inconsequential in comparison.

‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ she said without a shred of sincerity, ‘I am sorry for the delay in my toilette.’

He looked unconvinced, yet even so he gave a small nod of acknowledgement.

She turned her face away from his.

But she had reckoned without Wolf. Keeping one hand around her arm, he removed the other to place his fingers on her chin and turn her face back to his, keeping his fingers there so that she could not look away. ‘It is not nice being made to eat humble pie, is it, Miss Meadowfield? Remember that for the future when you’re making some poor housemaid grovel.’

She gasped her disbelief. What kind of woman did he think her? ‘You are much mistaken in your assessment of me, Mr Wolversley.’

‘No, miss, I know your type very well indeed. I know the way you treat those that are beneath you. Your kind are all the same.’

She stared at him, the injustice of his accusation wounding her. ‘You do not know me at all, sir,’ she snapped.

‘I know you better than you think.’ She heard the chill in the softness of his voice. ‘Now put your boots on and get moving. We should be on the road by now.’ He released her so suddenly that she staggered before he put out a hand to steady her.

She withdrew as if his touch burned her.

Wolf let his hand drop, but stood where he was without the slightest sign of moving.

The boots sat in a neat pair by the bedside table, her stockings and ribbons folded in a pile upon them. Beneath her skirts, the makeshift bandages were complete on one foot but only partially covered the other. She had no desire for Wolf to see either.

‘If you would be so kind as to avert your eyes, sir. My stockings…’ She bit at her lips and felt the blush warm her cheeks. She dared to raise her eyes to his.

The steady grey gaze was unwavering. ‘Put them on, Miss Meadowfield or I will do it for you.’

There was little choice. She sat herself down on the bed, careful to keep her feet tucked beneath the length of her skirt, and pulled the stockings and boots close to its hem. Beneath the cold blast of Wolf’s scrutiny she tried to slip one stocking on to her foot beneath the cover of her skirt, steeling herself not to wince.

Wolf caught a glimpse of a white material strip dangling from Rosalind Meadowfield’s foot and knew instantly what it was. He bent and caught hold of her left ankle and, pushing back the curtain of skirt, revealed the truth. He knew then why she had taken so long to ready herself. The loose winding of the makeshift bandage only partially covered her foot, the rest that had yet to be wound lay long and limp, its edges ragged. The ball of her foot and toes were still exposed, and what he saw there made his chest tighten. The skin was rubbed raw, its cleansed blisters weeping afresh. He lifted the hem of her skirt, saw the torn petticoat and her right foot fully bound.

‘You should have told me,’ he said, and the knowledge that he had misread her made his voice too harsh.

She pulled her foot from his grasp and fixed her skirts back down into place. ‘It is none of your concern, sir.’ Indignation blazed in her eyes before she looked away. Her movements were jerky, her hands trembling as she grabbed a boot and started to pull it roughly on to her foot using the strength of her defiance against the pain.

His hands moved to possess hers, stilling their action.

She gasped. ‘How dare you? You have no right to touch me!’

The pale gaze slid to hers. ‘We have already been through this, but I’ll remind you, as you seem to have forgot ten. Until we reach London, you are under my control—completely and absolutely.’

She glared at him. Her heart was racing, and it seemed
that the skin on her ankles still tingled where his fingers had touched.

‘Your feet are cut to ribbons.’ He grabbed up one of her boots and, turning it over, looked at the thin sole with its holes and tears, before throwing it back down.

‘As I have already said, sir, it is none of your concern.’

‘You still do not realize, do you? What do I have to do to make you understand?’

Rosalind’s heart was beating fit to burst, and her stomach was a small tight ball of fear. She could feel the warm press of his fingers around hers as he took her hands again.

‘Mr Wolversley.’ His name sounded hoarse in the aridity of her throat.

‘You will tell me the next time that you are injured or hurt.’ It was not a question, but an assertion.

‘What does it matter? You are taking me to Evedon. Why would you care about a few cuts on my feet?’

He did not reply at once, so that the tension that lay between them seemed to Rosalind to wind unbearably tight. ‘Evedon wants you in one piece,’ he said finally.
Why else indeed,
he thought grimly, yet the sight of her wounded feet tore at him.

Her hands fluttered and struggled within his, seeking an escape, but he firmed his grip slightly, holding her until the movement ceased. ‘Miss Meadowfield,’ he said more softly. His eyes met hers. And he saw that she was embarrassed and angry and afraid.

‘Two thin dressings placed over the raw patches will give better protection, and keep the binding thin and firm. Too thick and they will make your boots press all the tighter; too loose and they will chafe the skin all the more.’ He spoke calmly, matter of factly, as if he were not kneeling on the floor with her hands within his and her feet and ankles bare before him.

She watched him with the wariness of a trapped animal.

He released her hands then, took hold of her left foot and began to unwind the binding.

‘Sir! What on earth do you think you are doing?’ Her eyes were wide with shock, their colour a gold-flecked green in the daylight.

‘I’m binding your feet so that you will make it through this day with some degree of comfort.’

‘But…!’ Her cheeks were scalded pink, and she pulled her foot away.

‘Do you wish to be unable to walk by the end of this day?’ he demanded. ‘It is of little concern to me, for, whether it is Campbell or Kempster or myself that must carry you, our journey shall not be delayed.’

‘You cannot carry me,’ she whispered in a scandalized tone.

‘Can I not?’

The silence stretched between them.

‘So what is it to be, Miss Meadowfield? Shall I bind your feet or not?’

He saw the hard swallow, the deep in-breath to her lungs. She raised her head and focused her gaze upon the corner of the room. ‘Very well, sir.’

Wolf’s touch was gentle for so fierce a man. His hand moved with a confident assurance, undoing that which had taken her so long to put in place. And when he inspected her feet, bare and sore, it was all she could do not to pull them from his gaze and hide them once more beneath her skirts. Yet he laid the dressings and bound them in place so expertly that she found his touch both calming and compulsive. She knew it was wrong to feel like that. She should be wishing for the mortification to end. Instead, it was as if something else had taken over her body. His touch was
soothing and pleasurable. She knew she should not look, but she could not help herself. Her eyes moved to the strong hands that worked upon her feet.

His fingers were tanned beside the pallor of her ankles, his skin rough ened in contrast to her smooth ness and, for all their days on the road, his nails were short and clean. He worked deftly and when he touched her, where he touched her, her skin tingled. She watched those hands first on one foot and then the other, and everything in his movement was gentle yet with a strength and competence that were undeniable. He knew what he was doing. At last he tucked the end of the binding in and she thought he was finished, but he was not. He lifted her stocking.

Rosalind’s heart gave a somersault. She knew she should draw her foot back, but it was as if she were entranced. She just sat there, with her foot within his hand, and waited, waited, her breath holding tight in her lungs, her blood thrumming with anticipation. Slowly, carefully, he eased her foot into the silken case of her stocking, so that the binding was not dislodged. The silk pooled around her ankle, his fingers resting above it on the nakedness of her skin. And still she sat, unable to move, as if cast as a statue, her lower leg exposed before him. He hesitated.

A breath in, and out.

Her skin burned beneath the touch of his fingers. She moved her eyes to his, but his focus was fixed upon her ankle, at where his hands cupped around her leg.

He was still, unnaturally so, and tense; she could feel it even through the feather-light touch of his hands. Slowly, as if against his will, he raised his gaze to hers.

His eyes smouldered a deep smoky grey, and they were filled not with anger or loathing or mockery, but with something that she had never seen in any man’s eyes.
She looked and could not look away. something in her seemed to open, some need that she did not understand. She felt his thumb flicker against her skin, an infinitesimal movement—so small as to barely exist at all, and yet a caress all the same. And still their gazes held, locked, caught in some strange new world in which only the two of them existed. She could not move, could not breathe. The pulse in her throat throbbed, her heart thumping wildly, her blood rushing madly. She was acutely conscious of where his hand lingered and of his very proximity. Her skin burned beneath his touch.