Angel Rogue (22 page)

Yet in the privacy of her mind, she acknowledged that logic would make for cold memories when Robin was gone.

The carriage pitched and swayed in the rutted track. As Desdemona Ross braced herself wearily, avoiding the longsuffering expression of her maid and hoping the vehicle wouldn't break an axle before they reached their destination, an isolated inn called the Drover. It was a regular stop for traveling herds, and more easily reached on hooves than wheels.

With a final lurch, the carriage halted. Desdemona let herself out without waiting for her coachman to open the door For a moment she stood in the afternoon sunshine and savored the absence of rocking. The wind blew restlessly over the barren hilltop, rippling the grasses and twisting the clouds overhead. From the aroma, a herd had been through recently.

In spite of the directions she had received, it had taken time to find an accessible spot along the old ridgeway. She wondered if Maxima and Lord Robert had been here. Well, she should soon know. She set off toward the inn, which was made of winderoded stone and had served drovers for centuries.

When she circled her carriage, she saw another vehicle, one with a familiar crest on the door. She gave a smile of satisfaction. Apparently she had moved fast enough to overcome the lead that the Marquess of Wolverton had achieved after the incident with the highwaymen.

Speak of the devil… The door of the inn swung open and the marquess himself emerged. The tall powerful figure paused in the doorway for a moment. Then he gave her such a pleasant smile that Desdemona was temporarily disconcerted.

Reminding herself that they were adversaries, not friends, she said, "Good day, Lord Wolverton. I gather that you have not found our mutual quarry."

"Not yet. Shall I share with you what I have learned?"

Desdemona hesitated, glancing at the inn, then back at the marquess. Reading her unspoken objection, he said helpfully, "You can always interrogate the innkeeper later to discover if I have been withholding information, but I think it would not be a bad thing if we talked."

Good Lord, was she that transparent? Desdemona sighed; yes, she was. No one ever had any trouble knowing what she thought, which was a drawback for a woman with political interests. "Very well," she said, knowing she sounded ungracious.

The marquess offered his arm as if they were in St. James's Park, then led her away from the inn. Though she was a tall woman, he towered over her.

He said, "I trust that you've suffered no ill effects from the attempted robbery."

"None whatsoever." She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. He really was a fine figure of a man. "I hope that you've suffered no effects from almost being shot by me."

His eyes twinkled. "On the contrary—my miraculous escape has made me appreciate life more than I have in years."

"If you wish me to take a wild shot at you sometime in the future, I shall be pleased to oblige."

He chuckled. "I'm not sure I'd trust you to miss a second time." When they were out of earshot of servants, he said more seriously, "A group of Welsh drovers came through two days ago. My brother and the Sheltered Innocent joined them here."

"Your brother and who?"

"Sorry, I've got in the habit of thinking of Miss Collins as the Sheltered Innocent," he said, not looking very repentant.

Her eyes narrowed at his impudence, but she held her tongue. She'd save any caustic comments until she'd heard what he had to say.

"They will be near Leicester by now," he continued. "I'm not positive about the identification of Miss Collins—she has a talent for remaining unnoticed—but someone entertained the drovers with juggling and sleightofhand in return for food and lodging. That had to be Robin. As a boy he was fascinated by legerdemain, and he practiced until he became quite adept."

It made the rogue sound rather likable. Fighting an inclination to soften, Desdemona asked, "Where was my niece while Lord Robert was playing the mountebank?"

"Upstairs taking a bath." The marquess gave her a measuring look. "Miss Collins has had ample opportunity to escape and hasn't taken it, which supports the conclusion that she is traveling with Robin of her own free will.

Desdemona made a growling noise deep in her throat.

After a startled moment, Wolverton's lips twitched, as if suppressing a smile. "I think it's likely that my brother has offered Miss Collins his escort to London. It's exactly the kind of eccentric, honorable thing he would do, and it would mean that she is in no danger. Quite the contrary. It also explains why the young lady has no wish to run away from him."

Though Desdemona admitted privately that the marquess might be right, she was unwilling to concede that aloud. "Your imagination does you credit, but I am not convinced."

They came to a boulder on the brink of the hilltop. Since it was too steep to continue walking, she sat down, making sure that her voluminous cloak was thoroughly wrapped around her. "For all you know, Maxima may have been imprisoned upstairs rather than bathing. It's also true that when a woman has been bullied enough, she can become too intimidated to try to escape. I will not be satisfied until I speak to her myself."

"Somehow, I am not surprised to hear that," her companion murmured, sitting next to her and crossing his booted legs.

She gave him a frigid glance. "What are your intentions if you find the pair of them before I do—to buy your family name free of scandal, whatever the cost?"

"That's one possibility." His slate eyes were steady. "I won't know until the time comes."

"If you are forced to choose between justice and your brother, what will you do?"

The marquess sighed and looked out over the rolling hills. "I sincerely hope it does not come to that. You know the girl, Lady Ross. Is she so virtuous that it is unthinkable she could behave with less than perfect propriety? Your niece is no green girl, and I've heard that Americans are less rigid in their ways than we are."

Fairly caught by the question, Desdemona felt color rising in her face. Wolverton watched her quizzically, and she could see the moment when he made an intuitive leap.

"Just how well do you know her?" he asked, his gaze sharpening. "Miss Collins has only been in this country a few months, and you said that you were going to Durham to visit her."

She looked down at her parasol, toying with the jade handle. "We've never met in person," she said in a suffocated voice. "However, we have corresponded extensively, and I feel that I know her quite well. She has an educated, thoughtful mind. I have never seen any signs of coarseness or immorality."

"Good God, you've never laid eyes on the girl?" Exercising heroic restraint, the marquess continued more mildly, "Perhaps your concern for her is excessive. My inquiries imply that she is a very independent and forceful young lady. If she is also a virtuous innocent, she is in no danger from my brother. Perhaps you should wait for her in London. I'm sure she will arrive there soon, and you would be spared this tedious searching."

Lady Ross stood and glared down at him. "Perhaps you are right and Maxima will reach London safely. However, I lack your touching faith in your brother's integrity, so I will continue to search until I have personally assured myself about her welfare."

Giles would have been disappointed if she had let herself be dissuaded from her quest. He stood also, and studied her face, which interested him more than the fate of the Sheltered Innocent. The features shaded by her deep rimmed straw bonnet were stronger than was fashionable, but well shaped and really quite attractive. A stray shaft of sunshine also penetrated the shadows and showed that the brows he had assumed were brown were actually auburn. "What color hair are you concealing under that very decorous bonnet?"

She stared a him, her gray eyes wide and disconcerted.

Though Giles was usually a model of propriety, he gave in to an irresistible urge to misbehave. Moving slowly enough so that she could stop him if she really wanted to, he untied her bonnet and lifted it from her head.

He caught his breath at the sight of the blazing red hair that coiled around her head in thick braids. A few bright tendrils had escaped and were curling down her long neck. She no longer looked like a highminded reformer. If she loosed that hair, she would be a pagan goddess of the hills.

"You see why I cover it up." Lady Ross said, her expression vulnerable. "It is not decent hair. Men love it or hate it, but they never respect it. My sisterinlaw, Lady Collingwood, was in despair when she brought me out. She said that my appearance was better suited to a courtesan than a lady."

Giles had never thought much about red hair one way or the other, but he found that he had a nearly overpowering urge to let hers down and bury his hands in it. He wanted those glossy, lightstruck curls to flow through his fingers and coil around his wrists. He wanted to bury his face in the silky mass so that he could see and taste nothing but shining strands.

Good God, what was he thinking of? He was approaching forty, a model of sober, responsible behavior. Certainly he was well past the age where raw, sexual heat should be scrambling his wits. After drawing a deep breath, he said lightly, "There is nothing inherently moral or immoral about hair."

He touched one of the lustrous braids, half surprised to find that it didn't sear his fingertips. "Yours is very lovely, and not the least bit indecent."

"I'm not so sure," she said wryly. "I've found that if I wish to be taken seriously, I must cover it up."

Wanting to confirm a growing suspicion, he said, "I've thought all along that your concern for your niece is greater than the situation warrants. Why do you mistrust men so?"

She looked away. Her skin had the milky translucence of the true redhead. "I don't mistrust all men. Fathers and brothers are well enough, and some others."

That explained a great deal. Giles said quietly, "I recall hearing that your late husband, Sir Gilbert, was an unsteady sort of man."

Her head whipped around, her expression hardening. "You are presumptuous, my lord. If a man with your reputation for rectitude can be so impertinent, it is hardly surprising that your brother is a thoroughgoing rogue."

She snatched her bonnet from his hands and yanked it onto her head, covering her flaming hair, and with it her moment of vulnerability. As she stalked away, her back was very erect within the concealing folds of her cloak.