Angel Rogue (23 page)

It occurred to Giles that he had never seen her when she wasn't wrapped like an Eskimo. What would she look like in less enveloping clothing? Though she was rather stout, she seemed to have an abundance of pleasing womanly curves. He liked a woman who was a proper armful. A pity her ladyship was so prickly.

The speed of Lady Ross's retreat was inhibited by her light slippers and the necessity of picking her way carefully through the grass. He caught up with her easily. "In two days, the drovers will be going through the town of Market Harborough. You can get there in time to intercept them."

"Will you be there, Lord Wolverton?" Her voice was chilly, her face now safely hidden behind the rim of her bonnet.

"Of course. I think it the best possible place to find our fugitives." In spite of his optimistic words, Giles doubted whether Robin could be intercepted unless he wanted to be. Elusiveness was surely an important skill for a spy, and his brother would not have survived so many years on the Continent if he weren't expert at avoiding detection and pursuit.

The marquess chose not to reveal one important fact. If Robin continued on his present path, he would pass near his estate, Ruxton. It was quite possible that he and the Sheltered Innocent might decide to go to ground there for a time, particularly if they suspected they were being pursued.

If he did not find them before then, Giles would seek the pair at Ruxton. Given Lady Ross's suspicious nature, it would be a good deal better for all concerned if he was the one to locate the fugitives.

Maxie took a bite of her sandwich, a slab of ham between two thick pieces of fresh bread, then leaned back against the sunwarmed stone wall in contentment. 'Traveling with drovers has only two drawbacks."

Robin swallowed a mouthful of his own sandwich and washed it down with a draft of ale. "What are they?"

"The noise of several thousand cattle, plus assorted humans and dogs. And the aroma.
Especially
the aroma."

He chuckled. ""Eventually you won't notice."

"I live in hope." She swallowed the last bit of ham. "But I like the drovers. They remind me of the farmers in New England. They have the solidity, the realness, of those who live close to the earth."

"Because they're entrusted with their neighbors' money, drovers have to be good steady fellows. I believe they must be at least thirty, married, and householders to be granted a license."

She wrinkled her nose. "Too many things in England seem to require licenses and regulations."

"The price of civilization." Robin's eyes twinkled mischievously. "An Englishman who finds it burdensome can always go to America to find life, liberty, and happiness."

"Individuals have more liberty in America," she said slowly, "but one can pursue happiness anywhere. Unfortunately, no law can assure that one finds it."

He gave her a wry glance of acknowledgment, then turned to his sandwich. The herd was settling for the night and most of the drovers were having their evening meal inside the tiny inn. She and Robin had stayed outdoors, partly because of the fine weather, more because her masquerade depended on not being seen too closely. She was getting very tired of her infernal hat.

A flicker of movement caught her eye. She glanced up to see a maple seed spinning slowly to the ground. The sun struck the wingshaped structure, turning it to translucent gold. Supported by a light breeze, it spun almost weightless for long, long seconds before it finally curved to the ground, landing only a foot or so from her hand. She released her pent up breath and gave a smile of pure pleasure.

She did not realize that she had been observed until Robin said quietly, "When you watched that seed fall, your expression was that of a person having a religious experience."

She started to answer frivolously, then changed her mind. Perhaps Robin could not truly understand, but he would accept. "In a way, I was. Among my mother's people, all nature is seen as one great whole. A maple seed is as much an aspect of spirit as a cloud, the wind, or a human soul. If one takes some of a squirrel's hoarded nuts for food in winter, one must leave enough so that the squirrel and her family can survive, for they have as much right to the gifts of the earth as humans do."

His brows drew together with the total attention he gave to subjects that interested him. "That is utterly different from the European concept of nature as an enemy that must be mastered, or a servant to do man's bidding."

"Frankly, I think the Indian way is better and healthier." Her gaze became unfocused as she tried to define concepts that did not fit easily into English. "My mother had the ability to experience nature's oneness merely by looking at a flower or a cloud. To see her in that state was to understand joy."

"Was she practicing a kind of meditation?"

Maxie shrugged. "That's probably the best English word, though it hasn't quite the right nuances. I would say that she would become part of nature's flow, like a raindrop in a river."

"Can you do the same?"

"I could to some extent when I was a small child. I think most children can—that's what much of Wordsworth's poetry is about." She paused to search for words again. "Even now, sometimes when I am contemplating the natural world I feel as if… as if the energy of the earth is about to rise in me. If it did, I would become part of nature's flow."

She sighed. "It never quite happens, though. I suppose I've read too many books and spent too much time in the white man's culture to be fully harmonious with the earth. It's frustrating to have wholeness almost within my grasp, yet not quite achieve it. Perhaps someday."

"Wholeness—it's an appealing concept." He made a face. "Probably because I am naturally fragmented."

"Not really—you just think that because you live so much in your head. Watch this, and try to imagine what it is like to be this seed. Use your spirit, not your mind."

She almost took his hand, but refrained when she remembered what had happened before. Instead she picked up the fallen maple flier, then tossed it into the air. It caught the breeze and glided away, glowing like a butterfly.

Her spirit went with it, reveling in the freedom of being skyborn, the joy of sliding down a sunbeam. Beneath the bright energy was a yearning for a fertile spot where it would be possible to send roots deep into the earth, sprout branches toward the sky, grow into a mighty tree, give birth to new life.

After the flier drifted to earth again, she became objective enough to wonder if the desire for home and roots belonged to the maple seed or to her. Both, probably, or the spirit of the seed would not have resonated so deeply within her.

She was pulled from her reverie when Robin murmured, "I think I understand a little, Kanawiosta. Trying to be one with nature is not a religious act, but a manner of being."

"There's hope for you yet, Lord Robert." Though glad he understood, she did not want to say more about something so essentially private. She gestured toward a mysterious operation taking place a hundred yards away. "What is Dafydd Jones doing?"

Robin glanced toward the broad, ruddyfaced drover. "He's setting up a portable forge. You may not have noticed, but the cattle are shod so they won't go lame on the journey. Bringing a forge saves having to find a local blacksmith."

"How does one shoe a beast with cloven hooves?"

"Two separate pieces are used for each hoof. They're called cues, I believe," he explained. "Most likely the smith has brought along preformed cues and will use them rather than forging new ones. Very little hot iron work is needed that way."

Intrigued, she rose to her feet. "I think I'll go watch."

Dafydd Jones was one of the few drovers fluent in English, so she had talked with him occasionally as they followed the herd. His Welsh accent was so strong that she could not always understand what he said, but she loved listening to his mellifluous baritone.

As she approached, he said, "Care to help me, lad?"

She looked doubtfully at the dozen bullocks grazing placidly nearby. "I don't know if I'd be much use, sir. I've never worked a forge, nor cued an ox, and surely you would be needing someone larger than me."

"All ye need do is hand me the cues and the tools as I ask for them." Mr. Jones indicated the supplies, then lifted a coil of rope and tossed it over a beast that had been separated out by one of the shortlegged herd dogs. When the loop had settled nearly to the ground, the Welshman pulled it tight around the bullock's legs and jerked. The heavy animal fell to the ground with a bellow, more surprised than angry.

Maxie handed a preformed metal piece to the drover. He swiftly hammered the cue in place, bending the ends of the nails over and pounding them into the edge of the hoof, all the while controlling the thrashing bullock. Only one cue needed replacement on this particular beast, so it was released to scramble up and make its way to quieter pasture, its tasseled black tail twitching indignantly.

The rest of the waiting cattle were shoed with equal ease. Behind them in the inn, male voices raised in Welsh song, a musical accompaniment to the setting sun. Maxie continued to pass cues and nails and hammer as needed, thinking how long the daylight lasted here. Strange to think how much farther north she was than in her native land, even though the English winters were so much milder.

His supper finished, Robin ambled over to watch. Even though he was behind her, she had a prickly awareness of his presence. She would miss him when they parted, she surely would.

The thirteenth and last animal proved as unlucky as its number. It was a nervous beast, with white rims showing around the dark eyes. Only the nipping teeth of the dogs kept it from bolting. Mr. Jones tossed the rope. After the bullock fell with an angry bellow, the drover moved in to begin the shoeing.

Suddenly, too swiftly for the eye to follow, the bullock broke free of its bonds and exploded to its feet, swinging its massive head and bellowing furiously. A sharp horn gored the Welshman in the ribs, ripping through his smock and knocking him to the ground beneath the raging ironclad hooves.

Maxie froze, horrified and unsure what to do. The other drovers were in the inn and a scream would never be heard over their ale fueled singing. If she tried to drag Mr. Jones away, the bullock would smash her to the ground like so much ragweed.

She had forgotten Robin. While she was still gaping,he bolted past her and grabbed the beast's horns from behind its head. Using all his wiry strength, he began twisting the bullock's head sideways, trying to wrestle it to the ground.