Angel Rogue (20 page)

They heard the lowing before they saw the small, windswept stone building. Aptly called the Drover Inn, it stood on the crest of a hill overlooking an expanse of rolling green hills. Soon they were close enough to see a vast herd of black cattle grazing in the meadow beyond the inn.

"We're in luck," Robin said. "A good thing it's Sunday."

She looked at him askance. "Why?"

"Those are Welsh Black cattle. Good Welsh Methodist drovers won't travel on Sunday, which is why they are here and not some miles down the track."

"I see." She gazed longingly at the inn. "Robin, do you think the treasury could stretch to getting a room for the night, and a hot bath with it?"

"Luckily we've been getting ripe at the same rate, but I know what you mean. I'd wrestle Simmons with one hand tied behind my back in return for a bath." He looked thoughtful. "Perhaps it's time for a magic show. After a quiet Sunday, people will be in the mood for a bit of entertainment."

He paused for a moment to place coins and a handkerchief in convenient spots. After he picked a pretty oxeye daisy and made it disappear, they headed toward the inn.

Drovers and assorted other folk lounged about outside, chatting, smoking, and enjoying the late afternoon sun. No one gave the newcomers anything more than a casual glance.

Maxie followed Robin into the inn, where the land lord and his wife presided over the taproom. A subtle, quicksilver change passed through her companion. Though his features didn't change an iota, he took on a different personality.

He announced himself as the Remarkable Lord Robert and began making coins vanish, then reappear in improbable places. He was greeted by waves of laughter. A handy pack of cards was pressed into service, witty jokes were made, and empty tankards were juggled in the air.

Robin ended by producing the daisy from his handkerchief and handing it to the landlady with a bow. His performance was masterful, with a rippling flow of words that amused without becoming so glib as to make conservative country folk wary.

Maxie watched a little wistfully, thinking that Robin was almost a stranger again. The closeness of the night she had told her story and the next morning had vanished as soon as they began walking. The day that followed had been mercifully uneventful. They had laughed and joked. They had even spent the night sleeping like two friendly spoons, and awakened without any unruly passions on either side.

It had all been very pleasant and unthreatening. Yet she would like to have seen more of the deeper, more complicated man who was the real Robin. She would like to know more about the hard roads he had traveled before they had met.

Show over, her companion came to the corner where she was waiting. "Success," he announced. "There is a double room available under the eaves. The landlord and his wife will also throw in dinner, breakfast, hot baths, and washing water for the princely sum of fourpence."

"Splendid. What do you have to do in return?"

"Perform two shows in the taproom during the evening." His voice became reverent. "After which—a hot bath."

"Life is good," she said solemnly.

"So it is."

For a moment, she thought there was a flash of the deeper Robin in his gaze, but he said only, "Now we must find the head drover and ask for permission to travel with the group. It will be off by seven o'clock tomorrow morning."

She winced. "We'll scarcely have time to grow tired of civilized living."

He grinned. "A rolling stone may gather no moss, but it does acquire a certain polish."

Laughing, she followed him outside. Laughter was almost enough.

Maxie sank into the tin tub of steaming water with a shiver of ecstasy so intense that a Puritan minister would have sent her straight to hell. After days of hasty, partial washups in cold streams, a real bath was bliss unbounded.

When her skin started to wrinkle, she rinsed the soap from her hair and reluctantly emerged. The tub was set behind a screen, but she still preferred to be dry and clothed before Robin returned from his second performance.

An image of him finding her in the bath flashed through her mind, followed by a highly erotic scenario of what might happen next. Cheeks flushed, she vigorously toweled herself dry. It wasn't Robin she needed to put a knife into, it was herself.

She had watched his first show, laughing with everyone else. Then she had slipped upstairs and washed all of their clothing that wasn't currently being worn. The garments were now draped on a chair in front of the fire. They had to pay two pence extra for the coal, but it was worth it to know there would be clean, dry clothing in the morning.

She used her one shift as a nightgown. It was heavenly to feel the whisper of soft muslin against her skin, to have her body unbound by tight clothing. For this one night, she was going to sleep like a proper female, even though in the morning it would be back to boots and breeches.

After roughly toweling her hair, she sat crosslegged in front of the fire and began the time consuming business of combing and drying the thick tresses. It was quiet, except for an occasional rumble of distant laughter from the taproom or the lowing of a restless cow. This was the first time she had been really alone since she had met Robin, and the solitude was pleasant. Ruefully she admitted that it wouldn't be half so enjoyable if she hadn't known that soon he would return.

Her mind turned to London and speculations about what she would find there. The days had not diminished her determination to learn the truth about her father's death, and to see justice done if he had really been murdered. Yet part of her was afraid of learning what had happened. She had loved her father in spite of his failings, but she would not enjoy confronting new evidence of his weaknesses. And if Lord Collingwood was the villain, justice would be tempered with regret, though not enough to swerve her from her duty.

It was easier to live in the moment, in this journey, which had taken on an odd, suspended in time quality. In the past lay grief, in the future lay hard decisions, not only about her father's death, but about the rest of her life.

She stopped combing, her hands relaxing in her lap as her thoughts went to Robin. Though she had resented his presence at first, his help had proved invaluable. He had given her a great deal, and her sense of equity said that she must do something for him in return.

Giving him her body was an obvious solution. It would be highly pleasurable, and her herbal tea should prevent awkward consequences. Yet she feared that her complex mixture of feelings for Robin might become love if they became fully intimate. She didn't need that kind of pain to add to her grief for her father.

There was also a distinct possibility that such a gift would not be welcome. Robin was clearly attracted to her, but he seemed to share her doubts about the wisdom of becoming lovers.

She smiled wryly and resumed her combing, fluffing the straight black strands in the firewarmed air. She was like the cat who was always on the wrong side of the door. She had never liked being an object of lust. Now she found that she wasn't entirely happy being an object of unlustful friendliness, either.

Climbing the steep staircase while balancing a heavy copper of steaming water would have been tricky at the best of times. The task was made more difficult by the amount of ale Robin had drunk. Exercising care, he managed to get up the steps without incident. He rapped on the bedchamber door to warn Maxie that he was coming, waited a few seconds, then entered.

She was sitting crosslegged in front of the fire, combing the hair that cascaded straight and glossy black almost to her waist. Smiling, she asked, "How did the second show go?"

He stopped, momentarily stunned. While she was always lovely, for the first time since they had met she was also perfectly and exquisitely feminine. The flickering flames of the fire limned her body in warm light and turned the thin fabric of her shift translucent.

He had known that her shapeless boy's apparel concealed a trim female figure, but the actuality far surpassed his imagination. She was beautifully proportioned, with curving hips, a slim waist, and breasts that would fit perfectly into his palms. His mouth went dry, and his selfcontrol came perilously close to collapse when he saw the shadowy circles of her areolas dimly visible beneath the shift.

It was hard not to stare at the low neckline of her shift, where the glinting silver chain complemented the smooth dark ivory of her skin. It was harder yet not to cross the room, lift her in his arms, and discover if his passion might ignite hers.

Remembering that she had asked a question, he managed to say, "The show went well. Unfortunately, everyone wanted to buy me a drink afterward, and I couldn't avoid accepting several of them."

Her smile faded, and she studied his face with a hint of wariness. "You're three sheets to the wind?"

He pondered. "Only about one and a half. With luck I won't have a hangover, but I will certainly sleep like a hibernating bear and wake up with great reluctance. You're in charge of pouring cold water in my face to get me moving tomorrow morning."

She chuckled. "Sounds like fun. I suppose we'll have to rise about six if we're going to leave at seven."

"I'm afraid so." Released from his temporary paralysis, he went to the screened tub and poured in the hot water. This was not the sort of dandified establishment that believed perfectly good water should be thrown out merely because it had been used once. Warming it was good enough for guests at the Drover.

Standing behind the screen, he removed his brown coat and laid it over the top of the screen. "Expect a long day. Drovers move slowly, but they travel for twelve hours or so."

Maxie rose lithely to her feet and began plaiting her hair into a heavy ebony braid. "Then I had better go to bed now."

She seemed a little uneasy. Guessing why, he said casually, "Strange how different it is to be in a bedroom."

"You're right. We've slept together quite peacefully the last few nights, but for some reason sharing a bed in a real bedroom is different" She bit her lower lip— her lush, sensual, dusty rosecolored lip—as she considered. "Not quite proper, in a way that I didn't feel before."

If she had given him the least encouragement, any honorable doubts he had about the wisdom of lying with her would have been out the window. But obviously she was not trembling on the brink of uncontrollable passion. "A pity we don't have a bundling board." He unbuttoned his shirt and draped it across the top of the screen. "I'll sleep on the floor."

Her glance flickered to his bare shoulders and the portion of his chest visible above the screen, then quickly away. "Nonsense. We have this room because of your performing skills, and I would be a poor sort of person to condemn you to a hard floor because of missishness. You've behaved yourself so far, and I trust that you will continue to do so. Besides," she added practically, "it's a large bed."

She would be less trusting if she knew what he was thinking. It was an extremely mixed blessing that women did trust him, because that trust bound him as securely as fetters of steel. "I can't imagine you as missish."

She slid under the worn counterpane and closed her eyes. "I think missishness is a luxury for those females who have the money and leisure to indulge in it. A woman who has to make her own way in the world hasn't the time for such things."

He finished undressing, then lowered himself into the tin tub with a happy sigh. The older he got, the more he appreciated simple creature comforts. Amazing to remember some of the conditions he had endured in his adventuresome days. Youth had the damnedest ideas of what was amusing.

By the time he had finished, dried himself, and put on the other pair of drawers that Maxie had washed and dried for him, his companion was asleep, her breathing soft and even. She looked very young in the flickering firelight, her face unlined and innocent. Yet even asleep she had the quality of fierce independence that was so much a part of her.

He spent a few minutes washing the rest of his clothing and hanging it by the fire. Then he climbed into the bed, carefully keeping to his side. Hard to imagine how the Americans managed bundling. Even wearing as many layers as an Eskimo wouldn't have been enough to protect Maxie's virtue. What protected her was a fragile thing called trust___

He would have liked to roll over and put his arms around her as he had the last two nights, but she was right: Being in a bed was different from sleeping in a hedgerow, and much more dangerous. Beds were for making love in a way that barns were not, not that a pile of hay couldn't be a delightful spot to dally on occasion.

He forced himself to relax, to ignore the knowledge that an alluring female body was just inches away.

On the whole, it would have been easier to sleep with a scorpion.