Angel Rogue (25 page)

Desdemona Ross had not realized there were as many cattle in England as she had seen in the streets of Market Harborough this morning. Without removing her gaze from the spectacle below, she finished her third cup of tea. This upper chamber at the front of the Three Swans had already been bespoken the night before, but she had used a combination of gold and bullying to secure it for herself.

When the Welsh Blacks first began flowing by, she had been tense with anticipation as she watched from her vantage spot. Now, an interminable length of time later, she was weary, bored, and fearful that her vigil was doomed to failure.

She had seen entirely too many blasted black oxen, a goodly number of Welsh drovers in smocks and trousers and long wool stockings, herd dogs with absurdly short legs, and a handful of country folk who were traveling with the drive. Occasionally she had glimpsed a couple of burly men in an alley on the other side of the high street. They seemed to be watching the drive as closely as she was. Perhaps one of them was the fellow Cletus had sent after Maxima.

What she had not seen was anyone who might be Maxima Collins. Neither had she seen the unreliable Lord Robert.

Setting her cup down, she wondered where the Marquess of Wolverton was. Surely he was near and watching as carefully as she. That is, unless he had already intercepted their mutual quarry, which would explain why Desdemona had had no success.

She had mixed feelings about Wolverton's absence. The man had a talent for getting under her skin, and whenever that happened, she acted like an idiot. Nevertheless, she had enjoyed their encounters.

The end of the cattle drive was finally in sight. Bringing up the rear were three dustcovered people and a pair of briskly trotting herd dogs. With a gasp, Desdemona leaned forward, squinting to confirm what she had glimpsed.

One of the three was a drover, one a lightfooted man of middle height, and the third was a very small figure dressed like a boy and wearing a disreputable hat that had been described time and time again. As she watched, the man in the middle said something that set the other two to laughing.

Brimming with excitement, Desdemona raced for the stairs.

A cattle drive was not quiet in a country lane, but it was far noisier when the clattering hooves, aggrieved lowing, and yipping dogs were trapped between buildings. Maxie and Robin walked behind the unruly river of black oxen, along with Dafydd Jones and a cluster of beasts with missing shoes that slowed their pace. Mr. Jones was in charge of the laggards, with two dogs to prevent the oxen from wandering down side lanes. Most of the town's residents had prudently withdrawn behind doors to wait for the cattle to pass. The drive had taken much of the morning and was leaving the high street in dire need of cleaning.

Droveways usually avoided towns, but this route was essential in order to reach one of the important livestock markets. Being in a town gave Maxie a prickly feeling of danger after the openness of the ridgeways. Still, there had been no sign of Simmons since the encounter in the clearing. He must have given up the pursuit.

It was an unlucky thought. They were nearing the market square when a familiar voice bellowed, "There they are!"

Not fifty feet away, Simmons emerged from a doorway with a look of savage delight on his battered face. Beside him was another bruiser, just as large and even more brutal looking.

"Damnation!" Robin swore under his breath.

They both whirled, only to see two more ruffians coming purposefully from the opposite direction. They were trapped.

An earshattering whistle split the air as Dafydd Jones grasped the situation and acted with a speed that belied his slowmoving appearance. His whistled commands ordered the dogs to turn the last group of bullocks and bring them back along the street at high speed.

A welltrained herd dog does not question a command, no matter how contrary to custom. Within seconds, the street was blocked by churning, confused bullocks. Harried by the sharp nips of the dogs, some turned quickly and galloped fullspeed along the cobblestones. Others milled and bellowed in confusion. It was a scene straight from Bedlam.

Robin grabbed Maxie's arm and called, "Many thanks!"

Mr. Jones waved and yelled, "Luck to you!"

Maxie caught a last glimpse of Simmons's furious face. He and his men were trying to fight their way through the clamorous, blaring oxen, but without success. They'd be lucky not to be trampled flat.

After that, she concentrated on escape, following Robin toward the next alley. The cattle kept a small distance away from the faces of the buildings, so it was possible to force a passage along the edge of the street. She felt small and horribly fragile as the massive bullocks jostled by, but as long as she and Robin stayed by the walls, they were safe.

After a chaotic interval of battling along the street, they reached the mouth of the alley and darted inside. Robin paused, touching her elbow lightly. "How are you faring?"

"Bruised but unbowed." She dragged a dusty hand across her forehead. "Do you know your way around Market Harborough?"

"No, but we're about to learn," he said with a flashing smile.

She felt a burst of irrational exuberance. Robin might be a rogue, but under these circumstances, she couldn't imagine a better companion.

If the truth be known, she couldn't imagine a better companion for any circumstances.

Desdemona reached street level and flung the front door of the inn open just as the steady stream of oxen disintegrated into chaos. Aghast, she stared into the milling, bellowing mass. Bullocks were much larger close up than they appeared from above, and their horns a great deal sharper.

Angry shouts pierced the general clamor. She looked down the street to see two roughlooking men forcing their way through the cattle. Grimly she decided that if they could do it, so could she. She stepped out onto the street.

From behind her came a horrified cry from the landlord of the Three Swans. Ignoring his shout, she flattened herself against the front wall of the inn and began edging her way up the high street. She should have brought her coachman. No, her guard, he was bigger and stronger. He probably also had too much sense to do something this stupid.

Tenaciously she worked her way toward where she had seen Maxima. Ahead of her, the two ruffians disappeared down an alley. In the distance were two men of similar stamp, but not a sign of her elusive niece. Furious with exasperation, she rose on her toes and shaded her eyes, trying to see what was going on.

Her action was a disastrous mistake. A horn from one of the crowding bullocks caught the sleeve of her pelisse and dragged her sideways. When she tried to regain her balance, she became tangled in her skirts. The fabric of her pelisse ripped away entirely and she fell, sprawling across the filthy cobblestones.

She looked up to see the ironshod hooves of a bullock descending on her, and knew that she was going to die.

Maxie and Robin followed the alley until it emptied into another street that paralleled the high. As they turned into it, a shout echoed behind them, proof that Simmons and his companions were too close behind.

The new thoroughfare was busy with traffic displaced from the high street, and they had to
zigzag
around incurious citizens. When the narrow road was blocked by a massive dray unloading goods at the rear of a shop, Maxie dropped to the ground to scramble under it, Robin right behind her.

They regained their feet on the other side of the wagon to find a draper's shop directly in front of them. After dusting his knees, Robin led the way inside and gave the woman behind the counter a smile of paralyzing charm. "Sorry to disturb you, madam, but we have urgent need of your back door."

As the dazzled female made confused sounds, he crossed the sales room and opened the only other door. Half expecting to have a bolt of fabric hurled at her, Maxie hastened after him.

A narrow corridor led to a kitchen at the back of the building. Robin gave the startled cook another disabling smile and they walked through into the garden. The iron gate at the bottom was unlocked and opened into another alley.

Like many old towns, Market Harborough had grown up on a twisted medieval street plan. Through pure bad luck, their route swung back and brought them into the view of one of Simmons's bruisers. The man shouted for his fellows. Even the background sounds of the cattle drive did not drown the sound of heavy pounding feet coming to join the pursuit.

Maxie and Robin pivoted and began racing through the tangle of alleys and lanes at top speed. If it had been dark, they would have been able to shake the hunters easily, but in daylight, the advantage was to Simmons, and the choice of routes was limited.

The next turn took them up a steeply angled lane where empty wooden casks were piled behind a tavern, redolent with the tang of hops. Struck by inspiration, Maxie panted, "Wait, Robin."

She tipped a cask on its side and waited for the pursuers to reach the mouth of the lane. Within seconds, the whole pack of them roared around the corner and started upward.

Gleefully she kicked the cask down the sloping ground, then reached for another. With a breathless gust of laughter, Robin joined her and they sent half a dozen casks crashing downward, booming and cracking as they collided with walls and one another. Filthy curses and abruptly curtailed squawks of protest followed the fugitives as they took off again.

Though the few seconds of rest had helped, Maxie's lungs still burned with strain. Nonetheless, she continued running, grateful for the active life that had given her stamina. Robin was paying her the compliment of assuming she was equal to what was necessary, and she would be damned if she would falter.

The next alley turned sharply to the right. When they swung around the corner, she gasped with dismay.

The alley ended in a brick wall, well over the height of a man's head, and there was no way out.

Desdemona was rolled onto her side by the grazing hooves of the first bullock, and her breath was knocked from her lungs. Even as she struggled to rise, she knew that her attempt would fail. In another few moments she would be past caring.

Then strong hands seized her and jerked her from the street to the relative safety of a shallow doorway. She came to rest with her face pressed into the shoulder of a wool coat.

Even without seeing her rescuer's face, she knew it was Wolverton. He swung her around so her back was to the door, his body shielding her from the buffeting of the oxen.

Fingers gripping his lapels, she went into a paroxysm of coughing from the dust she had inhaled. She realized with resigned selfmockery that a female could hardly appear at worse advantage, than she did at the moment. It was the first time she had wanted a man to admire her since she was eighteen.

The thought was outrageous and unwelcome, but she did not push away. Wolverton's embrace was too welcome.

An amused baritone sounded in her ear. "Did anyone ever tell you that your courage greatly exceeds your common sense?"

A bubble of laughter escaped her. "Yes. Frequently."

Behind them the noise and turbulence of the cattle was diminishing. With regret, Desdemona stepped away from her rescuer. Her wobbly knees immediately betrayed her, but before she could fall, he caught her arm again.

Unsteadily she said, "I'm quaking like a blancmange."

"A perfectly normal reaction. You had a narrow escape."

She leaned back against the door, willing her body to behave. "Still, I'm very much in your debt, Wolverton. You might have been trampled yourself."

He gave a deprecating shrug. "I spend a fair amount of time with cattle, so I'm used to their ways."

Even though most of the British aristocracy derived their fortunes from the land, few of the men Desdemona knew in London would so casually confess to being farmers. Perhaps she spent too much time in London.

She pushed at her tumbled hair with a trembling hand. Her gown and pelisse were ruined, and her bonnet lay smashed in the street. "If I'd known that I was going to take part in a cattle riot, I would have dressed differently."

Behind them, the now orderly oxen had settled down and resumed their progress to market. The drover who had been at the end of the herd approached, concern on his weathered face. "I hope ye took no harm, ma'am," he said in a rolling Welsh accent. "I'd not forgive myself if you'd been injured."

"I'm fine." To prove it, she took a cautious step away from the door. This time her knees supported her. "It was foolish of me to come into the street when the drive was going through."

As the drover started to move away, Wolverton asked, "Why did you turn the cattle like that? It was dangerous."

The drover stopped, an opaque expression in his eyes. " 'Twas a mistake, sir. The dogs misunderstood the command."

Still pleasantly but with a hint of steel, the marquess said, "I've heard that when a drive is over, the herd dogs make their own way home all the way from southern England to Wales or Scotland while their masters return by coach. Hard to believe that dogs so intelligent would misunderstand a whistle."

"You've caught me out, sir." Though the Welshman's voice was properly abashed, there was a gleam of humor in his eyes. "The problem was not the dogs' lack of wit, but mine. I gave the wrong signal, and the dogs obeyed. Lucky no damage was done."