Angel Rogue (32 page)

"No, and I could never have imagined meeting someone like you." She gave him a fleeting smile. "But now when I look ahead, I can't project what will happen. It's like one summer when we planned to pass through Albany. There was no reason to suppose that it wouldn't happen, yet I couldn't see us there. As it turned out, my father fell ill. We spent several weeks in a village in Vermont and ended up missing Albany that year. It's rather like that now."

His brows drew together. "What do you feel?"

"A kind of blankness. Perhaps the future will take a turn I can't envision because it is too different from the past," she said slowly. "I've always known I wouldn't spend my whole life as a book peddler, though I didn't know how that part of my life would end. Yet as soon as my father said we were going to England, I knew I would never go back to the peddler's life."

"I've run across many different forms of intuition in my life, and I've learned not to discount them," Robin said, his expression intent. "If you consciously try, do you think you could get a better sense for what might happen in London? If there is danger, it will help if we are prepared."

"I don't know if that's possible, but I'll see what I can do," she said doubtfully.

Closing her eyes, she relaxed back in the chair and visualized a map of England. A silvery road coiled south from Durham, its brightness increasing in Yorkshire, where she had met Robin. What about London, the complex, pulsing heart of England? She let her mind drift.

Blackness, chaos, pain. The unthinkable…

With a cry, she jerked upright in the chair, a convulsive movement of her hand sweeping her teacup and saucer from the table to smash on the parquet floor. She stared at the scattered fragments, her heart hammering. "I broke it," she said stupidly.

'To hell with the china," Robin was already there, his arms circling her. As she hid her face against him, he said quietly, "Did you feel that something dreadful will happen there?"

She tried to look at the black, terrifying vortex that had almost consumed her, but her mind sheered away, as balky as a nervous pony. "It… it was literally beyond my imagination. Something too awful to understand."

His embrace tightened. "Could it have been your own death?" he asked quietly. "If so, I'm going to take you in the opposite direction tomorrow if I have to tie you to a horse."

She shook her head. "I've never feared death, so my own end would not be so upsetting." A horrifying thought struck to her. Could she have been dimly sensing danger for Robin?

As soon as the thought formed in her mind, she dismissed it. Her fear had nothing to do with Robin. "It wasn't your death, either. I… I think it had to do with what happened to my father." She swallowed hard. "Even though I've mentally accepted that my uncle might have arranged Max's death, in my heart, I haven't really believed it. But if my uncle was responsible, it would explain why thinking of the future is so upsetting. A murder trial would have hideous repercussions for the whole Collins family. Innocent people will be hurt."

"And you don't want that, even if your relatives haven't been particularly kind to you." He put his finger under her chin and raised her face so that she was looking at him. "I suppose it's foolish to ask if you want to leave well enough alone."

Her jaw hardened. "That's out of the question. I may fail to discover the truth, but if I don't try, I'll never forgive myself."

He nodded, unsurprised. "You're wise to proceed. The truth is seldom as bad as our fears." He smoothed her hair back from her temple, then moved away. "I'm going to make another pot of tea. Then I'll tell you every absurd story I can think of so that when you go to bed, you'll sleep well." He smiled. "And I know a
lot
of absurd stories."

After he headed off to the kitchen, teapot in hand, she whispered, "Thank you, Robin."

Their future together might be limited, but as long as he stayed by her side while she investigated her father's death, she could face whatever waited in London.

The Marquess of Wolverton had estimated that if  Robin and the Sheltered Innocent decided to stop at Ruxton, it would take them three or four days to get there from Market Harborough. Giles headed south, making routine inquiries, but with a signal lack of success. The pair had evaporated like summer mist.

He had intended to spend the third night at Ruxton, but a violent storm turned the roads to mire and slowed his carriage to the pace of a walking man. Irritated, he chided himself for spending too much time on futile searching. If he had given up a few hours earlier, he could have reached Ruxton. Now he must take his chances at the nearest inn. It was a gloomy prospect.

As his carriage lurched through the mud, he found himself thinking about Desdemona Ross, who had an alarming tendency to invade his mind, both waking and sleeping. He wasn't sure what to do about her, but he certainly wanted to do something.

His pleasant daydreams ended when a sharp crack sounded below his feet. The carriage jolted to a stop, the whole vehicle tilting precariously. He sighed as he stepped into the downpour; a carriage breakdown was a perfect end to the day. Outside, he called to his coachman, Wickes, "Shall we see how bad it is?"

Wickes handed the reins to Miller, a young servant who was acting as guard, groom, and parttime valet. After he clambered from the box, they slogged through the mud to survey the damage. "Axle's broken beyond repair, my lord," Wickes said glumly. "We'll have to send Miller to find a blacksmith."

Giles tugged his hat lower, trying to stop rain from running down the back of his neck. "We're within a mile or two of Daventry. There will be a smith there." He was about to dispatch Miller to town when he heard the jangling harness and rumbling wheels of another traveler behind them.

"Here's a bit of luck," Wickes said as he stepped into the road to flag down the approaching vehicle.

It wasn't a wagon, but another private coach—a carriage with distinctive yellow trim. A smile spread across Giles's face. Whoever had said that it was an ill wind that blew no good was right; this storm was definitely blowing well.

As he headed toward the coach, a tall female form stepped out into the deluge and started toward him. His step quickened, and as they drew together he exclaimed, "Get back inside, Lady Ross. There's no reason for you to get wet, too."

"Don't worry, Wolverton. I shan't melt." She gave him a wicked smile, her long lashes clumping from the rain and water dripping from the edge of her bonnet. "This is my chance to rescue you for a change. How could I pass up such an opportunity? I presume you have a broken wheel or axle."

He nodded. "I'd appreciate it if you would send someone from Daventry to help us."

"Why don't you come with me? Your men can look after the carriage perfectly well. I was planning to stop at the Wheatsheaf, which is quite a decent inn. You can get a room there also." She pulled her sopping cloak closer around her. "This is no weather for traveling."

The thought of spending time with her splendid ladyship was too appealing to refuse. Giles told his men to wait in the carriage until help arrived, retrieved a small bag that carried a change of clothes and a few other basic items, and followed Lady Ross to her carriage.

He climbed inside and settled squishily on the seat. Seeing that they were alone, he asked, "What happened to your maid?"

"The silly wench came down with a streaming cold so I sent her home." She cocked her head to one side. "Obviously I didn't take your advice about meekly going to wait in London. I came across one or two possible sightings of our fugitives, but I don't feel any closer to finding them. How was your luck?"

"About the same." Deciding there was no reason to keep Ruxton a secret any longer, Giles said, "Robin owns an estate near Daventry. I'm on my way to see if they might be staying there for a day or two. Care to go there with me tomorrow?"

"Definitely." She smiled wryly. "There are obvious advantages to being together when we find them."

Together. He liked the sound of that.

In Daventry, they found a blacksmith who was willing to go immediately to Giles's carriage in return for a payment that was only mildly extortionate. With that accomplished, they went on to the Wheatsheaf Inn.

Giles asked for a tea tray when they entered. The landlord gave the orders, then bowed them into a private parlor.

As Giles removed his cloak, his companion went to stand by the fire. "This seems very familiar," she remarked. "We always seem to be meeting at inns." She removed her dripping bonnet and shook her head. Her red hair tumbled in a vivid mass about her shoulders, curling wildly from the moisture.

Giles watched with pleasure as she absently combed her fingers through her fiery tresses in a vain attempt at straightening. He was definitely pro redhead.

He started to make a light comment about the effect that meeting at inns could have on a reputation. Then rational thought fled as his companion removed her sodden cloak.

He had wondered what her appearance would be if she wasn't swaddled in layers of shapeless clothing. Now he learned the answer, and the knowledge was lightning in his veins.

He had thought her rather stout, in an attractively feminine way. Stout, however, implied being large all over.

Desdemona was large only in certain places. Her saturated muslin dress clung more closely than a damped petticoat, revealing a spectacular figure in loving detail. Her legs were gloriously long and shapely, and the slimness of her waist made her dramatic curves look downright flamboyant. In particular, she had a remarkable pair of…

Giles hastily straightened his expression. A gentleman would say she had a lovely neck, since what she did have was not a subject for polite comment. Yes, indeed, Lady Ross had a very lovely neck… and the rest of her was very fine as well.

She glanced at him, and her face froze. "You are staring at me," she said accusingly.

So he was. Giles raised his bemused eyes to her face and said with regrettable candor, "Lady Collingwood was right."

Her face flared as red as her hair.

'That was not an insult," he said hastily. "You are a strikingly attractive woman. No man could fail to notice."

"You mean that you agree with my sister inl aw that I look like a lightskirt," she snapped. "You're both right, because that is exactly how too many men have tried to treat me." She reached for her wet cloak to cover herself.