Unlacing the Innocent Miss. Margaret McPhee

woke at dawn to the sweet scent of a woman. He smiled and, still drowsy with sleep, reached a hand out to curl her soft body into his. His fingers contacted the thick fur lining of a cloak, a covering, but no woman. He cracked his eyes open and all of it came flooding back, Evedon, the job, Rosalind Meadow-field.

      She was lying with her back snug against the hearth, curled on her side facing him, and he could see that in sleep her face lost its suspicious frown so that she looked younger than the twenty-five years Evedon had told him, and extremely innocent. But Wolf was aware of how very deceptive looks could be. Her hair was long and mussed, framing her pale face with its dark tendrils. Her cloak had become unfastened in the night and covered more of the floor than the woman. His eyes travelled lower to what the cloak had previously hidden, to the plain blue dress, prim and somewhat old-fashioned and, although clearly expensive, hardly robust enough for the journey ahead. Probably used to being ferried around in Lady Evedon’s fine carriage. She’d learn how the other half travelled long before they reached London, he thought grimly.

      His eyes lingered on the pale slim neck and the way that her bodice strained tight across her breasts where her arms were bound behind her back. He thought of Evedon’s insistence on discretion. Just the same as the rest of the aristos, Evedon wanted his affairs kept quiet. Wolf supposed that it wouldn’t do for it to get out that his mother’s genteel companion had fleeced her and done a runner. He wondered fleetingly what Evedon would do once he had her. Arrange something between him and the woman’s father…or perhaps even with the woman herself? The latter thought stirred an unease within him. Deliberately he thrust it away. What Evedon did was his own business and, besides, Miss Meadowfield had a rich papa to protect her well enough.

      Evedon had told him that Miss Meadowfield was from a wealthy genteel family. That fact alone had been enough to convince Wolf to take the job. It did not hurt that Evedon had offered a considerable reward for the quiet return of the woman. Evedon must want her back badly. And just for a moment, Wolf could almost feel sorry for her. Almost. But then he reminded himself of what she was—a gentlewoman who had used those around her—and Wolf knew well from personal experience the damage such people could do. His lip curled at the memory from across the years. And when he looked again at Rosalind Meadowfield, any hint of compassion had vanished and his heart was hard.

      The woman seemed to be in the depths of sleep with no sign of waking. The shadows beneath her eyes suggested that it had not been so the night through and he remembered the way she had studied him as she lay sleepless by the fireplace. Campbell and Kempster still slept soundly behind him. None of them stirred as he slipped outside into the chill.

      The darkness of the night sky showed the first hint of lightening from the east, its deep blue colouration fading. Wolf knew that dawn would come quickly and that, in order to cover enough miles, they would have to be on the road heading south before day lit the sky fully. He turned back to the cottage.

      The woman and Kempster still slept, but Campbell was up, yawning and rubbing his hands through his hair. Wolf gestured towards the door and the two men disappeared back outside, walking away from the cottage and into the cover of the trees before they spoke.

      ‘What is the plan, then?’ Campbell yawned again.

      ‘We get on the road as soon as possible and start heading south. The woman will slow our speed a little, but we should still be able to cover about seventy miles a day. At that rate we’ll be back in London in, say, a week’s time.’

      ‘And then we’ll be in the money.’ Campbell rubbed his hands together.

      Wolf smiled. ‘We will indeed.’

      Campbell relieved himself behind the thick trunk of a tree. ‘Do you think the lassie could be telling the truth when she said that she didnae thieve from Evedon?’

      Wolf’s lip curled with disdain. ‘She’s lying. The guilt was written all over her face. Some expensive clothes and a posh accent, and she’s got your head turned.’

      ‘You forgot the pretty face,’ teased Campbell, ‘expensive clothes, posh accent and a pretty face.’

      Wolf gave a laugh and shook his head. ‘We best get a move on. You see to the horses. I’ll get Kempster and the woman moving.’

      ‘Right you are, Lieutenant.’

      Wolf peered round at the big Scotsman with a baleful expression.

      ‘Sorry, it just slipped out.’ Campbell’s grin held nothing of contrition. ‘Old habits die hard.’

      

      Rosalind awoke with the sensation that someone had stroked her cheek. And then she remembered where she was and the nature of her predicament, and her heart began to hurry. Her eyes flicked open, fearing what she would find.

      A man was half crouched, half kneeling by her side.

      Sleep left her in an instant. Her gaze flew up to find his face.

      ‘Awake at last, Miss Meadowfield?’ said Kempster.

      ‘What are you doing?’ The words were a shocked whisper.

      ‘What do you think? This is not Evedon House. You can’t be lying abed half the day. I’m wakenin’ you, sweetheart.’

      His use of the endearment gave her a jolt of shock. She did not meet his gaze, just tried to sit up, wincing at the ache in her arms and shoulders as she moved. ‘I am quite awake now, thank you, Mr Kempster.’ Her voice was cold, offering the rebuke that her words had not.

      ‘So I see,’ he said, and, slipping a hand inside his jacket, produced a knife, its blade straight and wicked.

      Rosalind’s heart hammered harder. Her eyes slid slowly from the blade to Kempster’s face, and such was the dryness in her throat that she could only stare at him and utter not a single word.

      The clear blue eyes met hers. The knife raised in his hand.

      Her breath held.

      His mouth curved and with one swift strike, he severed the rope binding her ankles.

      The gasp escaped her. She could not hold it back any more than she could stop the instinctive closing of her eyes or the way that she flinched at his motion.

      He sliced the rope from her wrists and hauled her to her feet. ‘That’s better, ain’t it, miss?’ He smiled.

      And when he moved away, she saw Wolf watching them from the doorway. ‘We leave in five minutes,’ Wolf said, and his gaze was cool and appraising.

      Kempster’s blanket was already rolled and stowed away in his bag. He carried the bag out to his horse.

      Wolf scooped his and Campbell’s blankets up.

      ‘Is there somewhere I might be able to attend to my toilette?’ Rosalind got to her feet, smoothing out the wrinkles in her skirt as she did so.

      ‘See to your business outside behind a tree like the rest of us.’

      ‘And water for washing?’

      He raised an eyebrow and stared at her in mocking disbelief. ‘Shall I fetch it warmed and ready for you, m’lady?’

      She felt her cheeks grow heated at his tone and glanced away as she made her way towards the door.

      He followed, the tread of his boots close behind.

      She stopped in the doorway, rubbing the stiffness from her wrists, and looked up at him with as much courage as she could muster.

      ‘Please grant me some little dignity, Mr Wolversley.’ Her heart was racing with her own boldness, but she knew that what she did now would set a precedent for the rest of the journey.

      His silver gaze was searing, stilling the movement of her hands, before it rose to meet her eyes. A moment passed, and then another, and her heart skittered all the faster, so that she remembered last night and the intensity of his gaze and the look of his face without its harsh mask of cynicism. And she thought from the look in his eyes