Angel Rogue

Chapter 20

Robin eyed the dark roiling sky without enthusiasm. They'd had blessedly good weather for most of the journey, but that was about to change. At the least, there would be heavy rain, and probably a thunderstorm of major proportions.

The oncoming storm helped him make up his mind. He asked Maxie, "Would you care to spend tonight in style?"

"If that means a bath, yes!"

She accompanied her remark with one of the vivid smiles that made his heart behave in odd ways, as if it couldn't remember how to beat. She was the gamest female he had ever met, cheerfully accepting everything that came their way. Sometimes she found him exasperating-and who could blame her?-but never once had she whined or sulked. Maggie had been the same way.

With a start, he realized he hadn't thought of Maggie in days. His companion's beguiling presence was making the past feel very distant. Which was as it should be, and about time.

They had made good speed since leaving the canal boat. Now they were on a southbound road near Northampton, only a few days from London. Their swing to the norm on the canal, plus greater efforts to avoid notice, seemed to have shaken Simmons from the track. They had encountered no new adventures.

That was fine with Robin; being with Maxie and trying to keep his hands off her delightful little body was adventure enough. He managed to control his attraction by mentally considering her "unavailable," as if she were married, a very young virgin, or a blood relation. It had worked fairly well-that is, he had not had to apologize for his behavior again-but he still had a constant, simmering awareness of her.

He suspected that what really constrained him was the knowledge that if he got out of line again, she would retreat, perhaps even vanish. She might desire him, but she had made it clear that her mind ruled her body.

A flash of lightning, followed almost instantly by a horrendous thunderclap, interrupted his daydreaming. The rain began, not a gentle English shower but blasts of water that drenched them to the skin in seconds.

Pitching her voice above the torrent, Maxie called, "How far is it to this place you have in mind?"

"Not far." He increased their pace to a trot. "But this rain is nothing. For vile weather, you should have seen Napoleon's retreat from Moscow."

She laughed, as always amazed at his powers of invention. "Are you going to tell me you were with the Grande Armee then?"

Another thunderclap split the air. "For a while," he said airily, "but it wasn't very amusing, so I stole a horse and made my own way back to Prussia."

She asked teasing questions, which he answered with speed and improbability. He was still spinning tales when he suddenly announced, "This way. We're almost there."

He turned from the narrow road and pushed through a gap in a hedge. She followed, and found Robin waiting by a high stone wall that ran as far as she could see in both directions.

Puzzled, she said, "Perhaps my brain is getting a bit soggy. I can't see anything resembling shelter."

"We have to go over the wall." Robin jumped and caught the upper edge, then swung smoothly to the top. Then he lowered his knapsack for Maxie.

Aghast, she said, "Good Lord, Robin, what are you doing? Surely this wall surrounds a private estate."

"Yes, but the owner is away and the house is empty," he explained. When she still hesitated, he said, "I promise you, there will be no trouble."

She weighed his confidence against her doubts. As always, he looked limpidly sincere. She was reminded of what she had thought when they first met: the face of a man who could sell you a dozen things you didn't want. An angel rogue.

But his judgment had been reliable so far, although her wits might be deficient for trusting him. She grasped the knapsack and scrambled up the wall.

They dropped down on the other side into a stand of large trees, which blunted the force of the rain. Robin led the way along a faint trail, the earth sodden and spongelike beneath their feet. Eventually they emerged at the edge of the woods.

A flash of lightning illuminated the scene for a moment. She halted, startled by the sight of the stately dwelling outlined against the storm darkened sky.

Some buildings would have seemed gothic and threatening under these conditions, but that was not the case here. The Jacobean manor house stood on a slight rise, surrounded by well tended lawns and gardens. It was neither unusually large nor in any way ostentatious. What made it striking were the graceful proportions and the way it suited its setting like a gemstone. Even in the midst of nature's turbulence, it was serene.

"Robin, we shouldn't be here," she said with conviction.

"There are stewards and gatekeepers and such, but all have their own residences. The house itself is vacant," he said reassuringly. "We can stay with no one the wiser."

She still balked. "How can you be sure it's still empty?"

"I make it a point to know such things," he said vaguely. "Come along. I don't know about you, but I'm freezing."

After glancing about to be sure they were unobserved, she started forward. "What is the estate's name and who owns it?"

"Ruxton. For many years it has been a secondary property of one of the great aristocratic families. Perfectly maintained, but scarcely ever occupied," he explained as he led the way around the house toward the back door.

"What a pity." She studied the warm facade. "It should be lived in. Your English nobility are a criminally wasteful lot."

"I wouldn't disagree."

They stopped at a door leading into the kitchen. Robin turned the knob and found, not surprisingly, that it was locked. Without missing a beat, he pulled off his right boot.

To her amazement, he pried up a section of the heel and removed a pair of stiff wires with oddshaped hooks on the ends. After donning his boot again, he inserted a wire in the keyhole.

"What the devil are you doing?" she exclaimed.

"Isn't it obvious?"

When she opened her mouth again, he said reproachfully, "Quiet, please. I'm out of practice, so I need to concentrate."

He couldn't have been very out of practice. After switching to the second wire, it took him only a minute to pick the lock.

As he opened the door, she gave him a glare that should have produced steam in the cold rain. "You have the most horrifying skills," she said through gritted teeth.

"But useful." He gave a beatific smile. "Wouldn't you rather be indoors by a fire instead of out in the rain?"

"It's a near run thing," she muttered as she stepped inside.

The shuttered windows admitted enough light to show that the kitchen was neat and empty. Dully gleaming pans hung on the opposite wall, worktables stood scrubbed and ready, but of human occupation there was no sign. Apparently Robin's information was accurate. Nonetheless, she felt uneasy as she set her knapsack on the flagged floor and peeled off her soaking coat and hat.

As Robin headed for a door that opened to reveal a storeroom, he said, "I'll build a fire. In this storm, no one will notice a bit of smoke from a chimney."

Obviously he had been here before. Perhaps he had begged a meal from an indulgent cook in the days when the house was lived in? Or had he been a guest in his respectable youth?

Whatever the reason, it took him only a few minutes to locate and light a lantern, then build a coal fire and start water heating. Soaked to the skin and shivering, she was grateful to stand by the hearth and absorb the fire's warmth.

Robin disappeared again, then returned and draped a heavy shawl around her shoulders. "I found a cloakroom with a variety of old garments. While the bathwater is heating, shall we choose rooms for the night?"

She glanced around the kitchen. 'To be honest, I'd rather stay here. It seems dreadfully intrusive to invade someone's home, even if it isn't regularly occupied."

"But this hasn't been anyone's home for many years." He lit a branch of candles, then smiled and beckoned with his hand. "Come see. We won't cause any harm."

She followed him from the kitchen, knowing that when he smiled like that, she would follow him to hell itself.

The flickering light showed a house that was handsome and appealing, with a human scale that Chanleigh lacked. Though most of the furniture was under holland covers, the shapes revealed timeless elegance. The satinwood tables needed only the brush of a hand to bring the waxed surfaces alive. Tall, shuttered windows waited to admit light, and rich oriental carpets muted the sound of their footsteps.

In the music room, she lifted the cover on the harpsichord to play a scale. The notes sang bright and true under her questing fingers. "Sad to think there is no one to appreciate all this."

"A manor house has a life span of centuries," he said pensively. "A decade or two of emptiness is a minor aberration. Ruxton has been a home in the past, and it will be again."

She hoped he was right They went upstairs. At the top of the steps was a small, unshuttered round window, and she paused to admire the rolling hills. The landscape was less dramatic than Durhamshire's wild moors, but lovely and very welcoming.

Her mouth tightened. How could the owners not want to live here? Had they no impoverished relations who needed a home? Shaking her head, she went after her companion.

He opened a door and glanced in. It was large, with a wide fourposter bed and a rosehued carpet underfoot. "Will this suit you for the night? I think it's the mistress's chamber. The master's room would be through that door."

She looked at him, remembering the Drover Inn. "In other words, a bed is more dangerous to share than a hedgerow or a haystack or a cargo of carpets?"

His blue eyes met hers, serious for once. "So it proved before. I think it best that I sleep in the next room."

Of course he was right. Damn him.

For the twentieth time, Maxie pushed up the flowing sleeves of her luxurious robe. It wouldn't do for the red velvet to trail in her dinner. Her mood had improved considerably in the last three hours. While Robin had bathed, she had stewed the ham and vegetables they had been carrying. Her principles about drinking alcohol didn't extend to cooking with wine, and a liberal addition of claret, along with dried herbs from the stillroom, had done wonders for the rather plebian ingredients.

During her turn in the tub-her rapturous, lavender scented turn in the tub-Robin had pillaged the house's treasures to create a splendid setting for their meal. The formal dining room was too large for intimacy, so he had set the table in the breakfast room. Crystal goblets, silver utensils, and fine china gleamed in the candlelight, and delicate porcelain bowls held relishes and candied fruits from the stillroom.

With a blithe unconcern for property rights, he had also found two velvet robes for them to wear while their own clothing dried. Donning the sumptuous garment after her bath had made her feel like a princess.

She swallowed the last of her stew and leaned back with a contented sigh, pushing up her sleeves again. The robe was far too large and its hem dragged on the floor, but it was perfect for this lunatic occasion, when her freshly washed hair was loose as a child's and wool stockings warmed her feet.

She had decided to relax and enjoy the eccentric luxury. She had the odd feeling that the house welcomed them. Perhaps it was glad to have inhabitants, even transitory, illicit ones.

Surreptitiously she studied her companion. His robe fit him well and was a shade of blue that matched his eyes. The color set off his gilt hair and made him unreasonably, dangerously, attractive.

As he reached for his wineglass, the garment fell open at the throat. She was interested to note that there was a faint, reddish tint in the light matting of chest hair revealed. She supposed that went with a beard that grew out red.

As she poured herself more water from a silver ewer, she remarked, 'Times like this, it would be nice to loll back in the chair with a glass of brandy in my hand."

"You can anyhow. Nothing in that picture says you actually have to drink the brandy." He raised his goblet, which contained the last of the claret he had appropriated to season the stew. "Shall we drink a toast to the future?"

She laughed and raised her cup. "Is a toast drunk in tea binding?"

"With symbolism, intent is everything, the details unimportant," he assured her.

She hesitated a moment, feeling a strange, deep longing. It was getting harder and harder to imagine parting from Robin, with his careless charm and quixotic humor and tranquil acceptance of her mongrel background. But a future with him came under the heading of dreams rather than of possible outcomes. Trying to hold him would be like trying to capture the wind in her hands.

Smiling wistfully, she raised her cup and emptied it in one quick swallow. She was an American, which meant that she should not accept that anything was impossible.

After pouring more tea, she selected a piece of candied ginger from a Chinese bowl. "Sometime in your checkered past you must have been a butler." She indicated the elegant table. "You do this so well."

"As a matter of fact, you're right. I have had a stint or two as a butler, as well as being a footman and groom on occasion."

She was taken aback, not having meant the comment seriously. "Is that true, or are you teasing again?"

"Quite true." He grinned. "Is it so hard to imagine me holding a real job?"

"It's not easy." She rested an elbow on the table, propping her chin on her palm as she studied his cool patrician countenance. She really shouldn't be surprised. Even wandering gentlemen with a rooted distaste for honest employment must sometimes have to work to keep food in their bellies.

"I'm sure you were a successful servant. You have the chameleon's ability to blend into any setting." She tried to define the impressions she had gathered in their travels. "Yet, though you talk easily with anyone of any station, you always seem apart, with the group but not of it."

His hand stilled around his wine goblet. "That, Maxima, is entirely too perceptive a comment." Before she could pursue the subject, he continued, "We'll be in London soon. Where do you plan to begin investigating your father's death?"

"The inn where he died. Surely there are servants who can tell me something. I also have the names of old friends he intended to visit."

"After you have learned what you can, and acted on it, what then?" His blue gaze was intense.

She shook her head and toyed with the silver tongs, trying unsuccessfully to decipher the intricate engraved initial. "Go back to America and find work in a bookshop, I suppose. I haven't really thought about it. The future seems too far away."

She used the tongs to drop a chunk of sugar into her tea. "No, that isn't quite right. Usually I have a vague idea of what the future holds. Nothing so grand as prophecy, just a sense that actions will be completed. For example, when my father and I traveled, I always knew when we would reach our destination, and when we would not. When we sailed for England, I didn't doubt that we would arrive safely, and I knew that I would meet my father's family. For that matter, when I left my uncle's house I was confident that I would reach London."

Intrigued, he asked, "Did you sense that you would have so many adventures along the way?"

"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.