Angel Rogue

Chapter 4

Shortly before the sun set, they encountered a family of Gypsy tinkers heading north. As the two parties approached each other, Robin waved and called out something in a language Maxie had never heard before.

She said with surprise, "You speak Gypsy?"

"The language is called Romany, and I only speak a little." The corners of his eyes crinkled humorously. "But I need to buy a few tinkerish things, and if you address people in their own tongue, they won't try as hard to cheat you."

The wagon stopped and the driver climbed from the box. Though Robin deprecated his linguistic skill, he seemed fairly fluent. He and the man of the household began talking energetically, both with their hands flying. Despite his blondness, her companion looked very unEnglish.

Several children emerged from the wagon, followed by a handsome, brightly dressed woman with a baby on her hip. She sauntered up to Maxie and said something in Romany.

Maxie shook her head, "Sorry, I don't know your language."

"No?" The woman cocked her head to one side. In English, she said, "I thought you might be didikois, a halfblood Rom, and that you'd taught the Gorgio to speak our tongue."

"No, I'm from America."

The woman's eyes widened. "Did you ever see any of those bloodthirsty Indians?"

Maxie had been hearing equally silly statements ever since she had arrived in England. "Madam, I am one of those bloodthirsty Indians," she said dryly. "Just as you are a thieving Gypsy."

The woman's dark eyes flashed with fury and a child who had been circling ducked behind its mother's skirts. Then, understanding, the woman laughed. "People often have stupid ideas about those who are different, yes?"

"Yes," Maxie agreed. Though glad to have made her point, she regretted having spoken in front of Robin. She was not ready to share her past with a man who was such an enigma.

Luckily, he was still deep in his negotiations and hadn't heard her. She watched him in admiration; his haggling skills would do credit to a horse trader.

At a critical point, he produced a shiny sixpence from the ear of the nearest child, reducing the little girl to helpless giggles. Her doting father threw up his hands and concluded the deal, giving Robin a razor, some battered cooking and eating utensils, and a small, ragged blanket in exchange for the princely sum of two shillings. Robin also traded his wellmade pouch for a shabby knapsack large enough to contain his new possessions.

They set off again after a round of friendly farewells. When they were out of earshot of the wagon, Maxie said, "Where did you learn Romany?"

He shrugged. "I've traveled with the Rom on occasion. Once they accept you, they are the most hospitable of people."

Before she could probe further, he continued, "The Rom, Gregor, said there was a good campsite about a mile from here."

She glanced around at the empty moors. "I hope he's right. We haven't seen a barn or shed for the last hour."

They continued until Robin pointed out a small pyramid of stones to the right of the road. "That's a Gypsy trail sign. The campsite is this way."

Ten minutes of walking along a faintly marked trail led them to a dip in the ground that was invisible from the road. Small trees gave protection from the wind, a stream provided drinking water, and there was a fire pit circled with stones. Maxie never would have found the spot on her own.

The air was already cooling, so as the light faded from the sky, they gathered firewood. Maxie used her flint and steel to start the fire, then rigged a crossbar to suspend a pot of water over it. As the water started to boil, Robin emerged from the dusk with an armful of large, springy ferns.

"Bracken," he explained as he laid down his load. "It makes quite a decent bed."

"I assume you mean it will make two quite decent beds?" she asked frostily as she poured steaming water over some tea leaves.

"Of course." Robin's voice was serious, but his eyes laughed at her suspicions. He made three more trips, shaping the bracken into pallets on opposite sides of the fire. All very proper, and surprisingly comfortable when she tested hers.

By the time the beds were made up, the tea had steeped. Maxie handed Robin a mugful as he settled crosslegged on the far side of the fire. "You're quite mad, you know. Surely wherever you slept last night was more comfortable than this."

"Correct but irrelevant," Robin replied. "I haven't enjoyed myself this much in a long time."

"Quite, quite mad." But harmlessly so. They sipped their tea in friendly silence. Though she had been wary about this strange partnership, Robin's matter of fact attitude made everything easy. Now that she was resigned to his presence, she felt remarkably at ease with him. It was hard to believe that they had met only a few hours earlier.

She put more water on to boil, and when her China tea was finished, she prepared a cup of her special herbal blend.

Robin wrinkled his nose at the odor of the steeping herbs. "What are you making now?"

"It's a tea for women," she explained.

"What makes it particularly female?"

With a mischievous desire to disconcert, she said, "It prevents conception. When I set out on this trip, I knew I couldn't necessarily avoid assault, but at least I can protect myself from the worst consequences."

His face went blank. After a long silence, he said, "What a remarkably coldblooded young female you are."

She took a sip of hot, bitter fluid. "I have never had the luxury of being able to avoid unpleasant realities."

Very quietly, he asked, "Have you ever been raped?"

"No."

He stared down at his mug. "I'm glad. I've seen the results. That is not something I would wish on any woman." His face and voice were shadowed with the darkness she had glimpsed earlier.

She shifted uncomfortably. She had wanted to disconcert him, not trigger bad memories. Still, his few words made her utterly sure that whatever else might happen, she need never fear that he would force her.

Wanting to change the mood, she reached inside her coat for her harmonica and began to play. Robin's expression eased and he lay back in the bracken, his arms crossed behind his head.

As she played the plangent notes of a frontier ballad, Maxie studied her companion. His speech and obvious education marked him as a child of privilege. Why had he been banished to the world of ordinary mortals who must struggle for existence? Her father's sins had been the obvious ones of youth, gaming, and women, but there was something about Robin that made her doubt that the conventional vices had been his downfall.

The flickering firelight gilded the blond hair, and his profile was as remote as it was flawless. Perhaps he had not been cast out for his sins, but had come from a family that had fallen on hard times. Or perhaps he was illegitimate, raised with some advantages, then thrown into the world to make his own way. She would probably never know the truth about him.

Her music drifted between traditional ballads and themes from famous European composers. Finally, as the fire crumbled to embers, she began to play the music of the Iroquois. The first songs she had ever heard were her mother's lullabies. Later she had learned many of the ceremonial and work tunes of the Mohawks. Though there were no Indian instruments like the harmonica, with practice she had learned to approximate the plaintive intervals and strange, evershifting rhythms.

She had thought that Robin was asleep, but when the music changed, his head turned in her direction, his eyes shadowed and unreadable. She played a little longer, then tucked her harmonica away and pulled her cloak from her pack.

"Good night." Robin's voice was scarcely louder than the wind over the moor grasses. "Thank you for the concert."

"You're welcome." As she rolled into her cloak and settled into the bracken, she silently admitted that she would sleep better for having him near.

A strange sound brought Maxie instantly awake, her hand reaching for her knife. At first she thought the soft choking noise had been made by an animal. When it was repeated, she realized that it came from the other pallet.

Wondering if Robin was having some kind of breathing attack, she rose and crossed to kneel by his side. His face was a pale blur in the starlight, and his breath came in shallow gasps, the bracken rustling as he shifted restlessly.

She laid a hand on his shoulder. "Robin?"

His muscles spasmed under her fingers. The choking sounds stopped and his eyes opened, though it was too dark to see any expression. He said huskily, "I was having a nightmare?"

"I think so. Do you remember what it was?"

"Not really. Could have been any of a number of things." He drew in a ragged breath. "The price of an uneasy conscience."

"Do you have nightmares often?"

"Regularly, if not precisely often." He rubbed his hand over his face. "Sorry I disturbed your rest."

She was about to say more when she saw a faint glimmer of moisture on his cheeks. No wonder he was trying so hard to be nonchalant. She laid her hand on his, where it rested near her knee. "No great matter. I'm a light sleeper." His fingers were cold, and she did not think that was because of the chilly night air. "Better to be woken by you than by a hungry wolf."

"Around here, sheep are far more common than wolves." He squeezed her hand briefly. "Not that I don't have faith in your ability to protect my ineffectual self from the perils of the wild."

"If any wolves attack, I'm sure that you can talk them to death," she said lightly. "Good night."

She returned to her pallet to take advantage of what remained of the night. Yet sleep eluded her, even though Robin's breathing was soon quiet and regular.

The Iroquois took dreams seriously, regarding them as wishes of the soul that must be satisfied. Maxie's mother had gone further, saying that nightmares were injuries of the soul that must be healed.

As she drifted back to sleep, Maxie wondered what haunted Robin's nights.

If Desdemona Ross had known how difficult it would be to find a runaway, she would have left the task to the fellow her brother was going to hire. Having begun, however, she was not about to admit that she wasn't equal to the challenge.

The search had seemed a simple exercise in logic. Knowing her niece's background, Desdemona had calculated how much distance a vigorous walker could travel in the time Maxima had been gone. Then she had targeted the three most likely routes and started making inquiries at taverns and posting houses along the way. She asked for a boy, sure that her niece had too much sense to travel in female garb.

Her inquiries produced either too many sightings of young boys or none at all, but never anything useful. After three days of futile searching, Desdemona was thoroughly sick of the business. Only her considerable stubbornness kept her going.

She was all the way to Yorkshire when her luck changed at an inn named the King Richard. It was midday, and a scattering of locals nursed their ale in the taproom when Desdemona entered. She marched over to the woman behind the bar. "Excuse me, madam. I am looking for my young nephew. The lad has run away from school, and it's possible that he came this way."

"Aye?" the landlady said with profound disinterest.

"About this tall," Desdemona gestured with her hand, "dark coloring, but probably wearing a hat to hide his face. Dressed so that he wouldn't be easily noticed."

"There was a lad like that in here't'other day." The answer came not from the landlady, but a toothless beldam in a group across the room. The old woman clambered to her feet and made her way to Desdemona. "But he's found hisself a friend."

"Oh?" Desdemona asked in an encouraging tone.

Another woman joined them, a sturdy female smoking a clay pipe. "Aye, if 'twas your nephew, he's all right. Lord Robert Andreville was with him. Happen you might know his lordship, all the Quality being related like. Lord Robert must've recognized the lad and taken him home to send him back to you."

The beldam disagreed. "Gent said he wasn't Lord Robert."

"Nothing wrong with my eyes. Granny. That was Lord Robert, no matter what he said," the pipe smoker insisted. "I saw him in York right before Christmas. That yaller head couldn't've belonged to anyone else."

Before the beldam could disagree again, Desdemona asked, "What happened?"

"The lad and his lordship had a bite of dinner here," the landlady contributed, showing more interest in the debate. "Sat in that corner, which is why no one recognized Lord Robert. After they ate, the lad slipped out the back."

"Aye, tried to run away again," the pipe smoker said. "That's why I think it must be the lad you want. His lordship caught up with him outside, then made your nevvy go with him."

Desdemona frowned. "You mean he forced the boy?"

The other woman nodded. "Took the lad by the arm and marched him out of town. Must have had a carriage waiting. Shouldn't think a lord'd walk very far."

Desdemona had heard of the Andrevilles, of course, and knew that their principal seat was nearby. But none of that family should know Maxima, who had only been in England for a few months. At least, no one should have recognized the girl as a runaway of good family. 'Tell me about this Lord Robert."

An enthusiastic chorus explained that Lord Robert was the younger brother of the Marquess of Wolverton, that he had done dire and dangerous things during the wars, that he was as handsome as a fallen angel and a devil with the ladies. The zeal with which the villagers described his exploits showed how proud they were of their neighborhood black sheep.

If even half the tales were true, the portrait that emerged was alarming. Lord and Lady Collingwood had said that Maxima was strikingly attractive, exactly the sort to draw unwelcome attentions from a rake. It seemed likely that the dissolute Lord Robert had seen through the girl's disguise and forced her to accompany him for no good purpose.

Face grim, Desdemona asked, "How do I get to Wolverhampton?" After receiving directions, she dipped into her reticule and laid a gold guinea on the bar. "Thank you for your help, ladies. This afternoon's ale is on me."

Desdemona stalked outside to her waiting coach, ignoring the toasts to her continued good health. She was too busy planning what she would do to a depraved aristocrat who would ruin an innocent young girl.