Книга - Unlacing the Innocent Miss

Unlacing the Innocent Miss
Margaret McPhee


This so-called dowager’s companion was not as innocent as she pretended!Hardened thief-taker Wolf Wolversley had met her type before. If she had nothing to hide, then why had she run? Rosalind Meadowfield had run when she’d learned the accusations. But not far enough. On a wild, wind-swept Scottish moor, Wolf caught up with her. A scarred, bitter man - but Rosalind was unafraid. She saw no cruelty in his eyes, only passion!










Unlacing the Innocent Miss

Regency

Silk & Scandal


by




Margaret McPhee











www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




About the Author


MARGARET MCPHEE loves to use her imagination – an essential requirement for a trained scientist. However, when she realised that her imagination was inspired more by the historical romances she loves to read than by her experiments, she decided to put the ideas down on paper. She has since left her scientific life behind, retaining only the romance—her husband, whom she met in a laboratory. In summer, Margaret enjoys cycling along the coastline overlooking the Firth of Clyde in Scotland, where she lives. In winter, tea, cakes and a good book suffice.





London, 1814


A season of secrets, scandal and seduction in high society!

A darkly dangerous stranger is out for revenge, delivering a silken

rope as his calling card. Through him, a long-forgotten past is

stirred to life. The notorious events of 1794 which saw one man

murdered and another hanged for the crime are brought into

question. Was the culprit brought to justice or is there still

a treacherous murderer at large?



As the murky waters of the past are disturbed, so is the Ton! Milliners and servants find love with rakish lords and proper ladies fall for rebellious outcasts, until finally the true murderer and spy is revealed.




REGENCY

Silk & Scandal


From glittering ballrooms to a smuggler’s cove in Cornwall,from the wilds of Scotland to a Romany camp and fromthe highest society to the lowest…

Don’t miss all eight books in this thrilling new series!




Prologue


May 1815, London

Outside in the darkness of the night a dog was barking.

A necklace of diamonds lay within a nest of black silken rope coiled on Lord Evedon’s desk. The diamonds glittered beneath the light of the candelabra as he picked up the necklace, letting it dangle and sway from his fingers, all the while watching the woman standing so quietly before him across the desk.

‘Well?’ he finally said, and his expression was cold. ‘What have you to say for yourself, Miss Meadowfield?’

A look of confusion crossed Rosalind Meadowfield’s face. The concern that she had felt at being summoned to attend Lord Evedon in his study had become fear. The hour was too late, and they were alone. His mood was not good, and it could be no coincidence that he was holding his mother’s missing jewels.

‘Lady Evedon’s diamonds, they have been found?’ She did not understand what else he expected her to say.

‘Indeed they have.’ He spoke quietly enough, politely even, but she could hear the anger that lay beneath. ‘Do you know where they were found?’

Her puzzlement increased, along with her sense of foreboding. ‘I do not.’

His eyes seemed to narrow and he glanced momentarily away as if in disgust. ‘The crime is ill enough, Miss Meadowfield. Do not compound it by lying.’

The tempo of her heart increased. She eyed him warily. ‘I am sorry, my lord, but I do not understand.’

‘Then understand this,’ he spoke abruptly. ‘The diamonds were found hidden in your bedchamber, wrapped within your undergarments.’

‘My undergarments?’ She felt her stomach turn over. ‘That is not possible.’

He did not answer, just stared at her with angry accusation. And in that small pregnant silence she knew precisely what he thought and why he had called her here.

‘You cannot believe that I would steal from Lady Evedon?’ Her words were faint, their pitch high with incredulity. ‘I would not do such a thing. There must be some mistake.’

‘There is no mistake. Graves himself was there when the diamonds were discovered within your chamber. Do you mean to call into question the propriety of the butler who has worked for the Evedon family for over forty years?’

‘I do not, but neither do I know how the diamonds came to be hidden within my clothing.’ She gripped her hands together, her palms sliding in their cold clamminess, and bit at her lower lip. ‘I swear it is the truth, my lord.’

‘And what is the significance of this?’ From the surface of the desk he lifted the rope, and even in the subdued lighting from the candles and the fire, she could see its dark silken sheen. With one end of the rope secured tight within his fingers, he released the rest; as it dropped, Rosalind saw, to her horror, that it had been tied in the shape of a noose. She could not prevent the gasp escaping her lips.

‘Well?’ One movement of his fingers and the noose swung slightly.

‘I have never seen that rope before. I know nothing of it.’ Her heart was hammering so hard that she felt sick. All of her past was back in an instant—everything that she had fought so hard to hide—conjured by that one length of rope.

He made a sound of disbelief. ‘I warned my mother against taking on a girl without a single name she could offer to provide her with a character. But Lady Evedon is too kind and trusting a spirit. What else have you been stealing these years that you have worked as her companion? Small items perhaps? Objects that would pass unnoticed? And now you become brave, taking advantage of a woman whose mind has grown fragile.’

‘I deny it most fervently. I hav—’

But Evedon did not let her finish. ‘I do not wish to hear it. You are a liar as well as a thief, Miss Meadowfield.’

She felt her face flood with heat, and her fingers were trembling so much that she gripped them all the tighter that he would not see it.

‘The diamonds we have thankfully recovered; with the emeralds we have not been so fortunate. Will you at least have the decency to tell me where you have hidden them?’

She stared at him, her mind still reeling from shock, too slow and stilted to think coherently. ‘I tell you, they are not within my possession.’

‘Then you have sold them already?’ The silken rope slithered through his fingers to land in a dark pile upon the desk. He pocketed the diamond necklace. The clawed feet of his chair scraped loud, like talons gouging against the polished wooden floor, as he pushed the chair back and rose to his feet.

‘Of course not.’ Instinctively she stepped back, just a tiny pace, but enough to increase the distance between them. ‘I have taken nothing belonging to her ladyship.’

‘I doubt you have had time to rid yourself of the emeralds, and they are most assuredly not within your chamber. So where are they concealed?’ He moved out from behind the barrier of the desk and walked round to stand before her, facing her directly.

Rosalind’s throat dried. ‘I am no thief,’ she managed to whisper. ‘There has been a terrible mistake here.’

He ignored her. ‘Empty your pockets, Miss Meadowfield.’

She stared at him all the more, her heart beating a frenzied tattoo while her mind struggled to believe what he was saying, and she could not rid herself of the sensation that this nightmare into which she had walked could not really be happening.

‘I said turn out your pockets.’ He enunciated each word as if she were a simpleton.

Her hands were shaking and her cheeks burning as she removed a handkerchief from her pocket and pulled the interior out to show that it was empty.

‘And the others.’

‘I have no other pockets.’

‘I do not believe you, Miss Meadowfield.’ The logs crackled upon the fire. He stood there silent and still, before suddenly grabbing her arm and pulling her close enough to allow his hand to sweep a search over her bodice and skirts.

‘Lord Evedon!’ She struggled within his arms, trying to break free, but his grip tightened.

‘I will not let the matter lie so lightly. You will tell me where they are.’

‘I did not take them,’ she cried and struggled all the harder.

The dog was still barking and, as if in harmony, came the sound of a woman’s cries and shouts from upstairs within the house.

Rosalind ceased her resistance, knowing that it was the dowager that cried out.

Evedon knew it too, but he did not relinquish his hold upon her.

‘Do not think to make a fool of me so easily, Miss Meadowfield. If you will not divulge the whereabouts of the emeralds to me, perhaps you will be more forthcoming to the constable in the morning.’

From other parts of the house came the sounds of voices and running. And of hurried footsteps approaching the study door.

‘No,’ she whispered, almost to herself, and in that moment, his grasp slackened so that she succeeded in wrenching herself free of him. But the force of the momentum carried her crashing backwards towards the desk. Her hands flailed wide seeking an anchor with which to save herself, and finding nothing but the pile of books stacked upon the desk. Her fingers gripped to them, clung to them, pulling them down with her. From the pale fan of their pages a single folded letter escaped to drift down. Rosalind landed in a heap alongside the books with the letter trapped flat beneath her fingertips.

Lord Evedon’s face paled. She saw the sudden change in his expression—the undisguised horror, the fear—as he stared, not at her, but at the letter. He reached out and snatched it back, the violence of his action startling her.

A rap of knuckles sounded against the study door.

‘Lord Evedon.’ She recognized the voice as Mr Graves, the butler.

Evedon stuffed the letter hastily into his pocket. She saw the glimmer of sweat upon the skin of his upper lip and chin as she scrambled to her feet.

‘Attend to your appearance,’ he hissed in a whisper.

Only then did Rosalind realize that her chignon had unravelled, freeing her hair to uncoil down her back. She crouched and began searching for the missing hairpins.

‘M’lord,’ Graves called again. ‘It is a matter of urgency.’

Lord Evedon quickly smoothed the front of his coat and waistcoat.

‘Up.’ And with a rough hand, he yanked her to her feet by the shoulder of her dress, ripping it slightly in the process. ‘You will speak nothing of this to my mother. Do I make myself clear?’

She nodded.

At last he granted Graves admittance.

‘Forgive me, m’lord, but it is Lady Evedon.’

‘Another of her turns?’

Graves coughed delicately. ‘I am afraid so, my lord. She requests Miss Meadowfield’s presence.’ The butler did not even glance in Rosalind’s direction, and yet she could not help but remember what Lord Evedon had said about Graves overseeing the discovery of the diamonds. He had searched through her possessions, sparing nothing, not even her undergarments, and he thought her a thief. Her cheeks heated with the shame and injustice of it.

‘Very well.’ Lord Evedon’s gaze moved from Graves to Rosalind. ‘You will attend her ladyship, and this other matter will be concluded upon the morning.’

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak, aware of her burning cheeks and her unkempt hair and of what Mr Graves and the small collection of maids and footmen gathered in the hallway all thought her. She could see the accusation in their eyes and the tightening of their lips in disapproval.

She wanted so much to deny the unjust accusation, to say that she was as shocked at what was unravelling as they, but all turned their faces from her. She had no option but to follow Mr Graves up the staircase, aware with every step that she took of Lord Evedon at her back and of what the morning would bring.



Lady Evedon was no longer crying by the time they reached the room. She lay there so small and exhausted and frail within the high four-poster bed, her face an unnatural shade of white.

‘I saw his face,’ she cried. ‘He was there, right there.’ She pointed to the window where she had pulled the curtain back.

‘Who was there?’ Rosalind followed the dowager’s terrified gaze.

‘The one that follows me always. The one that never leaves me,’ she whispered. ‘He was no gentleman. He lied…Robert lied and I believed him.’

Rosalind glanced nervously at Lord Evedon.

‘There is no one there, mother. It is only you and me and Miss Meadowfield.’

‘You are quite certain?’ Lady Evedon asked.

‘I am certain. It was another of your nightmares.’ He pressed a hand to his mother’s, his face filled with concern. ‘I shall send for Dr Spentworth.’

‘No.’ Lady Evedon shook her head. ‘There is no need. You are right. It was a nightmare, nothing more.’

‘Then we will request the doctor’s presence in the morning, to ensure that all is as it should be.’

‘I understand well your implication, Charles; you think that I am going mad!’

‘I was not suggesting any such thing. I am but concerned for your health.’

Lady Evedon nodded, but Rosalind could see in the lady’s face that she was not convinced. ‘Of course. I am merely tired, and the barking of that wretched animal outside woke me with a fright.’ She seemed almost recovered. ‘You may leave us now; Miss Meadowfield will read to me until I fall asleep. Her voice soothes my overly excited nerves.’ She turned to Rosalind with a little smile. ‘You look rather pale, my dear. Are you feeling unwell?’

‘I—’ Rosalind opened her mouth to speak and, feeling Lord Evedon’s hard gaze upon her, quickly closed it again. With a sinking heart she realized that he had been right in his caution as they left the study. She could not tell Lady Evedon of the accusation of theft or any of the rest of it, not with the dowager’s state of mind.

‘I am quite well, thank you, my lady.’

‘Your book.’ Lord Evedon lifted a small book from the bedside table and handed it to his mother.

Lady Evedon smiled. ‘Thank you, dear Charles.’

‘I will leave Stevens outside the door to ensure that you two ladies are kept safe.’ Lord Evedon’s gaze met Rosalind’s and she knew his words for the warning they were.

‘I shall be glad to know that we are being so carefully protected.’ Lady Evedon seemed reassured by the knowledge.

‘Mama…Miss Meadowfield.’ He bowed and left.

‘Miss Meadowfield,’ Lady Evedon held the copy of Wordsworth’s poems out to her.

‘My lady,’ she said, and with only a slight tremor of her fingers she opened its leather cover.

She read aloud, keeping her voice calm and light. She read and read, and by the time that Lady Evedon finally fell asleep the candles on the bedside table had burned low.

She sat there, listening to Lady Evedon’s quiet snores, her palms clammy even while her fingers were stiff with cold. Her mind raced with thoughts, with fears, with worried speculation. Once the constable arrived, it was only a matter of time before they discovered the truth: that Rosalind Meadowfield did not exist at all, that she had lied. Theft of this magnitude from an employer was a capital offence, and when they knew her real family name, there was no court in the land that would deal with her leniently. Prison. Transportation. Or even…hanging. Her hands balled to form fists, clutching so tightly that her fingernails cut into the flesh of her palms.

She remembered the anger on Lord Evedon’s face, his rough search of her person and his cruel grip. He believed the worst of her. He thought she had betrayed the dowager’s trust and stolen from her and that she was still hiding the emeralds. The accusation stung at her doubly, for not only was she innocent, but she had grown fond of Lady Evedon. From all she had come to learn of Charles Evedon over the years, she knew that he was a man who would not take what he believed to be a betrayal lightly. Not for Evedon a quiet dismissal. Already she knew he meant to call the constable. He wanted retribution, and he did not mean to be denied it. The guard outside the door was testament to that fact. Evedon would see her punished. And once he knew her true identity, he would see her hanged.

That knowledge had a cruel fatalism about it. She closed her eyes, trying to suppress the dread, and thought again of the black silken noose that had swung from Lord Evedon’s fingers. Did someone already know her secret? Or was it just a warning of the fate that awaited a jewel thief?

She replaced the book on top of the copy of The Times that lay upon Lady Evedon’s bedside table, her eye catching again the small advertisement she had read earlier on the top right-hand corner of the front page. Oh, to be there on the wild moorland of Scotland, so far from Lord Evedon and the chaos that was unfolding around her. But such dreams were without hope.

She rose to her feet and turned away from the bed where the dowager lay sleeping, knowing she must return to the small room that was her bedchamber even though its humble privacy had been violated. The thought of Graves and others of the servants raking through her undergarments, touching all that was personal to her, was deeply humiliating.

The letter lay on the carpet behind the door. She saw it immediately, lying pale and slightly crumpled upon the deep rose and blue threads of silk, and she knew without touching it, without even seeing it close up, that it was the letter that Lord Evedon had stuffed into his pocket downstairs in his study. The same letter that he had snatched away from her so angrily.

She walked towards it, lifted it, heard it crinkle with her touch and felt the stiffness of the paper and the broken sealing wax beneath her fingers. The large black spiky font showed the letter to be addressed to Earl Evedon, Evedon House, Cavendish Square, London. Normally, Rosalind would not have dreamt of reading a letter addressed to another, but there was nothing of normality about this evening. Beneath the low flickering light of Lady Evedon’s candles, Rosalind opened the letter and began to read.

The dowager’s snores still sounded softly within the room, but Rosalind no longer heard them. She read the words and then read them again, and she understood the reason for Lord Evedon’s anger—and his dread. A scrawl of words that Evedon would not want the world to know. A scrawl of words that could destroy him, just as he could destroy her.

She refolded the letter, knowing that fate had just dealt the final blow to her life as she knew it. She could not simply set the letter back on the carpet and pretend that she had not seen it. Once Lord Evedon realized that the letter was here in this room he would know that she had read it. And Stevens was standing guard outside the door so that she could not place it elsewhere. Besides, she would not wish another to chance upon it and read its words; Lady Evedon did not deserve that shame.

And the thought came to her that, if Evedon knew that she had this letter, he would not then call the constable. He would not call anyone. He would do nothing to risk the focus of attention upon the letter or the truth that it contained. For there could be no doubting that its words were the truth; she had seen the desperation on his face.

The realization was quiet in its dawning, a gentle waft of thought rather than a sudden inspired burst. She looked at the newspaper upon the bedside cabinet, weighing the thought in consideration for long minutes before she acted.

The newspaper ripped easily with little noise, and she read the small ragged square of words again before folding it neat and smaller still and slipping it within her pocket. She sat there for a while longer before finally folding the letter and pocketing it in just the same way.

She looked again at Lady Evedon sleeping so peacefully, all of the dowager’s demons banished—for now. A final lingering glance around the room, then Rosalind rose and walked quietly to the door.

Stevens escorted her to her tiny bedchamber at the back of the house without a single word, and she was glad of his silence.

She did not know if he waited outside her chamber door, standing guard for fear that she would escape the justice Evedon meant to deal her. It made no difference if he waited there the whole night through, for the roof of the scullery was directly below her window. A strange calm had descended upon her, although her hands were trembling as she quietly packed her few possessions into the small bag and swung the cloak around her shoulders. She drew the window sash up as slowly and carefully as she could, cringing as the slide of wood seemed loud against the surrounding silence. The outside air was cold against her face as she breathed in its nocturnal dampness and the freedom that it promised.

She did not look around the bedchamber, at the mean narrow bed or its empty hearth, but kept her gaze fixed on the black sky in which the moon was hidden. A deep breath, and then another, before she climbed over the sill and carefully lowered herself to the slates below.

The dull yellow glow of the street lamps eased the night’s darkness as she hurried over the cobblestones. She glanced back nervously at Evedon House. The dog had ceased its barking and the streets were so quiet and still, and she the only thing moving within them.

No footsteps followed, no breath sounded save for hers, yet her skin prickled with the sense that Evedon was there silently watching, so that she feared that he followed her.

Rosalind did not look back again. She began to run.



In a nearby alleyway, a man, dark as the shadows that surrounded him, waited until the woman had passed before stepping out from his hiding place to watch her. All around was hushed and sleeping, disturbed only by the echo of her hurried footsteps. Dressed in black, he stood where he was but his intent gaze followed the scurrying figure. He watched until she faded from sight, swallowed up by the darkness of the night. Only then, did he turn and walk away in the opposite direction, passing beneath the same street lamps under which she had fled. A small gold hoop in the lobe of one ear glinted against the ebony of his hair, and teeth that were white and straight were revealed by the smile that slid across his mouth.

‘You might run, my dear Miss Rosalind Meadow-field, but you shall not escape the scandal. Justice will be done,’ he whispered, and then setting his hat at a jaunty angle, he began to whistle an ancient Romany tune as he rounded the corner and sprang lightly up into the black coach that waited there. And then the stranger and his coach were gone, disappeared into the darkness of the sprawling metropolis beyond.




Chapter One


Munnoch Moor, Scotland, two weeks later

The night was dark and a chill wind howled through the forest. A solitary figure stood in silence, his presence concealed by the trees, watching the yard of the coaching inn. His focus never wavered from the mail coach that had stopped there, just stayed trained on the door while it opened and the steps were kicked into place. His pale silver gaze sharpened, like a hunter that sights its prey. As the lone woman alighted from the coach, Wolf smiled and knew that he had found his quarry.



The coach rumbled away into the night leaving Rosalind standing in the yard of the Blairadie coaching inn. No other passengers had disembarked; she was alone, save for the man who soon disappeared within the inn hauling the sack of letters that the coach had delivered. The lanterns swayed in the wind, creaking and sending their light dancing against the grey walls that encompassed the yard and the stonework of the stables. The hour was so late that there was no hum of voices from the inn, no blaze of lights or welcoming glow of fires. No chinks of light peeped through the curtains drawn across the windows. In the distance, a church clock struck twelve.

Rosalind glanced around the empty yard nervously, eyes searching through the dim lantern light to find the man her new employer had sent to collect her. She was unsure of what to do, whether to wait here outside alone, or follow the other man into the inn. A voice sounded, male, not Scottish like those she had grown accustomed to hearing for the past days in Edinburgh, but rather with an accent that had a strong Yorkshire vein.

‘Miss Meadowfield?’

She started, and glanced round.

A tall man wearing a long dark riding coat stood by the yard’s entrance. The brim of his hat kept his face shadowed and invisible. There was something about the figure, so dark and dangerous and predatory, that her heart seemed to cease beating and the breath caught in her throat. She thought in that moment that, despite all that she had done to escape him, Evedon had found her. And then, sense and reasoning kicked in and she told herself that, of course, he was Hunter’s man sent to fetch her.

‘You are from Mr Stewart of Benmore House?’ she asked tentatively.

The man gave a nod. ‘Come to collect the new housekeeper, ma’am.’

She smiled her relief and walked across the yard towards him. ‘That is welcome news indeed, sir.’ She was here at last. Only a few miles now lay between Rosalind and the start of her new life running the household of Mr Stewart at Benmore House on Munnoch Moor—far, far away from London and Lord Evedon.

He took the travelling bag from her hand. ‘Allow me, ma’am.’

‘Thank you.’

He turned and began to walk out of the inn’s yard. ‘We had best get a move on.’

‘Of course.’ She followed after him.

Outside the yard, the moonlight revealed the presence of a cart with a single horse parked at the road’s side, a small inconsequential vehicle almost unnoticed against the dark edge of the trees. She wondered why he had travelled in a cart rather than a gig.

The man was tall, with long legs and a big stride. Rosalind quickened her pace to stay with him.

He dumped her bag in the back of the cart and climbed up to the seat at the front, before turning and reaching a hand down towards Rosalind.

The moon was behind him, rendering his face shadowed and the features invisible. Rosalind hesitated, an inexplicable shiver running down her spine. Overhead, the night sky hung like a canopy of rich black velvet studded with the brilliance of diamond stars. The moon was half full, a white opalescent semicircle that shone with an ethereal brilliance to light the road behind Mr Stewart’s servant.

‘Miss Meadowfield,’ he urged in a tone that was hard and clipped.

And just for a moment she had the urge to turn where she was and run. She quelled the thought, telling herself not to be foolish, that what had happened at Evedon House was making her too fearful, too suspicious. London and Lord Evedon were close to five hundred miles away. She was safe here. She looked at the strong, long, blunt-tipped fingers extended towards her and, without further hesitation, reached her own hand to his.

His grasp was warm even through the fine leather of her glove, and strong. Again she was aware of that frisson of sensation that tingled through her. But she could think no more on it, for he was pulling her up to sit on the small wooden bench beside him.

He twitched the reins within his fingers and the cart began to roll forward, making Rosalind grab for the edge of the seat.

She felt, rather than saw, the way his head turned to look at her hands clutched so tightly and the uneasy way she sat forward, staring with trepidation at the horse before her. She could see the smoky condensation of the horse’s breath against the darkness of the night, could hear its soft breathing and smell its strong scent. She inhaled deeply and slowly, releasing the breath even more slowly and loosening the tight grip of her fingers to something more reasonable.

He made no comment, yet even so, Rosalind felt the flush of warmth in her cheeks. Embarrassment made her seek something—anything—to say, desperately searching for a diversion from her awkwardness.

‘It is a cold night for the time of year.’ She looked round at him, and attempted to sit back more comfortably on the seat.

The man gave no response, just manipulated the reins, and made soft clicking noises to steer them round so that the horse and cart were ready to trot down a smaller road to the side. As they changed direction, the moon lit his face so that Rosalind saw him for the first time. He was not as old as she had expected; indeed, she estimated that he could not be so very much older than her own twenty-five years.

His were strong features, harsh and lean…and handsome. High cheekbones and a chiselled jawline, a straight manly nose and a hard uncompromising mouth that did not smile. A small pale scar slashed across the skin of his cheek beneath his right eye. And his face held a slightly mocking expression. But it was none of these things that caused the breath to catch in Rosalind’s throat. Within the cool moonlight, the man’s eyes seemed almost silver, and he was looking at her with an expression so cold as to freeze her.

The shock of it made her rapidly avert her gaze, and when she glanced again, his face was looking forward and in shadow once more. She wondered if she had been mistaken. And the thought occurred to her that perhaps he knew that she was lying to Mr Stewart and that she had come from Evedon House. Perhaps he even knew her real identity. It was impossible, of course. They had hanged her father twenty years ago. And as for the rest—Evedon and his accusations—she had been careful: writing her application from Louisa’s in Edinburgh, lying about what she had been doing for the last years, erasing any hint of a connection with the dowager Lady Evedon.

The man was probably just irritated at being dragged from his bed in the middle of the night to fetch her. She was safe. She was going to Benmore House and everything would be fine. She took a deep breath and tried to convince herself of that.

‘You have the advantage of me, sir. I do not know your name.’ Small talk, something plucked from the air to break the uneasy silence that lay between them.

Within the quiet of the night, the horse’s iron-shod hooves were loud against the compacted surface of the road. Rosalind deliberately kept her gaze averted from the horse, glancing round at Hunter’s man instead. There was only the noise of the horse’s hooves, and she thought that he would not answer her, but eventually he spoke.

‘Wolversley, but they call me Wolf.’ The silver eyes flicked down to meet hers once more.

Wolf. The skin on the nape of Rosalind’s neck prickled, and not just at the name. There was an intensity in that single silver glance that shook her.

The reins twitched beneath his fingers and the horse began to pick up its pace. She could not help but grip again at the seat.

‘Is the pace too fast for you, ma’am?’ She thought she heard an edge of mockery in his words, but whether it was there in truth or was just a product of her own guilty imagination, she did not know.

‘No, sir. The pace is perfectly fine.’ Rosalind had no intention of admitting her fear to anyone at the Hunter residence. One more secret to be kept amidst many. ‘Perhaps you could tell me something of Benmore House.’

‘Best just to wait and see for yourself,’ he replied. A moment’s pause before he added, ‘But happen you could tell me of Benmore’s new housekeeper. We have been curious as to Miss Meadowfield.’

Not a question that Rosalind wished to answer, yet she knew that she would have to do so time and again within her new position, and she supposed that now was as good a time as any to start. ‘There is little to tell, Mr Wolversley.’

‘Wolf,’ he corrected.

And again that strange sensation whispered down her spine. ‘Where did you work prior to taking up this position? Mr Stewart said it was Edinburgh.’

‘I did indeed work for a household in Edinburgh.’

‘Anyone we would have heard of?’

‘No one you would have heard of,’ she replied quickly, not wishing to drag her old school friend and her family into this any more than was necessary. It had been good of Louisa to take her in after her flight from London, especially given that she knew the truth of Rosalind’s father. It had also been Louisa’s idea to say that Rosalind had spent the last years as her housekeeper and to write her a glowing character in response to the advertisement that she had taken from Lady Evedon’s chamber that terrible night. Even so, she had not told Louisa the truth of that night, just that there had been a disagreement and she wished to find paid employment.

‘Where exactly did you work, ma’am, if you do not mind me asking?’

Rosalind’s heart skipped a beat. ‘Oh.’ She forced a smile and tried to sound as if everything was perfectly normal. ‘Ainslie Place. A fairly small household.’

‘Ainslie Place?’ Wolf turned his face to hers and she was struck anew at its strength and harsh handsomeness, and the cold cynical light in his eyes that he made no pretence of disguising. ‘Interesting.’

And the thought that pulsed in her brain was that this Wolf might prove to be a very dangerous man to her, although in quite what way she did not know. ‘I am glad that you think so,’ she said with careful politeness and glanced away, desperate to think of some way of steering him on to a safer topic.

‘What made you wish to leave?’

‘I read Mr Stewart’s advertisement in The Times and thought the position exactly suited to my purposes.’ That much, at least, was true.

‘You were not happy where you were?’

‘I was very happy, but I am a little tired of the city. Benmore House’s rural location attracted me greatly.’ Indeed, it was Benmore’s isolated location and distance from London as well as Mr Stewart’s self-confessed hermit tendencies that had made it the perfect place for Rosalind. She could remain hidden in the safety of such obscurity and earn a living.

‘What of you, sir?’ she said, determined to draw him away from pursuing the matter any further. ‘Yours does not sound to be a local accent.’

‘I am a Yorkshire man.’ There was a ruggedness to his voice.

‘And have you worked at Benmore House for long?’

‘Long enough,’ he said and glanced round at her with that harsh unsmiling demeanour, and again she felt the faint shimmer of something ripple down her spine, something that she could not quite place. A warning—or excitement. More like foolishness and fatigue, she told herself firmly.

‘Come straight over from Edinburgh have you?’

She gave a small nod of her head.

The man Wolf gave no comment, and Rosalind made no further attempt at conversation with a man who was more interested in asking his own questions rather than answering hers. Better an awkward silence than another awkward question, she thought. Perhaps this was going to be harder than she had anticipated. Perhaps her own lies would trip herself up in the first week. She closed her eyes against the thought. It was late and she was tired. Everything would be better once she reached Benmore House.

The horse’s hooves clattered against the road’s surface, the cart wheels rumbled as they turned, and all around was the whisper of the cool night breeze through the leaves of hedges and trees. They turned off the main road, taking first one country track before criss-crossing to another and another, until Rosalind lost all sense of direction. On and on, for what seemed like miles; Rosalind thought they would never reach their destination. Mr Stewart’s advertisement had described Benmore House as a country house with a staff of twenty servants situated on the moorland some few miles from the Blairadie inn. To Rosalind, who was both nervous and weary, a few miles had never seemed so long.

Eventually he guided the horse and cart off the track, to follow a narrow path into some woodland. Through the trees to where they were heading, Rosalind saw a spiral of smoke curling pale against the darkness of the night sky. Benmore House, she thought, and a spurt of both relief and excitement surged through her. Soon she would be safe from Evedon. Soon she would start her new life. The horse rounded a corner, and she saw from where the smoke was coming.

A tiny woodsman’s cottage stood in a clearing; two horses were tethered in its small lean-to stable.

Rosalind stared as the man brought the cart to a stop before it. She turned to him in confusion and looked up into his face.

‘But this is not Benmore House.’

‘No, it is not,’ he said.

‘I do not understand.’

‘You will soon enough.’ His lips curved ever so slightly emphasizing the mockery in his face.

Realization hit her hard, landing like a punch in her stomach. She reacted quickly, springing to her feet, ready to leap the distance to the ground, but a strong arm hooked around her, pulling her back against him.

‘Oh, no, you do not,’ he growled. He held her firm. ‘Do not think to try to escape me, Miss Rosalind Meadowfield. I would fetch you back in the blink of an eye, and tan your backside, lady or not. Do I make myself clear?’

Her heart was thumping, fit to leap from within her ribcage.

‘I did not hear your answer, miss,’ he said in a voice that, for all its quietness, was unmistakable in its threat.

She swallowed hard and, not daring to look round at him, gave a small nod.

‘I am glad we understand each other.’




Chapter Two


Rosalind’s gaze moved to the cottage door as it creaked open. Two men, both dressed in jackets and loose working trousers, came out.

‘You’re back then?’ said the bigger man of the two, in a broad Scottish accent.

From Wolf’s knowledge of her name, Rosalind knew that this was no opportunistic spur of the moment abduction, but one that had been planned.

Her eyes flicked over the smaller man in the background and her stomach jolted. A planned abduction indeed, for Rosalind recognized the man as Pete Kempster, one of Lord Evedon’s footmen.

Wolf lowered her from the edge of the cart. Even before her feet touched the ground, the big man was there before her, his hand firm around her elbow as he led her towards the cottage.

She tried to resist, pulling against the insistence of his grip and kicking out at him, but the man laughed at her attempts and moved his hands to hold her by both arms.

‘Quite the wee wildcat.’ He was so big that he merely lifted her through the doorway that waited open to the interior of the cottage.

She was so frightened, so determined to escape, that she turned her face and tried to bite one the hands that restrained her.

The big man avoided her teeth and shouted at Wolf, ‘I thought you said she was a lady.’

She heard Wolf laugh somewhere behind her. ‘My mistake, Struan.’

The cottage comprised a single room. Wooden shutters were closed across the narrow windows, one in each of the front and back walls of the cottage. A fire burned on the hearth, casting dancing golden lights around the room and throwing out a warmth to chase away the night’s dampness. Beneath the rear window, there was a small square wooden table under which were tucked three stools. In front of the fire were three large wooden spindle chairs with a wooden box in between that served as a table.

‘You found her?’ Kempster asked as the big man released her into the room. She heard the faint hint of surprise that edged his words.

‘Is it her? Is she the lassie that we’re after?’ the man Wolf had called Struan said.

Kempster nodded.

Rosalind met his gaze across the room, knowing that the last time they had met, circumstances had been very different. He had been one of the servants gathered outside Lord Evedon’s study that fateful night.

She did not know Pete Kempster well, even though she had seen him often enough around Evedon House. But his presence explained much. Wolf was not Hunter’s man after all, he was Evedon’s, and she cursed herself that she had not listened to the warning shiver that his presence elicited.

‘Miss Meadowfield,’ Kempster said formally, the expression on his handsome face unreadable.

‘Mr Kempster,’ she replied.

In the background, the big Scotsman picked up a tin mug from where it sat upon the small makeshift table and sipped from it, relaxing into one of the spindle chairs, while Wolf walked back into the room carrying his saddle.

She watched him place the saddle on the floor beside the others, before removing his hat and hanging it on one of the row of pegs fixed to the wall close by the door. His long dark leather greatcoat followed, to hang next to it, revealing a rather shabby brown jacket beneath. Her eyes moved down to take in the faded brown leather trousers that ran the long length of his legs and ended with a pair of scuffed boots covered in dried mud splashes.

He moved over to the fire and threw another log on to the blaze. ‘Where’s the food?’

Struan Campbell nodded towards the little table. ‘Cooked ham, and cheese. We’ve already eaten. Bread’s a bit stale but the ale’s tolerable enough.’



Wolf helped himself to a plate of food and a bottle of ale. He worked in silence, not looking once at the woman although he was conscious of her attention fixed upon him. He did not need to look at her again to know every inch of her appearance. Wolf had both an eye and memory for detail. It had served him well during his time in the Army; it served him even better in his current occupation.

She looked nothing as he had expected. Her hair was escaping in long thick dark brown waves from the few pins that struggled to hold it in place. From his limited glimpses of her eyes through the moonlight or firelight, it was difficult to see their precise colour although he thought them to be brown. She appeared to be neither tall nor short, neither fat nor thin. Her features were not of outstanding beauty, yet she was not uncomely. Miss Rosalind Meadowfield was a woman who would easily blend unnoticed into whatever background she was placed—an ideal attribute for a ladies’ companion…and a thief.

She stood at the other side of the room, totally silent and motionless as if she were hoping that they would forget about her.

‘Sit down and eat,’ Wolf directed.

She eyed the table dubiously and made no move. ‘Who are you, sir, and why have you abducted me?’

‘You already know the answers to both of those questions, Miss Meadowfield,’ he said and did not even look up from his ale.

‘You are from Lord Evedon.’

‘You see, you do know, after all.’ He looked at her and smiled cynically.

‘I am surmising that, from Mr Kempster’s presence.’

‘Then you surmise correctly, miss.’

She met his gaze and he could see the suspicion and fear in her eyes. ‘Why has he sent you?’

Wolf raised an eyebrow. ‘Yet another question to which you already know the answer.’

She swallowed hard and gave a small shake of her head. ‘I beg to differ, sir. What is his intention?’

She knew. He was sure of it, yet he told her bluntly. ‘Unsurprisingly, his intention is the capture of the woman who stole his mother’s jewels.’

She made a small sound that was something between a laugh and a sigh of disbelief. ‘And he has sent you to fetch me back to him?’

‘You did not think that he would let you go free after stealing from him, did you?’ Wolf watched her closely.

She glanced away but not before he had seen the guilt in her eyes. ‘Lord Evedon is mistaken. I am no thief.’ Her hand fluttered nervously to her mouth.

She was lying, and Wolf knew all about lying and the ways in which people gave themselves away.

‘Of course,’ he said, ‘and I suppose that is why he is paying such a generous sum for the recovery of you and the emeralds.’

‘I have already told you sir, I did not steal the emeralds.’

‘Just the diamonds that were found within your chamber.’

‘I have no knowledge of how the diamonds came to be so hidden. Some other hand must have placed them there.’

‘That is what they all say.’

‘It is the truth.’ She held her head high as if she were innocent, acting every inch a lady wronged. It irritated Wolf.

‘Stealing from the dowager while you were acting as her companion.’ He made a tut-tut sound. ‘Such behaviour is to be expected from low-class riffraff such as myself, but better is expected of the likes of you. All your pa’s money not enough for you, Miss Meadowfield, that you had to rob Evedon’s old sick mam? No wonder he’s mad at you.’

Normally by now they were trying to bargain with him, swearing their very souls to the devil and offering Wolf the world if they thought it would win their freedom. But Wolf had never retrieved a lady before. He wondered what Rosalind Meadowfield would offer him. Her rich father’s money, or something else? He let his eyes range over the shapeless cloak that hid the figure beneath. Not that he would accept her offer, of course; he never did. Wolf hated the idea of being bought as much as he hated women like Miss Meadowfield.

‘I am innocent.’

Wolf gave a dry humourless laugh. ‘Of course, you are.’ He placed a slice of ham upon a piece of bread and, watching her surreptitiously as if he had not the slightest interest, began to eat.

The colour had drained from the woman’s face to render it pale as she leaned back against the whitewashed wall as though to merge into it and disappear, her eyes staring into the fire.

‘Mr Stewart is expecting me. He shall enquire as to my absence.’

‘Mr Stewart has been informed of your situation,’ said Wolf coldly.

‘What did you tell him?’ Her expression was pained.

‘I told him nothing.’ Wolf chewed at his bread. ‘Evedon has taken care of Hunter.’

She seemed to sag slightly against the wall. ‘As he means to take care of me.’ Her gaze was distant and her words were whispered so quietly that he only just heard them.

Wolf did not allow himself to soften. She had made her bed, and now she must lie in it, he thought. He had finished his food before she spoke again.

‘How did you find me?’

‘You left behind the newspaper. It was not difficult to discover which advertisement you had torn from it.’

She closed her eyes at that and was silent. When she opened them again she asked, ‘Who are you Mr Wolversley? What are you? A Bow Street runner?’

‘Nothing so official. Just a man that Evedon is paying to deliver you back to him.’ He noticed how Kempster watched her.

Campbell sipped from the battered mug, an amused expression upon his face. ‘Ocht, he’s just being modest. We’re in the retrieval business, so to speak, and we’re mighty good at retrieving. Some might call us thief-takers, Miss Meadowfield.’

‘Do not take me back to him…please.’ She spoke the words quietly.

The Scotsman gave her a contrite smile. ‘I’m afraid that’s our job, lassie.’

‘Save your pleading for Evedon, Miss Meadow-field,’ said Wolf. ‘It is most assuredly wasted upon us.’

Campbell glanced away, an expression of awkwardness on his face.

Wolf took another sip of his ale. Her greed would cost her dear, he thought, but that was not his or Struan’s problem to worry over, besides her type deserved to pay the price. He glanced round at the woman.

‘Our journey starts at first light. You are returning to London come what may, Miss Meadowfield. I care not whether you eat, but be warned that starving yourself into a faint shall not delay our progress. I’ll tie you across my saddle if I have to.’

Wolf said nothing more, just turned his attention to Campbell and Kempster, conversing with them in low tones, while the woman made her way hesitantly across the room to sit down upon a stool at the table and eat a little of the remaining bread, ham and cheese, all the while keeping a cautious eye on her captors.



Rosalind watched uneasily while the men made up makeshift blanket beds, rolling out four grey blankets side by side over the bare wooden floorboards before the fireplace. Her eyes measured the distance between her stool and the cottage door.

‘Do not even think about it.’ She heard the warning that edged Wolf’s voice.

The pale eyes glanced up from where he had removed the chairs and was laying his coat out as a bed-cover in their place, and she wondered how he had known what she was thinking.

Rosalind did not move, just sat there, with a growing anxiety, watching their movements. She knew little about men. Her brother had long since disappeared, and with the disgrace of her father’s execution and the lack of money, there had never been any question of a Season for either her or her sister. Her experience of men was limited to the few older gentlemen she met as Lady Evedon’s companion, and Lord Evedon, of course. She bit at her lower lip.

‘You need not concern yourself with me. I will sleep here on this stool.’

Wolf raised a sardonic brow and looked at her. ‘You will sleep on the floor alongside the rest of us.’

‘But…’ she felt the heat of a blush flood her cheeks.

From across the room she heard Campbell chuckle, and from the corner of her eye she saw him shake his head.

‘You need not worry, Mr Campbell and I not in the habit of liasing with the criminals that we’re apprehending…no matter what they offer us in exchange for their freedom,’ said Wolf.

She felt the blush deepen at his horrible insinuation.

The flicker of the flames lit golden highlights through his hair and emphasized the mocking tilt of his mouth. It was a hard face, a face which looked as if it felt no fear but knew well how to instil it. He made Kempster’s pretty-boy looks appear weak and effeminate in comparison. And yet for all his harshness, there was something compelling about him, something darkly attractive. She shivered and wrapped the cloak more tightly around herself, trying to hide her vulnerability and anxiety.

Wolf walked towards her, and her eyes shifted to the coil of thin rope he held in his hand.

She rose slowly, warily, ready to flee.

‘Come now, Miss Meadowfield. You do not think we mean to leave you free to run away again, do you?’

‘You do not need to tie me. I will not run away, I give you my word.’

‘Forgive me if I place little trust in your word, miss.’

Her eyes darted to the doorway and she tensed. His hand reached for her and she tried to rush past him, but he side-stepped, catching her to himself.

‘No!’ She struggled to pull free, but he held her, gently yet firmly, until at last she realized that her effort was in vain and she stilled. ‘Please,’ she whispered, unable to bear the thought of being trussed and completely at the mercy of these men.

He seemed to pause, and for a moment she thought he would heed her plea, but then he gestured Campbell over, and the two men bound her hands behind her back. It was Wolf who tied the knots, testing the tension of the rope before he did so, slipping his fingers between the coarse hemp and the skin of her wrists to ensure that it was not tied too tight.

He led her over to the blanket closest to the fire and farthest from the door, pushing her, not roughly, down to sit upon the grey wool. Then he bound her ankles, catching the rope over the soft leather of her boots before folding a second blanket for her pillow.

‘You have no need of it as a cover; your fancy cloak is warm enough.’ He stepped away and did not look back at her.



Rosalind lay there for a long time, just staring into the flames and listening to the men’s breathing in the single room of the cottage. She was acutely aware of Wolf lying so close behind her back. It seemed that she could almost feel the heat of him across the small space that divided them. The floorboards pressed hard against her hip and shoulder bones, and her limbs were uncomfortable from the restriction of her bindings, but the fatigue that had weighed upon her earlier had disappeared. Her mind was wide awake, flitting with thoughts…and fears.

She had trusted in the letter, guarding it as a talisman, believing that its presence would prevent Evedon involving the law. And indeed it had done just that. But she had not banked on Evedon hiring a couple of ruffians to pursue her…and the letter. She berated her naivety. Of course Evedon would not just let her go free. She had been a fool to believe it. He wanted his letter back. And now all her plans and her hopes lay in ruins. The men would take her back to London. Evedon would have his letter and, once it was safe in his possession, he would send her to hang, not caring who she told of his secret. Without proof, her words would be taken as the rantings of a thief, nothing more. But he need not fear, she thought bitterly, for even then she would not tell. Regardless of what Lord Evedon did to her, she had no stomach to destroy his mother.

They would hang her. Her belly tightened with the dread of it. She knew all that would happen, had read the old newspaper report a hundred times over. And all because she had been caught by Wolf and the Scotsman.

In the quietness of the night, she could hear the catching snore of Campbell masking any sound the others might have made. She eased herself round on to her right-hand side and studied her captors.

Farthest away from the fire, Pete Kempster was curled facing the opposite wall, his body rising and falling in tiny motions with the shallow steady breaths of sleep. Next came Campbell, lying on his back, mouth open, face slack. And then there was Wolf. He lay facing her, eyes closed, breath quiet and even. The flickering light of the flames was warm and golden, softening his face, erasing all trace of mockery and contempt, so that he was quite the most handsome man she had ever seen, and she could not help but stare. She studied the strong, lean angles of his face, the dimpled cleft within the squareness of his chin, her gaze moving to the pale skin of the scar that flicked across his cheek, wondering as to the violence that had caused such a wound. Her eyes slid back up to his.

The breath caught in her throat. She froze, her heart suddenly thudding with a fury, her face burning with embarrassment. For the silver eyes were looking right back at her, filled with warning—and something else.

Her blood was rushing so loud she was sure that he must hear it. And yet she could not look away, trapped as she was in the moment, transfixed by his gaze.

He did not say a single word. He did not need to.

The moment stretched between them. Campbell’s soft snores went unnoticed. Everything seemed to fade to nothing so that there seemed only Wolf and the power of the intensity that blazed in his gaze.

At last she managed to look away. She rolled to face the fire and lay as before, eyes open, aware more than ever of Wolf behind her: a man, dangerous and awake. The very air seemed to vibrate with the tension that emanated from him, and her skin tingled with it. This was the man who would take her back to Evedon. This was the man with whom she must travel the length of the country. And she trembled at the thought. Lord save me, she pled a silent prayer, from Evedon…and from Wolf.




Chapter Three


Wolf 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 that he remembered it too. Finally, he gave a small acknowledgement of his head.

‘Play me for a fool, Miss Meadowfield, and I’ll forget all about your dignity.’

She nodded her reply.

Over at the edge of the clearing, Kempster and Campbell were seeing to the horses. She walked in the opposite direction, glancing back at the cottage when she reached the trees. Wolf still stood within the door frame watching her.

Even across the distance that separated them, she could feel his gaze upon her, brooding and watchful. She shivered and disappeared into the trees.



Wolf packed up the rest of the bags, keeping one eye, through the open door, on the patch of woodland into which Miss Meadowfield had disappeared. If she did not appear in the next few minutes, he would go out there and fetch her back, and never mind her damned dignity. He remembered her lying sleepless by his side in the night, and the way she had looked at him; her eyes not brown as he had first thought, but a strange mix of green and brown and gold, and filled with shock and fear and such beguiling innocence as to persuade any man. But Wolf was not fooled. He did not trust her. He had learned a long time ago that those who appeared the most genteel, the most respectable, the very epitome of everything that gentility encompassed, were the most corrupt. Such ugly beautiful people. A golden gilding upon a rotten core, just as it was with Miss Meadow-field. Such a proper gentle companion that she had exploited her employer’s weakness. The prospect of a ruined reputation would drive her to desperation; she would attempt an escape before too long, of that he was sure. And he would be ready for her.

Her delivery to Evedon would earn Struan and him a nice fat fee, but his main reason for taking the job was for the satisfaction of ensuring that at least one of their kind would be brought to face the consequences of their actions. He smiled at the thought of that, and the hurt that was buried deep within him eased a little.

By the time that she appeared a few minutes later, the baggage had been strapped on to the horses and they were almost ready to leave. The worst of the wrinkles had been smoothed from her dress. He could see that she had tidied her hair; its long dark curls were caught and coiled into a severe knot at the nape of her neck beneath her mid-blue bonnet.

She stopped, then backed away and stared at the four horses. ‘Where is the cart? I-I thought we would be travelling by cart.’

Kempster smiled ever so slightly. ‘We travel by horseback—Mr Wolversley’s orders.’

It seemed to Wolf that her face paled, and he wondered as to the reason. All women of her station could ride. Their parents bought them ponies as children, whereas in the streets of York, where Wolf had grown up, the children were lucky to have parents or food, never mind ponies.

He thought he saw something akin to terror flicker in her eyes. He frowned as the possibility struck him. ‘You can ride, can you not?’

She gave no answer, just continued to stand stock-still and stare at the horses. It seemed to Wolf that she was holding her breath.

‘Miss Meadowfield,’ he prompted in a harsh voice.

Campbell and Kempster looked on in silence.

‘I…I…’ She did not drag her eyes from the horses to look at him.

‘If you cannot ride, I shall take you up with me.’

She gave a slight shake of her head. Her cheeks were so white that he thought she might faint. ‘I can ride,’ she said so quietly that he had to strain to hear the words.

‘Are you unwell, Miss Meadowfield?’ he asked.

There was a pause before she answered in a calm voice that belied the rigid stance of her body. ‘I am quite well, thank you, Mr Wolversley.’

Just a bloody ploy to delay us, he thought but he saw the way she leaned her weight back against the tree trunk behind her. In truth, Wolf conceded, the woman looked as if she were about to faint.

‘Then what seems to be the problem?’

She hesitated again, before taking a deep breath and moving her gaze to meet his. ‘There is no problem. I felt a little faint, that is all. The feeling has passed. I am better now.’

‘There is some bread left from last night. Eat that. It will help,’ said Wolf.

She shook her head. ‘No thank you. As I said, I am feeling well enough now.’

‘Then you will delay us no further.’ Wolf turned away and swung himself up on to his horse.

Campbell and Kempster followed suit.

Wolf watched as the woman slowly pushed herself away from the tree and began to walk. There was a grim determination about her as she crossed the forest clearing. She stopped just short of the small bay mare that stood patiently waiting.

Wolf knew that she would be used to some servant rushing to help her climb upon the horse’s back. Even the sight of the sidesaddle irritated him. It was yet another sign of her status and all that she was. Common women rode astride the same as any man. She stood there, close by the horse’s side, neither attempting to clamber up, nor asking for assistance.

‘We’ll be here all day at this rate,’ muttered Kempster.

Wolf said nothing, knowing that Evedon’s man only spoke what he himself was thinking. Yet he wanted her to know what it was like to survive without servants rushing to dance upon her every whim. He’d be damned if he’d climb down there and act like her lackey, so Wolf sat stubborn and silent, and waited, allowing the woman’s discomfort to stretch.

It was Campbell who slipped down from his mount and moved to help her.

The big Scotsman stroked a hand against the mare’s neck. ‘She’s a docile wee thing,’ he said, and then bent and offered Miss Meadowfield his linked hands to use for her footing.

‘Thank you,’ she said quietly, and with a foot in Campbell’s hands and a hand against his shoulder she mounted the small horse.

They moved off slowly.

Miss Meadowfield sat on her horse tensely, and although she looked ill at ease in the saddle, it was clear that she could indeed ride.

A delaying tactic, indeed, surmised Wolf sourly, and met Campbell’s eye. They walked slowly and in silence through the trees and out on to the country road that lay beyond.



Wolf rode out in front, Campbell and Kempster at the rear. In between was Rosalind. She was managing quite admirably with the mare’s gentle walk until they came out on to the narrow country road and Wolf kicked his horse first to a trot and then a canter.

Rosalind’s horse came to a halt as her fingers tightened around the reins and she felt the panicked thudding of her heart. Her palms beneath the fine leather gloves were clammy. She wetted her dry lips and tried to swallow but her throat was so dry that its sides seemed to be in danger of sticking together.

Campbell and Kempster came abreast with her and she saw Wolf glance round, reining his mount in as he realized that her horse had stopped. He reeled around and drew up before her, his horse frisky with impatience.

‘You are trying my patience, Miss Meadowfield. We’ve Gretna to reach by nightfall, so start riding.’ Wolf’s face was hard and uncompromising.

Rosalind made no move. Just the thought of galloping brought waves of nausea rolling up from her stomach. She swallowed them down, forced herself to breathe deeply, slowly. I can do this, she willed herself, fighting down the panic. The urge to slide down off the horse’s back and run away was overwhelming. She glanced longingly down at the solidity of the road’s rutted surface.

Wolf frowned and brought his horse in close by her side, scrutinizing her.

Rosalind averted her face, frightened of what he might see.

But Wolf leaned across, touched his fingers to her chin, forcing her face round to his.

His eyes were no longer silver but the same pale grey as the daylight. ‘Any more delays and I’ll lead the damn horse for you.’ He released her and moved away.

She saw the cold dislike in his gaze and the bitter mocking tilt of his mouth and heard the promise in his voice. He would take her reins without a further thought and then the small mare’s speed would be completely out of her control. Rosalind knew that she could not let that happen and she’d be damned if she’d give him the satisfaction of knowing of her fear. Deep within, she felt her temper ignite and flare. The anger welled up strong and fast, so that her breathing turned short and ragged. She glared at him with ferocity. Damn Wolf, she thought, Damn his arrogant, abrasive soul. And she did not care that she was cursing; she did not care about anything at all, except her fury at the man before her and her need to escape him.

‘There would be no delay had my saddle been fitted properly,’ she heard herself say in an imperious voice she barely recognized. ‘It is slipping. And Lord Evedon wishes me to break my neck upon a scaffold, not for your incompetence to lead to me snapping it in a fall upon this road.’ Courage, Rosalind, she thought, for once in your life, have courage.

Wolf scowled at her tone.

She forced herself to sit very still as Wolf and the others jumped down from horses. It was Wolf himself that came towards her.

Wait, she cautioned herself, wait, and her heart was thudding wildly with the audacity of what she was about to do. And she did wait, waited until he had almost reached her, until he was extending his hand towards her to lift her down.

Her fingers pulled gently at the leather of the reins, and the mare stepped round until she was facing the opposite direction of travel to the other three horses, as if she were nervous and eager to be moving once more.

‘Keep her still,’ Wolf snapped.

Rosalind felt a stab of satisfaction as her fingers tightened on the reins and she suddenly kicked the mare to a canter and careered off down the road.

‘Hell!’ she heard his grunted curse, and the men’s shocked voices, but she was already leaving him behind as she sped off into the distance. Her heart was racing now in earnest and her mouth dry as a bone, but she knew that he was coming after her and that she would have to ride faster to outrun him.

Too soon she heard the rhythmic gallop of a single horse behind her. She glanced back to see Wolf on his great grey stallion storming after her.

‘Faster!’ she urged the little mare, her fear of the man pursuing her greater than her fear of the horse. She was galloping, clinging on for dear life, feeling precarious in the saddle as the road rushed by beneath her. She focused her mind and tried not to think about how fast she was going, tried not to think about the horse at all. A glance behind and she saw that Wolf was gaining on her. She kicked her heels by the mare’s side, urging her to gallop faster, praying that he would not catch her.

But it was too late. A few seconds more and Wolf drew alongside.

She tried to veer away, but there was nowhere to go other than the ditch and the hedge at the side of the road.

The mare grew confused and started to panic, just as the horse had panicked all those years ago, edging towards the ditch despite all of Rosalind’s efforts to guide her away. Rosalind tugged hard on the reins, knowing that she had to slow the horse’s reckless pace. But the mare did not respond, just galloped even faster, her eyes wild with fear.

Rosalind felt her seat begin to slip in truth. It was the nightmare from across the years all over again. In her mind’s eye, she saw Elizabeth’s body slip from the saddle and she knew the terrible fate that would follow. She could not scream, could not make a single sound. And still the mare pounded on along the road, and still Rosalind pulled uselessly at the reins, until the leather made her fingers red and swollen. And then another pair of hands were beside hers, taking the reins from her. Wolf. And the mare seemed to respond to his touch, to his strong, calm voice.

‘Whoa there, lass, whoa.’

The little horse began to slow.

He kept on talking. Rosalind could not hear the words, just his voice, low in timbre and reassuring, smoothing away the panic, loosening that terrible tight knot of fear. The mare finally came to a stop, standing still while Wolf’s hands stroked smoothly at her neck.

‘Poor lass,’ he was saying softly, ‘you’re safe now.’

Rosalind felt something of her terror lift away, watching the mesmerizing movement of his hand and listening to the calming tone of his voice. She forgot that she had been trying to escape, forgot too that Wolf had just stopped her. Her only thought as she slipped from the saddle was that he had saved her. The relief was overwhelming, and, light-headed with it, her legs seemed to melt beneath her, and she stumbled, falling down on her knees. She was alive, alive and unhurt, and she reached forward and clutched at the road’s dirt surface, revelling in the feel of its solid security. She was dimly aware of him guiding the mare away from the ditch, but she could not look to see, could do nothing other than cling to the road.

‘What the hell do you think you’re playing at?’ A pair of dusty leather boots appeared on the dirt before her.

She raised her eyes to look up at him.

‘You risked not only yourself, but a good horse, with your foolishness.’ The calm lilt of his voice was gone, only anger remained in its place. His eyes blazed with it, and appeared a deep dark grey as if all of the storm clouds had gathered ready to unleash their fury. He crouched low and looked into her eyes.

Rosalind felt the fear quiver deep within her.

‘If you run, I will find you,’ he said. ‘As Campbell said, we are very good at retrieving. So do not waste your time or mine trying to escape.’ He spoke quietly, softly almost, as if the anger was all reined in and the intensity of his words was all the greater for it.

His gaze held hers and she could not look away. ‘Whatever foolish plans you may have in your head, Miss Meadowfield, the truth is that you shall not prevent me delivering you to Evedon. You do not wish to go, but you should have thought of the consequences before you stole from him.’ He stood upright and reached his hand down towards hers to pull her up.

Rosalind stared at his hand, at the long strong fingers with their weathered tan. It was the first time since he had collected her in the cart from Blairadie Inn on Munnoch Moor that he had made any gesture of assistance. She turned her face away and, ignoring the dizziness in her head, rose rather unsteadily to her feet, alone.

‘You know nothing of the truth,’ she said and, because her eyes were blurring with tears, her voice was angry. ‘Nothing at all.’

‘I know a damn sight more of truth than you do, miss. I know of children who are starving as you sit at your fancy table laden with food. I know of soldiers, without eyes or limbs, who beg for a few coppers while you drive hurriedly by in your fancy carriage. I know of women who sell their bodies to any man that will have them so that their children might survive. And that men are hanged for stealing a loaf of bread to feed their families while you chat oblivious with Lady Evedon and her cronies over tea and cakes. This is the truth, Miss Meadowfield and what do you know of it?’ His eyes were hard as flint. ‘Nothing, I’ll wager. So do not dare to lecture me.’

They stared at one another, the air thick with their animosity.

‘Get back on your horse and try not to terrify the poor beast this time.’

Rosalind’s stomach tightened. ‘I would prefer to walk.’ She looked away and forced her chin up, determined that he would not see her fear.

‘We have not got all day, so mount the damn horse.’

Her heart was thudding fast and frenzied. Another wave of dizziness swept over her. She closed her eyes until it passed.

‘Miss Meadowfield.’

His voice sounded closer and when she opened her eyes he had stepped towards her.

‘I will not,’ she said, rather shocked at her own blatant defiance.

‘Get back on that horse or I’ll sling you face down across its saddle like a bag of grain and tie you in place.’

She felt the blood drain from her face, felt her stomach clench hard at the prospect. ‘You would not.’

He smiled his cold cynical smile. ‘Oh, I would do so most gladly, Miss Meadowfield.’

Her legs were trembling and her mouth was so dry that she could no longer swallow. He would do it, she realized. She felt the nausea roll in her stomach and tried to halt the panic before it ran out of control. There was little choice, so she turned and forced herself to walk towards the horse. She took a deep breath and, hoisting her skirt up, let him help her up into the saddle. He took his own saddle and, with her reins secure in his hand, led her back to where Campbell and Kempster waited.

And all that Rosalind could think was that she had never met a more hateful man.




Chapter Four


The sky was beginning to darken by the time that Wolf led them into the yard of Gretna Hall. Her arms were aching, her backside was aching, her thighs were aching. Indeed, it seemed to Rosalind that there was not a bit of her that was not in pain. Her fear and anger had long since dwindled, and she was so tired that she did not think about being frightened of the little horse beneath her. So sore were certain areas of Rosalind’s body that she slipped to the ground without looking for anyone to help her, and stood there in blessed relief that the saddle was no longer beneath her.

She felt Wolf’s grip upon her arm escorting her with him across the yard and into the inn, but she was too tired to protest.

The inn was busy, most of the tables in the public room were filled, mainly with men. Men stood about the bar drinking their tankards of ale, turning curious eyes to the new arrivals. She heard the low tone of Wolf’s voice to the landlord, and was aware of the exchange of money. She was aware, too, of the way that the landlord’s gaze flicked over her before moving on to Kempster and Campbell and finally returning to Wolf, with unspoken speculation. But whatever the man saw in Wolf’s face made him nod his acquiescence and turn to fetch the keys for the rooms. He showed them up a small narrow staircase to a narrow corridor along which several doors could be seen. The two furthest doors led to the rooms for which Wolf had paid.

They were still standing in the second room into which the landlord had shown them. Wolf scanned around, peered from the window then inspected the door.

‘Dump the baggage and head downstairs. We’ll eat first.’ The bags were dropped on to the bare floorboards with a thud. He looked at Rosalind. ‘I’ll wait outside the door for you while you attend to your toilette.’

She nodded, knowing this was the best offer she was going to get, and watched the three men leave. As Wolf shut the door behind him, his eyes met hers in steely warning, and then he was gone.



Rosalind just stood there and stared at the closed door, hearing the other door open and close across the passage way, hearing the murmur of their voices. Her eyes shifted to the travelling bag on the floor just before her where Wolf had dropped it and she shifted it to lie across the door, as if she could block Wolf out with the bag. Hurriedly, she attended to her needs, washed her face and hands and tidied her hair.

He was leaning against the wall in the corridor when she opened the door, waiting as if patiently but it was not patience that she saw in his eyes when she looked at him. Not a word passed between them. A single movement of his head gestured towards the staircase. She began to walk along the dimly lit passage. There was the sound of a key turning in a lock before she heard his footsteps follow and sensed he was close. At the end of the landing she hesitated, and he passed her, taking the lead as they trod down the uneven staircase.

They were halfway down when he turned suddenly to her, surprising Rosalind so that she was too close to him. Standing on the stair above his, she found her eyes level with his for the first time. The light of the nearby flickering candles softened the angles of his face and made his eyes appear a smoky grey. He was so close that she could see the individual lashes, so close that it was all she could do to stifle a gasp.

She made to step back but her foot caught against the high-angled stair and only the sudden curve of his arm around her waist saved her from falling. He did not remove his hand, just left it where it was resting lightly against the small of her back. He stared at her, and she saw surprise in his eyes—and something else too, something that she could not name but that sent a quiver snaking throughout her body. He stared at her, and the moment stretched long so that she could feel the hard rapid thump of her heart and feel her blood coursing too fast.

The look of harsh cynicism had gone, leaving his expression unreadable. His breath was warm against her cheek, stirring the fine tendrils of hair that hung in spirals before her ears. The scent of soap and leather and masculinity filled her nose, and her heart tripped even faster so that she could hear the slight raggedness of her breath between them. His hold was so light that she could have easily broken free from it, yet she just stood there, as if entranced by the look in his eyes. It seemed to Rosalind that some strange force had come over her, enslaving her thinking, her body, so that she could do nothing other than stare at him. And the smoky eyes stared right back, and where his palm touched light against her back, her skin seemed to burn and pulse.

And as suddenly as it had arrived, it disappeared. She saw the moment that his eyes changed, reverting to a cool silver. He dropped his hand from her as if scalded, and she saw the flash of anger and loathing in his gaze. His expression was once more harsh and determined.

‘Behave yourself down here, Miss Meadowfield,’ he growled.

She was still reeling from the shock, not of his anger, but of what had gone before. ‘I will not deign to reply to that, sir,’ she managed.

She saw the slight curl of his lip. ‘You do not deign to do much do you? Besides help yourself to other people’s valuables.’

And then he turned and walked on, as if nothing at all had happened.

Rosalind stood stock still, trembling and shocked. What on earth had just happened? Why had she not moved away? Why had she let him stare at her in that…that inappropriate manner? Her heart was still beating too fast and her cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

He had reached the bottom of the staircase before he realized that she had not moved. The silver gaze met hers.

‘Miss Meadowfield.’ The words were uttered so softly that they barely carried up the stairs, yet the threat contained in them was louder than had he shouted at the top of his voice. The skin on the nape of her neck prickled and she hurried down after him, her hand gripping the banister rail.

Campbell and Kempster were seated over in a corner.

As she crossed the busy room with Wolf, she felt all eyes upon them.

‘We ordered some mutton stew and chicken pies,’ said Campbell in his gentle burr. ‘Couldnae wait all night for yous to come down.’ He grinned. ‘We’ve a jug of ale for while we wait.’

A serving wench, with what looked to Rosalind to be an indecently revealing décolletage, brought cutlery and plates to the table.

‘We are to eat…in here?’ Rosalind had never eaten in the public room of an inn before. She glanced anxiously around.

‘The food will be the same whether we eat here or waste our money paying for a private parlour,’ said Wolf as he gestured for her to take the seat beside Campbell on the inside of the table.

She did as she bid, trying not to notice the less than subtle interest from the people seated around them. From the corner of her eye she saw the landlord make his way over.

‘The rooms are to your liking, sir…’ His eyes dropped to her hand, pausing just for a second or two on the bare fingers of her left hand. Rosalind held her head up defiantly, determined not to be shamed even though she knew what the man must think her. But the heat in her cheeks betrayed her.

Wolf gave a curt nod.

‘And your lady?’ The landlord persevered.

Wolf turned a glacial eye upon him.

The landlord paled. ‘I’ll see to your food, sir.’

Rosalind dropped her gaze, wishing that the ground would open up and swallow her. Was it her imagination or was there a lull in the surrounding buzz of conversation?

Only after the landlord had departed did she whisper furiously at Wolf, ‘You should have told him I was not your lady.’

‘So concerned for his good opinion, Miss Meadowfield?’ He smiled a cold mocking smile.

Her cheeks burned all the hotter. ‘No, but he will think the worst of me. My reputation—’ She heard Kempster snigger, and broke off what she had been about to say, knowing how ridiculous her reaction was—for she had no reputation left to lose.

‘Pray continue. Your reputation…?’ Wolf raised an eyebrow.

She cast her gaze down, and spoke the words quietly, ‘I meant only that I did not wish him to believe me something that I am not.’

‘I see.’

She raised her eyes to his.

‘You wished me to tell him that you are not my lady but a thief.’ His words were spoken easily enough and in no hush.

‘Ssh! People will hear.’

‘Will they indeed?’

‘They are beginning to stare,’ she whispered in a panic.

‘Let them,’ he said. ‘I am quite used to it.’

She heard the slight bitterness in his voice, and her eyes traced the scar that marked the honeyed skin of his cheek. Shame washed over her at her insensitivity and she bit at her lower lip. ‘I did not mean…that is to say I was not referring to—’

His eyes met hers, and all of the words dried upon her tongue.

The awkwardness was broken by the arrival of the food. There was no more talk as the men devoured the stew and potatoes and cabbage and pie as if they had not eaten for a week, nor did the fact that it was scalding hot seem to slow them down any. The smell alone caused Rosalind’s stomach to rumble; indeed the mutton stew was thick and tasty, and the pie hot and flavoursome. But she ate little of them, and merely toyed with the rest. In truth her stomach was too tense for food.

Wolf said nothing to her but she frequently felt his gaze on her throughout the meal, which seemed only to make her stomach flutter all the more, until at last they were done. Leaving Kempster and Campbell to another jug of ale, he rose and took her with him.



Within the small bedchamber Wolf felt a stab of annoyance at the wariness in the woman’s eyes. As if he had no sense of honour as a man, as if he would force himself upon her like some kind of animal. Scarred or not, Wolf had no trouble finding willing women. And as for the forcing, she’d do better to look at her own class for that, he thought bitterly, and all of the memories were back again.

‘Be ready to leave at first light,’ he said, knowing that his voice was unnecessarily harsh. Indeed, all of his treatment of her had been too harsh. He knew that, but his heart was still hard, and more so because of his reaction to her upon the staircase earlier that evening.

She looked at him, and in the candlelight her eyes were as soft and dark as a woodland floor. He saw the flash of relief in them; she that had cared so much that people did not think her his woman. ‘Good night, Mr Wolversley,’ she said, and he had the sensation that she was dismissing him as if he were a servant. The thought irked him more than it should have. He would leave when he was damn well ready, and not at her say so. He stood where he was.

‘Next time, eat your dinner rather than playing with it. People starve while you waste good food.’

‘What I eat is none of your concern, sir.’

‘On the contrary, Miss Meadowfield.’ He walked up right up to her, feeling a savage stab of satisfaction when she stepped back to maintain the distance between them. He saw the fear dart into her eyes, but she held his gaze. ‘Until I hand you over to Evedon, you are mine and you will do as I say.’

She shivered. ‘Evedon will see me hanged. Your threats mean nothing in comparison with that.’

He knew that Evedon would not have her hang. He doubted if the earl even meant to report her, not when he was so concerned with keeping the matter quiet. Evedon would probably be happy with the return of his emeralds, a word in Miss Meadowfield’s father’s ear and the removal of the lady herself from his house. Still, Wolf had no intention of enlightening Miss Meadowfield to those facts.

‘There are worse things in life than death: things that you in your fine clothes, with your fine life, could not even begin to imagine. Sometimes the hangman’s noose can be a blessed relief.’ His voice was quiet. Wolf knew from bitter experience the truth in those words. ‘Good night, Miss Meadowfield,’ he said, and then turned and walked away.

As he closed the door behind him, she had not moved, just stood exactly as he had left her, staring after him. The look in her eyes made him want to call back the cruel words he had just uttered and made him think that he really was a bastard in every sense of the word.



Rosalind waited until she heard the key turn in the lock and the booted footsteps trace their path down the corridor before she allowed herself to sag against the wall, closing her eyes as she did so. Her legs trembled so much that she had been surprised that he did not hear her knees knocking together. She slid down the wall and crouched, wrapping her arms around her shins. And she wondered, really wondered, what on earth she was going to do. She had been so sure of her disappearance in Scotland. And now…Wolf’s words played again in her mind. There are worse things in life than death, things that you in your fine clothes, with your fine life, could not even begin to imagine. Oh, her clothes were fine all right—chosen and paid for by Lady Evedon—but her life was not fine at all; it had not been fine for such a long time, not since she was four years old. And the irony of his words drew a cynical smile which Wolf himself would have been proud to own, even as her eyes swam with tears she could not allow herself to shed.

When he looked at her, she could see the contempt that he made no attempt to disguise. He seemed to resent her very existence. And yet tonight, on the staircase, there had been no hatred. He had looked at her in a way that made her heart beat too fast, and not because of fear. In those few moments there had been a strange compelling force between them; the memory of it made the butterflies flock in her stomach, so that in her mind’s eye she saw again that handsome harsh face. She screwed her eyes shut to banish the image, but still it lingered and she knew that she had never met a man the like of Wolf. He was ill bred and bad mannered, a veritable rogue. But there was more to him than that: there was something in his eyes, something dark and dangerous…and strangely seductive. He possessed an underlying feral streak, an unpredictability that meant he did not act in the manner that she expected. She put her head down, resting her face upon her knee, feeling its hard press against her cheekbone.

He was a strong man—one prone to violence, if the scar on his face was anything to judge by—a man that no one would wish for their enemy, but that was exactly what he was to her, she thought dismally. And this man had roused in her such anger and pushed her from the reserve in which she normally held herself. This was the man that would take her to Evedon.

You are mine, he had said, and the thought of being completely under his control made her blood run cold. For she had only just begun to imagine what a man like Wolf could do to her. She remembered the way he had looked at her upon the staircase, and the warm press of his hand against the small of her back that seemed to scorch through all the layers of her clothing, and the clean enticing smell of him. She remembered, too, how she had been unable to move, unable to think, her own will seemingly sapped from her body, and how quickly the smoulder in his eyes had cooled and frozen back into hatred. Rosalind clutched a hand tight across her mouth to stop the whimper of shock that threatened to escape. He was both fascinating and frightening, and she did not understand the effect he had upon her. God help her, for he was harsh and ruthless and unstoppable. With Wolf as her enemy, she may as well flee back to Evedon and throw herself upon the earl’s mercy.

Against her ribs, she felt the warmth of the linen package where she had hidden Evedon’s letter, a reminder of what was at stake. Wolf might threaten her, but he would not kill her. Evedon would send her to the gallows. She squeezed her eyes tight, knowing what she was going to have to do. It had been difficult enough to escape Evedon; it was going to take a miracle to escape Wolf.

She clutched her knees tighter and began to pray.




Chapter Five


Wolf took a hearty swig of the ale in his tankard. ‘I needed that.’

‘Gave you a hard time, did she?’ Campbell asked with a twinkle in his eye.

‘Hardly,’ said Wolf. ‘She seems to be under the impression that Evedon will push to have her hanged.’

‘And no doubt you did nothing to dissuade the lassie of that belief.’ Campbell cocked an eyebrow.

‘Why should I? Let her sweat a bit.’ Wolf took another swig of his ale. ‘This journey is likely to be the worst of her punishments.’

‘What do you mean?’ Kempster looked up from his beer. ‘Evedon’ll haul her through the courts. He’ll not see her hang what with her being a lady, like, but she should get a spell in the gaol. Whatever he does, she’ll be utterly ruined.’

‘There will be no scandal.’ Wolf gave a cynical laugh. ‘Evedon wants the affair kept quiet. Why else do you think he’s employed us? He wants her delivered back to him with the utmost of discretion. He has no intention of publicizing the fact she’s done a runner with his mother’s jewels.’

‘But he cannot mean to let her off with stealing from the dowager?’

Wolf gave a hard mirthless smile at the outrage in Kempster’s voice. ‘You’ve much to learn of men like your employer, Mr Kempster.’

Kempster shook his head as if to deny Wolf’s words.

‘She’s a pretty wee slip o’ a lassie, Kempster,’ said Campbell. ‘Maybe Evedon has his own reasons for wanting her theft hushed up.’

But Kempster was not listening.

Campbell smiled.

‘It doesn’t matter what the hell she is, other than a thief,’ said Wolf sourly. ‘All we have to do is deliver her to Evedon. What he does with her then is none of our concern. And if we let her think the worst of it, then all the better. It is less than she deserves.’

‘You’re a hard man, Wolf,’ said Campbell, ‘a hard man indeed. Is that no’ so, Mr Kempster?’

‘Yeah.’ Kempster brought his gaze back from the distance, and wiped the pensive expression from his face. He drained his glass. ‘I’ll fetch us another jug.’ He gestured to the empty jug of beer standing in the middle of the table. ‘Put it on Evedon’s account as expenses.’ He stood raising his hand to attract the serving wench’s attention.

‘Leave it,’ said Wolf. ‘We’ve an early start in the morning and a fair distance to travel. We’ll need clear heads not beer-sopped groggy ones.’

‘One more jug won’t do no harm,’ countered Kempster.

Wolf said nothing, but his hard gaze met the footman’s and held.

‘Now that I think about it, I might just go and stretch my legs before getting my head down.’ Kempster went over and whispered into the serving wench’s ear, before heading outside.

Two minutes later and Wolf and Campbell watched the girl follow Kempster.

‘Young lust,’ Campbell commented and set his tankard down on the table.

A vision of Rosalind Meadowfield flickered in Wolf’s mind, of her clear hazel eyes and full pink lips and the dark curl of her hair swept back in its prim chignon. He swallowed hard, forcing the image away, and scowled at Campbell’s quip.

‘We should get some sleep,’ he said and his voice was edged with the anger that he felt at himself for thinking of the woman.

Campbell drew Wolfe a quizzical glance but said nothing.

The two men retired for the night.



The next morning, Rosalind steeled herself not to flinch at the sight of the little mare in the yard. She could see that Wolf was watching her, his expression hard, his pale gaze cool and unyielding. And for all that her stomach was squirming with the prospect of riding, she knew that she would rather die than let Wolf know it. Kempster watched too, but there was no smirk upon his face today. She turned away from them, gathered her courage and, hiding her reluctance, let Campbell help her up into the mare’s saddle.

She was careful to let nothing of her fear or apprehension show upon her features as they rode out of the inn’s yard, following the same format as the previous day: Wolf riding in front of her, Campbell and Kempster behind. The road was in such a bad state that they could move no faster than a walk. But Rosalind was grateful for the pot holes and uneven surface, for fear held her tense in its grip and it was all she could do to mask it. They had ridden for almost an hour when Rosalind felt her horse react.

‘Whoa, stop there, lassie,’ she heard Campbell shouting behind her, before riding up and dismounting. She jumped down from the saddle while he examined one of the mare’s rear legs. She watched how gentle and quiet his manner was for such a big strong man. And then Wolf was there, sliding down from his saddle to crouch at Campbell’s side.

‘We’ve got a problem: she’s lame.’ Campbell tipped his head towards the mare.

Wolf nodded. He did not look happy.

‘We shouldn’t be too far from the next village. Riderless and with a slow enough pace the mare should manage the distance. Campbell, you see to the beast; I’ll see to Miss Meadowfield,’ said Wolf and climbed back up into his saddle.

Campbell transferred her travelling bag from the mare to his own mount.

Rosalind did not like the sound of ‘Wolf’s seeing to Miss Meadowfield’ one little bit. She looked at the great grey stallion by Wolf’s side and a tremor of panic flitted through her. ‘I can walk.’

‘Really?’ he said. ‘I thought it was carriages and sedan chairs everywhere for ladies like you.’

She glared at him, wanting to tell him that he was more wrong than he could imagine, that he had no right to be here forcing her on to horseback; no right to be dragging her back to Evedon at all.

Wolf glared right back, the animosity crackling between them, his expression hard and uncompromising. Beneath him, his horse stared at her with an equally hard eye. She averted her gaze from the meanness contained in the beast’s stare, and tried to ignore the horse’s sheer size and the power and strength emanating from both horse and rider.

The proximity of his horse and the prospect of being taken up upon the massive beast was making her legs tremble and her stomach roil. She locked her knees and swallowed down the nausea. ‘I would not wish to inconvenience you, sir.’

‘I assure you that it is never an inconvenience bringing in a captive.’ And when she looked again, his pale gaze was on hers. ‘Miss Meadowfield.’ He reached his hand down to her, ready to pull her up on to the saddle before him.

She stepped away, afraid of both the man and the horse, feeling the quickening thump of her heart and knowing that she must let nothing of her fears show. ‘If the horse is lame, then we can travel no faster than her walk.’

‘True. And?’

‘I will walk,’ she said too quickly. ‘Do not fear that I would delay our pace, for I assure you I am quite capable of walking at an equivalent speed.’

‘It is thirty miles to our destination this day.’

She gave a slight shrug of her shoulders as if what he said was of no great consequence. ‘I said I will walk, sir.’

‘Thirty miles?’ He laughed, which served to stir her anger. ‘Have you any idea of that distance?’ The scepticism on his face made her all the more determined.

‘I have walked further; thirty miles is no great matter,’ she lied.

He looked at her as if he knew that she was lying. ‘I think your memory is playing you false, Miss Meadowfield.’

‘My memory is perfectly fine, Mr Wolversley,’ she insisted.

He stepped his horse towards her.

She backed away in alarm, thinking he meant to snatch her up on to the beast.

He stopped where he was, and the cool silver gaze scrutinized her for a moment more. ‘Very well then,’ he said at last.

He glanced away. ‘Campbell, you and Kempster ride in front with the mare. I’ll stay behind with Miss Meadowfield.’

She sagged with the relief of not having to share Wolf’s horse.

The small party moved off. Campbell led the mare, riding abreast with Kempster, then came Rosalind on foot, and finally Wolf.

There were no replacement horses in the next village. They left the little mare there and continued on.

Rosalind walked, and amidst the relief at having won this small battle was the awareness of the man that rode behind her. She could hear the steady rhythmic clop of his horse’s hooves on the hard surface of the road. She tried to force her mind to turn away from him, to think other thoughts, to see anything but him, but all of her determination was useless. There was only the long road that stretched ahead and Wolf behind.



Miss Meadowfield had been walking for three hours when Wolf decided that he would have to intervene. Not one word of complaint had she uttered, nor one single glance back in his direction, not even when they had made a brief stop to let the horses and themselves drink had she looked at him. The thick fur cloak hung heavy over her arm, her cheeks were flushed prettily from fresh air and exertion, several dark tendrils of hair had escaped her bonnet to snake against her throat, and there was an undeniable weariness in her step.

He drew his horse alongside her.

‘You’ve made your point, Miss Meadowfield. You can climb upon my horse without any injury to your pride.’

She did not turn her face to his, just kept on walking at the same steady pace. ‘I prefer to walk, Mr Wolversley.’

‘No doubt you do, but I’ve a mind to reach our next stop before nightfall.’

She glanced over at him then and he could see the wariness on her face. Her pace increased, her feet stepping out faster over the uneven surface of the road. ‘I can walk faster.’

He edged his horse over to block her path. ‘You have walked enough this day.’





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