Angel Rogue (18 page)

"Only a fool would believe that," Robin said softly.

Glad he understood, she went on, "We had a regular route through New England and northern New York. Besides a standard range of books, we would also bring special orders to people."

"Fascinating." Robin linked his arms around her waist. "What was your usual stock?"

"Mostly New Testaments, chapbooks of sermons and songs, pirated editions of English books. But there were other kinds as well. A farmer in Vermont ordered one book of philosophy every year. On our next visit, he and my father would discuss the previous year's book. We always stayed two days with Mr. Johnson. I think it was the high point of his year."

She smiled. "Peddlers like my father did a good business, enough so that publishers put out books just for the traveling bookseller trade. Things like
The Prodigal's Daughter
, which piously decried immoral behavior."

"In great detail, no doubt," Robin said with amusement.

"Exactly. How could people know how wicked the behavior was unless it was described?" She chuckled. "We sold a lot of copies of that one."

Her story made it clear to Robin why Maxie was such a remarkable mixture of maturity and innocence. What an unusual life she had led, being raised between two cultures, not quite belonging to either, and living an unrooted existence. Clearly her father had been well educated and charming, and she had adored him. Equally clear was that Max had been feckless to a fault. Robin would lay odds that Maxie had grown up managing their business and generally taking care of her casual parent.

And that strange background had produced this independent young woman who fit so perfectly in his embrace. Holding her had certainly dispersed the damp chill of the night, and Robin was warm in a way that had nothing to do with the temperature.

Reminding himself sharply that the last thing she needed right now was for him to become amorous, he remarked, "An interesting life, but an unsettled one."

"I used to think there was nothing I wanted more than a real home," she said a little wistfully. "We spent winters in Boston, staying with a widow whose children had grown. I was always glad to return there and know that we would be sleeping under the same roof for the next few months. But all in all, it was a good way to live. There was always enough to eat, plenty of books, and people to talk to. Being a peddler suited my father. He had restless feet."

Robin was not surprised to hear that. But at least Maximus Collins seemed an affectionate father, more so than the late, upright Marquess of Wolverton. Though the world would not agree, he thought that Maxie had been more fortunate in her parents man he had been in his. "What brought you to England?"

"Max wanted to see his family again. He wanted me to meet them, too."

Robin felt her tense. She had implied rather strongly that her father's relatives had been less than gracious. Knowing the English gentry, he was not surprised. "Your father died here in England?"

"In London, two months ago. His health hadn't been good. In fact, I think that is the main reason he came back—to see England once more before he died." Her voice broke for a moment. "Max was buried at the family estate in Durham. Then, right after I had decided that it was time to return to America, I overheard a conversation between my aunt and uncle."

Maxie recounted what she had heard, and how she had decided to go to London to investigate. She even included her fears that her father might have decided to try some genteel extortion, her flat voice refusing any possible sympathy.

"That brings us to the present," she finished. "I still have trouble believing there was foul play involved in Max's death. Yet the fact that my uncle sent someone like Simmons after me seems to confirm my worst suspicions. It may be solicitude, but it seems more likely that he is determined to prevent me from learning the truth. What do you think?"

"Obviously your uncle is concealing something," Robin agreed, considering the possibilities. There was at least one that did not involve criminal behavior on anyone's part, but he preferred not to speculate about it to Maxie. "I agree that your best chance of learning what happened lies in London. But it could be dangerous, and nothing you learn will bring your father back. Is it worth the risk?"

"I must know the truth," she said, her voice hard. "Don't try to persuade me otherwise."

"I wouldn't dream of it," Robin replied mildly. "In the meantime, it is late and we are both tired. Morning will be soon enough to decide how to avoid Simmons and reach London."

"You'll help me?" she asked uncertainly.

"Yes, whether you want me to or not. I have nothing better to do, and this seems a worthy task." Robin lay back in the hay, taking Maxie with him.

She tried to wriggle away. "It's been a long day, and I really don't want to end it by having to fight you off."

"You're still underestimating my intelligence," he said soothingly. "Not to mention my sense of selfpreservation. I'm well aware that you will stick a knife into some cherished part of my anatomy if I become unruly. However, it's a cold night, and we'll both be warmer if we cuddle up together. Agreed?"

With a soft sigh, she stopped struggling. "Agreed. I'm sorry to be so suspicious, Robin."

"Now I understand why." He brushed a very light kiss on her temple, then tucked his blanket around both of them.

The hay made a soft, fragrant bed. She relaxed, her back curved against his front.

"Like Mrs. Harrison kept saying, you're just a little bit of a thing." He looped an arm around her waist and drew her closer, spoonstyle. "I thought Indians were a tall people."

"Every race has exceptions. My mother—was small, and I ended up the shortest person on either side of my family."

"But fierce to make up for it." There was a smile in his voice. "Do you have a Mohawk name as well as your English one?"

After a moment's hesitation, she replied, "To my mother's kin, I am Kanawiosta."

"Kanawiosta." The name rippled from his tongue. Except for her father, Robin was the only white manever to speak it. "Does it have a particular meaning?"

"Nothing that is easily defined. It implies flowing water, and also improvement, making something better."

"Flowing water," he said thoughtfully. "It suits you."

She laughed. "Don't romanticize my name. It could just as easily be translated as 'swamp beautifier.' How many English folk know the original meanings of their names?"

"Robert means 'of shining fame,' " he said promptly.

"But you prefer Robin, as in Robin Hood." Did the fact that he knew the meaning prove that Robert was his real name? Given his magpie assortment of knowledge, it probably meant nothing.

The chill was going from her bones, dissolved by the warmth of his embrace. He made a wonderful blanket. Sleepily she said, "This is rather like bundling."

"Bundling?"

"A frontier custom for courting couples," she explained. "Distances between homesteads mean that sometimes young men must stay the night at their sweethearts' houses. Guest rooms are rare, so they'll share a bed, both of them wearing clothing to keep matters from getting out of hand. Usually the bed will be divided by a board down the middle, with jagged teeth on top."

"Sounds like a custom the English could practice profitably. Over here, being caught in a garden kissing a girl can lead to a fast and unwelcome marriage." He smiled into the darkness. "I'm sure your countrymen realize that neither bundling board nor clothing will stop determined people."

"Jumping the board is not uncommon," she admitted. "There are a number of bundling ballads that say things like 'Bundlers' clothes are no defense, Unruly horses push the fence.' "

Robin laughed and she joined him. His laughter was as warming as his arms. "Sometimes the wedding takes place sooner than expected." She yawned again. "But farms need children, so most people don't think it any great sin."

Then, warm and secure for the first time in far too long, she drifted into sleep—listening to the wind, the rain, and the steady beat of Robin's heart.

Maxie awoke in a haze of warm pleasure. The scent of hay filled her nostrils, and Robin's slumbering body protected her from the damp dawn air. One of his hands was resting on her breast. It felt nice—
very
nice—but it wouldn't do for him to wake and think a precedent had been set. Gently she moved his hand down to neutral territory.

Her movement roused him. Lazily he rolled onto his back and stretched, his body going taut, alongside hers. She propped herself up on one elbow, admiring his tousled golden hair. He must have looked very like this when he was a little boy who had longed for a pirate patch and saber scars.

She smiled. "Good morning. I slept well. Did you?"

He smiled back, with such stunning effect that all she could think of was how wonderful it would be to see him like this every day for the rest of her life. "Very well indeed," he said in a husky morning voice.

He put a casual hand on her shoulder as he settled into the hay again. At least, it started as casual. Their gazes met, and there was a long, dangerous moment of intense mutual awareness.

Slowly, as if against his will, his hand began sliding down her sleeve. His warm palm brought the flesh under it to vibrant life. As her breath quickened, she thought of the bundling song, and of how clothing was no barrier to determined couples.

His eyes darkened and his hand paused so that his thumb could stroke the sensitive inside of her elbow.

She caught her breath, shocked at how much sensation was there.

He caressed her forearm until his hand came to rest clasping her wrist. The skin was bare, and her pulse throbbed against his fingertips.

The rip in Robin's shirt exposed the hollow at the base of his throat. She wanted to lick it. She wanted to tear the rest of the shirt off so she could see and touch the lean, muscular body that had cradled her all night. She wanted to be a woman of the Mohawk who could give herself without shame or doubt.

But one thing she had in abundance was doubts. Her face must have shown her thoughts, for he exhaled in a rush and abruptly rolled away. "A wonderful way to spend the night," he said breathlessly as he got to his feet, "except for the part about separating when we wake up."

She ran unsteady hands through her hair. "Perhaps it was a mistake to sleep that way."