Mary Blayney (30 page)

2

T
HE GIRL SHUDDERED
at his question, shook her head and stretched away from him so she could see down the path. “No.” Then, “I hope not.”

“Was it one man or more?” he asked. If they were on her trail he would be prepared.

She held up her hand with two fingers extended.

“There were only two? Good. Two I can handle.”

She gave a nod that was more of a shiver.

“We need warmth more than we need to hide. I am going to add more wood to the fire.”

“My shift?” she asked in that rusty hard-used voice.

“I’m sorry. I had to take it off.”

Tears began trickling down her cheeks. “Why?”

“I don’t know why they took your clothes, miss, but your shift was filthy and soaked through. Ruined. You can have my coat while I start the fire.” He wiped her tears with his finger. “I have an extra shirt I can give you as well, but there is no way around what must happen next.”

She nodded with more resignation than embarrassment.

Michael moved quickly so that neither one of them had time to think about it. He stood up. The coat fell around them. She turned her body into his and shut her eyes as if what she did not see could not embarrass her.

Keeping her pressed close, he grabbed his coat from the ground and wrapped it around her naked body. Not a prostitute, he decided. Too modest. That left about a dozen other unsavory possibilities. He lowered her back into the hollowed tree, and began to stand.

The sound of a branch cracking caught both their attention. With a gesture for her to stay hidden he stood up, but saw no sign of life other than his horse, grazing on what little the ground had to offer. Troy would not be so disinterested if there were strangers nearby.

When he stepped away, the girl grabbed his boot.

“Stay.” The word held fear and command at once. “Do not leave me.”

“I will not leave.” He crouched down so that she could see his face. “I am staying. Right now I am only going to find more wood to add to the fire.” He took both her hands and pressed them together, his hands covering hers easily. “I promise. I will see you to safety.”

She nodded and leaned back against the fallen tree, never taking her eyes from him.

“There are plenty of small branches from the winter,” he said as he stood up and began to collect them. “And an endless supply of twigs.” He looked back to where she sat.

She had her eyes closed now, so he stopped talking, but the moment the silence stretched out longer than one would need to take a breath, she opened her eyes and looked for him. That was just as well. If she went to sleep now, she would probably never wake up. It was not his usual style, but he would keep on talking if that’s what it took to keep her awake and alive.

“I’m on my way to Manchester. Word on this side of the Peak is that the town is growing. The roads and canals are filled with goods.” He dumped the wood onto a spot about three feet from the hungry fire. “The factories are always looking for help. Straightforward, honest work. It will kill me in a fortnight.”

She did not react to his joke, but he kept on talking.

“It’s incredible the number of factories that are springing up all over the Midlands. No matter how hard the Luddites fight it, the towns will change and grow in spite of their opposition. That, of course, will increase the need for coal. I’m counting on there being work for all the able-bodied. I know there are too many retired soldiers and not enough work. If there are no positions in the city, I will look in the mines.”

He glanced up from the wood he was stacking to make sure she was awake. She was wide-eyed, from shock most likely, but she nodded and he blathered on.

“I’d thought to look for work in Pennsford or at the castle itself.” As he sorted the wood he kept an unwieldy pile of small branches in case the fire faded again. “Do you know Pennsford?”

A single nod was all she gave him, but she had answered his question.

“How typically English that the town is called Pennsford and the castle, not a quarter mile away, is Pennford.”

He stood up and warmed himself front and back before heading off to collect more wood.

“I’ve been three weeks traveling there from Sussex. After no more than a day in Pennsford I find that it will not suit me at all. The world revolves around the Duke of Meryon. Pennsford is even named after the family, the Pennistans.”

She was watching him over the back of the fallen tree, her eyes all that he could see. He had all her attention.

“Do I sound like a revolutionary?” He tried for an apologetic tone but he was feeling more righteous than diffident. “I’ve had enough of men who think a title makes them smarter or better than the rest. Years fighting Napoleon has cured me of idol worship. I know he’s on St. Helena now, but not before he started a war that killed thousands and left even more lives disrupted.”

He came back to their campsite with an ambitious armful of wood and dropped it with a grunt. He brushed off his jacket and pants.

“The Duke of Meryon may not want to take over the world, but even Derbyshire is more than I can stand. I wonder what kind of dictators I’ll find in Manchester.”

Her expression was more cautious than trusting.
End the rant, Garrett,
he commanded himself.
You’ll have her thinking you are ready to do murder and she’s come close enough to that for a lifetime.

As the flames grew more greedy, Michael added more wood. “The fire doesn’t have to be big. The tree will capture the heat and we will be as warm as a…cat sunning itself.” He’d almost used a much more crude analogy. He was not in the army, and for all he knew she could be the local squire’s innocent daughter. That was his best guess.

She was no daughter of the ton. Her hands were used to work, though well cared for. Her hair was too short for fashion, not cut with any sense of style. Her sweet compact body was of sturdy yeoman stock, not the delicate constitution of a girl about to make her bow.

He brushed off his hands and came to her.

She leaned away from him, actually held up her hands as though that could stop him. He had become a villain again.

“What is it? I told you that I would see you to safety and I mean it.” As he spoke he stood up and backed away from her. Never mind that he had held her in his arms for hours. She did not want him close now. “You need to be warm first, and rested enough to go however far we must go. It is imperative or you will die. Do you understand me?”

She nodded.

“As soon as you are ready to travel we will find a way to your family.”

She did not respond. He hoped it was from the pain in her throat and not because she was taking ill.

“Will you tell me your name and where you live?”

Closing her eyes, she made a little sound that was something between a moan and a word. He watched her swallow very carefully and after a very long pause she opened her eyes and spoke. “Big Sam?”

“Your name is Big Sam?” He could not help the smile. “I think not. You are a lovely armful but hardly big and much too pretty to be called Sam.”

She narrowed her eyes as though the compliment was a threat.

“Spare your voice and tell me your name.”

“Lollie.” When he didn’t answer she straightened and said it again. “Lollie,” this time with an expression that dared him to deny it.

“Lollie and Big Sam make an interesting combination, a yeoman farmer and his bride or fiancée?”

She shook her head.

“It does not matter who Big Sam is. I wish he was here too. He could lend a hand and fill me in on a few of the missing details.”

A nod this time.

“Miss Lollie-the-cautious, I would much prefer your full name. There is no reason to lie to me unless you are the one in the wrong here, or Big Sam will beat you for disobeying him.” Any life was worth saving but his heroics were cheapened if this was no more than a lover’s spat.

Her eyes flashed with anger as he’d hoped. “Sam would never hurt me.” She raised her hand to her throat, and finished. “Or leave me.”

She lay back again and closed her eyes. It was those eyes that gave her face such life. With them closed she had the air of a cherub. It was not an entirely misplaced description, though her efforts to hit him where it would hurt most were proof enough that there were moments when spitfire was more appropriate.

So his woodland maid was married to Big Sam. Or he was her beau. Hopefully Big Sam
was
big and they would hear him coming. If he was trying to find her. If he was not, if Big Sam was home in his bed sound asleep, the man deserved to be beaten to a pulp, and Michael would be happy to be the one to do it. He could not think of a punishment bad enough for a man who would leave a woman like this.

Pushing the image of a bloody Big Sam to the back of his mind, Michael bowed to her.

“Do Lollie and Big Sam have a last name?”

She was confused for a minute, then uncertain and finally resolved. Her eyes spoke for her. She shook her head, unwilling or afraid to share any more.

“It will be Lollie for now.” He could do better than the made-up “Lollie” without even thinking about it:
Captain Raoul Desseau, French guard captain. Now retired.

He was done with lies, Michael reminded himself, and Raoul was part of his past. He was going to speak only the truth now, though it might well kill him in a week if work did not.

“How do you do, Miss Lollie? My name is Michael Garrett.”

3

H
E
SAID
HIS NAME
was Michael Garrett and he was here to rescue her. How very convenient.

Olivia bit her lip to keep from crying. In her worst nightmare she had never conjured an experience this humiliating. To be found in the woods, naked. By a man. Was it better that he was a complete stranger? She wiped away the tears trickling down her cheek.

They were somewhere in the Peak, she was sure of that. No one came this way before June. The hills were treacherous until the last of the snow. Everyone knew that.

Olivia curled up inside his coat, pushing herself farther into the corner where the fallen tree lay close to the stump. Would someone need to rescue her from her rescuer?

Her throbbing throat was a reminder that she could take care of herself. She had escaped once. She would do it again if she had to.

The men who took her had insisted that her near strangling was a mistake. If she had not fought them it never would have happened. Anger trumped fear.

Of course she fought. What did they expect her to do? Wait to be raped and murdered? When they had forced the laudanum on her she almost wished she would not wake up.

Michael Garrett could not be his true name. There was an air of authority about him that was at odds with such a simple name and the way he was dressed.

He had the look of a gentleman fallen on hard times. His greatcoat was nothing more than practical, his horse well formed, but the ugliest piebald mare Olivia had ever seen, with coloring that was a nauseating puzzle of orange-brown and white pieces fitted against each other.

In spite of his ugly horse and his worn clothes, he was most definitely in charge of the situation. When he had held her, she felt as though escape was hopeless. She was not even sure she wanted to escape. What kind of magic was that?

Even nature was cooperating with him. There was no rain for the first time in days and the wet wood was burning bright and hot as if responding to his orders.

The heat was a small piece of heaven, reminding her of cold mornings when the kitchen was the only comfortable spot in the house. Her toes and hands were warm for the first time since she was taken; she wiggled them without fear that they were frozen and would break off. For this heat alone she would be grateful to him, even if Michael Garrett was not as innocent as he said he was.

It was not long before her feet were actually too warm so she pulled them under the coat and rubbed them up and down her calf, sitting in a tight little ball, doing her best not to shiver.

How was she to be sure he wasn’t one of them? If he was, he was surely their leader.

Fear sharpened her anger, fueling her wits.

His accent was not at all like her captors’. She heard no hint of where he was from in his English, as though he had learned from someone who insisted that he speak the language perfectly.

That was a sign that he was more than he pretended to be. Who spoke that way unless he was from another country or had spent so many years away, speaking another language, that English had become the foreign one?

He worked the saddlebag open, and she watched him pull out a flask. He uncorked it as he walked back to her. “This is brandy. It will burn but I think the liquid will help ease your throat.”

With a vigorous shake of her head Olivia refused it.

“It will help warm you,” he insisted.

Drug her, more likely.

She had not spoken aloud but he heard her nonetheless. “Ahh. You’re worried that I slipped something into it. That I am going to drug you again.” He took a good long drink himself, then lifted her hand and slapped the flask into her palm. “It is harmless. That is, as harmless as brandy can be. Since I am not a wealthy man I have watered it some.”

Desperate to soothe her throat, Olivia accepted it. Lifting the leather-covered bottle, she wiped the mouth with the cuff of his coat and tasted the brandy. It went down with welcome ease, the warmth spreading through her instantly, aided by the intimacy of drinking from the same bottle.

“You’ve had brandy before?” he asked.

She nodded, though it was hardly any of his concern.

“Hold on to it, but use it sparingly. I’ll find my shirt.” He rummaged through his bag again.

Staring at the fire, Olivia did her best to ignore a simmering panic, to convince herself that he did not mean her harm.

Could he be a soldier? He wasn’t wearing a Waterloo medal or even a uniform and looked nothing like the troops that had been stationed in Derby.

But somehow he had the look of one. She watched him move around his horse and closed her eyes. He wore his clothes with pride, as if he had worn a uniform and not because he was a dandy. If he was one of those stupid London fops he would be complaining about the dirt or how she was treating his greatcoat. Instead he was working steadily to find ways to warm her, to keep her alive. Why?

Or had he been a spy? That would account for the too-perfect English. He was a Frenchman who had spent years in England and was afraid of prosecution if he was caught.

That was absurd. Blame that on the brandy. Drinking it always brought her imagination to life. Though it was wonderful for cooking.

Oh dear, everyone would be worried. Her brothers would pretend all was well but everyone would know that something was wrong. Like when Papa had died. Missing for those two days before they found him at the bottom of Pensey Gorge. A horrible accident. Would they think something like that had happened to her? It was bad enough she wasn’t there to cook for them but even worse to cause such upset.

Low-voiced words shocked her from her thoughts. Olivia jerked her head around to see who else was with them. It was only Mr. Garrett whispering to his horse. She took a good long look at him as he continued searching through his belongings.

There were other clues that he had once been in uniform. He appeared to have spent a lot of time in the open. His face was tanned, his body hard-muscled.

He talked to his horse. That didn’t count. She talked to hers. As she had the thought, his horse gave a soft snort and nodded. Olivia might talk to Medina but she had never answered.

Mr. Garrett lifted his head at the sound of a bird call and watched as a linnet swooped by. He was aware of movement around him as if he suspected that attack or discovery was imminent.

With his extra shirt in hand he came to her. He wasn’t threatening. Not really. His presence was overwhelming. Even when doing something as simple as handing her his shirt she felt his power.

She knew how to handle men like that. She had four brothers, all of them tall and strong. Even before they spoke they were intimidating.

All that she had to do was look him straight in the eye and insist on her own way as often as possible. If she were at home she would find out his favorite foods and make them often enough to win him over.

But looking this man straight in the eye was not as easy as it should be. He did not look away or shift his gaze. Indeed it felt as though there was some sort of contest going on, and the victor would win something more important than a fruit tart. When he realized what she was doing, he smiled a little. Not a patronizing smile, a sweet one as though he thought she was pretty and could look into her eyes forever.

She let him win and studied his face. Not perfectly handsome, but very—um—attractive was the word. There was a small scar on his cheek and a tiny bit of his earlobe was gone. The injury made him look seasoned, as though he had seen more of the world than was healthy. His eyes were hard, which made him more compelling, not less.

“I saw some more pieces of wood behind the fall. I won’t be far away.” Putting his shirt into her outstretched hand, he disappeared around the stump, whistling a little.

She did not take off his coat but struggled into the shirt under its cover. He could smile and speak noble words forever, but how did she really know that he was not one of them?

Should she try to escape? She had no shoes and no more than his greatcoat. Home was due south. At least she thought it was.

No matter how close home was, her kidnappers could still be between her and safety. The swoop of dread that came with that possibility made the company of Mr. Michael Garrett a risk worth taking at least for a little while longer.

Olivia forgot escape as she pulled his shirt over her head and realized her hair had been cut. Feeling the blunt, ragged ends along her neckline, she pulled again and again as if tugging would make it grow. Her hair, please not her hair. She began to cry in earnest.

“What is it?” He was beside her again in a moment.

Olivia put her head on her raised knees and pretended he could not see her.

“What is it, Lollie?” He sounded confused and angry.

“My hair,” she rasped. “It’s been cut.”

If her throat did not hurt so much she could tell him that it was her one great beauty. She was short and stocky, her breasts were too big, her face too round, but her hair had been lovely and thick and long, her one joy. “Why?”

“Ah, not something life-threatening.” He spoke as if calming himself and stood up. “It will grow back.”

“Grow back?” She struggled to her feet. “It will take years.” She threw off his greatcoat and leaped on him, wrapping her legs around his waist as she screeched the last words. She tried to scratch his face, all the while yelling in what was no more than a hoarse whisper, “If you are one of them, I will kill you!”

She hated him. Hated all men.