Naughty in Nottinghamshire 02 - The Rogue Returns (11 page)

Helen slid off her mount and stretched her back. She couldn’t recall ever feeling as uncomfortable as she did at that moment. She just wanted a hot bath, clean chemise, and soft bed. Instead, she had to make do with sitting on a rotting log and swatting away insects. She rested, as much as one could in such conditions, and watched Roane remove his bags and unsaddle the horses. He spoke to the beasts in low tones as he worked, stroking them behind their ears, gentle as a lover. He’d taken off his hat and the soft light caught the wave of his hair, the edge of his jaw, and the tanned skin of his forearm. She felt…odd…as she watched, disquieted and impatient, as if she wanted something just out of reach.

“What shall I do?” she said. “I shan’t sit here all night.”

He turned his attention toward her and raked his gaze over her from head to foot. That impatience swelled in her blood and made her skin burn from the inside out. Most likely hunger and exhaustion made her peevish. But it seemed that
he
was the food she craved, the respite she needed.

She wanted him to stroke her as he did the horses, to murmur sweet words in her ear and offer her praise. Good heavens, she was jealous of the beasts.

His lips tilted into a smile directed at
her
, not the horses, and she felt better and worse at once. “We’ve some time to rest before supper, buttercup. Pick some flowers or sing or whatever it is you wish to do.”

What she
wished
to do was clobber herself over the head for being such a ninny about an admitted rogue. She looked around at her primitive campsite, at a loss for something a bit more constructive to do with her time. She didn’t particularly want to pick flowers or sing. “Have you a needle and thread? I
lost
mine in the pond.”

His smile broadened until his dimple appeared. It was an exceedingly unfair dimple, she decided. He rummaged through his bag, withdrew a small sewing packet, and walked toward her, the unfair dimple still making him look unfairly rakish and handsome. Before handing her the sewing packet, he took hold of her wrist and traced his calloused fingers over her palm.

“Not so raw today?”

“No.” She pulled her hand away, shaken by these little touches, by the way his hands always found her.

She accepted the needle and thread and dismissed him with her silence. Then she removed her bonnet and turned it in her hands, frowning at the mess, but relieved to have something to do other than stare and stew and count all the ways Roane had touched her that day. Straw poked out of her bonnet everywhere, like a hay-man in a field. She smoothed and folded and looped the frayed ends, as if trying to collect parts of herself and weave them back into something she could recognize. But her efforts proved futile.

The rest of her ensemble fared no better than her bonnet. Her petticoats were ruined—stained and torn nearly to shreds. Her dress was wrinkled beyond repair, the hem fallen and the right seam torn at her waist. Her shoes were scuffed from the stirrups, and one of her laces broken. Her corset and her cloak were the only items left that did not boast stains or holes.

With a huff of frustration, she abandoned her efforts to repair her garments. If only she had the items she’d left in Cromford, especially her lavender muslin. It was a terrible loss, that gown.

Indeed, her dresses were as much a part of her as her hair or her eyes. They had a language of their own, a way she presented herself to the world and was known.

Who would know her now? Or, more precisely,
how
would they know her? Without her wardrobe she felt…lost. Vulnerable.

Across the clearing, Roane busied himself with caring for the horses, still murmuring to them as he brushed Starlight down with long strokes. Helen’s attention was drawn to him like a debutant to Bond Street, and she noticed how calm and unthreatening the horses appeared under his touch. She could almost imagine overcoming her fear of the beasts. Almost.

Listless, she wandered off toward the stream and found a large rock, warmed by the sun. Like a wild animal, she draped herself across the boulder and drank in the warmth.

She must have dozed, for Roane startled her. “Don’t move.”

She froze and her heart slammed into her throat. She could imagine any number of disasters waiting to befall her. A swarm of bees. The robbers. An adder.

“What is it?” she whispered.

“The light on your face,” he murmured. “It’s perfect.”

She jerked her head to the side to look at him. Roane leaned one shoulder against a large tree, a journal in hand. He looked between her and the paper in long, drinking glances. “I said don’t move.”

“You’re drawing me?” She was excited and nervous at once.

“Mmmm.” His attention was all in his eyes. She could sense it moving into his hand, a river of awareness. All the force of his quiet concentration unnerved her. His pencil danced over the paper in quick scratches. Who would have thought Roane was an artist? He was hardly the mere rogue she’d thought him to be. The breeze brushed his blond hair back from his face and fluttered through the open collar of his shirt. His long legs were encased in well-worn riding breeches and tucked into high boots. He certainly looked like a rogue, too handsome and without a care for rules. But then he tilted his head, considering her from a different angle, and returned his attention to his paper.

There was much about this man she didn’t know. But she
wanted
to know him. She wanted to know everything about him.

Helen returned her gaze out over the stream, self-conscious now.

How did
he
see
her
? How would he draw her?

The breeze picked up a curl and whipped it against her lips. She tucked it back behind her ear and resisted the urge to re-pin the entire messy mass of her hair atop her head. She must look a fright. “You ought to be drawing the water instead.”

She glanced at him when he didn’t reply. He studied her with warm brown eyes as if
she
were beautiful, as if, muddy and undone and exposed as she was, she could still be pretty. Her nervousness fled. In its place rested a blooming sense of calm and a bone-deep feeling of elegance. She felt her body on the rock, the way her back arched with the curve of stone, her breasts lifted up and her belly dipped in.

Was this how other women felt as they sat for their portraits with their long faces and sharp collars? Was it the unwavering gaze of the artist that warmed them?

No. It was Roane.

It was
his
gaze.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked, his voice quiet and distracted.

“Er…” She wracked her brain. “I haven’t been in the countryside in some time. Years, really.”

“No? You don’t leave London?”

“Oh, I do, but I am hardly
in
the countryside. I might look out the window of a travelling coach, or sit on the veranda overlooking the park. But it’s hardly the same.” She dropped her head back and looked up at the sky.

“Hmm-mmm,” he murmured in agreement, and she knew he understood.

They did not talk again. Helen looked out over the stream and tried to count as many shades of green as she could. But her mind was on the paper. She wanted to know how he drew her. What he thought of her.

And what he thought about their kiss.

A soft mewling sound, rather like a kitten, pricked her ears. Helen peered over her right shoulder.

“Did you hear that?”

“Hmmm? The water?” he asked, distracted.

“No. A meowing.”

“I’m done. You can move.” His tone was dry, considering she was already sliding off the rock. “I didn’t hear anything. I’ll see you back at camp, don’t get lost.”

Helen waved over her shoulder and wandered upstream a few paces to investigate the branches of a poplar. A little orange tabby cat, tiny as a bird, sat at eye level on a small branch.

“Here, kitty, kitty,” Helen cooed. “Come on down now.” She clicked her tongue. The cat twitched at the sound but did not move.

“Poor thing. Are you stuck up in that tree?”

The kitten turned and regarded her with wary eyes.

“Where is your mother, hmm?” Sad little kitty, it was tiny. Ten weeks old at the most. Helen wove her hands through the lower branches and grabbed him around the ribs. He proceeded to sink his teeth and claws into her fingers.

“Didn’t anyone teach you not to bite the hand that feeds you?”

Meow
.

“Are you hungry?”

Meow
.

“I am sure you are. I think I have a bit of cheese for you.”

Helen stroked the kitten until he relaxed his tiny body in her palm. She carried him back to their camp, plunked him down beside Roane’s pack, and offered him a small morsel of cheese.

“Not too fast,” she murmured as he devoured the cheese. “You are hungry, I see.”

“What the hell is that?” Roane blurted from across the clearing, as if she were feeding a wild tiger rather than a tiny kitten.

“A wee lost kitty.”

“No.” She could
hear
Roane shake his head. “Definitely not. Put him back.”

“Put him back?” She gave the kitty more cheese and looked up at Roane. “I found him in a tree. I am not returning him there.”

“Well, then, find a nice spot of sunshine and leave him—”

“Do you think he is lost?”

Roane’s head fell back and he groaned to the darkening sky.

Helen ignored him and gave her attention to her new friend. “Where is your mama, Mittens?”

“You gave him a name?”

“Yes, Mittens. See, he has little white paws.” She picked up the kitten and waved a tiny little foot at Roane.

“Well, Mittens, it is nice to meet you. Sorry we don’t have time to stay and chat, but you must be off.”

Meow
.

Helen gave Mittens one last little pat on his head. “Go find your mama.”

The cat blinked at her with big, sorrowful eyes.

“You don’t know where your mama is, do you?” Oh, he broke her heart.

Roane was at her side now, his hands on his hips, glaring at the offending kitten. “Of course he knows where his mother is. She’ll be back any minute with his dinner.”

“But what if she doesn’t return? He could have been up in that tree for days. Look how thin he is. He is but skin and bones. And so weak. He can barely fight me.” She wiggled her finger at the kitten. He batted it, then plopped down on the ground.

“Haven’t you heard the term
as weak as a kitten
?”

“But I know kittens and Mittens is not healthy.” Helen’s stomach let out an unladylike growl.

Roane turned his glare at her. “And when is the last time
you
had a proper meal?”

A proper meal, well, that would be some time ago. Her mouth watered just thinking of it. A roast rack of lamb, with spring potatoes and asparagus soup. And biscuits. And strawberry pie.

Her stomach rumbled again. “I had soup at the inn the night before last.”

At her feet, Mittens nuzzled the saddlebag with his little pink nose. Helen gave him another morsel of cheese.

“If you keep feeding that mongrel, he’ll never go find his mother.” Roane scrubbed his face. “And soup two days ago is hardly a meal. You fish, I should be able to trap a few rabbits.”

Her stomach agreed with this wise plan. Her brain did not. “Me? Fish?”

“Yes, you. It’s quite simple, fishing. Even children do it. I am confident you will catch on quickly.”

“But fish are slimy and wet and…” She shivered.

Roane laughed, and her heart did a funny hop. “Ah, the princess does not want to get her hands dirty?”

“It isn’t polite to tease.” She scowled at him, annoyed by her reaction to that easy laugh. “Do you have a rod?”

“Of course I have a rod.” He wiggled his brows. “A very big one, in fact.”

“For fishing.” Her voice was flat as a pan.

“Ah, for
fishing
.” He winked
.
“No, but I can construct one for you. Look for some worms or other insects, will you?”

Helen watched Roane take off through the trees. Worms and insects? She wished he were joking but knew he wasn’t. She gave Mittens a few more bites of cheese and walked down to the cool water.

How did one go about looking for worms? She tried to recall what her brothers did. As children, they were always lifting up rocks and dead logs and peering under them.

She crouched down and tipped over the closest rock.

Good Lord.

Her hand flew to her throat, and she nearly stumbled back. A veritable zoo of disgusting bugs slithered and crawled around the bottom of the rock. She ought to let Roane deal with the insects, but the sight of his teasing, smug face was too much to bear.

She wasn’t sure which kind of bugs were best, the slithering kind or the crawling kind. With the tip of her boot, Helen turned over the next rock. Biting her lip to muffle her cries of disgust, she plucked four slithering, slimy pink bodies from the mud and deposited them on a leaf.

Roane slipped through the bushes, a makeshift fishing pole in hand. “Ready?”

“Of course.” She thrust the leaf-full of worms at him, willing him to take it at once.

He looked down at the squirming bugs then back at her. A boyish grin lit up his face. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”

Frankly, neither did she.

The worms were disgusting. Revolting, really. But handing them over filled her with so much pride (and relief) she smiled back at Roane.

He took the worm-covered leaf from her hand, rolled it up and placed it on a large rock. His eyes were warm when he glanced back at her and his gaze dipped down to her lips. “I like that smile, princess.”

Helen’s smile faltered. She couldn’t help it, her gaze dipped down to his mouth as well. His beautiful, lush, kissable mouth.

Rogues were like insects, she reminded herself, they cast a shimmering web then sucked the life out of you. She ought to be smarter than a silly fly.

“Don’t look so sour. I’ll take pity on you and bait the hook myself.” Roane skewered the worm on the hook—
ugh
—and threw it into the swirling water. “You’ll want to keep to the small pools where the fish like to hide.”