Naughty in Nottinghamshire 02 - The Rogue Returns (15 page)

Helen resisted the urge to turn and see if another woman stood behind her. Certainly he did not mean
she
would cook. She hardly knew how to boil water.

“She hasn’t the slightest idea how to prepare a meal,” Roane grumbled.

“’Tis true.” She smiled sheepishly at their captor. “I’ve many talents, but cooking isn’t one of them.”

The man made some kind of grunting sound. “Eggs are in the henhouse. I haven’t collected them yet this morning. Bread is in the larder.”

She was cooking eggs and toast, it seemed. Wonderful.

T
HE HENHOUSE WAS THE MOST
disgusting place Helen had ever visited. First, the hens pecked at her skirts and, dear lord, her hands. Second, it was just wretched. It smelled terrible, there were dropping everywhere, and… ugh. Finally, she snapped her skirts at the hens and collected five eggs. She hoped the men were not unduly hungry. She dare not look for more.

She carried the eggs like priceless porcelain to the cottage, only darting one quick glance at Roane in the yard. He was moving a pile of large rocks, talking with their captor as he worked. Again, Helen was struck by the idea that Roane could easily overpower the gamekeeper, if he wanted to.

She stepped into the dark cottage, carefully placed the eggs on the counter, and was distracted by a small mirror hanging by the window. A glance into the wavy surface showed that she looked an absolute fright: her hair was a wild mess, her face slightly dirty, and her skin pinkened and spotted from the sun. She allowed herself one luxurious moment to tend to her toilette. Combing through her hair as much as her fingers would allow, she gathered the strands into a smooth braid and secured it with a length of rough twine. She washed her face with a bit of oats and honey she found in the larder and wished she had some lavender oil for her skin.

Some time later, and with considerably less skill than she’d employed in her toilette, Helen had prepared what she hoped was an edible meal. The eggs looked rather charred from the pan, so she tried to decorate them with bits of herbs she found in the garden by the side of the hut. At least she hoped they were herbs—they could have been weeds. She’d sliced ham and bread and made tea as well. Finally, she dropped half a cooked egg into her pocket. Later, she would give it to Mittens. And there
would
be later. She refused to think they would be stuck here any longer than the morning.

With nothing left to do, she carried her meal out to the men. The yard was empty. It sounded as if they were behind the barn grinding metal against metal.

Her gaze fell on the gamekeeper’s rifle. He’d left it leaning against the rough-hewn bench beside his ax. She placed her tray on the table and eyed the weapon, considering what she should do. She’d never held a gun before and would rather not go waving one about and shooting things by accident.

With a quick glance toward the barn, she picked up the teakettle and poured a hot stream of tea down the barrel of the rifle. She knew little about guns, but she did know gunpowder was rendered useless when wet.

The men came around the side of the barn, and Helen jumped back, then set the teakettle down on the table with a loud rattle. When she looked up, the gamekeeper was washing in a basin, Roane waiting behind him. Roane swept his gaze over her, lingering on her clean face and neat braid. Without his customary smile or wink, he took his turn cleaning up. When he came to the table, his shirt was wet and clinging to his hard chest, and she had to force her eyes away.

Their captor sat by his gun, and Helen wiped her damp palms on her skirt, trying to appear much calmer than she felt. Thankfully, he just leaned in and ate his meal. Silence settled over the table as everyone chewed their food and sipped their tea. The meal wasn’t half bad, truly, but Roane just shoved it in his mouth with nary a compliment.

“We will take our leave now.” He gave Helen a long, speaking glance as he pressed to standing. She abandoned the rest of her meal and stood as well. Roane reached out and shook their captor’s hand. “Thank you for the use of your land.” He was all friendliness, as if the rifle had never been involved in the situation.

Their captor just grunted.

Roane grabbed Helen’s elbow and led her toward the shady tree where the horses waited.

She was all too eager to go.

“One thing before you leave.” The gamekeeper stood up, gun in hand, and crossed toward the horses. “I need to look in your bags. See you didn’t take nothing.”

Roane squeezed her arm and tossed her up onto her saddle. In a swift motion, he swung up on his own horse. “Now, you don’t need to mind our business do you, sir?” Roane offered the man his most sincere smile. “We didn’t take anything off your land, so whatever is in these bags doesn’t concern you.”

“Either way, I need to have a look. If trouble follows you, it could come back to me.” The gamekeeper motioned toward the bags with his rifle. Helen hoped the tea had effectively ruined the gunpowder. There was no way they were showing this man their treasure map.

She nudged her horse ahead a few paces.

Roane glanced at her with a stern look.

“Stay,” he mouthed.

“Run,” she mouthed back.

He shook his head hard and turned back to the gun. “We did the work. Fair is fair, sir. Let us make our peace and part on good terms.”

Their captor cocked his rifle, his expression grim and determined. “Word spreads quick in these parts. If anyone comes askin’ ‘bout you being here, I need to know the truth.” He approached Zeus. “Open the bags.”

Roane bent down, as if he was going to unbuckle the bags, and Helen urged Starlight to take a few more steps.

“Helen!” Roane snapped. “Let me handle this.”

Oh, for God’s sake.

“Run!” she yelled. She turned forward in the saddle and gave Starlight a firm squeeze with her knees. The mare took off into a gallop.

In seconds, Roane flew by her. “The gun!” he yelled. “Get down low.”

“I ruined it.” Wind whipped in her and laughter bubbled up in her chest. She could almost enjoy this adventure

“What?” Roane held himself low over Zeus’s neck.

“Tea in the barrel,” she yelled over the pounding hooves.

He turned and looked back over his shoulder. Helen did too. The gamekeeper was shaking his weapon and kicking the dirt.

“Ha!” he said, but he didn’t look happy. He looked angry, in fact. He pulled his hat low so he wouldn’t lose it in their fast escape. When he turned to her again, she could see nothing but the grim line of his mouth. “Next time, princess, take the damn gun.”

W
HEN THEY FINALLY STOPPED
on the high grit stone plateau between Kinder Scout and Bleaklow, Roane was shaking. He helped Helen down from her mount but did not let her go. Wrapping both arms around her, he held her tight against him. His blood was pounding hot from the thrill of their ride. Beneath that rushed an icy and goddamn uncomfortable surge of rage.

“Shhh.” She sank into him. “We’re free. There is no cause to worry.”

Roane pushed her bonnet back and dropped his head into her hair. He squeezed her tighter, kissed her jaw, her ear, her temple, and leaned his forehead against hers as if he could forget himself in her.

“The gamekeeper was hardly threatening.” She stoked his cheek.

He closed his eyes and drank in her comfort. She was so luxuriously feminine, so vulnerably strong, so wonderfully
Helen
. He couldn’t possibly tell her that what troubled him was his own history. That, more dangerous than any rifle, his own past could be his undoing.

Chained.

Whipped.

Unwanted
.

“Why didn’t you fight him?” Helen pulled back and searched his face with troubled blue eyes. “You could have easily overpowered him, gun or no. Why do his bidding?”

Roane looked out into the grey mist, not wanting to meet her gaze. She had no idea who he was. What he’d done in the past.

What he’d survived.

She couldn’t know how it felt to be strapped to a wooden beam and lashed with a cat o’ nine tails. Treated worse than an animal. Starved as punishment.

Had he so much as shoved the gamekeeper this morning, he could be charged with a felony. No part of him wanted to go back to gaol. He’d rather risk his life than his freedom.

But he couldn’t risk Helen’s life as well.

“Fighting isn’t always the best choice,” he finally said, looking down into her eyes. “I was keeping us safe the best way I knew.”

“And we
are
safe.” She hugged him around the middle.

But they weren’t safe, not really.

Even now, the sky was darkening to the ominous shade of purple that heralded a summer storm. Kinder Scout and Bleaklow were lost in the cloud and mist, but he could
feel
the mountains hunkered over the plateau, ready for the battle to come.

Reluctantly, he let her go. “A storm will be here within the hour,” he said. Judging from the churning clouds overhead, it was going to be a great downpour. “We must press on as fast as we can. There are a number of cloughs ahead that will fill with rainwater and become impassable.”

“Can’t we go around?”

“No, the peat bogs are too dangerous. We need to go over Bleaklow and down into Birchen Bank Wood.” They would have to go off route from the map for the night.

“Will the adventure never end?” Helen asked with wry smile, not appearing the least daunted. She gave him a quick pat on the arm, then turned to the side and peeked into Mittens’s basket. The poor kitten was tied to Zeus today and had suffered quite the ride. “I’m sorry, little kitty,” she said, slipping something from her pocket into the basket. It looked like a bit of fried egg.

Roane watched, a knot in his throat. The flat light made Helen’s skin glow with an impossible luminosity. He would do anything,
anything
, to protect her. Never had he felt this way about a woman. It enraged him. Terrified him.

Not only were there untold dangers in the mountains, his own life was rough, barely on this side of civilized. It was no place for a lady like her.

He was no man for a lady like her.

Indeed, he was a fool for allowing her to come along. And an even greater fool for falling half in love with her.

The sooner she returned to London with her fortune, the better.

Without a word, he handed Helen atop Starlight and mounted Zeus. He turned them north, deliberating between speed and safety as he chose their route.

“How do you know these hills so well?” Helen asked from behind him, sounding surprisingly calm and almost
happy
.

Roane shrugged, not in the mood for a chat.

“There must be some story involved,” she prodded.

Adventure stirred some people up this way. After the excitement, one wanted to celebrate, or make love, or drink whisky and engage in senseless mischief. He knew this all too well.

As well he knew Helen wasn’t going to fall quiet and let up on him easily. “After I left my father’s house, I wanted a bit of adventure. I came here.”

“I would think a young man would go to London for adventure, not the hills. One might judge the city as nothing but noise and soot, but London is the most exciting place in the world,” she went on. “The museums and soirees and theater. The parties and the music, why—”

A crack of thunder rent the air and the clouds let loose their cords of rain, cutting off the rest of Helen’s speech about her beloved city.

A wind whipped up with the rain, slanting the downpour sideways. Roane wrestled his greatcoat out of the saddlebag and threw it over Helen to ward off the worst of the storm.

Further conversation was impossible as they fought the downpour and crossed the plateau. Roane was exhausted when he finally reached the northern edge and peered down at Wildboar Clough and Torside Clough. The trails looked difficult in either direction, the hillside steep, the rocks slippery. He considered turning around and finding a different route.

Crack
.

He stiffened in his saddle and whipped Zeus around.

Not thunder this time but a goddamn
gunshot
.

“Get off the rise,” he yelled at Helen, pointing toward Wildboar Clough. “Down there.”

Had the gamekeeper followed them?

Roane veered around behind Helen, putting himself and Zeus between her and the gunshot. He could just make out three mounted figures on the far hill. The height gave them a vantage he did not want to think about.

Three men.

The middle figure looked somewhat recognizable. Like Harrington, the worst of his enemies. It had been a long day—Roane squinted, trying to see through the slanting rain—hopefully he was just being paranoid.

He was rarely paranoid.

Another gunshot. The bullet was lost in the rain but it
felt
close. Roane did not like it.

He spun Zeus around and followed Helen into Wildboar Clough. She was only a few yards down the steep and slippery trail, moving slowly. Roane pulled back on Zeus’s reins, urging the gelding to ease his pace and not frighten Starlight. The third man shot his rifle. Roane didn’t flinch. Neither did Zeus. This was not their first circus.