Naughty in Nottinghamshire 02 - The Rogue Returns (20 page)

He picked up a heavy stick and threw it in the river. It was swallowed by the foaming, roaring waters. If only his past could disappear as quickly.

Tense and uneasy, he scrambled upriver and headed back to camp. The entire way his skin tingled, as if he could feel Harrington watching him from the hillside, an angry shadow he could not shake. An ugly memory from his past that haunted him still.

He grabbed the kettle where he’d left it and went to wake Helen, needing to assure himself she was safe. His eyes found her as soon as he returned to camp. Her face was turned away, her blonde hair spread over the bedroll, golden and shining as if lit from within.

She
was lit from within. He’d never known anyone like her.

He stared at her a moment, vowing to himself that no harm would befall her. Whatever trouble followed them, it was
his
trouble. She would be safe from it.

He would protect her with his life while she was by his side. He would give her everything he could. Friendship, pleasure, security, happiness. Maybe even a bit of his heart.

And, when the time came for her to return to her life in London, he would let her go. Free.

***

A
LOUD POP FROM THE BURNING,
damp wood awoke Helen from her dreams. She found herself alone in the makeshift bed and rolled over to look for Roane. He had his back toward her as he considered something far off in the distance. There was a purpose and anticipation to his posture, as if he were watching the great wave of his future roll toward him.

Helen stretched, then froze as memories flooded through her. She remembered heat, waves of heat. And broad muscle.

She remembered falling apart in Roane’s arms, and pleasure so intense she couldn’t stand it.

Embarrassed, she rolled back over and buried her face in her blanket.

Even now, with her face heated and Roane across the dark camp, she wanted him to come back to bed. She missed the slope and heft of his muscle, the rhythm of his breathing.

She pulled the covers up higher, wishing she could bury herself deeper and hide from the truth. She was
wanton
. Utterly wicked.

“You’re awake.”

“So I am,” she mumbled into the covers, peering at him from the corner of her eye. There was an edge to Roane’s voice, as if he were angry.

“I made you coffee.” The firelight picked up the harsh planes of his face. In this light, he looked dangerous. Hard lines bracketed his mouth and creased his forehead. “We’ll break camp as soon as possible. We’ve many miles to make up.”

She pressed up onto her elbows. “Is aught amiss?”

“What a guileless question, out here in the wilds with men chasing us.” He tried to smile, but it did not reach his eyes. “How do you feel this morning?”

She blushed. Did he mean to ask how she felt after their…encounter last night? What was she to say?
I feel like a bee drunk on nectar, buzzing everywhere and wonderfully sated.

“Have you caught a chill?” he prodded.

Oooh, how did she
feel
. She did not know how to properly manage these casual liaisons. And that is all this could ever be between them—an inconsequential affair. “I am well, thank you. My lungs are clear, anyway.”

“Good.”

She stretched again, then rose. Cool morning air penetrated her woolen shirt as she bent over to pick up Mittens.

Roane continued to stare at her, his face hard. Then he raked his gaze down over her, and a muscle ticked in his jaw. Underneath the oversized wool shirt, her breasts were unbound and her legs bare to his eyes.

His gaze lingered on the top of her thighs before he looked up in her eyes. “I rather hate myself for saying this, but you must put your clothing on.”

“Must I?” she teased. Finally, there was a bit of humor in his expression.

“Tragically, yes. We are in a bit of a hurry.”

Helen gave Mittens one long stroke from head to tail. The kitten vibrated with his happiness. “Thank you for saving me and my cat.”

Roane shrugged. “It was nothing.”

“It wasn’t
nothing
.” She held up the kitten playfully next to her face. “You are our hero, Mr. Grantham.”

Roane barked a quick laugh. “I am no hero, buttercup. Not of any kind.”

“The one time I say something nice—”

“There is coffee.” He interrupted her and pointed to the fire. Then he turned on his heel and walked away from camp. “I will ready the horses. We leave at once.”

“What about your wound?” She called as he disappeared into the darkness.

He didn’t reply.

Helen made a face at his back, then focused on readying herself for the day. Her clothing was still hanging on branches near the fire, but it was all dry and even a touch warm. Her dress was ruined beyond repair. The ties were cut, she assumed from when Roane had taken it off her. She would not be able to wear it.

She poured herself a steaming cup of coffee and took a fortifying sip. She was a woman with a new knowledge of her body and no dress.

Then she pulled on the breeches, her ripped chemise, and her soft half-corset. Over that she had no other choice but to wear Roane’s woolen shirt. At least it hung low over her hips—the breeches were quite tight across her buttocks. Finally, she pulled on her sturdy half boots and her cloak.

She hadn’t anything else. No bonnet. No gloves.

It seemed rather shocking, or it
should
seem shocking, to be dressed like this. Instead, she felt emboldened and ready to face what lay ahead. She was no delicate flower to be blown this way or that by the men in her life. She was walking her own path. Her own adventure.

She was taking her life into her own hands, and not because she was afraid, or because there was no other option, but because she wanted to.

She gathered her ruined gown and petticoats and stepped out of the clearing. Roane was tending to the horses and looked up when he saw her. He simply stared for a moment, his eyes raking over her in a slow, thorough perusal.

A hot blush spread over her skin. “My gown is beyond repair. Do I look so terrible?”

“N—” He cleared his throat. “No. You look fine.”

Fine? His eyes told a different story. She recognized the look of desire in his gaze.

Helen smiled and picked her way through the branches. Really, it was so much easier without her cumbersome skirts.

Roane helped her atop Starlight, then quickly mounted Zeus. He’d lost his hat in the river. Blond curls fell across his forehead, but he did not look charming. Not with his pistol strapped to his hip.

“We ride all day.” He gave her one last long look, his gaze sharp and intent, then turned and rode off.

R
OANE WAS QUIET ALL DAY.
His attention was focused on the land around them, as if ghosts and ghouls might jump out from behind the next rock. Tense and uneasy, he constantly shifted in his saddle and scanned the hillside around them. His uneasiness made Helen uneasy, and her worry sat like a pebble against her skin, rubbing and rubbing and making her raw.

All this silence was not helping. She was a woman. She needed to chat.

She nudged her mount closer to Zeus. “Where are we going today?”

“North,” Roane said, not looking at her.

She sighed at his clipped response. “Yes, but what is the next clue?”

He rummaged through his saddlebag and withdrew the map. “Here.” He pointed to a riddle, his attention on something over her shoulder.

Helen squinted at the page. “I cannot read it.”

Roane glanced at her, repositioned himself in his seat, and read the riddle.

“
Coin that looks like coin, to fool

Makes one rich in life

But soon, out is knocked the stool.
”

Helen shook her head. “I’ve no idea what that means.”

Roane stuffed the map in his bag and
finally
gave her his attention. “The Cragg Vale Coiners were famous thieves that became counterfeiters. In the end, they were hanged as highwaymen.”

“Oh.” How gruesome. “Was one of the highwaymen the Midnight Rider?”

“No, he was never hanged.”

“But he disappeared. Maybe they killed him, too.”

Lines deepened around Roane’s mouth. “Cragg Vale is about thirty miles to the north.”

Helen watched him for a moment. He was definitely upset about something. “Is Cragg Vale very dangerous?”

“Not particularly.” His gaze was hard as it snapped over her, from her bare head to her muddy boots. Again, he moved in the saddle as if he were in pain.

“You seem…on the edge this morning,” she said, tentative. “Is something bothering you, aside from the men following us?”

Roane snorted and looked away. “No.”

“Hardly a convincing answer.”

He looked back at her. “Very well. You’ve brothers, Helen. You must’ve heard them talk.”

She scrunched her nose, trying to guess what he referred to. “Are you injured?”

He snorted again. “Not so badly injured you couldn’t fix it, buttercup.” His voice was deep velvet and—
oh
. Her gaze fell down to his lap.

Oooohhh
.

He had not had a…release last night, as she had. Indeed, now that she thought on it, she
had
heard her brothers lament such pains.

She hated to think he was uncomfortable. And it wouldn’t exactly be unpleasant to
help
him. It would be kind, truly. She could kiss again, as she had last night. And touch him and…she had lots of ideas. Her mind was positively overfull of inspiration.

“Don’t say it.”

Helen lifted her gaze to Roane’s face. He was all sharp lines and hard muscle.

“For God’s sake, don’t say it or I’ll take you under that tree right now.” His voice was a low, frustrated growl. “We can’t afford to stop. Not today.”

Roane pulled ahead before she could respond. Not that she knew what to say. Helen could only stare at his back, half embarrassed and half aroused.

What, exactly, would he do to her under that tree?

Some hours, and many
vivid
scenarios later, Roane turned to her and pointed to a far valley. “That is Cragg Vale. James was playing a trick on me with this clue, but at least it was an easy one to decipher.”

Before she could ask about the trick, he returned his attention to the path ahead, dismissing her.

Helen spurred her mount to his side, reluctant to let him lapse back into silence. “James wasn’t always such a tormenter.”

Roane was quiet a moment but glanced at her again. His amber eyes were alert and focused on her. “No?”

She felt warm and full and
happy
under the force of his attention, and could no longer remember why that was a problem. “Not at all. Such foolishness appears to be an affliction suffered upon attaining a certain age. There was a time when James was quite respectable. The doting older brother and all that.”

Roane raised a brow in disbelief.

“I tell the truth. Father was so wild, and our mother so meek, that James had to stand up for the rest of us. And he did, admirably.”

“I should have liked to see that.”

“He would take us to the park.”

Roane smiled, and it changed the hard lines of his face, made him appear the carefree rake she’d met in Nottinghamshire.

“It is truth,” she nattered on, encouraged by his warm response. “Our governess was rather uptight; I suppose our parents thought it would balance the wildness my father wrought. In her eyes, a park was well and good for identifying flora and fauna and practicing our social graces, but heaven forbid a child should actually
play
. James would bring us out on Sundays and let us feed the ducks. He taught Harry to climb trees and me to fly a kite.”

Roane studied her face a moment. Helen found she missed the wide brim of her bonnet. She’d not realized how much she hid behind it, and not always in a flirtatious way.

“You miss him,” he said.

“Of course I miss him. He was my brother. I loved him.”

“Forgive me. I did not mean to imply otherwise.”

“Do you not miss him?”

Roane scratched the back of his neck. “To be frank, I’ve tried not to miss him.”

“But that is cruel,” she cried. “You were his friend.”

“And I’ve a great affection for him. But my life has not let me make many attachments. People leave. I’ve learned to move on.”

How terribly sad. Helen opened her mouth, then closed it, unsure what to say.

Roane must have seen something in her expression, for he continued, “Don’t feel sad for James, he is grieved by many, including his lovely sister.”

“’Tis not James I feel sorry for.”

Roane made a face. “Good God, Helen, never say you feel sorry for me.”

“I feel sorry for anyone who has not the space to love and to grieve.”

“I love.”

She raised a brow.

“And I grieve.”

“Who?” She rather hoped it was not another woman.

“’Tis none of your affair.”

“You can’t even speak of it.” She knew it was rather rude to provoke him, but she couldn’t help herself. Her curiosity was a living thing, growing roots and reaching limbs toward the light, desperate for the truth of the man before her.

“My aunt.” His voice was a bare grumble.

“Your aunt?” she repeated, not sure she had understood.

“Yes,” he said, clearer this time. “My Aunt Pearl.”

“What happened?”

“Why do women always want the story? Are not facts enough?”

“Facts are rather devoid of life. The story is… the story is where the heart is.”

“Will you stop pestering me, once I tell you?”

“Yes.”

“And stop feeling sorry for me?”

“I shall try.”

He glared at her from the corner of his eye.

“Yes, I shall stop feeling sorry for you,” she said, as if such an emotion were hers to control. Men. How little they understood.

“My mother died when I was quite young. My aunt found me when I was six and raised me as her own. She was everything a mother should be. Loving. Strict. An example of kindness. I was a trouble to her, I know, but she tried her best. She loved me, and I loved her.” Pain made his voice thin. “I was not there when she passed. A fever took her, and she went quickly. The best doctors were called, but it did no good.”