Naughty in Nottinghamshire 02 - The Rogue Returns (21 page)

“I am sorry.”

Roane was silent a long moment. “I was not there.”

“I am sure she knew—”

“I should have been there, Helen. It is not right.” Another long silence passed. “I didn’t even know until months later.”

Tears sprung to her eyes at the sorrow in his voice, and she was sorry she’d pressed for his answer.

Always, she was discovering more layers to this man than she’d thought were there. He was more than just a rogue. Much more.

T
HEY PASSED THE SHEEP-STREWN HILLS
and old churches of Cragg Vale and Hebden Bridge, then the cotton grass meadows of Warley Moor. Knowing the men were stuck on Bleaklow, Roane had made as good time as they could, and covered as much distance as possible. Tomorrow, they’d have to choose harder routes, ride upstream, and follow random patterns to cover their tracks.

He found a flat valley, near the confluence of the rivers Aire and Worth, and slowed to a stop.

This was as far as the map took them. They could go any direction from here.

North along the River Aire into the valleys and peaks of the Yorkshire Dales. East into York, a place he and James had visited more than once for the horse races. Or west along the River Worth toward the coast and the sandy beaches of Blackpool, a spot where James had liked to linger.

Roane was at a crossroads, and had no other option but to rely on his internal compass. He would spend the night thinking on their next move. A mistake at this juncture could cost them the gold, if not worse.

He turned to look behind him, making certain Helen was close. She crested the hill and rode into view, her long legs clad in breeches, her hair a golden fire in the early evening sun.

She looked adorable, riding in men’s attire.

No, not adorable. Seductive. And provocative as hell.

His wool shirt was large on her, but still showed intriguing curves of breasts and hips. And the breeches. Good lord, the breeches. He could not understand why women did not wear them more often. Or maybe he could. It had been a damned uncomfortable day for him, trying to keep his gaze off her soft, round backside.

When he wasn’t looking at her, he was sketching her in his mind. Finding the perfect curve, the perfect shadow to capture her luscious arse. He’d add his inspired vision to his journal as soon as he could.

His journal…he’d always known the bloody thing was going to cause trouble, but he’d never been able to let it go. He cringed when he thought about the images Helen had seen. What must she think of him and his rough and dangerous past?

A breeze kicked up from the valley floor, scented with damp green things and cool against his face. He turned into the wind and took a deep breath, trying to dislodge his thoughts from the temptress behind him and the troubles of his past. The air smelled sweet and bitter and familiar. Of old plants rotting, and new shoots unfurling.

Home.

Signaling for Helen to follow, he led Zeus down the hill and into a cool, wooded valley. A swift stream, rife with watercress and birdsong, supplied the provisions they would need for the night. He swung down from his mount and turned to assist his distracting companion.

Just his hands on her waist had him hot and worked up again. Without the padding of her skirts, the swell of her arse was right there beneath his fingertips. And, if he wanted, he could slide his palms up and cup her breasts. Such a plethora of choices. A man could think on it all day.

But thinking wasn’t what he wanted. He was going to have to do something about this ache, and soon. Maybe if he acted pained again, she would renew her offer to help.

And he had plenty of ideas of how she could
help
.

He smiled down at her, entertained by his own thoughts. She smiled back at him but moved out of his arms. Her knees wobbled as she took a few steps to alleviate the stiffness in her legs.

“We’ll have fine weather tonight and tomorrow.” Roane nodded toward the beginnings of a red sunset cresting the trees, needing to say something other than
Ready for bed?

“What a beautiful valley.” She freed Mittens from his basket and arched her back. Ah, yes, those breasts. “I’ll collect wood for the fire.”

Roane forced his gaze back to her face. “Lady Helen, the intrepid adventurer.”

“I’ll hardly know what to do with myself back in London.”

She would spend her days in bed, remembering all the ways he had pleasured her. “You’ll live your life. Commission a wardrobe of pretty dresses and make every man mad with longing.” He threw the words at her casually, turning away so she wouldn’t see his face.

It was going to be hell to let her go.

Helen’s musical laughter followed him as he led the horses down to the stream.

***

S
OMETIME LATER, AFTER THEIR MEAL
of trout and watercress, and before the sky grew dark, they sat in a clearing by the river. Helen placed another dry stick on the small fire, pleased with the flames. She’d foraged the wood and built the fire herself, even lit the tinder. She’d also brushed down Starlight and felt not the slightest twinge of fear. The mare really was a sweetheart.

She wasn’t the same woman who had struck out from London a fortnight ago. She’d changed in ways she could never have anticipated. And she was
proud
of herself. She’d faced fear, danger, and the loss of her wardrobe.

She felt like she could face anything.

Across the clearing, her
I-am-not-a-hero
hero put down his pencil and journal and took up his pistol to clean it. His forearm was wrapped in a clean dressing, torn from her petticoats, but it didn’t seem to bother him.

She stared at the journal, wanting to ask him if she could look at his drawings again. Other than the few stories he’d shared with her about his past, she knew very little about him. Where was he from? Who was his family?

And where had he been?

People leave. I’ve learned to move on.

What people? Move on from where? The journal seemed an important clue, a large piece of the puzzle she was trying to fit together. He glanced up at her, smiled, then returned his attention to the pistol in his hands. Earlier today, he’d said his life didn’t allow him to miss people. What had happened to make him this way?

And, had be been drawing her? Would he think of her, after they parted? “May I see your journal again?”

He cocked his head to the side. “Is that what you are thinking about over there. You’ve been very quiet.”

“May I?”

“I’ve other plans for the evening.” She blushed, hoping his plans included more kissing. But then he stood and asked, “I don’t suppose you’ve ever shot a gun before?”

Helen poked the fire, disappointed. Guns were much less fun than kissing. “Of course not. Why ever would I do such a thing?”

“Hunting, perhaps?”

“Hunting is so…”

“Vulgar?”

She rolled her eyes, not that he could see. “I cannot understand the nature of men. I do not enjoy foolishness and violence.”

“We enjoy much more than that, princess,” he said, all warm and teasing. Then, “You will learn to shoot a gun.”

She leaned back and crossed her arms. “I was not aware you were given leave to order me about. Perhaps, if you’d asked nicely, I may have said yes.”

Roane offered her his hand. Out of habit, she took it and let him tug her up to standing. “Please, as a favor to me, let me teach you to shoot a gun. I want to know you can keep yourself safe.”

“What need have I of a weapon? Other than this journey, which will soon be over, I’ve never been in danger.”

He raised a brow at her words. “Never?”

“Not of the violent sort. I’ve no use for the violence—”

“Of men. Yes, yes. I am aware of this. But that does not mean violence will not find you.”

“I have footmen to protect me.”

He shook his head as if she were making him a little crazy. “You are a strong, capable woman, Helen. You should be able to protect yourself.”

“Very well.” She hated to admit it, but he was right. “Hand me the weapon.”

Roane smiled. His golden whiskers gave him a disreputable air. She should not like it. Polite men did not go about unshaven. But, then, Roane had never claimed to be polite.
I am not a good man, Helen. I take what I want.

A shiver snaked up her spine, one that was entirely too excited and pleased.

What if she took what she wanted?

“Follow me.” He led her up the hill to an open meadow beyond the copse of trees. Roane looked over his right shoulder and assessed something she could not see. The shape of the clouds or the bend of the wheat in the distance. From this he would gather the temperature of the following day, or the birth of the next king, or some such undetectable thing. He turned back to her and motioned her closer. “First things first, buttercup. You must take the pistol gently in your hand. A man’s weapon likes to be treated kindly.”

“Oh, very clever,” she said, all sarcasm.

“A nice soft grip. You don’t want to squeeze too tight.” His eyes glittered with amusement and something darker. “Slow and steady, else things might explode—”

She couldn’t help it, she blushed profusely, and he laughed.

Roane came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her, holding the weapon a few feet in front of her. “Wrap your fingers here, around the hilt.” He guided her hand into place. “Then your finger rests on the trigger. Nice and easy. Place your left hand beneath the pistol to keep everything stable.”

He felt warm behind her. Like a tree trunk lazing in the hot sun. He raised her arms so the pistol pointed across the meadow.

“Nice and steady.” He inched closer, until his hard chest pressed into her upper back. “The men are bearing down on you. Your nerves are ringing with the danger. Your hand is shaking. These are bad men. Dangerous.” His voice was warm and husky by her ear. “You only have one shot. You need to make certain it is accurate.”

She leaned back into him and relished the feel of his strong chest. “Why do I only have one shot?”

“It takes too long to reload.”

“Perhaps I have two pistols in this scenario.”

Roane coughed, or laughed, or something like it. “Let’s just start with one weapon, shall we?” He wrapped his fingers tighter around hers, warming her. Where the weapon was dead, violent, he was alive and radiating heat. “Now be sure to keep your eyes open as you shoot.”

“Of course. Now?”

“The lady is eager.”

Eager to be done with it.

“See if you can hit that tree across the way, princess. The oak.”

“I don’t want to shoot a tree.”

Roane sighed behind her. “You’ll hardly harm it.”

Helen set her eyes on the trunk and squeezed the trigger. The gun moved sharply in her hands, sending her back into Roane’s chest.

“You closed your eyes,” he said.

So she had. “Did I hit it?”

“No.”

Acrid smoke bit the inside of her nostrils. She lowered the pistol to the earth and turned to face him. “Too bad. Now we might have dinner.”

He took the gun from her hand and stepped away, his eyes on her face. “I’d thought you might like the feel of the weapon in your hands. The power of it.”

“I would enjoy a bath much more.”

He narrowed his gaze on her. “You didn’t enjoy it at all?”

She didn’t say
I enjoyed you.
She didn’t say
I come alive in your arms. I feel powerful when you look at me.
And she certainly didn’t say
All day I wanted to touch you.
She hid her blush, and the
boom-boom-booming
of her pulse.

She said, “No,” pretending she wasn’t waking up from years of slumber. That she wasn’t quaking in excitement and fear of what her life could be.

“Oh, Helen.” He ran a hand over his jaw. The stubble made a scratching sound. She wanted to touch it. “There is much I need to teach you.”

Roane made certain the pistol chamber was empty, then grabbed her hand and started back to their camp. And that was it, that was the end of the excitement for the evening. Disappointment dulled the edges of her being. She didn’t want to just lie down and go to sleep.

She was so accustomed to avoiding trouble, to staying safe, she’d never considered that she was avoiding
life
.

The question is do you allow yourself to get what you want?
Roane had asked. And she was no longer certain of her answer.

She’d thought she had most everything she wanted. Before their financial state had been known to her, she’d had entrée to the finest dressmakers and milliners in London, a demanding social life, access to the greatest museums and artists in the world, and more freedom than most unmarried ladies enjoyed.

Still, something was missing. She was not happy. It was that longing for
something else
that had propelled her on this journey. She could see that, now. It wasn’t just fear for her family and the estate, it wasn’t just frustration with her brothers, she’d
wanted
to come.