Naughty in Nottinghamshire 02 - The Rogue Returns (23 page)

“Only a man would insult such beautiful scenery.”

“And only a woman would think of scenery at a time like this.”

“Only a man would…” She laughed, the sound light and airy. “I cannot think of anything suitably insulting.”

“’Tis because there is nothing to insult. I am rather annoyingly perfect.” He smiled a full, rakish smile, and Helen laughed again as he’d hoped she would. She looked a bit wild, with her hair floating around her head in wisps, and her eyes sparkling. He could swear her smile was wider, her limbs looser. She looked happy, and not at all the proper, groomed-within-an-inch-of-her-life lady she’d been when they met.

She was changing. And he was changing with her.

The further he travelled into
England
, and into his past, the more he wanted to tell Helen the truth about himself. Some part of him
needed
her to know who he was. He wanted to open the door of his heart and let her in.

He wanted to say
I lived in Yorkshire after I fled my father’s estate when I was seventeen. We’d had a terrible row—I wanted him to buy me a commission in the cavalry, he wanted me to continue my work in his stables. My sister became involved on my behalf, and our father claimed I had manipulated her. In the end, he refused to sponsor me, and I refused to live on his estate as a servant.
He wanted to say
I hadn’t a horse, then. I walked and walked until my feet were bloody. I was hungry and scared and angry and left my Aunt Pearl and my sister without a proper goodbye. I wouldn’t see my aunt again for over a year, my sister for longer than that.

The words were welling up inside him, pushing against his throat.

How would Helen react? Would she brush him off, as his father had? Would she see him, see his heart, and tell him he was nothing?

The wind blew over the grasses, making them bend into a pattern of light green over dark green. Beside him, Helen closed her eyes and tilted her head back, letting the breeze caress her skin.

She had trusted him last night, had been honest and vulnerable and come apart in his arms. Bravery—the woman had it by the bushel full. She deserved a man as brave as she was. She deserved honesty from him.

He would tell her the truth. All of it. Even about the Midnight Rider. If she rejected him…so it was.

And if she embraced him…

“What is that sound?”

Roane had been listening to it for some time. A tinkering and ringing sound that came closer and closer, each clink and clank growing louder like bells of a ship. It seemed to come from behind the eastern hill.

“A tinker is coming. ’Twould be best if we didn’t talk to him,” Roane muttered, distracted, his heart beating fast for wanting to tell her about his past.

I came to Yorkshire later, too, as the Midnight Rider.

He clicked his tongue and Zeus walked on. But Helen didn’t move.

“I’ve never met a tinker before.”

“We shouldn’t be seen, buttercup. It isn’t safe.” But still, Helen was frozen, her wide eyes focused on the eastern hill.

The tinker was close enough they could hear his singing.

Chase her, and praise her, if fair or brown,

Sooth her, and smooth her,

And tease her, and please her,

And touch but her Smicket, and all’s your own.

Helen’s mouth dropped open at the tune, and Roane swore under his breath. Short of dragging her away, they were going to meet the tinker. His distraction had cost them.

The unusual tinkling and clanging and brightly colored sight crested the hill, and Helen gasped. A sorry-looking horse pulled a cart covered by a patched cloth boasting every color and pattern imaginable. Attached to the outside of the wagon, pots and pans and other trinkets bounced and banged.

“Good day, young friends,” the man called as soon as he spotted them.

“Ignore him,” Roane said under his breath. He did not want to talk to anyone, especially not a man who was no better than a common thief.

Helen looked at Roane, then back at the pedlar. “Good day, sir” she replied, her smile warm and friendly.

Roane suppressed his groan.

The man approached them and pulled his cart to a stop. He was old and wrinkled, with long white hair and a shaggy beard. His hat had a funny point to it, like a wizard’s. No doubt the man thought of himself as something special. But Roane knew his sort, knew all about tinkers and other hacks.

“Now you appear to be a pair looking for something.” The man sat back and considered them from under bushy brows. He probably had hair spouting out of his ears as well. “Might you be in need of a map?”

“Yes, indeed.” Helen brightened. “How did you know?”

“We don’t need a map,” Roane growled at the same time. “We’re not lost.”

“I see, I see.” The tinker looked between them, pulling at his beard. “A spot of tea, perhaps?”

“Oh, that would be lovely.” Helen acted like the old pedlar was a goddamn duke.

“Buttercup,” he warned.

“I’m certain I have some tea in here.” The man was spry for his age and climbed back into his wagon. “Some lovely tea from China.”

“We haven’t much coin,” Roane grumbled, hoping this would stop the conversation.

“No?” The tinker paused, half bent under the wagon cover, and considered them. “Well, I work in goods as well. How about we trade the pleasure of a pretty girl’s company for the delight of my tea, direct from the Orient.”

“We are much obliged, sir, but we haven’t time for tea.” Roane clicked his tongue, and Zeus immediately walked forward. He tried to command Helen’s mount as well, but Starlight was too busy eating a patch of grass.

“Are you familiar with the area, sir?” Helen asked, ignoring him.

“As familiar as I am with the backs of my teeth.” The man smiled, revealing gleaming white teeth. “Ah, I see you are interested. I have a powder, a tooth powder, that is guaranteed to keep your teeth from growing gubber-tushed and rotten.”

“Oh, my.” Helen blinked, finally,
finally
, without words.

Roane tried to step in again, this time literally planting himself between Helen and the pedlar. “As we said, we haven’t coin.” He tried to grab Starlight’s reins, but Helen must have learned something about riding these last few days, for she directed her mount backward a few steps.

“You are acquainted with the dales here?” she asked, craning to see the tinker.

“Aye. I’ve been travelling this land over half my life. Why?” He gave them a quizzical brow. “You’re lost, aren’t you?”

“We are not lost. We are simply seeking something we cannot find.”

“
Buttercup
,” Roane warned under his breath. The last thing they needed was another thief on their hands. And if a tinker was one thing, it was a dressed up thief. “Let’s not bother this man with our worries.”

“Oh, it’s no bother.” His smile changed his face. “Not much of note has happened around here since the Midnight Rider passed through three years ago.”

“The Midnight Rider?” Of course Helen would latch onto that bit of bait. And the old man knew, the scoundrel; he knew a tale of the highwayman would be just the thing to draw her in.

“Oh, yes.” The tinker winked at Roane. “Ladies always do love tales of the hero.”

“He was no hero,” Roane grumbled.

“Wasn’t he, now?” The old man looked him over with an appraising eye. “Quite the horse you have there. I haven’t seen one like him in an age. A monstrous looking beast.”

“He’s not nearly as tough as he looks.” Helen could have been talking about him or his horse.

Meow.
Mittens protested from his basket, which careened to the side.

“Have you need of a cat, sir?” Helen asked, sounding sad. “Well, a kitten really. He is in need of a home.”

“No.” Roane backed up between them and looked square at Helen. “We keep Mittens.”

“But you said he needed to be free? How happy can he be in his basket?”

“He won’t always be in a basket.”

“Well, of course not.”

Roane put his hand over the lid of the basket in question. “We will not give Mittens away.”

“Very well.” She smiled up at the tinker. “A bonnet, then. I am in dire need of a bonnet. And gloves, sturdy ones for riding.”

The man’s white brows winged up. Indeed, Helen’s attire was so ridiculous, a bonnet and gloves were hardly going to help matters.

“I have any number of lovely bonnets! Three shillings apiece. Four shillings for the gloves, lambskin, of course.” The man disappeared into the back of his wagon, then reappeared with four bonnets draped over his arms. “A lovely pink for the lady, perhaps?”

“How about green?” Helen removed a simple cloth bonnet from his hand. “I find I am rather partial to green at the moment.”

“Perfect. Would the lady like a looking glass?”

“No!” Helen held out her hand to stop him. “Please, I beg you. I have no desire to see…” She couldn’t finish, just swiped a hand down over herself.

Enough said. The tinker nodded, all understanding.

Helen tied the bonnet under her chin and turned to look at Roane. “What do you think?” She tilted her head this way and that, as if they were at the milliner’s on Bond Street.

“Perfect.” The color was lovely, in truth, and the bonnet simple enough. “Though I’d rather you not hide your face.”

“I’ve had enough sun these last few days. I fear I’ll have terrible freckles soon.”

Roane didn’t tell her that she already had freckles dotting her nose and cheeks. And one, just there, by her ear. He’d kissed it last night.

She turned back to the tinker and tried on the gloves he was holding. “I’ll take the bonnet and the gloves, please. Is there a lace factory nearby?”

“Lace factory? No, not at all. Not out here.” The old man dipped his chin. “Are you in need of a new lace cuff? I’m certain I have one. From Paris, I believe.”

Roane was certain whatever lace the man had, it was
not
from Paris.

“I haven’t need for lace myself.” Helen bit her lip and glanced over at him.

Roane scowled and shook his head.
No more.
James’s riddle had said, “Where there is a scar, there is a cover. / A lace, a veil, sometimes a lover.” He didn’t want Helen to give away any clues. But she’d never listened to him in the past, chances were she’d ignore him now, too.

“I’ve untold products to make your life easier,” the pedlar said. “Pots and pans, books, cure-all elixirs, stories and news from afar. But I cannot help if you do not ask for what you need.”

“We need lace that covers a scar,” she said.

The tinker’s eyes flew up at that. “I’ve an ointment that is proven to help.” The man looked her up and down as if gauging where her scar might be.

“We’ll take your best map,” Roane interrupted before she could say more. “A detailed map of the area.”

“Of course.” He climbed into the back of his wagon. After much clinking and clacking and a few mumbled curses, he finally emerged with a map.

Roane removed a few shillings from his saddlebag and paid the man. It was best they were on their way before Helen revealed the whole damn riddle. Or before the tinker told more stories about the Midnight Rider.

Roane took the map from the old man and waved it at Helen like a matador beckoning a bull. “Come along, princess. We’ve a map to inspect.”

With a seeming unending round of pleasantries, Helen finally said goodbye to the tinker and clicked for Starlight to follow Zeus north.

But they didn’t stop to look at the map, not for hours. They were in a particularly grassy part of the Dales, with only a small scattering of trees to offer cover. Anyone could come upon them, namely the dangerous thieves and their rifles. As the sun slanted over the horizon, Roane considered they might have to ride through the night.

It was not the best option. Certainly the horses needed rest. And Roane didn’t want to sacrifice one night with Helen, too few remained as it was. But Helen’s safety came first.

To their luck, as darkness was gathering in the valley, he spotted a stone structure standing alone amidst vast, waving fields of ryegrass and timothy-grass. He signaled to Helen and headed for the field barn. Used in the winter and abandoned in the early summer, it would provide a perfect shelter for the night.

Minutes later, the heavy door opened to a clean barn, dusty from the wintering of hay, and he led the horses inside.

“Might we be caught trespassing again?” Helen asked as she followed behind.

“We will leave at first light,” he muttered. “No one thinks of these barns until it is time to bring in the hay.”

They settled the horses and ate the last of their ham and cheese. The barn boasted no windows, so Roane dared ignite a candle for light. Bending over the map they’d purchased from the tinker, he ran his fingers up one valley and down another. His memory was clear with large chunks of this land, but other elements were lost.

As one often does, his attention wandered to the familiar names and places. In Wensleydale he’d worked as a stable hand and first learned to cultivate pasture, he’d nearly been jailed for a year in Bradford, and in Wetherby he’d won his first wager on a horse.

“Have you located anything of interest?” Helen asked, peering over his shoulder.

“Not yet.”

She leaned against his back and her hair tickled his ear. She smelled like campfire and night and the heavy desire of his dreams. He tilted his head toward her an inch and drank her in.

“What is that?” She reached a hand around him and tapped on the map. “I think it says scar.”

Roane tried to ignore the shape of her breasts against his back and squinted at the map. The writing was lost in the creases.

He lifted the parchment closer so they both could see.

“It says Goredale Scar.” Helen pointed again.

Roane laughed, surprised. “Well done, buttercup. You have found our next clue.”

She laughed as well, a happy, throaty sound that made him want to turn and kiss her. “But what is it? A ravine, maybe?”

Roane shook his head. “I don’t know, but we shall soon find out. It’s not far from here.”