Naughty in Nottinghamshire 02 - The Rogue Returns (6 page)

“Bats?”

“No, come away from the entrance.”

She bit her lip and picked her way through the burnt logs scattered near the mouth of the cave. “Might we have a fire as well?”

“No.” The candlelight flickered over Roane’s features. He looked almost haunted as he inspected the stone walls. He dropped his saddlebags and turned to her. “We will bed down for the night here. Are your clothes damp? I don’t want you catching a chill.”

“I am warm in your cloak. Are you—”

“I’m fine.” He rummaged through his bag, then stuffed a roll of wool in her hands. “Use my bedroll if you get cold, but try not to get it wet. I need to see to the horses.”

“You’re leaving me here
alone
?” Her shrill voice pinged off the rock walls.

“You will be quite safe.” He threw her a smile. “I promise.”

Then he abandoned her with the bats and spiders and goblins.

Helen stomped about for a bit, preferring her anger to cowering in a corner. Finally, she removed Roane’s cloak and lamented the ruined state of her clothing. Her shoes were muddy, her gloves ripped. The hem of her gown had fallen and her bonnet was stained and misshapen. It was useless to even attempt to repair her wardrobe. After swallowing a few bites of food, she dug through the saddlebag and opened the map.

***

T
HE NIGHT WAS PITCH BLACK,
without so much as a glimmer from the moon. Clouds churned in the sky and a light mist fell over the world.

It smelled like trouble.

Roane fed and watered the horses, then secured them on a line strung high between two trees. Zeus was well familiar with sleeping out under the stars. He should help the mare settle down. Roane could only hope Helen would prove as amenable.

With one last scratch behind Zeus’s withers—he’d heartily missed this horse—Roane sat under the cover of a pine and turned the thieves’ saddle over in his hands. Whoever the men were, they had expensive taste in horseflesh and tack. The mount he’d grabbed for Helen was a well-trained quarter horse, with trimmed hoofs and a gentle temperament. Someone had spent a pretty penny on the mare. Much more than these thieves could afford on their own, given the state of their garments.

Either the thieves had stolen their mounts, or someone had equipped them for the job.

But who? And why?

Roane knew of any number of wealthy men who could afford such horseflesh. And men who couldn’t but would lie and steal to get it. Any of them were angry with him—and dangerous. Certainly not someone he wished to have on his tail.

And here he’d hoped his return to England would go unnoticed. He scrubbed a hand through his hair, annoyed by the emotion spiking through him.

How had his past caught up to him so quickly? For he didn’t believe these men were just after Helen, as they claimed. They were after him. And they were after his gold.

He’d not written anyone, save James, of his plans to return. Even Roane’s own sister, Mazie, didn’t know he’d been at leave to come home. Though he was anxious to see her and trusted her with his life, he didn’t trust her household with the news.

Yet he’d been found all the same. And, after only three days on English soil, three days in which he’d planned to avoid trouble at all costs, he’d broken a man’s nose, been held at gunpoint, and stolen a horse. To top it off, he must hide in the woods like old times.

He was not the same man who’d sailed from London that cool June morning. More than just three years had passed—he’d gained a lifetime of experience and hard-learned lessons. Now, he had plans for his future.

Plans that would be for naught if he didn’t
hurry
. He needed to be in Stamford in two weeks time with gold in his pockets.

First things first, he needed to be rid of Lady Helen Gladstone. She was no match for the danger inherent in this journey. With thieves threatening from behind and difficult mountainous terrain ahead, Lady Helen needed to go back to London where she belonged.

While he wouldn’t mind
warming her up
, she was trouble. Plain and simple.

He’d be rid of her in the morning.

Roane pressed to standing and, with his eyes trained on the shadows within shadows, he walked the area twice more. He scaled the hill and studied the nearby terrain. Visibility was limited with the rain, but no one was about. They had escaped their would-be robbers. For now.

Silently, and without need of a light, he slipped back into the familiar cave. Helen had left the candle lit as if he had excess wax to spare.

“You’re returned.” She looked up from her needlework. It seemed she was repairing the hem of her cloak.

“Yes.” He wished he’d brought her anywhere else but to this cave. The walls felt too close. The dampness too dank. Like a prison cell.

“I tried, but I cannot sleep.” She put down her needle and thread, then stretched her arms to the side and yawned.

“No?” He dragged his gaze from her breasts back to her face. She’d taken off her corset.

“The ground is too hard and cold.” She glared at him as if it were his fault the stone was not soft as feather. “And it is very dirty in this cave.”

“That is because you are lying upon the dirt.” He bit back a smile and crossed toward her. The ceiling was just tall enough that he needn’t duck his head, though God only knew what bats and other creatures would be about in the dark. He looked down at her frowning, dirty, exhausted face. His bedroll was laid out beside her, unused. “You are not inside my bedroll. Is it damp?”

She wrinkled her nose. “No, but it smells like horses. Rather
awfully
,” she added, noticing the look of consternation on his face.

Smelled like horses?
She definitely had to go. “Have you eaten?”

“A few bites.” Her eyes slid away from him. “I didn’t want to take all your food.”

“I’ve set up some traps. If we’re lucky we’ll have rabbit for breakfast.” A smudge of dirt marked her cheek. He lowered himself to her side and withdrew the sack of food from his saddlebag. She was correct; there wasn’t much left. He’d not expected to spend the night hiding in a cave with another belly to fill.

“You finish.” He held out the last of the bread and cheese. She was a lady and knew nothing of hardship. But he knew how to be hungry. Was all too familiar with it. “I could drag in some pine boughs from the forest,” he offered.

Helen tilted her head to the side. She looked so damn adorable, he had to look away.

“Pine boughs?” she said. “Is that truly more comfortable?”

Roane shrugged. “No, not really.”

They shared a smile and she nibbled on a corner of the bread. “I don’t like this cave.”

“You don’t say.”

“It’s too wild.” Her voice trembled as she looked around. “It makes one think of goblins.”

“Would you rather be in the dark woods?”

“With the thieves? And highwaymen? And wolves?” She shuddered.

“There are no longer wolves in England, princess.” He couldn’t help himself, he leaned over and wiped the smudge of dirt from her cheek. Her skin was soft silk, fine as down. A world he did not know, had never known.

She drew back, her blue eyes round with surprise. She glanced away before meeting his gaze again. “But there are ruffians in the woods, highwaymen like the Midnight Rider.”

“Yes, there are thieves like the Midnight Rider in these woods.” Ah, the irony. It almost felt like humor. “But you hardly seemed worried about the
ruffian
earlier. You were fairly singing the highwayman’s praises, curtseying to the robbers and going on about telling your friends you met the famed criminal.”

“It was an act.” She twisted her lips sheepishly. “I truly have no wish to meet the Midnight Rider. I’m certain he is a scoundrel of the
worst
sort.”

Roane held back a snort. “You don’t need to worry about him. Not tonight, anyway.”

Seemingly satisfied with his answer, she ate the last of his bread. Again and again, she scanned the cave for monsters. Little did she know the real threat was seated beside her.

Roane pressed his fingers to his lips, wondering what Helen would say if she knew the

truth.

She was alone in a cave with the Midnight Rider himself.

I
NNOCENT AS WHITE MUSLIN
—
expensive
white muslin—, Helen dusted the crumbs from her fingers and unrolled the map. Roane considered the look of concentration on her face, the slant of her brow and slight purse of her lips. She seemed to have a good head on her shoulders, good enough to discredit the fantastical tales of the Midnight Rider.

Good enough to be wary of the highwayman.

While he’d never been violent as the Midnight Rider, per se, neither had he been the romantic fellow the London papers had made him out to be. Revenge was an ugly thing with warts and broken teeth. Roane knew this now. Just as he knew revenge and justice were not of the same family, not even distant cousins.

He didn’t regret his actions—the men he’d targeted as the Midnight Rider had been corrupt and evil—but neither did he wish to revisit the twists and turns of his past. A hard thing when his past was literally all around him. The Midnight Rider had frequented this cave before. In fact, it had been somewhat of a hideout for him.

Roane shifted uncomfortably on the hard stone floor. He’d rather leave his past where it belonged—dead and burned. It’s ashes scattered somewhere between the rocky shores of England and the red sands of Australia.

Indeed, he’d barely survived that ocean crossing. Had been violently ill, chained, and utterly broken. It had taken him the better part of three years to regain his full strength, not just of body but of spirit. Working on the land had helped, as had the cattle. ’Twas great fortune the majority of his sentence was served in the stables of a wealthy wool merchant.

Now, he was free. He was returned to England. And he wasn’t about to allow some bold as brass blonde, or a shadow of his former enemies, to stand in the way of his future.

“I studied the map while you were out. I think I have discovered another clue,” Helen said, interrupting his thoughts. “Here.” She pointed to a symbol.

Roane shifted closer to peer at the map. Inconceivably, Helen still smelled like roses. He tried to ignore the scent and focus instead on the curved symbol she’d pointed to. It looked like an umbrella. “Something to do with rain?” he suggested. “Or water?”

“No.” She glanced over her shoulder at him, a slight smile on her lips. She was close enough he could lean forward and kiss her. She would taste expensive, even here in the cave. He forced his attention back to the map. “It is the Egyptian symbol
amenta
,” she continued, “and refers to the sunset. But James placed it here on the right side of the page, which would traditionally mean east.”

“Hmm.” Roane’s skin prickled. He did not like talking about learned things, and James knew it. This was part of the joke, then.

Helen turned the map upside down. “I believe this is the first clue. James drew the map in reverse. See, we are here.” She pointed to what he’d thought had been the top of the page, and was now the bottom.

He traced the ‘∧’ shapes with his fingers. “I had thought the ‘∨’ markings were caves, but now, they are more like peaks.” He scanned the map over and over, looking for some recognizable pattern.

“Are there so many caves in England?” Helen glanced around their damp and inhospitable hideout, seeming taken aback.

“Hundreds.” A sharp laugh escaped him. Yes! “This…” He connected a line of symbols with his finger. “This is Mam Tor, and this is the Dark Peak. They are a hard day’s ride north of here.” He pointed to another recognizable mountain. “Kinder Scout is here, farther north. You’re brilliant, Helen.”

She beamed at him. “There are still a number of symbols I do not understand. Like this squiggle here.” She squinted her eyes. “It looks like a pig. And the riddle makes no sense, but I really think we can do this.”

Roane inspected the map, searching for more clues. The gold was to the north; that was certain. And, just as certain—there wasn’t going to be any
we
.

He had enough trouble on his hands without Helen adding her own.

He took the map from her and examined it more carefully. “Do you know what this is?” He pointed to a thick line with three prongs at the top.

“It looks a bit like a fork. An oyster fork would have three prongs.”

Oyster fork
? Was she bamming him? He glanced at her. She was staring into the darkness, deep in thought.

“Or a pitchfork. A witch’s broom. A rook in chess.”

Roane tapped the parchment with his finger. “There is a castle in this area. A rook would make sense.”

“This is so exciting.” Helen bounced beside him. Her breasts bounced along. Round and delicious, they begged to be savored by a man’s mouth.
His
mouth. What he would do…
Christ
.

He rolled up the parchment a bit too forcefully. “Let’s get some sleep. We can make better sense of the map after we rest.” He sounded gruff. Of course he did, he’d been too long without a woman. So long, in fact, he’d lost count of the months.