Naughty in Nottinghamshire 02 - The Rogue Returns (9 page)

But Roane knew. He knew these hilly paths like one might know a favorite story, or a familiar song.

He was finally home.

After all that waiting, all the dreaming and planning, he was here. And it felt…odd. He almost wished Helen would chatter, for there was something sharp and unwanted in his chest as he studied the landscape.

Spring flowers splattered the meadows with bold color, and the sky domed blue and clear overhead. Stone farmhouses squatted on the hills, and somewhere a dog barked. It filled his heart, the beauty and the familiarity, it filled him until his chest ached. But there was something else, too, an old sorrow he couldn’t shake. For, as much as he’d loved this land, he’d never truly belonged here. He’d never inhabited one of those cottages, never had a dog of his own. He’d always been passing through, as he was now, from one place to another.

He dropped his hand in his lap, belatedly noticing he’d been rubbing his chest, as if he could rub the ache away.

How did one come home when one never truly had a home to begin with?

The ache grew and twisted and squeezed his throat until all that was left was longing for his Aunt Pearl. She had tried to give him a home, and she was gone. Gone, gone, gone.

If he were counting his regrets, she would be top of the list.

But he was not counting his regrets. And, as Mazie had said in her letter, certainly his Aunt Pearl had gone to a comfortable seat in Heaven, sainted for trying to love the angry and wayward boy he’d been.

He leaned forward and patted Zeus, his loyal animal who had waited for him. Today, he would think of his future. He
would
find the gold. And he
would
purchase those ninety acres in the Lincolnshire Vales. He’d been coveting that parcel of land for years. Not only was it in close proximity to his sister Mazie, but it was also the perfect location to establish his horse farm.

And it would be his. His own piece of Heaven. His own home.

Everything was set in motion.

No one, not himself, not his lady princess, and not the men pursuing him, was going to ruin this for him.

He turned in the saddle and watched Helen inch her way toward him on the even path. A long sigh escaped him. “Come along now, buttercup. We haven’t all day.”

She pretended not to hear him.

W
HAT SHOULD HAVE TAKEN TEN MINUTES
took nearly an hour as the exasperating Lady Helen picked her way up Lathkill Dale on a small bridle path. Roane waited impatiently on top of the ridge, the wind catching the loose edges of his clothing and tossing it up toward the open sky. Helen finally gained the rim, then promptly stopped to tie her bonnet tighter. Roane couldn’t wait any longer. He turned and followed the river east toward Bakewell and the coaching inn.

He stayed close to the limestone edge, where the cliff dropped dramatically to the river far below. The wind whipped around them, and the sun was hot overhead. It was not the most
comfortable
route he could have chosen, but he was not trying to make Helen comfortable.

He was trying to show her the Pennines were no place for a lady like her.

“Might we find another route?” Helen asked from behind him. She had to yell to be heard over the wind.

“No.”

“But there is another path just to the north.”

Roane glanced over his left shoulder, impressed that Helen knew which direction was north. Indeed, there
was
another path along the plateau farther away from the edge. “We are safe here.”

She grumbled something he could not hear. In return, he brought the horses to a faster walk. At least the mare had sense enough not to walk over the edge of the cliff even if Helen did not.

By the time he did turn north toward Bakewell, the wind was bothering even him. It crept into his ears and buzzed around in his head. He was glad to slip back into the trees and find a moment’s peace.

“You made me ride that treacherous path on purpose,” Helen snapped from behind him.

He turned in the saddle and offered her a winning smile. “Perhaps.”

Her face was no longer pale but pinkened from the wind and sun. She looked
alive
and so damn beautiful he ached. Her silly bonnet, crushed from the day before, stood no chance against the wild elements, yet she clung to it and all it represented. He wanted to throw the thing under his horse’s hooves and stomp it into the mud.

And then he wanted to kiss her. He couldn’t seem to get that off his mind.

“Bastard,” she muttered.

Roane bit back another smile. He should not enjoy baiting her so. “Such language for a lady.”

“Oh, I’ve brothers. I can do better than that, you beslubbering, muddy-mettled arse.”

“My goodness.” He raised both brows. “Just through that valley, there”—he pointed west—“there is a school for young ladies. Perhaps I should leave you in their care. They could teach you better manners.”

Helen huffed behind him. “And what do you know about a school for young ladies?”

“More than you would think.” Back in his wild youth, he’d snuck into that building more than once. “In fact, I do think this is a grand idea. I could leave you at the school, rather than take you to the coaching inn. They are your people, after all.”

“My people?”

“With the gowns and wrist bags and such.”

“Yes, they would agree that a lady—”

“
Never leaves the house without her ridicule.
So you have said.”

Helen treated him to stony silence for the next half mile as they crossed the high plateau. The trail skirted a broad pond that sparkled in the midday sun.

Again, Helen slowed to a standstill. Roane smacked his hat against his thigh, exasperated. “Why must you keep stopping?”

“’Tis not my fault, it is this mare. She keeps pulling up short.”

“I do not think she likes your bag banging against her neck. What is in there, anyway?” He eyed the frivolous bit of silk.

“My things.”

Her
things
. “Your ridiculous fripperies,” he muttered.

She exhaled. “I do not insult your belongings. These are important to me.”

He pulled Zeus alongside the mare. “Might I help you with that?” She held out her wrist, presumably thinking he would secure the bag tighter. Instead, he slipped the damn strap over her hand, leaned back and tossed the bag as far as he could. It landed with a quiet splash in the middle of the pond.

“What?” she shrieked. Both horses skittered sideways at the ear-piercing sound of her dismay. “What have you done?”

“I have done you a favor. You may thank me.”

“
Thank
you? The map was in there.”

Now it was his turn to draw back in surprise. “You…I…”

She crossed her arms and raised her brows. Roane didn’t waste time looking in his bag to see if she spoke the truth. He jumped down from his mount and ran into the pond, frantically searching for her sinking bag in the muck. He dove under the surface of the water but it was useless. He could see nothing.

He straightened, wiping grime and God only knew what off his face, and the sound of Helen’s laughter drew him up short. He whirled toward her and slipped in the mud.

Water plants clung to him and muck sucked at his boots. He was not amused. “Where. Is. The. Map?”

She shrugged one shoulder. “In your bag, I presume. I have not touched it.”

Roane tossed his wet hair out of his eyes and slogged out of the pond. Helen continued to laugh, a high feminine sound that he could not properly appreciate under the circumstances. “You think it so amusing that I am wet?”

She could only nod, her laughter stealing her words.

He should have realized the map would never have fit in her tiny little bag, but he’d always been one to act first and think later.

“You will regret this.” He grabbed his hat from where it had fallen in the weeds and climbed atop his mount. She was not going to like this. “I suspect your skirts are damp as well.”

Her smile turned to a look of puzzlement. “How could they be damp? It has not rained.”

“No.” He shook his head and scanned her dainty walking boots, slim calves and the shape of her legs beneath her damp skirts. Anticipation made him smile. “Not rain.”

“I do not understand.” She furrowed her brow and turned to look at the back of her skirts, which were partially fanned out over the horse’s back. He knew the exact moment she saw the stain of wet on her gown. “However…?”

Her voice trailed off and Roane gave her a moment to think about what, exactly, was dampening her skirts. When she turned back to him, her face in a bewildered frown, he smiled. “Let’s continue on while you think about it.”

***

H
ELEN WATCHED ROANE GRIN AND RIDE OFF.
She pulled her skirts back over her leg, trying to understand how they had become damp. It was her only dress, unfashionable as it was, and she needed to keep it clean and in good repair for the duration of her journey.

Roane was already moving, and she quickly set her mare to a walk. Her eyes were glued to his wet shirt, and the muscles she’d glimpsed beneath. She’d seen him bare to the waist before, felt the truth of those muscles beneath her own fingers, yet still she was…shocked. Startled or unprepared in a way that left her breathless. His was not an anatomy she would become accustomed to.

They turned onto another open, blustery hill and rode past squat, scrubby trees that grew horizontally in the wind. The sun beat down on her useless bonnet and Helen, no longer in possession of her handkerchief due to the
unforeseen
loss of her reticule, used the back of her glove to blot the sweat from her brow.

Sweat
.

She swiveled and stared at her skirts.

Horse sweat.

The horse had sweat through her skirts.

My God.

She shrieked, stood up in the saddle, and promptly plopped back down. Onto the
sweaty horse
.

How horrible! And disgusting! She pulled her mount to a stop.

That was it. She’d had enough.

She was not going any farther.

Helen fisted both her hands. She could
scream
—really, really scream. Never had she been so dirty. So afraid. So pained in unnamable places. And so dreadfully weary.

Roane must have noticed she’d stopped, for he halted his mount. He said something, but his words were lost on the wind.

The soulless, flesh-stripping wind that had been blowing all morning.

Helen held her hand up to her ear in the universal gesture that she couldn’t hear him.

He waved her forward with an impatient hand. The universal gesture to come along, already.

She sat back and crossed her arms.

His gaze flashed down to her breasts so quickly she might have missed it, were she not trying to gauge his expression. Then he shook his head, his lips moving as he muttered something. He waved her on again.

She was not going any farther. She had already decided.

Even from this distance, she could see his chest rise and fall with a heavy sigh. He led his huge black horse back to her. “We are not stopping yet.”

“
We
may not be stopping. But
I
am.”

“Helen.” Her name was more of a growl than a word. “This is not a good place to stop.”

“No? It seems just fine to me.” A gust whipped up, and she had to hold her bonnet to her head, even with the ribbons tied securely beneath her chin.

Roane lifted a brow. He needn’t make a mockery of her when nature already was. “Only a little ways and we will be in town.”

“And how much is that?” She knew she sounded petulant, but she did not care.

“At this pace? An hour.”

“An
hour
?” Good God. “An
hour
is not just a little. Ten minutes is just a little. An hour is an eternity.”

“An hour is an hour.” He jammed his hat further down on his head.

“I’ll wait here.”

“Wait here? For what? An afternoon thunderstorm?”

“I’ll wait here until I feel like riding.”

He half laughed. “This is not a ballroom, princess. We are in the middle of nowhere. You cannot
wait here
. It is not safe.”

She put her nose in the air, ignoring him. Exactly like the princess he accused her of being.

It was the wind. The wind was blowing its way into the nooks and crannies of her being. It was making her crazy. Frazzled.

Roane took a long breath and looked away, then back at her. “Are you in pain? It takes a few days to get used to the saddle.”

Now he was being nice to her? She wanted none of it. “No.”

His eyes roved over her, and she heated, loving his attention as much as she hated herself for it. “Hungry? I have a bit of bread you could eat as we ride.”

“I am not hungry.” Now she was just lying to spite him. Oh, she was a foolish girl.

“What is it, then? Tell me so I can make it better.”

“You truly want to know what is wrong?” She threw her hands up in the air. “To begin, my skirts are damp with
horse sweat
. My body hurts in places it should not hurt, unless it were caused by a
husband
. My skin is raw, my hands are sore, and my spine is jamming into my skull. I am covered in dirt. I am certain to get freckles. No poultice or tonic will be enough to dislodge the muck from my skin. And my hair. Don’t get me started on my hair.”