The flickering firelight gilded the blond hair, and his profile was as remote as it was flawless. Perhaps he had not been cast out for his sins, but had come from a family that had fallen on hard times. Or perhaps he was illegitimate, raised with some advantages, then thrown into the world to make his own way. She would probably never know the truth about him.
Her music drifted between traditional ballads and themes from famous European composers. Finally, as the fire crumbled to embers, she began to play the music of the Iroquois. The first songs she had ever heard were her mother's lullabies. Later she had learned many of the ceremonial and work tunes of the Mohawks. Though there were no Indian instruments like the harmonica, with practice she had learned to approximate the plaintive intervals and strange, evershifting rhythms.
She had thought that Robin was asleep, but when the music changed, his head turned in her direction, his eyes shadowed and unreadable. She played a little longer, then tucked her harmonica away and pulled her cloak from her pack.
"Good night." Robin's voice was scarcely louder than the wind over the moor grasses. "Thank you for the concert."
"You're welcome." As she rolled into her cloak and settled into the bracken, she silently admitted that she would sleep better for having him near.
A strange sound brought Maxie instantly awake, her hand reaching for her knife. At first she thought the soft choking noise had been made by an animal. When it was repeated, she realized that it came from the other pallet.
Wondering if Robin was having some kind of breathing attack, she rose and crossed to kneel by his side. His face was a pale blur in the starlight, and his breath came in shallow gasps, the bracken rustling as he shifted restlessly.
She laid a hand on his shoulder. "Robin?"
His muscles spasmed under her fingers. The choking sounds stopped and his eyes opened, though it was too dark to see any expression. He said huskily, "I was having a nightmare?"
"I think so. Do you remember what it was?"
"Not really. Could have been any of a number of things." He drew in a ragged breath. "The price of an uneasy conscience."
"Do you have nightmares often?"
"Regularly, if not precisely often." He rubbed his hand over his face. "Sorry I disturbed your rest."
She was about to say more when she saw a faint glimmer of moisture on his cheeks. No wonder he was trying so hard to be nonchalant. She laid her hand on his, where it rested near her knee. "No great matter. I'm a light sleeper." His fingers were cold, and she did not think that was because of the chilly night air. "Better to be woken by you than by a hungry wolf."
"Around here, sheep are far more common than wolves." He squeezed her hand briefly. "Not that I don't have faith in your ability to protect my ineffectual self from the perils of the wild."
"If any wolves attack, I'm sure that you can talk them to death," she said lightly. "Good night."
She returned to her pallet to take advantage of what remained of the night. Yet sleep eluded her, even though Robin's breathing was soon quiet and regular.
The Iroquois took dreams seriously, regarding them as wishes of the soul that must be satisfied. Maxie's mother had gone further, saying that nightmares were injuries of the soul that must be healed.
As she drifted back to sleep, Maxie wondered what haunted Robin's nights.
If Desdemona Ross had known how difficult it would be to find a runaway, she would have left the task to the fellow her brother was going to hire. Having begun, however, she was not about to admit that she wasn't equal to the challenge.
The search had seemed a simple exercise in logic. Knowing her niece's background, Desdemona had calculated how much distance a vigorous walker could travel in the time Maxima had been gone. Then she had targeted the three most likely routes and started making inquiries at taverns and posting houses along the way. She asked for a boy, sure that her niece had too much sense to travel in female garb.
Her inquiries produced either too many sightings of young boys or none at all, but never anything useful. After three days of futile searching, Desdemona was thoroughly sick of the business. Only her considerable stubbornness kept her going.
She was all the way to Yorkshire when her luck changed at an inn named the King Richard. It was midday, and a scattering of locals nursed their ale in the taproom when Desdemona entered. She marched over to the woman behind the bar. "Excuse me, madam. I am looking for my young nephew. The lad has run away from school, and it's possible that he came this way."
"Aye?" the landlady said with profound disinterest.
"About this tall," Desdemona gestured with her hand, "dark coloring, but probably wearing a hat to hide his face. Dressed so that he wouldn't be easily noticed."
"There was a lad like that in here't'other day." The answer came not from the landlady, but a toothless beldam in a group across the room. The old woman clambered to her feet and made her way to Desdemona. "But he's found hisself a friend."
"Oh?" Desdemona asked in an encouraging tone.
Another woman joined them, a sturdy female smoking a clay pipe. "Aye, if 'twas your nephew, he's all right. Lord Robert Andreville was with him. Happen you might know his lordship, all the Quality being related like. Lord Robert must've recognized the lad and taken him home to send him back to you."
The beldam disagreed. "Gent said he wasn't Lord Robert."
"Nothing wrong with my eyes. Granny. That was Lord Robert, no matter what he said," the pipe smoker insisted. "I saw him in York right before Christmas. That yaller head couldn't've belonged to anyone else."
Before the beldam could disagree again, Desdemona asked, "What happened?"
"The lad and his lordship had a bite of dinner here," the landlady contributed, showing more interest in the debate. "Sat in that corner, which is why no one recognized Lord Robert. After they ate, the lad slipped out the back."
"Aye, tried to run away again," the pipe smoker said. "That's why I think it must be the lad you want. His lordship caught up with him outside, then made your nevvy go with him."
Desdemona frowned. "You mean he forced the boy?"
The other woman nodded. "Took the lad by the arm and marched him out of town. Must have had a carriage waiting. Shouldn't think a lord'd walk very far."
Desdemona had heard of the Andrevilles, of course, and knew that their principal seat was nearby. But none of that family should know Maxima, who had only been in England for a few months. At least, no one should have recognized the girl as a runaway of good family. 'Tell me about this Lord Robert."
An enthusiastic chorus explained that Lord Robert was the younger brother of the Marquess of Wolverton, that he had done dire and dangerous things during the wars, that he was as handsome as a fallen angel and a devil with the ladies. The zeal with which the villagers described his exploits showed how proud they were of their neighborhood black sheep.
If even half the tales were true, the portrait that emerged was alarming. Lord and Lady Collingwood had said that Maxima was strikingly attractive, exactly the sort to draw unwelcome attentions from a rake. It seemed likely that the dissolute Lord Robert had seen through the girl's disguise and forced her to accompany him for no good purpose.
Face grim, Desdemona asked, "How do I get to Wolverhampton?" After receiving directions, she dipped into her reticule and laid a gold guinea on the bar. "Thank you for your help, ladies. This afternoon's ale is on me."
Desdemona stalked outside to her waiting coach, ignoring the toasts to her continued good health. She was too busy planning what she would do to a depraved aristocrat who would ruin an innocent young girl.
Chapter 5
The Marquess of Wolverton had set the afternoon aside to answer his correspondence. His secretary, Charles, would read a letter, Giles would dictate a reply, and they would move on to the next. All perfectly, boringly normal.