Deliberately she opened her physical and inner senses to the night. An owl gave a lonely call as it hunted the woods, its wings swift and silent. Beneath her was the living earth, its deep thrum exactly the same as it was in her homeland. Fertile soil and ancient stones and small, determined growing things. The wind that rippled the leaves was familiar, though it had blown through skies she would never know.
Earth calm entered her, flowing through limbs and veins until it filled her heart. If not for Robin's gentle lesson, which had smoothed the grief roughened edges of her spirit with sensuality, she would not have been able to find such peace.
Wanting to return the gift, she reached out emotionally, letting stillness flow from her hand into his. He was like a nervous colt, strained and ready to bolt.
Soft as shadow, she whispered, "Know that you are part of nature, not separate."
Gradually he calmed, the tautness disappearing from his fingers. His breathing became slow and regular, and for the space of a dozen heartbeats they were in harmony.
Though she was trying to teach simplicity, she recognized that he was innately a being of great complexity. His spirit was a tangled mass of contradictions, with glittering wit and cool acceptance. Sparks of laughter and curiosity, and a deep pulse of kindness. And darkness-darkness beyond her imagining. With an instinctive desire to comfort, she reached toward one of the pools of tortured regret.
In the space of a heartbeat, harmony shattered. She felt Robin jerk away from her emotionally an instant before he released her hand. He drew a shuddering breath, then said coolly, "How very interesting. I never knew that one could hear stones. Are you a witch, young lady?"
Ruefully she recognized that she had startled him as much as he had alarmed her that afternoon. It would be better for them to keep their relationship safe and superficial. Matching his lightness, she said, "Not a witch. Not even a lady."
"Nonsense." He scanned her from tangled hair to dusty boot tips. "At the very least, you're every other inch a lady."
She smiled as she made two cups of tea, regular for him and herbal for herself. Robin might be a pickpocket, a vagabond, and heaven only knew what else, but for as long as their paths lay together, he would stand her friend.
That would have to be enough.
Chapter 8
As a token of reconciliation, Maxie moved her pallet from the corner of the barn so that she was nearer Robin. All they had to do was avoid kisses and joint meditations for the balance of the journey, and they would have no problems.
After a night of pleasant dreams, she awoke with a jolt when the barn door creaked. Sunshine flooded into the dim interior, followed instantly by furious barking. Her eyes flew open to find two huge mastiffs looming less than two yards away, all red mouths, white fangs, and deafening racket
She froze, knowing that any movement might precipitate a lethal attack. Her knife was in her knapsack, and the dogs would be on her before she could cover the twofoot distance. Without moving her head, she shifted her gaze to Robin. He was as still as she, his eyes coldly calculating as he studied the hysterical mastiffs.
A voice bellowed, "Hold!"
The dogs stopped barking, but glittering eyes and hot, panting canine breath demonstrated their eagerness to tear the intruders into bloody shreds. An angry farmer appeared behind them, silhouetted against the morning light "Filthy vagrants," he growled. "I should turn you over to the magistrate."
"You could, o' course, but we've done no harm," Robin said meekly. To Maxie's foreigner's ear, he seemed to have acquired a perfect Yorkshire accent.
Cautiously he sat upright in the hay. "Beg your pardon for the trespass, sir. We meant to leave early so's not to upset anyone, but we walked a long way yesterday and my wife is in a, um, delicate condition."
Maxie sat up also, giving her companion an indignant glare. With her hair down she couldn't pass as a boy, but did she have to become a pregnant wife? Robin returned a suspiciously cherubic glance as he stood and assisted her up with tender care.
Unimpressed, the farmer, a portly middleaged chap, scowled at them. 'That's none o' my concern, but tramps on my property are. Come out here 'fore I turn the dogs loose."
"If you have some chores, sir, we'd be happy to do them to pay for our night's lodging," Robin offered.
While her companion acted the earnest innocent, Maxie began talking to the mastiffs, murmuring in Iroquoian that they were fine brave fellows and she was pleased to make their acquaintance. At first they growled, but she had always gotten on well with dogs. Soon the larger beast's tail began to wag and the ears unflattened.
She extended a hand, introducing herself by her Mohawk name, Kanawiosta. The mastiff stepped closer and gave a tentative sniff, followed by a rasping lick.
She smiled and began scratching behind his ears. He rewarded her with a lolling, imbecilic doggy grin. The other mastiff gave a jealous whimper and pressed forward, demanding equal attention.
The farmer was in the middle of another tirade about worthless thieving vagabonds, but he broke off as his mastiffs began twining around Maxie, almost knocking her from her feet. "What the devil…?"
"My wife has a way with animals," Robin said, rather unnecessarily.
"Ain't that the bloomin' truth," the farmer muttered, impressed in spite of himself. "Either one of 'em weighs more 'n she does. Your wife, you say? Where's her wedding ring?"
Maxie glanced up and was amazed to see the transformation Robin had undergone. Usually he looked like a wayward aristocrat, but his casual elegance had vanished. Now his demeanor was that of a man of modest birth and fortune who had fallen on hard times.
She stared at him, thinking that she would be a damned fool if she ever believed a word he said. With his acting talents, it would be impossible ever to know if he were telling the truth.
"Had to sell her ring," Robin said sadly, "times are hard now the war is over. We're on our way to London, where I've hopes of a job."
"Were you a soldier?" the farmer said, ignoring the last sentence. "My youngest boy was with the Fiftysecond Foot"
Robin gave a nod of grave recognition. "One of the army's finest regiments. I was in the Peninsula myself. Was lucky enough to meet Sir John Moore once, a few months before he was killed at Corunna."
The farmer's thin mouth worked for a moment "My boy died at Vittoria. He used to say that Moore was the best, bar none." His hostility had disappeared. Unlike Maxie, he didn't notice that Robin had not actually said he'd been in the army.
"The general's death was a terrible loss," Robin agreed.
The farmer took off his hat and ran his fingers through his thinning hair. "My name's Harrison," he said gruffly. "You folks have a long journey ahead. If you're hungry, you can have a bite 'fore you move on."
A fifteen minute walk brought them to the house, and a single smile from Robin charmed the farmer's wife to blind adoration. Over a massive breakfast of eggs, sausage, hot muffins, strawberry preserves, and tea, he talked about the Peninsular campaign and the life of a soldier. He was utterly convincing; if Maxie hadn't known better, she would have believed him herself. He sealed his popularity by repairing Mrs. Harrison's cherished mantel clock, which hadn't run in years.
Maxie was fluttered over, told gruesome stories about the trials of childbearing, especially for "a little bit of a thing" like her, and sent off with extra food and an admonition to take care of herself for the baby's sake. Mrs. Harrison waved goodbye to the travelers, and the two mastiffs trotted in escort to the edge of their master's land, halting with obvious reluctance.