"So your honesty is a result of pragmatism rather than moral scruples?" She began pinning her hair up again.
"Exactly so. Moral scruples are an expensive luxury," he said blandly.
Her snort was an eloquent comment on his dubious logic.
He grinned. "Theft is a fairly benign response to attempted assault. You are the one who was ready to blow his brains out."
"Only if necessary." She tugged down her battered hat. "How was I to know you would come charging to the rescue?"
He gave her a narroweyed look as he got to his feet. "Did you really think I would abandon you to your fate?"
Their gazes caught and held for a moment before she turned to lift her knapsack. "There wasn't much time for thinking."
And Maxie was not the sort of female to sit and wait to be rescued. Robin retrieved the water pots he had set down before attacking Simmons. He offered his companion a drink, which she accepted gratefully; she still looked shaky.
He drank also, then dumped the rest of the water and packed the pots away. When they left the clearing, the only trace of their brief occupancy was Simmons lying peacefully on his back with his hands trussed up in front of him.
As they made their way back to the road, Maxie said, "Your socalled fidget stick is a weapon, isn't it?"
"Yes. After we met the highwaymen, I decided that some form of selfdefense might be useful." He held back a branch so she could pass. "A fighting stick adds force to one's blows."
"You are a neverending source of alarming skills," she remarked, though her sarcasm lacked its usual bite.
"Always used for the forces of good," he said piously.
His remark elicited a faint smile, but she still looked far more upset than he would have expected. He guessed that what distressed her was not so much the attack itself as what it represented. He was going to have to insist on some explanations about her background and her mysterious mission in London.
Near the edge of the road, a depressed looking horse was tethered. Robin stopped and eyed it speculatively. "I suppose this belongs to your friend back there?"
"He's no friend of mine, but I believe this is his horse. I saw it at… I saw it once before."
"Good." He untied the reins and swung into the saddle.
"You're not going to steal it?" she exclaimed. "What happened to pragmatism?"
"I would have turned the horse loose anyhow to slow pursuit, so we might as well ride it and put a few miles between us and Simmons." He offered his hand to Maxie. "The poor beast isn't up to carrying two people very far, but it will give us a start."
"You are nothing if not practical, Lord Robert."
Her hand was icy cold when he pulled her up behind him, and her arms around his waist were tighter than the sedate pace of the horse required. He would wait until she had recovered some of her composure before questioning her.
Several miles later, as the last light was fading from the sky, Robin halted at a fork in the road. 'Time to send our fiery steed back to its owner."
They dismounted and he turned the horse around, giving it a slap on the hindquarters to send it ambling back in the direction from which they had come. "Swinging west here, away from the direct route, might throw Simmons off the trail. I hope so. He doesn't seem the sort to give up easily." He put his hand out. "Give me the pistol."
She handed it over, then gave a cry of outrage when he unloaded the remaining ball and pitched the weapon into a heavy patch of shrubbery. "Damnation, Robin! Why did you do that? A pistol could be very useful."
"Guns are beastly things." He sent the ammunition pouch crashing after the pistol. "When they are present, people get killed unnecessarily."
"Maybe Simmons will need killing!"
"Have you ever killed anyone?"
"No," she admitted.
"I have. It isn't an experience one enjoys repeating."
She flushed at the coolness in his tone. Most of the stories he had told her were pure fairy tale, but she did not doubt that he spoke the truth about having killed. "I didn't really mean that. About killing him, I mean."
"I know you didn't." His voice softened and he put a comforting arm around her shoulders as they made their silent way into the night.
The Marquess of Wolverton was half asleep and thinking dourly that he should have stopped in Blyth when his carriage creaked to a halt. He looked out and saw his driver talking to a burly, disheveled fellow who had been trudging along in the dusk.
Giles climbed from the carriage. "More trouble?"
The burly man growled, "I was robbed and me 'orse was stolen." After a glance at the crest on the carriage door, he said with a fair attempt at humility, "Could yer lordship give me a ride to the next town?"
"Of course." Giles waved the man into the carriage, then climbed in himself, thinking that there was even more crime on the highways than he had expected. He lit two of the interior lamps, then pulled a flask of brandy from a compartment. "That's quite a black eye," he said conversationally as he poured a generous measure for his guest.
"Won't be the first."
Giles surveyed the other man's bulk. "I shouldn't think so. You're a boxer, aren't you?"
"Used to be. The name's Ned Simmons, but I fought as the Cockney Killer." Looking pleased, he swallowed the brandy with one gulp. "You ever see any of me matches?"
"Sorry, I don't follow boxing, but a friend of mine won a good sum on you once." Giles cast his mind back. "For defeating the Game Chicken in nineteen rounds, I believe."
"Twentyone rounds. Aye, 'twas the best mill of me life."
"It must have taken several men to beat you tonight."
The comment was a mistake. Simmons erupted with oaths and excuses, the gist of which was that he had been defeated unfairly. Giles listened with only moderate interest until the words "yallerheaded fancy man" caught his attention.
Concealing his sudden interest, Giles said, 'This blond man must have been a strapping fellow."
Simmons hesitated, visibly wondering whether to admit an unflattering truth. "Kind of a skinny cove, actually, and talked like a swell," he said grudgingly. "Wouldn't have thought 'e could fight the way 'e did. Even so, 'e couldn't 'ave taken me if 'e 'adn't jumped me from behind, and if 'is wench 'adn't been pointing a pistol at me."
Giles repressed a smile. Robin and the Sheltered Innocent must have been along this road very recently, and it sounded as if the latter bore some resemblance to her formidable aunt. "How did they come to attack you?"
Simmons's face went blank as an oyster. "Can't say more. Confidential business."
Giles was debating whether to offer a bribe for more information when a horse whickered outside.
Simmons peered out the window. "It's me 'orse! Bloody bastard probably couldn't ride. 'Ope 'e broke 'is neck when the nag threw 'im."
The marquess had never seen a horse that could throw his brother, much less a tired hack like this one. Robin must have turned the beast loose. Thank God he wasn't adding horse theft to his other crimes.
What the devil had Robin gotten himself mixed up in?
The horse was caught and tethered to the back of the carriage, and they proceeded to the next town, Worksop. Simmons fell silent, leaving Giles to his speculations. At a guess, the Londoner was the man Lord Collingwood had sent after his niece. Rather a rough sort to charge with escorting a gently bred female, though the more Giles heard about Maxima Collins, the more he doubted her gentility.
Obviously Lady Ross hadn't yet found the fugitives. With luck, Giles would reach them first. When he did, he was going to have a great many questions for his wayward younger brother.
At Simmons's request, Giles left him at an inn that was little better than a hedge tavern. He himself stayed at the best inn Worksop had to offer. It fell well short of the standards of Wolverhampton, but at least the sheets were clean.