Her own ambivalence had not been eased. She felt a sudden, debilitating wave of bitterness at the way she was caught between two very different cultures, understanding both but belonging to neither. Among her mother's people, an unmarried woman could lie with a man without censure. If she were a true daughter of the Six Nations, living in her own home among her kin, she would have been proud to take a lover.
But she was not her mother; she was a halfbreed.
True, she was no sheltered English miss, raised to bestow her body only on a man who would pay the price of marriage for the privilege of bedding her. But she was enough a product of her father's culture that she feared to express desire freely. To lie with a man without marriage would make her a wanton in the eyes of white society.
Yet there was no prospect of marriage with Robin. Life with her father had taught her that it was impossible to coax a restless man to settle down, a mistake to even try.
Even if Robin's loneliness had led him to make another quixotic offer, as when he had suggested going to Gretna Green, their backgrounds were too different to allow a permanent union. She would be a fool to hope for promises of love eternal, and a fool to settle for less. That did not mean there could be nothing honest and true between them, but giving in to passion would damage her heart and her future, possibly beyond hope of repair.
Refusing to let herself weep, she turned her face into Robin's shoulder. His other arm came around her.
"You must be sorry that we met," he said soberly. "I seem to be causing more trouble than I'm preventing."
Voice muffled against his fresh scented shirt, she replied, "I'm not sorry if you're not sorry."
He pressed his cheek against her hair. "No, Kanawiosta, I'm not sorry."
Her throat tightened. Yes, there was something very real between them. But it would never be love.
She resolved that from now until they parted in London, she would behave logically. She would accept and enjoy his wit and his friendship, and she would not allow herself to wish for greater intimacy.
Yet in the privacy of her mind, she acknowledged that logic would make for cold memories when Robin was gone.
Chapter 14
The carriage pitched and swayed in the rutted track. As Desdemona Ross braced herself wearily, avoiding the longsuffering expression of her maid and hoping the vehicle wouldn't break an axle before they reached their destination, an isolated inn called the Drover. It was a regular stop for traveling herds, and more easily reached on hooves than wheels.
With a final lurch, the carriage halted. Desdemona let herself out without waiting for her coachman to open the door For a moment she stood in the afternoon sunshine and savored the absence of rocking. The wind blew restlessly over the barren hilltop, rippling the grasses and twisting the clouds overhead. From the aroma, a herd had been through recently.
In spite of the directions she had received, it had taken time to find an accessible spot along the old ridgeway. She wondered if Maxima and Lord Robert had been here. Well, she should soon know. She set off toward the inn, which was made of winderoded stone and had served drovers for centuries.
When she circled her carriage, she saw another vehicle, one with a familiar crest on the door. She gave a smile of satisfaction. Apparently she had moved fast enough to overcome the lead that the Marquess of Wolverton had achieved after the incident with the highwaymen.
Speak of the devil… The door of the inn swung open and the marquess himself emerged. The tall powerful figure paused in the doorway for a moment. Then he gave her such a pleasant smile that Desdemona was temporarily disconcerted.
Reminding herself that they were adversaries, not friends, she said, "Good day, Lord Wolverton. I gather that you have not found our mutual quarry."
"Not yet. Shall I share with you what I have learned?"
Desdemona hesitated, glancing at the inn, then back at the marquess. Reading her unspoken objection, he said helpfully, "You can always interrogate the innkeeper later to discover if I have been withholding information, but I think it would not be a bad thing if we talked."
Good Lord, was she that transparent? Desdemona sighed; yes, she was. No one ever had any trouble knowing what she thought, which was a drawback for a woman with political interests. "Very well," she said, knowing she sounded ungracious.
The marquess offered his arm as if they were in St. James's Park, then led her away from the inn. Though she was a tall woman, he towered over her.
He said, "I trust that you've suffered no ill effects from the attempted robbery."
"None whatsoever." She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. He really was a fine figure of a man. "I hope that you've suffered no effects from almost being shot by me."
His eyes twinkled. "On the contrary-my miraculous escape has made me appreciate life more than I have in years."
"If you wish me to take a wild shot at you sometime in the future, I shall be pleased to oblige."
He chuckled. "I'm not sure I'd trust you to miss a second time." When they were out of earshot of servants, he said more seriously, "A group of Welsh drovers came through two days ago. My brother and the Sheltered Innocent joined them here."
"Your brother and who?"
"Sorry, I've got in the habit of thinking of Miss Collins as the Sheltered Innocent," he said, not looking very repentant.
Her eyes narrowed at his impudence, but she held her tongue. She'd save any caustic comments until she'd heard what he had to say.
"They will be near Leicester by now," he continued. "I'm not positive about the identification of Miss Collins-she has a talent for remaining unnoticed-but someone entertained the drovers with juggling and sleightofhand in return for food and lodging. That had to be Robin. As a boy he was fascinated by legerdemain, and he practiced until he became quite adept."
It made the rogue sound rather likable. Fighting an inclination to soften, Desdemona asked, "Where was my niece while Lord Robert was playing the mountebank?"
"Upstairs taking a bath." The marquess gave her a measuring look. "Miss Collins has had ample opportunity to escape and hasn't taken it, which supports the conclusion that she is traveling with Robin of her own free will.
Desdemona made a growling noise deep in her throat.
After a startled moment, Wolverton's lips twitched, as if suppressing a smile. "I think it's likely that my brother has offered Miss Collins his escort to London. It's exactly the kind of eccentric, honorable thing he would do, and it would mean that she is in no danger. Quite the contrary. It also explains why the young lady has no wish to run away from him."
Though Desdemona admitted privately that the marquess might be right, she was unwilling to concede that aloud. "Your imagination does you credit, but I am not convinced."
They came to a boulder on the brink of the hilltop. Since it was too steep to continue walking, she sat down, making sure that her voluminous cloak was thoroughly wrapped around her. "For all you know, Maxima may have been imprisoned upstairs rather than bathing. It's also true that when a woman has been bullied enough, she can become too intimidated to try to escape. I will not be satisfied until I speak to her myself."
"Somehow, I am not surprised to hear that," her companion murmured, sitting next to her and crossing his booted legs.
She gave him a frigid glance. "What are your intentions if you find the pair of them before I do-to buy your family name free of scandal, whatever the cost?"
"That's one possibility." His slate eyes were steady. "I won't know until the time comes."
"If you are forced to choose between justice and your brother, what will you do?"
The marquess sighed and looked out over the rolling hills. "I sincerely hope it does not come to that. You know the girl, Lady Ross. Is she so virtuous that it is unthinkable she could behave with less than perfect propriety? Your niece is no green girl, and I've heard that Americans are less rigid in their ways than we are."