Fairly caught by the question, Desdemona felt color rising in her face. Wolverton watched her quizzically, and she could see the moment when he made an intuitive leap.
"Just how well do you know her?" he asked, his gaze sharpening. "Miss Collins has only been in this country a few months, and you said that you were going to Durham to visit her."
She looked down at her parasol, toying with the jade handle. "We've never met in person," she said in a suffocated voice. "However, we have corresponded extensively, and I feel that I know her quite well. She has an educated, thoughtful mind. I have never seen any signs of coarseness or immorality."
"Good God, you've never laid eyes on the girl?" Exercising heroic restraint, the marquess continued more mildly, "Perhaps your concern for her is excessive. My inquiries imply that she is a very independent and forceful young lady. If she is also a virtuous innocent, she is in no danger from my brother. Perhaps you should wait for her in London. I'm sure she will arrive there soon, and you would be spared this tedious searching."
Lady Ross stood and glared down at him. "Perhaps you are right and Maxima will reach London safely. However, I lack your touching faith in your brother's integrity, so I will continue to search until I have personally assured myself about her welfare."
Giles would have been disappointed if she had let herself be dissuaded from her quest. He stood also, and studied her face, which interested him more than the fate of the Sheltered Innocent. The features shaded by her deep rimmed straw bonnet were stronger than was fashionable, but well shaped and really quite attractive. A stray shaft of sunshine also penetrated the shadows and showed that the brows he had assumed were brown were actually auburn. "What color hair are you concealing under that very decorous bonnet?"
She stared a him, her gray eyes wide and disconcerted.
Though Giles was usually a model of propriety, he gave in to an irresistible urge to misbehave. Moving slowly enough so that she could stop him if she really wanted to, he untied her bonnet and lifted it from her head.
He caught his breath at the sight of the blazing red hair that coiled around her head in thick braids. A few bright tendrils had escaped and were curling down her long neck. She no longer looked like a highminded reformer. If she loosed that hair, she would be a pagan goddess of the hills.
"You see why I cover it up." Lady Ross said, her expression vulnerable. "It is not decent hair. Men love it or hate it, but they never respect it. My sisterinlaw, Lady Collingwood, was in despair when she brought me out. She said that my appearance was better suited to a courtesan than a lady."
Giles had never thought much about red hair one way or the other, but he found that he had a nearly overpowering urge to let hers down and bury his hands in it. He wanted those glossy, lightstruck curls to flow through his fingers and coil around his wrists. He wanted to bury his face in the silky mass so that he could see and taste nothing but shining strands.
Good God, what was he thinking of? He was approaching forty, a model of sober, responsible behavior. Certainly he was well past the age where raw, sexual heat should be scrambling his wits. After drawing a deep breath, he said lightly, "There is nothing inherently moral or immoral about hair."
He touched one of the lustrous braids, half surprised to find that it didn't sear his fingertips. "Yours is very lovely, and not the least bit indecent."
"I'm not so sure," she said wryly. "I've found that if I wish to be taken seriously, I must cover it up."
Wanting to confirm a growing suspicion, he said, "I've thought all along that your concern for your niece is greater than the situation warrants. Why do you mistrust men so?"
She looked away. Her skin had the milky translucence of the true redhead. "I don't mistrust all men. Fathers and brothers are well enough, and some others."
That explained a great deal. Giles said quietly, "I recall hearing that your late husband, Sir Gilbert, was an unsteady sort of man."
Her head whipped around, her expression hardening. "You are presumptuous, my lord. If a man with your reputation for rectitude can be so impertinent, it is hardly surprising that your brother is a thoroughgoing rogue."
She snatched her bonnet from his hands and yanked it onto her head, covering her flaming hair, and with it her moment of vulnerability. As she stalked away, her back was very erect within the concealing folds of her cloak.
It occurred to Giles that he had never seen her when she wasn't wrapped like an Eskimo. What would she look like in less enveloping clothing? Though she was rather stout, she seemed to have an abundance of pleasing womanly curves. He liked a woman who was a proper armful. A pity her ladyship was so prickly.
The speed of Lady Ross's retreat was inhibited by her light slippers and the necessity of picking her way carefully through the grass. He caught up with her easily. "In two days, the drovers will be going through the town of Market Harborough. You can get there in time to intercept them."
"Will you be there, Lord Wolverton?" Her voice was chilly, her face now safely hidden behind the rim of her bonnet.
"Of course. I think it the best possible place to find our fugitives." In spite of his optimistic words, Giles doubted whether Robin could be intercepted unless he wanted to be. Elusiveness was surely an important skill for a spy, and his brother would not have survived so many years on the Continent if he weren't expert at avoiding detection and pursuit.
The marquess chose not to reveal one important fact. If Robin continued on his present path, he would pass near his estate, Ruxton. It was quite possible that he and the Sheltered Innocent might decide to go to ground there for a time, particularly if they suspected they were being pursued.
If he did not find them before then, Giles would seek the pair at Ruxton. Given Lady Ross's suspicious nature, it would be a good deal better for all concerned if he was the one to locate the fugitives.
Chapter 15
Maxie took a bite of her sandwich, a slab of ham between two thick pieces of fresh bread, then leaned back against the sunwarmed stone wall in contentment. 'Traveling with drovers has only two drawbacks."
Robin swallowed a mouthful of his own sandwich and washed it down with a draft of ale. "What are they?"
"The noise of several thousand cattle, plus assorted humans and dogs. And the aroma. Especially the aroma."
He chuckled. "Eventually you won't notice."
"I live in hope." She swallowed the last bit of ham. "But I like the drovers. They remind me of the farmers in New England. They have the solidity, the realness, of those who live close to the earth."
"Because they're entrusted with their neighbors' money, drovers have to be good steady fellows. I believe they must be at least thirty, married, and householders to be granted a license."
She wrinkled her nose. "Too many things in England seem to require licenses and regulations."
"The price of civilization." Robin's eyes twinkled mischievously. "An Englishman who finds it burdensome can always go to America to find life, liberty, and happiness."
"Individuals have more liberty in America," she said slowly, "but one can pursue happiness anywhere. Unfortunately, no law can assure that one finds it."
He gave her a wry glance of acknowledgment, then turned to his sandwich. The herd was settling for the night and most of the drovers were having their evening meal inside the tiny inn. She and Robin had stayed outdoors, partly because of the fine weather, more because her masquerade depended on not being seen too closely. She was getting very tired of her infernal hat.