Unsteadily she said, "I'm quaking like a blancmange."
"A perfectly normal reaction. You had a narrow escape."
She leaned back against the door, willing her body to behave. "Still, I'm very much in your debt, Wolverton. You might have been trampled yourself."
He gave a deprecating shrug. "I spend a fair amount of time with cattle, so I'm used to their ways."
Even though most of the British aristocracy derived their fortunes from the land, few of the men Desdemona knew in London would so casually confess to being farmers. Perhaps she spent too much time in London.
She pushed at her tumbled hair with a trembling hand. Her gown and pelisse were ruined, and her bonnet lay smashed in the street. "If I'd known that I was going to take part in a cattle riot, I would have dressed differently."
Behind them, the now orderly oxen had settled down and resumed their progress to market. The drover who had been at the end of the herd approached, concern on his weathered face. "I hope ye took no harm, ma'am," he said in a rolling Welsh accent. "I'd not forgive myself if you'd been injured."
"I'm fine." To prove it, she took a cautious step away from the door. This time her knees supported her. "It was foolish of me to come into the street when the drive was going through."
As the drover started to move away, Wolverton asked, "Why did you turn the cattle like that? It was dangerous."
The drover stopped, an opaque expression in his eyes. " 'Twas a mistake, sir. The dogs misunderstood the command."
Still pleasantly but with a hint of steel, the marquess said, "I've heard that when a drive is over, the herd dogs make their own way home all the way from southern England to Wales or Scotland while their masters return by coach. Hard to believe that dogs so intelligent would misunderstand a whistle."
"You've caught me out, sir." Though the Welshman's voice was properly abashed, there was a gleam of humor in his eyes. "The problem was not the dogs' lack of wit, but mine. I gave the wrong signal, and the dogs obeyed. Lucky no damage was done."
"I'm sure you will tell me that turning the cattle had nothing to do with the two people who were with you, and the four men who were after them," Wolverton said dryly.
"Nay, not a thing." The drover touched the brim of his hat with two fingers. "I must look to my beasts now. Good day to you and the lady."
Desdemona stared after the Welshman's broad back. "You mean he did that deliberately to help Maxima and Lord Robert escape?"
"Undoubtedly. That was definitely Robin, though I didn't see much of his companion under that dreadful hat." He smiled a little. "My brother has a talent for enlisting allies."
Desdemona frowned, perplexed. "Why would there be four men pursuing them?"
The marquess tucked her hand under his arm and headed toward the Three Swans. "We can discuss it over luncheon."
Desdemona opened her mouth to disagree on principle, then closed it again. She really didn't want to protest.
Chapter 17
Undaunted by the sight of the brick wall ahead, Robin ordered, "Wait here."
He sprinted down the alley, his pace quickening. A stride from the wall, he hurled himself upward. His leap was just high enough for his outstretched fingers to catch the edge of the wall. Making it look easy, he swung lithely onto the wide brick top. Then he unslung his knapsack and lowered it strap first.
Maxie grabbed the strap. It stretched under her weight, but held. As Robin lifted, she walked up the wall. He grinned as he gave her a hand up beside him. "It's clear you didn't spend your childhood on useless things like embroidery."
She grinned back. "It was a point of pride for me to outrun, outswim, and outclimb all of my Mohawk cousins."
Their pursuers were almost to the foot of the brick wall. Robin gave a jaunty wave before the two of them swung down on the far side of the wall. He dropped to the ground first, then reached up and caught her hips to bring her safely to earth. She was acutely aware of the strength of his hands, and of the involuntary reaction of her body. A good thing they were running for their lives.
They found themselves in a welltended garden behind a sizable town house. Directly in front of them was an archery target with bow and arrows lying beside it in the grass, as if someone had gone inside for a cup of tea and would be back soon.
As Robin started to cross the garden, she said, "Wait a moment." She picked up the bow and flexed it a few times, getting the feel. Then she nocked an arrow and waited.
After angry muttering and scuffling sounds on the other side of the wall, a pursuer heaved gracelessly into view on the shoulders of one of his mates. Coolly Maxie took aim, then sent her arrow through the man's hat. He howled like a banshee and disappeared from view.
"Well done!" Robin said, his voice full of admiring laughter.
She laid the bow back on the grass, not without a certain smugness. Being a savage had its advantages.
"Gawd a'mighty, did you see what that little bitch did?" Simmons's associate retrieved his arrowpierced hat, his face white under its habitual grime. "I coulda been killed!"
"If she wanted to kill you, she'd've done it," Simmons said brusquely. Even as he let loose a string of oaths that should have scorched the whitewash on the alley walls, the Londoner had to admit to himself that the two fugitives were worthy game.
Another of his men snarled, "I'm not goin' over that wall after 'em."
Simmons broke off. He knew Market Harborough, and he should be using that knowledge instead of wasting time. "We don't have to. There's a way around. If we hurry, we should be able to catch them. Now move your bloody backsides!"
As Maxie and Robin raced across the garden, an angry shout came from a window of the house.
'Try not to step on any flowers," Robin warned. "Hell hath no fury like an English gardener whose roses have been profaned."
They were rapidly approaching a wall covered with espaliered fruit trees. The branches were trained into stately lattices and tiny green peaches were visible among the leaves. Breathlessly she asked, "Are we allowed to profane fruit trees?"
"It's a grievous crime, but not so bad as injuring roses," he assured her as he swarmed up the espaliered branches.
The trees made an excellent ladder. Before anyone could emerge from the house and give chase, they were over the wall and down the other side on a quiet street.
As they paused to take stock, Robin said soberly, "The pursuit is amazingly tenacious. Your uncle obviously wants you back a great deal."
"So it seems," she agreed, her expression grim as she speculated about what Collingwood was trying to conceal. But when she looked at her companion her voice faltered. "I'm sorry to have involved you in this. It's more than you bargained for when you offered your escort."
He smiled, his blue eyes warm and intimate. "I didn't offer my escort, I forced it on you. And I'm not sorry at all." He gestured to the left. "A canal runs norm from Market Harborough to Leicester. I think we should follow the towpath. It's less likely to be watched than one of the roads."
"Do you really think all of the roads are watched?" she said with alarm. "Simmons would need a small army for that."
Robin shrugged. "Perhaps the roads are safe, but when in doubt, assume the worst."
That made sense; she was sure that his experience of being chased greatly exceeded her own. She fell in beside him, trotting as quickly as her tired limbs could manage.
This section of the town was empty of traffic, but in the middle distance were several large buildings that looked like warehouses. Probably the canal was on the other side.
Before they could reach the warehouses, Simmons came pounding out of a lane in front of them, a smile of wicked satisfaction on his face and one of his cohorts at his heels. With sickening anxiety, Maxie glanced behind and saw two more men emerging from another alley. She and Robin were trapped, and this time there was no helpful Dafydd Jones with a herd of oxen.