John Blaine pulled his pipe from his mouth and surveyed the newcomer. The fellow looked like he'd been in a fight, and no mistake. "A canal boat doesn't stop when it's in a lock," he said tersely, then called to his son, "Open the ground paddle."
Jamie turned the windlass and water began flowing into the lower lock.
"Dammit, I'm speaking to you," the cockney barked.
Blaine did not find the stranger's attitude endearing. The little lady, on the other hand, had been quite charming. "And I've a job to do," he retorted. "Make yourself useful and help with the gates. I'll have time to talk at the bottom."
The water level between the first and second locks equalized and Jamie opened the gate between them. The horse pulled the barge forward, the gate closed behind, and the paddles on the next gate were opened so water could flow into the lower pound.
As he watched the Penelope drop rapidly below ground level, the cockney balanced uncertainly, as if debating whether to jump on the barge and put his questions forcefully. After a moment, he scowled and gestured to his henchman. The two added their considerable weight to working the gates and the paddles.
The Foxton locks consisted of two flights of five locks each, joined by a central pool where two boats could pass. Passage through ten locks is a slow business and Blaine could have found the time to answer a few polite questions on the way, but under the circumstances, he kept himself conspicuously busy.
Eventually the barge reached the bottom of the locks, seventyfive feet below where it had begun. With exaggerated courtesy, the cockney jumped on the vessel's deck and asked, "Now will you answer a few questions?"
Blaine tamped fresh tobacco into his clay pipe, struck a spark, and drew on the stem until it was burning cleanly. "What do you want to know?"
"I'm looking for two criminals, a blond man and a young lad. They're very dangerous."
"Aye?" Blaine's expression was bored.
The cockney began to stalk the length of the barge, his suspicious gaze searching for signs of his quarry as he began to describe the fugitives and enumerate their misdeeds.
It felt as if they had been trapped in the thick warm blackness for days, though it couldn't have been for more than an hour or two. Maxie snapped out of her drowsiness when she heard vibrations on the deck above. A rumble of voices cut through the softer sounds of lapping water.
Two men were talking, one in a harsh cockney accent. Though she strained to hear, maddeningly, she could not make out the actual words. Robin was still sleeping off the effects of the head injury, but she sat up, too tense to lie still.
She scarcely breathed as heavy footsteps approached, the planks creaking under the weight of a large man. Simmons must be near enough to push the shield of carpets from that cover, or to hear the hammering of her heart.
The footsteps halted within a yard of her head. This was infinitely worse than meeting an enemy in the open. Her nerves stretched to the point where she felt a hysterical desire to scream or pound the hatch with balled fists-anything to end the suspense.
In the silence, Robin stirred and drew in his breath, as if preparing to speak. Instantly she reached out, fumbling a little in the dark, and clamped one hand over his mouth.
In the charged silence, she clearly heard Simmons say, "Anyone who 'elps criminals is flouting the king's justice, and it will go 'ard with 'im."
She gasped at the pious way the scoundrel was invoking the law. The devil could cite scripture for his purposes; indeed!
Robin tensed when she first touched him, then relaxed and gave a nod of understanding. As the footsteps moved away, she started to lift her hand away. Before she could, he pressed his lips to her palm in a gossamer kiss.
She inhaled, shaken. Remarkable how different kinds of touch could produce such varied reactions. Why did that swift butterfly caress affect her when muting his speech had not?
The darkness around them was no longer charged with danger, but with intimacy. She reached out, her fingers drifting across his hair and the bandage. Finding his face, her hand curved to stroke his cheek. The faint masculine prickle of whiskers contrasted with smooth skin. It reminded her of the sensuality of watching him shave, and she blushed in the darkness.
Her fingertips delicately skimmed his lips, and he touched them with the tip of his tongue. She shivered involuntarily. When he curled his hand around her neck and drew her down on top of him, she was willing. More than willing. Her lips parted to meet his in an openmouthed kiss.
She forgot her tension, her fear of the searchers above. Nothing existed but the man in her arms, the velvet roughness of his tongue, and the masculine power of his body. Wherever they touched, heat swirled through her veins to smolder deep within.
His hand slid down between their bodies until he reached the sensitive juncture of her thighs. When he rubbed her there, she gasped and rocked against him. The energy of passion and creation was flowing through her, sweeping her toward fulfillment in the eternal dance of mating and renewal. Her hand moved down his torso to rest on the taut, potent ridge of male flesh.
His whole frame went rigid. She caressed him, rejoicing in her power as much as she resented the clothing that separated them. He jerked up the back of her shirt and began stroking the small of her back, his palm warm against her spine. The skin to skin contact felt deliciously wanton.
Then the deck above creaked with heavy footsteps again. They both froze. The barge rocked in the water from the weight.
Closer, closer… stopping right next to their hiding place. Then Simmons's voice rumbled, appallingly close. His words were an unintelligible mumble, but the angry menace was unmistakable.
Jerked back to an awareness of their situation, Maxie felt like kicking herself. What had happened to her resolve to avoid deeper involvement with Robin? She had no more wit than a chipmunk. She eased herself away.
Robin clutched spasmodically at her wrist. She stiffened, and he released her instantly. His reluctance to let her go was evident in the slow, erotic slide of his palm over her wrist and the back of her hand. The feather touch added fuel to the flames that threatened to consume her.
When his fingers glided over hers, she felt the irregularity of the crooked, badly mended bones. Desire was joined by a dangerous tenderness. She could not have been more conscious of him if they had both been naked in a bed.
When their contact finally ended, she had to force herself not to renew it. If she touched him again when she was in this state, there would be no going back.
Wishing their hideaway was larger, she silently retreated as far as possible, flattening herself against a wall of bulging carpets. Her heart was hammering so hard that it almost drowned out Robin's harsh breathing.
Planks creaked as Simmons shifted his massive weight. There was a rasping noise, as if the carpets above were being pushed. Dear God, did he know there was another hatch below the pile?
A voice called from the front of the barge. With more squeaking of planks, Simmons moved toward whomever had spoken.
After that, there was a long silence while Maxie prayed he would not return to investigate further. When the barge began moving again, she expelled her breath, so relieved she was almost shaking. Even so, she kept her voice to a whisper when she said unevenly, "I'm sorry. It might not seem that way, but I wasn't really trying to drive you berserk."
"I know. What happened was my fault," Robin replied, his voice rueful. "Most parts of me are working, but my judgment appears to have been scrambled by that blow on the head."