the stiffness from her wrists, and looked up at him with as much courage as she could muster.
‘Please grant me some little dignity, Mr Wolversley.’ Her heart was racing with her own boldness, but she knew that what she did now would set a precedent for the rest of the journey.
His silver gaze was searing, stilling the movement of her hands, before it rose to meet her eyes. A moment passed, and then another, and her heart skittered all the faster, so that she remembered last night and the intensity of his gaze and the look of his face without its harsh mask of cynicism. And she thought from the look in his eyes that he remembered it too. Finally, he gave a small acknowledgement of his head.
‘Play me for a fool, Miss Meadowfield, and I’ll forget all about your dignity.’
She nodded her reply.
Over at the edge of the clearing, Kempster and Campbell were seeing to the horses. She walked in the opposite direction, glancing back at the cottage when she reached the trees. Wolf still stood within the door frame watching her.
Even across the distance that separated them, she could feel his gaze upon her, brooding and watchful. She shivered and disappeared into the trees.
Wolf packed up the rest of the bags, keeping one eye, through the open door, on the patch of woodland into which Miss Meadowfield had disappeared. If she did not appear in the next few minutes, he would go out there and fetch her back, and never mind her damned dignity. He remembered her lying sleepless by his side in the night, and the way she had looked at him; her eyes not brown as he had first thought, but a strange mix of green and brown and gold, and filled with shock and fear and such beguiling innocence as to persuade any man. But Wolf was not fooled. He did not trust her. He had learned a long time ago that those who appeared the most genteel, the most respectable, the very epitome of everything that gentility encompassed, were the most corrupt. Such ugly beautiful people. A golden gilding upon a rotten core, just as it was with Miss Meadow-field. Such a proper gentle companion that she had exploited her employer’s weakness. The prospect of a ruined reputation would drive her to desperation; she would attempt an escape before too long, of that he was sure. And he would be ready for her.
Her delivery to Evedon would earn Struan and him a nice fat fee, but his main reason for taking the job was for the satisfaction of ensuring that at least one of their kind would be brought to face the consequences of their actions. He smiled at the thought of that, and the hurt that was buried deep within him eased a little.
By the time that she appeared a few minutes later, the baggage had been strapped on to the horses and they were almost ready to leave. The worst of the wrinkles had been smoothed from her dress. He could see that she had tidied her hair; its long dark curls were caught and coiled into a severe knot at the nape of her neck beneath her mid-blue bonnet.
She stopped, then backed away and stared at the four horses. ‘Where is the cart? I-I thought we would be travelling by cart.’
Kempster smiled ever so slightly. ‘We travel by horseback—Mr Wolversley’s orders.’
It seemed to Wolf that her face paled, and he wondered as to the reason. All women of her station could ride. Their parents bought them ponies as children, whereas in the streets of York, where Wolf had grown up, the children were lucky to have parents or food, never mind ponies.
He thought he saw something akin to terror flicker in her eyes. He frowned as the possibility struck him. ‘You can ride, can you not?’
She gave no answer, just continued to stand stock-still and stare at the horses. It seemed to Wolf that she was holding her breath.
‘Miss Meadowfield,’ he prompted in a harsh voice.
Campbell and Kempster looked on in silence.
‘I…I…’ She did not drag her eyes from the horses to look at him.
‘If you cannot ride, I shall take you up with me.’
She gave a slight shake of her head. Her cheeks were so white that he thought she might faint. ‘I can ride,’ she said so quietly that he had to strain to hear the words.
‘Are you unwell, Miss Meadowfield?’ he asked.
There was a pause before she answered in a calm voice that belied the rigid stance of her body. ‘I am quite well, thank you, Mr Wolversley.’
Just a bloody ploy to delay us, he thought but he saw the way she leaned her weight back against the tree trunk behind her. In truth, Wolf conceded, the woman looked as if she were about to faint.
‘Then what seems to be the problem?’
She hesitated again, before taking a deep breath and moving her gaze to meet his. ‘There is no problem. I felt a little faint, that is all. The feeling has passed. I am better now.’
‘There is some bread left from last night. Eat that. It will help,’ said Wolf.
She shook her head. ‘No thank you. As I said, I am feeling well enough now.’
‘Then you will delay us no further.’ Wolf turned away and swung himself up on to his horse.
Campbell and Kempster followed suit.
Wolf watched as the woman slowly pushed herself away from the tree and began to walk. There was a grim determination about her as she crossed the forest clearing. She stopped just short of the small bay mare that stood patiently waiting.
Wolf knew that she would be used to some servant rushing to help her climb upon the horse’s back. Even the sight of the sidesaddle irritated him. It was yet another sign of her status and all that she was. Common women rode astride the same as any man. She stood there, close by the horse’s side, neither attempting to clamber up, nor asking for assistance.
‘We’ll be here all day at this rate,’ muttered Kempster.
Wolf said nothing, knowing that Evedon’s man only spoke what he himself was thinking. Yet he wanted her to know what it was like to survive without servants rushing to dance upon her every whim. He’d be damned if he’d climb down there and act like her lackey, so Wolf sat stubborn and silent, and waited, allowing the woman’s discomfort to stretch.
It was Campbell who slipped down from his mount and moved to help her.
The big Scotsman stroked a hand against the mare’s neck. ‘She’s a docile wee thing,’ he said, and then bent and offered Miss Meadowfield his linked hands to use for her footing.
‘Thank you,’ she said quietly, and with a foot in Campbell’s hands and a hand against his shoulder she mounted the small horse.
They moved off slowly.
Miss Meadowfield sat on her horse tensely, and although she looked ill at ease in the saddle, it was clear that she could indeed ride.
A delaying tactic, indeed, surmised Wolf sourly, and met Campbell’s eye. They walked slowly and in silence through the trees and out on to the country road that lay beyond.
Wolf rode out in front, Campbell and Kempster at the rear. In between was Rosalind. She was managing quite admirably with the mare’s gentle walk until they came out on to the narrow country road and Wolf kicked his horse first to a trot and then a canter.
Rosalind’s horse came to a halt as her fingers tightened around the reins and she felt the panicked thudding of her heart. Her palms beneath the fine leather gloves were clammy. She wetted her dry lips and tried to swallow but her throat was so dry that its sides seemed to be in danger of sticking together.
Campbell and Kempster came abreast with her and she saw Wolf glance round, reining his mount in as he realized that her horse had stopped. He reeled around and drew up before her, his horse frisky with impatience.
‘You are trying my patience, Miss Meadowfield. We’ve Gretna to reach by nightfall, so start riding.’ Wolf’s face was hard and uncompromising.
Rosalind made no move. Just the thought of galloping brought waves of nausea rolling up from