A Noble Masquerade (13 page)

“What is going on?” Miranda whispered.

He sighed and began pulling her along, disregarding her cry. “They aren't alone, Miranda. They talked about meeting someone, and I don't have a weapon aside from this measly little knife. So if Lam . . . I mean, if the others show up, we'll be in trouble.”

“Trouble . . . I . . . Who are you?”

His silver eyes seemed to emit rather than reflect the moonlight as he stopped to stare down at her. She wasn't sure if hours or mere minutes passed as she stood there, trapped in his gaze, so close that their breath mingled in a frosty cloud between their faces. Why didn't she feel cold anymore?

Rain rolled down his cheek, finding the lines that marked the tension in his face. Her arm hurt, but what kind of pain must he be in?

“Do you trust me?” His voice was quiet but firm.

It wasn't an answer to her question, and yet it was. Something was very wrong here. Things had been strange since the day this man came to work for her brother. Regardless of that, Miranda felt that he was a man she could trust. There was nothing particular to point at, no definite reason that she should place her life in his hands, but she trusted him.

More importantly she trusted herself. Who would have thought she was capable of what she'd done under the wagon? On the road? God had given her sterner stuff than she'd given Him credit for.

“I trust you.” She placed her hand in his and they ran.

They ran for hours. Or minutes. Or days. Miranda lost touch with the concept of time and focused on putting one foot in front of the other and not landing on her face in the mud. They left the woods and crossed fields. He gave her a break here and there, but then threw her over hedges and followed her in a single leap. Whether by design or chance they never saw any dwellings. They just ran.

By the time Marlow slowed and led them into a shed, the sun was peeking weakly over the horizon through thin rain clouds. Miranda leaned against the wall and began to feel every ache and pain her body had managed to ignore during their midnight flight.

She was too tired to weep but too miserable to fight the tears. They ran unchecked down her cheeks in a silent flood as her body collapsed. Strong arms lifted her and carried her to the back corner of the shed. She felt scratchy hay against one cheek and a soft caress against the other. Already, the blessed darkness of sleep was beginning to creep across her mind.

“Sleep, Miranda. I'll keep you safe.”

The rough whisper was all the permission her body needed.

She was beautiful. Her hair was an utter disaster, her face smudged with dirt, her riding habit torn and filthy. There was a scrape on her right temple and mud caked halfway up her boots. She resembled a half-drowned street urchin.

And no woman had ever looked lovelier.

He sighed and leaned his head back against the wall of the shed. The chance of the conspirators finding them was small enough that he felt he could allow himself to rest, but he still put himself between Miranda and even the slimmest chance of danger.

There was only one door, and the building wasn't all that large. He had placed her on a scattering of hay near the back corner, a larger pile of hay between her and the door. She was peaceful now, more unconscious than sleeping. When she woke, pain was sure to be her first greeting.

Ryland stretched out his legs, twinges and aches of his own making him wince. He needed sleep as well, though he intended to take his rest in a seated position. It would keep him from falling so deeply asleep that he couldn't notice the door opening or hear suspicious movements outside. He allowed his head to loll to the side so he could look at Miranda once more.

Foolish girl. Every possible reason he could fathom for her to be under that wagon was so unbelievable that he couldn't even complete it. He was grateful, though. Without her, he'd probably still be tied to the wagon wheel—or worse.

He knew his captors had been waiting for Lambert but had no idea what they'd planned to do when the butler got there. Ryland sighed. He'd be lucky if he could find Lambert again. If the man was indeed following his comrades to the ruined cottage, he would find them bound or at least the abandoned wagon. He would soon be fleeing the district, if not the country.

Ryland rolled his shoulders, trying to work out the stiffness from his confinement. Sleep pulled at the edge of his mind, but he held it off a bit longer. He needed to think. Rain was still coming
down, which was to their advantage. Whoever's shed they were in would be doing only the most pressing chores this morning.

A few broken pieces of equipment, some hay, and a small stack of farm tools indicated this was a surplus shed. Their unwitting host was unlikely to head this way.

His tongue filled his mouth as he tried to swallow.

Water.
They were going to need water very soon. He pushed himself to his feet, stifling the low groan that threatened to emerge. Poor Miranda. She had to be in worse shape than he was. Yes, his head hurt and he'd taken a few punches, but she had walked for miles and crawled beneath that wagon. Nor was her body used to the sort of punishment he regularly put his through.

Two buckets lay amid the broken tools. He shook them out as best he could. The water would be a little dirty, but at least they'd have something to drink.

He eased the door open and slipped outside to place the buckets under the water cascading from the roof.

Light was just beginning to fill the early morning sky. Shining weakly through the clouds, it wasn't bright enough for him to make out more than a few shapes. None of those shapes appeared to be residences, which surprised him. A dense copse of trees extended out to his right. The farmer must have elected to live on the other side for a bit of privacy and shelter from the wind.

There was another, bigger building on the far side of the field, likely the barn. A scattering of cows ranged between the two structures.

The urge to search the distant barn for more food or weapons warred with his desire to stay close to Miranda. After only a moment's hesitation, he jogged across the sodden field to investigate the barn. Knowing that they weren't completely safe, however, had him taking quick glances over his shoulder to ensure the shed remained undisturbed.

Once inside the barn, though, he couldn't see the shed. He sacrificed thoroughness for speed, and after locating a dull knife and someone's forgotten lunch—an apple and cheese wrapped in muslin—he darted back into the rain.

He searched the area as he made his way back to the shed. Everything looked clear.

The door creaked as he reentered the building. The rain was muffled, but he was glad to see it was coming down hard again. It would easily fill their buckets in a couple of hours.

Once the door was snugged back into its frame, he heard the soft snore from the other side of the room. It made him smile.

He settled back down on the floor, making himself as much of a barrier as possible. No one would be able to get to Miranda without crawling over him or over a stack of hay taller than he was. Under the circumstances, it was the best protection he could offer. He leaned his head back against a pile of hay and allowed sleep to claim him.

Ryland woke with a start, taking a moment to determine what had disturbed his sleep.

A low moan echoed from the corner. Miranda was still asleep, but her body must have rested enough to begin to feel the aches and pains. She would wake soon.

Easing himself from the floor, Ryland fought to contain his own moans of discomfort. He checked the water buckets, pleased to find them both full. Rain fell softly now, and the sky had lightened to a murky grey. The storm would pass soon and they could get on with the business of getting home.

Ryland shut the door and lugged the sloshing buckets back to the corner. After drinking his fill and washing his face, he
settled in to wait for Miranda to awaken. Hopefully she would sleep for another hour or so.

After all, he had a story to concoct.

Miranda popped the last bite of cheese into her mouth and chewed. Her brain churned, still sluggish from the previous day's experiences. She was trying to get Marlow's explanation straight in her head.

To buy herself more time, she took a long drink of water. The water had been a welcome surprise when she woke. After drinking deeply and washing herself off as best she could, she had poured the remaining water into the other bucket. She turned her bucket over and now used it as a low stool. It was the most ladylike seating position she could find in the shed.

“
A lady never sits on the floor.”

A lady probably wasn't supposed to crawl on her belly through the dirt either.

“Let me see if I understand correctly.” Miranda shifted her legs, trying to find a more comfortable position. Buckets made for horrible chairs. “You stumbled upon Smith and this other fellow stealing something from the house?”

Marlow nodded.

“What were they stealing?”

His eyes darted to hers. It was enough to make her wonder how much of the story was true.

“I couldn't see it,” he said.

“But I thought you said you caught them.” Miranda's eyes narrowed. She wanted to believe him, because if he was lying she would have to lower her opinion of him. She may not be willing to admit her infatuation with a servant, but she didn't want to blacken his character in order to cure herself of it.

“A few days ago, I saw something that made me curious. I didn't know enough to report it, but they must have thought I did. They conked me on the head and dragged me away.”

“You said there was someone else as well. Do you know who?”

“They didn't say his name in the wagon.”

He hadn't actually answered her question. She debated pressing him, but if she pushed too much, he might leave her there. She had no idea where “there” was. She decided to accept everything for now, or at least appear to.

“So they put you in the wagon and drove you through the woods.”

Marlow tilted his head in her direction. “You would know more about that than I would.”

She acknowledged that with a wave of her hand. He could hardly know what happened when he was unconscious. “You were coming to as you got to the clearing?”

“Yes.”

“And then what?”

His sigh was more of a deep breath, but it was enough to tell her he really didn't want to go into details. “They tied my hands together, but they didn't have a gag, so I decided to try talking my way out of it. Donkey didn't—”

“Who?”

“The other guy with Smith. Donkey. I decided he needed a name.”

He had been rather brutal to that donkey. “I see. Continue.”

“Donkey didn't appreciate my humor, and he hit me with the butt of his gun. When I came to again I was tied to the wagon, soaked to the skin.” Marlow rolled his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. It wasn't a very subservient position, but Miranda couldn't fault him, given the situation.

She smiled at the disgruntled look on his face. “What did you say to him?”

“I insulted his shoes.”

Her eyebrows climbed to her hairline. “I beg your pardon?”

“He had ugly shoes.”

There was no making sense of that statement. How could she respond to that?

They sat in silence. One thing, one question lingered in her mind. Could she voice it? So many potential problems could arise from her asking about it.

Finally curiosity could be held back no more, though it came out as more of an observation than a question. “You called me Miranda. Four times.”

Marlow had been sitting, head against the wall, arms draped over raised knees, perfectly still for all intents and purposes. But somehow he managed to freeze at her statement. To Miranda it looked as if his breathing halted and his entire body seized up without him changing his position in the slightest. It was more of an impression than anything she could actually see.

In minute increments, his body seemed to relax. He opened his eyes and shot his piercing grey gaze directly at her. Miranda gulped. Why had she given in to her curiosity?

“My apologies, my lady.”

She released her pent-up breath. That wasn't so bad. It made way for a good plan. Acknowledge the event and move on with her life, both of them still firmly in their correct social places.

But then he opened his mouth again.

“I can only blame the tense moment in which we found ourselves. I confess that I was not born and raised a servant. It is a position I came to later in life. Occasionally I fall back on old habits. I shall try not to do it again, my lady.”