Escape with A Rogue (11 page)

You’re making stew, Travers, and saving her fingers. That’s all.

He reached around her. Lady M. gasped as his hands suddenly appeared by hers. She jumped back. “I’ll do it,” he murmured.

“Chopping carrots is the least I can—” She stopped as he tugged at the knife in her hand. To his surprise, she let it go. “Even in this,” she declared, “you won’t give ground.”

“
Even
in this? I have given ground all along. If I hadn’t, you wouldn’t be here.”

Archly, she tipped up her chin. An unintentional smile tugged at his lips.

“Go and dress, Jack Travers. Then you can cut up whatever you wish. But if the soldiers were to burst in right now, what would your plan be? Mine is to have you
disguised
.”

He slanted a look to the crude but surprisingly wide bed. He wanted nothing more than to fall into its softness and pull Lady Madeline down on top of him.

Hell.

So he gave ground again—he drew his arms back to allow her to work, then stalked to the clothes. But when he looked back, he saw her hips swaying as she sashayed to the pot to drop the potatoes in. The dress had a low bodice. It was designed for a buxom older lady, so it gaped. He glimpsed the perspiration-slicked skin of her cleavage, the slopes of her breasts, the soft shadow between—

He poured water from the cracked pitcher into the basin. It was cold, but a douse in frigid water was what he needed.

He reached the bed and the pile of clothes. The vicious way he yanked off his worn trousers tore them. In an instant they lay in two dirty heaps at his feet and a breeze struck his buttocks.

He’d forgotten he was naked underneath.

A quick glance behind showed him Lady Madeline’s back, but her hand looked to be peeling more clumsily than before. A large chunk of potato fell to the floor. “Bother,” she snapped. Apparently, she’d taken a look. And hadn’t expected to see his lily-white arse.

Jack stripped off his shirt and washed off as much of the prison grime as he could with water and a cloth. Sparing Lady M’s sensibilities seemed pointless now. Once clean, he touched the shirt that topped the pile and let out a low, harsh whistle between his teeth. The garment was good, strong linen, and freshly washed. Neatly folded. Waiting for him.

Jerking the trousers from the pile, he pulled those on. They were an inch too short, which made him smile when he had no right to. He flung his discarded prison garb into the fire before pausing to do up the trouser buttons.

Another muttered “bother” told him more food had landed on the ground. She wasn’t as self-possessed as she appeared.

It was impossible to forget how vulnerable she could be—he’d seen that when she had kissed him in the road.

He tugged on his shirt, then shook his shoulders to let the tails fall past his hips. Then he looked down. Two boots sat neatly by the foot of the bed.

She had acquired boots for him, sturdy leather ones that gleamed with new black polish. He’d been marched barefoot to Dartmoor and the shoes they’d given him there had fallen apart. Once upon a time, his boots had been handmade Hessians that fit to perfection, the sort of footwear a gentleman would own.

He pulled on the boots, returned to her side. “My turn, now, my lady. It was our bargain.”

“There is another knife and no reason we can’t work together to the same end.”

“Aye.” But his agreement came half-heartedly. There were more reasons they could not than there were stars in a night sky.

Eventually, he had to make her understand that.

She shuffled along to make room at her side, but he chose to work across from her.

Clean clothes, food that didn’t come rotten, and a golden-haired earl’s daughter to gaze upon. A wrongful murder conviction had not felt as surreal as this did.

Jack grasped a potato and skinned it, trying for quick but thin shavings. “I wanted to speak to you that afternoon,” he said, “before I was dragged away to the local lock-up, but I never got the chance. And once I was in Exeter Gaol awaiting trial, I knew I’d never have the opportunity to talk to you again.”

“I’m sorry, Jack. I wish—I wish so very much—I had tried to talk to you.”

“They wouldn’t have allowed it.”

“They would if I’d paid them well enough.”

Funny, that she had the same belief he’d once had—that money made anything possible. She even believed her wealth and position could buy his freedom. It wasn’t true. “What happened to make
you
believe I’m innocent?”

“Grandfather said you are.”

“You wouldn’t take even your grandfather at just his word, Lady M. There has to be more than that. In court, you were convinced of my guilt. Tell me.”

He heard her sharply drawn breath. “I—It would be best to speak of that when our food is ready, Jack.”

* * *

She had run out of time.

Madeline watched Jack stir the contents of his bowl and lift his spoon to his lips. He let out a sound like a growl—like a dog would make when running down a particularly plump hare. “This, my lady, is delicious.” He ran his tongue over his tempting bronze-pink lips. A rub of his wrist across his chin cleaned a stray drop of stew. Primitive satisfaction flashed in the grin he gave her.

She was feeding him well and he liked her for it.

The delicious smell of cooked onions made her ache with hunger. She hadn’t had any meat or fowl for the stew, but a small hunk of country cheese sat on a wooden board, along with bread that might be going a bit stale. She’d packed the rest of her food into her now-missing carriage, and had only left a little here in case they had needed to return.

It took Jack only moments to devour the entire bowl’s contents.

Her own bowl sat untouched. She saw his gaze land there. “You aren’t hungry?”

Painfully so, but too unnerved to eat. “I was watching you.” That sounded risqué, and she felt a foolish blush prickle her cheeks. “I forgot to eat mine.”

Grandfather would not be proud.
Get on with it, Madeline,
he would bark, if he were here.
Dear God, I did not settle half a million pounds on a girl I believed could quail and quiver.

Well, Grandfather was not here. She grasped Jack’s bowl and hastened to refill it at the pot that still hung over the fire. He beat her to the ladle, her bowl in hand. “It’s my duty to serve you.”

Don’t, Jack.
But he filled his bowl, topped up hers to the very rim so her cooled stew was now piping hot, then took them both to the table.

She followed. He took his seat on the rough wooden chair, stretching his legs out so far they almost touched her feet, even when she had them tucked demurely beneath her chair.

He hooked one arm over the back. “You saw me leave the maze and was convinced I was the killer, as was your grandfather. What made you both change your minds?”

“I learned my family had been appallingly cruel.”

Those moor-green eyes stayed on her. She couldn’t keep the truth to herself just because she wanted his forgiveness.

She rushed on. “A witness came forward who saw Miss Grace Highchurch alive after you left her in the maze. I knew, of course, that you had not gone back in, because I was with you. So you could not be guilty.” She met Jack’s eyes, knowing she owed him more, but waited—waited for him to demand it.

“A witness came forth now?” he asked. “Two years after it happened? Who?”

His tone was so gentle that her tongue stumbled. Perhaps she could just gloss over the witness’ identity. Perhaps she did not have to say it was her brother, Philip. “No, he came forth at the time of the murders. He told Grandfather. But—”

“But your grandfather waved his story aside? Why? Because I was a convenient scapegoat and a way to protect his family from suspicion?”

“Yes.” Her voice sounded wrong. Too calm, and therefore too arrogant. “That was exactly what happened.”

“Why now, then, my lady? You said freeing me from prison put Lord Philip at risk.”

It was there, deep below his words—simmering rage that wanted to explode.

“I didn’t know. I swear to you, Jack, I didn’t know there was someone who could prove you innocent. I was so
furious
. My grandfather had no right—”

He was on his feet, mahogany-brown hair spilling over his brow, his eyes darker than the forests in fairy tales. He must hate her. But when he reached her, it was to stroke her hair and give her a fleeting smile. “Don’t trouble yourself, love. I’ve survived.”

Don’t trouble yourself.
Grandfather’s confession had changed her life. She’d once idolized her grandfather, then learned she had turned her back on an innocent man because Grandfather had lied to her and had told Philip to keep his evidence a secret. “That’s not enough, Jack.”

“Shh.”

Dear heaven, she tingled where he gently caressed her.

“For me it is,” he said.

“For me it is
not
. I want the truth. You are not guilty. And I don’t really believe—” She didn’t want to believe Philip was guilty. After Grandfather had confessed to her what he’d done to Jack, she had found her brother. She had demanded the truth. Philip had gone stark white. She could remember his voice, both angry and pleading.

I didn’t do it, Maddy, but it could have looked bad for me. You know what happened to Travers—strung up for the crime when he was innocent. Would you have preferred that had happened to me?

All the while she’d thought—
why would Grandfather do so much to protect you if he didn’t fear you were guilty?
But even at the end of his life, when he’d wanted to make peace with God, Grandfather had sworn he believed his grandson innocent
.

She had to know the truth. She had told Jack she believed her brother was innocent. But she was
not
sure. Either it had been Philip or it had been someone else . . .

“Lady M.?”

She faced Jack. He didn’t look as though he despised her. But what was really behind his inscrutable green eyes, which seemed too mild for a man who’d just been told he’d been betrayed? It couldn’t be this easy. Could it?

“Now you understand why I have to find the truth,” she said. “Grandfather should have faced the truth then—whatever it is. If I’d known, it’s what I would have—”

Jack took up a spoonful of her stew and brought it to her mouth. Madeline gaped. He was going to
feed
her.

“Let’s talk of it no more tonight. Eat, then sleep, Lady M. You’re overwrought.”

She opened her mouth to protest, and he slipped the spoon in. The taste of her efforts sang on her tongue—truly, not all that bad. But as she swallowed, she looked to the small bed, with its two old blankets and simple sheets. After the stew, she would be sharing the bed with Jack.

She held up her hand, blocking him from sliding in another mouthful. “Would you tell me what actually did happen that afternoon? I did see you come out of the maze. I found your red kerchief beside Sarah’s body, and I saw you look down at your hands and stare at them as though they couldn’t possibly belong to you.”

Why did she read nothing in his face? He merely nodded. “I know. It’s what you said in court.”

“What happened in the maze, Jack? What happened between you and Grace?”

Chapter Seven

“I can’t deny a lady, I guess.” Jack leaned back so hard in the small wooden chair, it shrieked in protest. “I did argue with Grace Highchurch in the maze. She enraged me so much I shook her.”

Madeline took in his words as she took his bowl. He stood at once, acting the gentleman. She ladled more stew and brought it back to him. “Why did you meet her there?”

He didn’t sit down. “Grace would come to see me—as you did—when she was taking your mother for walks or accompanying your sister on a ride. Like you, she would talk to me.”

Staring up at Jack, she suddenly felt an utter fool. The companion had shared the same pleasure she had: the pleasure of visiting Jack to talk, watch his skilled hands on the reins of a horse, and savor his delicious smile.

A horrifying thought struck. Had Grandfather feared she’d developed a . . . tendre for Jack? Had he engineered Jack’s arrest to save both his beloved grandson and her: Philip from death by hanging and her from a dangerous attraction that could ruin her? Her mother had had a love affair with a handsome land steward, and it had almost destroyed
her
. Had Grandfather believed she was like her mother? He might, since Madeline was the product of that illicit liaison; since she was really the illegitimate daughter of a land steward.

She took her seat, smoothing her skirts. The instinct to hide the secret of her birth and the promise she’d made to never speak of it made her lower her eyes. “Were you and Grace having an affair?”

“How can you ask that without even a flicker of anything in your voice, Lady M.?”

“That is not an answer, Jack.”

“Grace flirted with me, but I knew she was going bald-headed after your brother.”

After Philip. Just what she’d feared. Madeline’s spoon clattered to the floor.

“She acted like a staid and refined young woman,” Jack went on. He leaned down, picked up her spoon, then frowned at it. “But Grace had a fiery, passionate side that fascinated men.”

“Did she?” she asked coldly.

“She had no interest in me. She was hoping to entice a nobleman into marriage. I told her no man of quality would marry the governess he got into trouble. But she believed your grandfather would insist.”

“I cannot believe she thought that.”

“Your grandfather was a surprisingly moral old man, for all the dodgy business ventures he financed. She was the child of one of his friends, wasn’t she? She thought that elevated her enough.”

“And you—you—” Madeline stopped. Grace had been the daughter of Squire Highchurch, an old schoolmate of Grandfather’s, a man who’d lost his wealth to gaming debts. Astonishing, though, that Grace would tell Jack all her plans, and that he would be handing out advice on marital matters. But then, hadn’t she sat on the fence at his side and felt free enough to reveal her dreams?