image, but still it lingered and she knew that she had never met a man the like of Wolf. He was ill bred and bad mannered, a veritable rogue. But there was more to him than that: there was something in his eyes, something dark and dangerous…and strangely seductive. He possessed an underlying feral streak, an unpredictability that meant he did not act in the manner that she expected. She put her head down, resting her face upon her knee, feeling its hard press against her cheekbone.
He was a strong man—one prone to violence, if the scar on his face was anything to judge by—a man that no one would wish for their enemy, but that was exactly what he was to her, she thought dismally. And this man had roused in her such anger and pushed her from the reserve in which she normally held herself. This was the man that would take her to Evedon.
You are mine, he had said, and the thought of being completely under his control made her blood run cold. For she had only just begun to imagine what a man like Wolf could do to her. She remembered the way he had looked at her upon the staircase, and the warm press of his hand against the small of her back that seemed to scorch through all the layers of her clothing, and the clean enticing smell of him. She remembered, too, how she had been unable to move, unable to think, her own will seemingly sapped from her body, and how quickly the smoulder in his eyes had cooled and frozen back into hatred. Rosalind clutched a hand tight across her mouth to stop the whimper of shock that threatened to escape. He was both fascinating and frightening, and she did not understand the effect he had upon her. God help her, for he was harsh and ruthless and unstoppable. With Wolf as her enemy, she may as well flee back to Evedon and throw herself upon the earl’s mercy.
Against her ribs, she felt the warmth of the linen package where she had hidden Evedon’s letter, a reminder of what was at stake. Wolf might threaten her, but he would not kill her. Evedon would send her to the gallows. She squeezed her eyes tight, knowing what she was going to have to do. It had been difficult enough to escape Evedon; it was going to take a miracle to escape Wolf.
She clutched her knees tighter and began to pray.
Chapter Five
Wolf took a hearty swig of the ale in his tankard. ‘I needed that.’
‘Gave you a hard time, did she?’ Campbell asked with a twinkle in his eye.
‘Hardly,’ said Wolf. ‘She seems to be under the impression that Evedon will push to have her hanged.’
‘And no doubt you did nothing to dissuade the lassie of that belief.’ Campbell cocked an eyebrow.
‘Why should I? Let her sweat a bit.’ Wolf took another swig of his ale. ‘This journey is likely to be the worst of her punishments.’
‘What do you mean?’ Kempster looked up from his beer. ‘Evedon’ll haul her through the courts. He’ll not see her hang what with her being a lady, like, but she should get a spell in the gaol. Whatever he does, she’ll be utterly ruined.’
‘There will be no scandal.’ Wolf gave a cynical laugh. ‘Evedon wants the affair kept quiet. Why else do you think he’s employed us? He wants her delivered back to him with the utmost of discretion. He has no intention of publicizing the fact she’s done a runner with his mother’s jewels.’
‘But he cannot mean to let her off with stealing from the dowager?’
Wolf gave a hard mirthless smile at the outrage in Kempster’s voice. ‘You’ve much to learn of men like your employer, Mr Kempster.’
Kempster shook his head as if to deny Wolf’s words.
‘She’s a pretty wee slip o’ a lassie, Kempster,’ said Campbell. ‘Maybe Evedon has his own reasons for wanting her theft hushed up.’
But Kempster was not listening.
Campbell smiled.
‘It doesn’t matter what the hell she is, other than a thief,’ said Wolf sourly. ‘All we have to do is deliver her to Evedon. What he does with her then is none of our concern. And if we let her think the worst of it, then all the better. It is less than she deserves.’
‘You’re a hard man, Wolf,’ said Campbell, ‘a hard man indeed. Is that no’ so, Mr Kempster?’
‘Yeah.’ Kempster brought his gaze back from the distance, and wiped the pensive expression from his face. He drained his glass. ‘I’ll fetch us another jug.’ He gestured to the empty jug of beer standing in the middle of the table. ‘Put it on Evedon’s account as expenses.’ He stood raising his hand to attract the serving wench’s attention.
‘Leave it,’ said Wolf. ‘We’ve an early start in the morning and a fair distance to travel. We’ll need clear heads not beer-sopped groggy ones.’
‘One more jug won’t do no harm,’ countered Kempster.
Wolf said nothing, but his hard gaze met the footman’s and held.
‘Now that I think about it, I might just go and stretch my legs before getting my head down.’ Kempster went over and whispered into the serving wench’s ear, before heading outside.
Two minutes later and Wolf and Campbell watched the girl follow Kempster.
‘Young lust,’ Campbell commented and set his tankard down on the table.
A vision of Rosalind Meadowfield flickered in Wolf’s mind, of her clear hazel eyes and full pink lips and the dark curl of her hair swept back in its prim chignon. He swallowed hard, forcing the image away, and scowled at Campbell’s quip.
‘We should get some sleep,’ he said and his voice was edged with the anger that he felt at himself for thinking of the woman.
Campbell drew Wolfe a quizzical glance but said nothing.
The two men retired for the night.
The next morning, Rosalind steeled herself not to flinch at the sight of the little mare in the yard. She could see that Wolf was watching her, his expression hard, his pale gaze cool and unyielding. And for all that her stomach was squirming with the prospect of riding, she knew that she would rather die than let Wolf know it. Kempster watched too, but there was no smirk upon his face today. She turned away from them, gathered her courage and, hiding her reluctance, let Campbell help her up into the mare’s saddle.
She was careful to let nothing of her fear or apprehension show upon her features as they rode out of the inn’s yard, following the same format as the previous day: Wolf riding in front of her, Campbell and Kempster behind. The road was in such a bad state that they could move no faster than a walk. But Rosalind was grateful for the pot holes and uneven surface, for fear held her tense in its grip and it was all she could do to mask it. They had ridden for almost an hour when Rosalind felt her horse react.
‘Whoa, stop there, lassie,’ she heard Campbell shouting behind her, before riding up and dismounting. She jumped down from the saddle while he examined one of the mare’s rear legs. She watched how gentle and quiet his manner was for such a big strong man. And then Wolf was there, sliding down from his saddle to crouch at Campbell’s side.
‘We’ve got a problem: she’s lame.’ Campbell tipped his head towards the mare.
Wolf nodded. He did not look happy.
‘We
