lip.
‘You need not concern yourself with me. I will sleep here on this stool.’
Wolf raised a sardonic brow and looked at her. ‘You will sleep on the floor alongside the rest of us.’
‘But…’ she felt the heat of a blush flood her cheeks.
From across the room she heard Campbell chuckle, and from the corner of her eye she saw him shake his head.
‘You need not worry, Mr Campbell and I not in the habit of liasing with the criminals that we’re apprehending…no matter what they offer us in exchange for their freedom,’ said Wolf.
She felt the blush deepen at his horrible insinuation.
The flicker of the flames lit golden highlights through his hair and emphasized the mocking tilt of his mouth. It was a hard face, a face which looked as if it felt no fear but knew well how to instil it. He made Kempster’s pretty-boy looks appear weak and effeminate in comparison. And yet for all his harshness, there was something compelling about him, something darkly attractive. She shivered and wrapped the cloak more tightly around herself, trying to hide her vulnerability and anxiety.
Wolf walked towards her, and her eyes shifted to the coil of thin rope he held in his hand.
She rose slowly, warily, ready to flee.
‘Come now, Miss Meadowfield. You do not think we mean to leave you free to run away again, do you?’
‘You do not need to tie me. I will not run away, I give you my word.’
‘Forgive me if I place little trust in your word, miss.’
Her eyes darted to the doorway and she tensed. His hand reached for her and she tried to rush past him, but he side-stepped, catching her to himself.
‘No!’ She struggled to pull free, but he held her, gently yet firmly, until at last she realized that her effort was in vain and she stilled. ‘Please,’ she whispered, unable to bear the thought of being trussed and completely at the mercy of these men.
He seemed to pause, and for a moment she thought he would heed her plea, but then he gestured Campbell over, and the two men bound her hands behind her back. It was Wolf who tied the knots, testing the tension of the rope before he did so, slipping his fingers between the coarse hemp and the skin of her wrists to ensure that it was not tied too tight.
He led her over to the blanket closest to the fire and farthest from the door, pushing her, not roughly, down to sit upon the grey wool. Then he bound her ankles, catching the rope over the soft leather of her boots before folding a second blanket for her pillow.
‘You have no need of it as a cover; your fancy cloak is warm enough.’ He stepped away and did not look back at her.
Rosalind lay there for a long time, just staring into the flames and listening to the men’s breathing in the single room of the cottage. She was acutely aware of Wolf lying so close behind her back. It seemed that she could almost feel the heat of him across the small space that divided them. The floorboards pressed hard against her hip and shoulder bones, and her limbs were uncomfortable from the restriction of her bindings, but the fatigue that had weighed upon her earlier had disappeared. Her mind was wide awake, flitting with thoughts…and fears.
She had trusted in the letter, guarding it as a talisman, believing that its presence would prevent Evedon involving the law. And indeed it had done just that. But she had not banked on Evedon hiring a couple of ruffians to pursue her…and the letter. She berated her naivety. Of course Evedon would not just let her go free. She had been a fool to believe it. He wanted his letter back. And now all her plans and her hopes lay in ruins. The men would take her back to London. Evedon would have his letter and, once it was safe in his possession, he would send her to hang, not caring who she told of his secret. Without proof, her words would be taken as the rantings of a thief, nothing more. But he need not fear, she thought bitterly, for even then she would not tell. Regardless of what Lord Evedon did to her, she had no stomach to destroy his mother.
They would hang her. Her belly tightened with the dread of it. She knew all that would happen, had read the old newspaper report a hundred times over. And all because she had been caught by Wolf and the Scotsman.
In the quietness of the night, she could hear the catching snore of Campbell masking any sound the others might have made. She eased herself round on to her right-hand side and studied her captors.
Farthest away from the fire, Pete Kempster was curled facing the opposite wall, his body rising and falling in tiny motions with the shallow steady breaths of sleep. Next came Campbell, lying on his back, mouth open, face slack. And then there was Wolf. He lay facing her, eyes closed, breath quiet and even. The flickering light of the flames was warm and golden, softening his face, erasing all trace of mockery and contempt, so that he was quite the most handsome man she had ever seen, and she could not help but stare. She studied the strong, lean angles of his face, the dimpled cleft within the squareness of his chin, her gaze moving to the pale skin of the scar that flicked across his cheek, wondering as to the violence that had caused such a wound. Her eyes slid back up to his.
The breath caught in her throat. She froze, her heart suddenly thudding with a fury, her face burning with embarrassment. For the silver eyes were looking right back at her, filled with warning—and something else.
Her blood was rushing so loud she was sure that he must hear it. And yet she could not look away, trapped as she was in the moment, transfixed by his gaze.
He did not say a single word. He did not need to.
The moment stretched between them. Campbell’s soft snores went unnoticed. Everything seemed to fade to nothing so that there seemed only Wolf and the power of the intensity that blazed in his gaze.
At last she managed to look away. She rolled to face the fire and lay as before, eyes open, aware more than ever of Wolf behind her: a man, dangerous and awake. The very air seemed to vibrate with the tension that emanated from him, and her skin tingled with it. This was the man who would take her back to Evedon. This was the man with whom she must travel the length of the country. And she trembled at the thought. Lord save me, she pled a silent prayer, from Evedon…and from Wolf.
Chapter Three
Wolf woke at dawn to the sweet scent of a woman. He smiled and, still drowsy with sleep, reached a hand out to curl her soft body into his. His fingers contacted the thick fur lining of a cloak, a covering, but no woman. He cracked his eyes open and all of it came flooding back, Evedon, the job, Rosalind Meadow-field.
She was lying with her back snug against the hearth, curled on her side facing him, and he could see that in sleep her face lost its suspicious frown so that she looked younger than the twenty-five years Evedon had told him, and extremely innocent. But Wolf was aware of how very deceptive looks could be. Her hair was long and mussed, framing her pale face with its dark tendrils. Her cloak had become unfastened in the night and covered more of the floor than the woman. His eyes travelled lower to what the cloak had previously hidden, to the plain blue dress, prim and somewhat old-fashioned and, although clearly expensive, hardly robust enough for the journey ahead. Probably used to being ferried around in Lady Evedon’s fine carriage. She’d learn how the other half travelled long before they reached London, he thought grimly.
His eyes lingered on the pale slim neck and the way that her bodice strained tight across her breasts where her arms were bound behind her back. He thought
