She studied him over the rim of her mug. There was something very intimate about watching a man shave. Though she had seen her father do it hundreds of times, she had never recognized how profoundly masculine whiskers were. "What do you have in mind? We still haven't enough money for coach fare. Unless you think you can earn enough by performing magic shows?"

"I have an idea. It wouldn't be the fastest route, but we would be very hard to follow. Are you familiar with the drovers?" He stropped his razor half a dozen times on a short leather strap, then stretched the skin of his cheek so that he could removed a swath of redblond whiskers.

Those same whiskers had gently prickled the nape of her neck the night before. Her toes curled and she swallowed hard. "You mean the men who drive livestock to the cities?"

"Correct. All cities must have food brought in, and London is so large that it draws supplies from the whole of Britain." He wiped the blade clean of soap and whiskers with a tuft of hay, then began work on the other side of his face. "Most of the cattle eaten in the city are driven in from Wales and Scotland."

"All the way from Scotland?" She raised her brows. "It must be very tough beef by the time it arrives."

"The beasts are generally fattened in southern pastures before going to market," he explained. "And it isn't only cattle, though they are driven the farthest Drovers herd sheep, geese, pigs, even turkeys, though not over such great distances."

Diverted, she asked, "How does one drive turkeys?"

"With great difficulty," he said, a twinkle in his eyes. "It's quite a sight. At the end of the day, the turkeys will roost in trees for the night, hundreds at a time."

She spent a delighted moment envisioning branches bowed with sleeping turkeys. It distracted her from thoughts of Robin's chiseled, soapedged features. "What has this to do with us?"

"The droveways follow the high country when possible, and they avoid toll roads. Frugal travelers sometimes accompany the drovers, for companionship and safety. Or sometimes just for the adventure of it." Haying finished his cheeks and jaw, he stretched his chin to shave his throat.

She watched in fascination while a glistening drop of water trickled into the hollow of his throat, then slid down the center of his chest, dampening the curling hair.

Noticing her fixed stare, he asked, "Is something wrong?"

"Mere female nerves," she said quickly. "Seeing a razor so close to a throat makes me nervous."

He grinned. "I haven't done any serious damage to myself yet." With three smooth strokes, he completed the job, then wiped the blade clean and snapped it back into its horn handle.

He may not have hurt himself, but he had certainly raised merry Hades with her peace of mind. Relieved that he had finished before she turned into a perspiring wreck, she said, "I see the advantages. Are there any droveways nearby?"

"One runs west of Nottingham, a couple of days walk from here. At this season, there's a good chance of finding drovers on it within a day or so."

"Have you traveled with drovers before?"

"Yes. That's why I know this particular route." He dipped his facecloth in the warm water, then wrung it out and wiped his face and throat clean. "Once I fell in with a group of drovers when I ran away from home."

Running away had the ring of truth. "You must have been a rare handful for your mother."

After a long pause, he said, "Not in the least. She took one look at me after my birth and promptly expired from shock."

No amount of insouciance could disguise the underlying pain of his statement. "I'm sorry," she said quietly.

"Nowhere near as sorry as my father was." Robin went to the open door of the shed and tossed his shaving water outside. "I look just like her, according to the pictures. He couldn't see me without flinching."

She wanted to weep for the child Robin had been. Instead, she asked softly, "Why are you telling me this?"

He was silent for the length of a dozen heartbeats, his profile as cool and remote as the gray sky. "I don't know, Kanawiosta. Perhaps because sometimes I weary of being obscure."

It made the back of her neck prickle to hear him use her private name. For the first time, he was voluntarily revealing something of what lay beneath his polished, impenetrable exterior. Perhaps it was because the night before, she had exposed so much of herself. Or perhaps sleeping in each other's arms had removed some of the barriers that had separated them.

She thought of the traits she had sensed when trying to teach him to listen to the wind, and the woman he had wanted to marry who had refused him. Like a ball of yarn, he was made of tangled strands of humor and evasion, intelligence and guile, consideration and cool detachment. Now he was handing her a loose end of the skein, to unwind if she chose.

If she did, what would she find at the heart of his mystery, when all the complex strands had been raveled away?

As soon as she formed the question, she knew the answer. At the heart of all that wit and easy charm lay loneliness.

Desdemona had been relieved when Lord Wolverton sent word to her after hearing reports of the runaways on the Rotherham road. At least the two were safe. However, the marquess had given her no other clues, and she had not seen him again. She would have to locate her quarry the hard way.

Heaving a sigh of weary exasperation, she climbed out of her carriage in the dusty high street of still another village. It seemed as if she had been crisscrossing the north Midlands forever, seeking traces of her niece and the unprincipled rogue who was taking advantage of her. Her opinion of Lord Robert Andreville was not improved by the fact that the pair was still traveling by foot. One would think that any selfrespecting rake would at least hire a post chaise. The fellow had no style.

She had become adept at asking questions. The tiny villages, where all strangers were noted, were the best places for hearing news, and the best people to ask were the elderly folk who clubbed together at the local public house. Shopkeepers were also good.

For the third time that day, Desdemona entered the only shop in a tiny village, Wingerford by name. As usual, the shop was a jumble of oddments such as needles and thread, bolts of plain fabric and cheap ribbons, pottery jugs, staple foods like salt and sugar, and jars of sweets for children. A ginger cat snored softly on a pile of used clothing, his nose covered by his tail.

At Desdemona's entrance, the stout proprietress hurried forward to greet her, eyes sharpening at the sight of the expensively dressed visitor. "How may I serve you, my lady?"

"I wonder if you might have seen my niece and her husband on this road within the few days," Desdemona replied. "She's dark and quite small, only about five feet tall, and dressed like a boy. He's about average height, very blond and goodlooking."

"Aye, they were in this very shop yesterday." The woman's gaze held shrewd appraisal. "The gent had torn his shirt and needed a new one." She gave a modest cough. "He bought a hat and some undergarments as well. I didn't have anything as fine as what he was wearing, but he seemed satisfied."

Desdemona went into her prepared story. "It is the greatest nonsense. My niece's husband made a silly wager about walking to London, and my niece decided to accompany him. They haven't been married long and she considered such a journey a great lark. I didn't approve, of course, but it wasn't my place to forbid it."

She gave a doleful sigh. "There would have been no harm in it, except that the girl's father has taken seriously ill. We are trying to find them in hopes that she can reach her father before it is too late." Desdemona's voice had a slight quaver; if she told this story many more times, she would believe it herself. "Did my niece or her husband mention anything about the route they were taking from here?"

"Indeed?" The proprietress raised her brows, her expression delicately conveying that she had grave doubts about the story but wouldn't dream of calling her distinguished visitor a liar.

The next move was Desdemona's. A respectable woman like this one might be offended by an outright bribe; something subtler was called for. She glanced around the crowded shop until she found an appropriate object. "Oh, what wonderful ribbon. I have been searching forever for just this shade of blue." She pulled a spindle from a mound of fabric trimmings. "Would you consider selling this to me for, oh, five pounds?"

"Five guineas and it's yours." The ironic gleam in the shopkeeper's eye left no doubt that she knew what the real transaction was.

"Splendid," Desdemona said heartily, as if she didn't know that the true value of the ribbon was less than a pound.

The shopkeeper wrapped the spindle in a length of creased paper. "Happen that when I was in the back of the shop I heard the young couple talking. Something about droving."

"Droving?" Desdemona said, perplexed.

"Aye, there's a big droveway west of here. Maybe they intend to travel along with the drovers. Wouldn't be the first time that gentry folk decided to travel that way as an adventure."

Desdemona pursed her lips. It made sense, while complicating her search still further. "Could you tell me exactly how to find the droveway?"

The proprietress' eye drifted to her customer's hand. Desdemona handed the money over, and received detailed instructions.

Before leaving, she asked one more question. "Were my niece and her husband getting on well?"

The shopkeeper shrugged. "Seemed to be on easy terms. Leastwise, they laughed a lot."