Desdemona gave a false smile. "So pleased to hear that. I was afraid the rigors of primitive travel might put them at odds with each other. That would be a pity when they are newly wed."

As Lady Ross's carriage rumbled off in a cloud of dust, the shopkeeper permitted herself a wide, gaptoothed grin of satisfaction. That pair of young rascals were the most profitable customers she had ever had.

The big Cockney, who claimed he was looking for two thieves, had been good for two pounds, but it was the nobleman with the crest on his carriage who had tipped her off that something strange was afoot. He was looking for two young cousins, off on a lark. That time the search was on behalf of a dying granny, not a father. His lordship been good for five quid. And now here was the lady, looking for her niece and nephewinlaw. Should have held out for ten pounds.

As she lifted her skirt to tuck the five guineas into a purse slung around her waist, she wondered if anyone else would be along. More than that, she wondered what would happen to the fugitives when their pursuers caught up with them.

She gave a cackle of laughter. She'd put her money on the blond gent. With a tongue as gilded as his hair, that young fellow could talk his way out of anything.

Chapter 12

They heard the lowing before they saw the small, windswept stone building. Aptly called the Drover Inn, it stood on the crest of a hill overlooking an expanse of rolling green hills. Soon they were close enough to see a vast herd of black cattle grazing in the meadow beyond the inn.

"We're in luck," Robin said. "A good thing it's Sunday."

She looked at him askance. "Why?"

"Those are Welsh Black cattle. Good Welsh Methodist drovers won't travel on Sunday, which is why they are here and not some miles down the track."

"I see." She gazed longingly at the inn. "Robin, do you think the treasury could stretch to getting a room for the night, and a hot bath with it?"

"Luckily we've been getting ripe at the same rate, but I know what you mean. I'd wrestle Simmons with one hand tied behind my back in return for a bath." He looked thoughtful. "Perhaps it's time for a magic show. After a quiet Sunday, people will be in the mood for a bit of entertainment."

He paused for a moment to place coins and a handkerchief in convenient spots. After he picked a pretty oxeye daisy and made it disappear, they headed toward the inn.

Drovers and assorted other folk lounged about outside, chatting, smoking, and enjoying the late afternoon sun. No one gave the newcomers anything more than a casual glance.

Maxie followed Robin into the inn, where the land lord and his wife presided over the taproom. A subtle, quicksilver change passed through her companion. Though his features didn't change an iota, he took on a different personality.

He announced himself as the Remarkable Lord Robert and began making coins vanish, then reappear in improbable places. He was greeted by waves of laughter. A handy pack of cards was pressed into service, witty jokes were made, and empty tankards were juggled in the air.

Robin ended by producing the daisy from his handkerchief and handing it to the landlady with a bow. His performance was masterful, with a rippling flow of words that amused without becoming so glib as to make conservative country folk wary.

Maxie watched a little wistfully, thinking that Robin was almost a stranger again. The closeness of the night she had told her story and the next morning had vanished as soon as they began walking. The day that followed had been mercifully uneventful. They had laughed and joked. They had even spent the night sleeping like two friendly spoons, and awakened without any unruly passions on either side.

It had all been very pleasant and unthreatening. Yet she would like to have seen more of the deeper, more complicated man who was the real Robin. She would like to know more about the hard roads he had traveled before they had met.

Show over, her companion came to the corner where she was waiting. "Success," he announced. "There is a double room available under the eaves. The landlord and his wife will also throw in dinner, breakfast, hot baths, and washing water for the princely sum of fourpence."

"Splendid. What do you have to do in return?"

"Perform two shows in the taproom during the evening." His voice became reverent. "After which-a hot bath."

"Life is good," she said solemnly.

"So it is."

For a moment, she thought there was a flash of the deeper Robin in his gaze, but he said only, "Now we must find the head drover and ask for permission to travel with the group. It will be off by seven o'clock tomorrow morning."

She winced. "We'll scarcely have time to grow tired of civilized living."

He grinned. "A rolling stone may gather no moss, but it does acquire a certain polish."

Laughing, she followed him outside. Laughter was almost enough.

Maxie sank into the tin tub of steaming water with a shiver of ecstasy so intense that a Puritan minister would have sent her straight to hell. After days of hasty, partial washups in cold streams, a real bath was bliss unbounded.

When her skin started to wrinkle, she rinsed the soap from her hair and reluctantly emerged. The tub was set behind a screen, but she still preferred to be dry and clothed before Robin returned from his second performance.

An image of him finding her in the bath flashed through her mind, followed by a highly erotic scenario of what might happen next. Cheeks flushed, she vigorously toweled herself dry. It wasn't Robin she needed to put a knife into, it was herself.

She had watched his first show, laughing with everyone else. Then she had slipped upstairs and washed all of their clothing that wasn't currently being worn. The garments were now draped on a chair in front of the fire. They had to pay two pence extra for the coal, but it was worth it to know there would be clean, dry clothing in the morning.

She used her one shift as a nightgown. It was heavenly to feel the whisper of soft muslin against her skin, to have her body unbound by tight clothing. For this one night, she was going to sleep like a proper female, even though in the morning it would be back to boots and breeches.

After roughly toweling her hair, she sat crosslegged in front of the fire and began the time consuming business of combing and drying the thick tresses. It was quiet, except for an occasional rumble of distant laughter from the taproom or the lowing of a restless cow. This was the first time she had been really alone since she had met Robin, and the solitude was pleasant. Ruefully she admitted that it wouldn't be half so enjoyable if she hadn't known that soon he would return.

Her mind turned to London and speculations about what she would find there. The days had not diminished her determination to learn the truth about her father's death, and to see justice done if he had really been murdered. Yet part of her was afraid of learning what had happened. She had loved her father in spite of his failings, but she would not enjoy confronting new evidence of his weaknesses. And if Lord Collingwood was the villain, justice would be tempered with regret, though not enough to swerve her from her duty.

It was easier to live in the moment, in this journey, which had taken on an odd, suspended in time quality. In the past lay grief, in the future lay hard decisions, not only about her father's death, but about the rest of her life.

She stopped combing, her hands relaxing in her lap as her thoughts went to Robin. Though she had resented his presence at first, his help had proved invaluable. He had given her a great deal, and her sense of equity said that she must do something for him in return.

Giving him her body was an obvious solution. It would be highly pleasurable, and her herbal tea should prevent awkward consequences. Yet she feared that her complex mixture of feelings for Robin might become love if they became fully intimate. She didn't need that kind of pain to add to her grief for her father.

There was also a distinct possibility that such a gift would not be welcome. Robin was clearly attracted to her, but he seemed to share her doubts about the wisdom of becoming lovers.

She smiled wryly and resumed her combing, fluffing the straight black strands in the firewarmed air. She was like the cat who was always on the wrong side of the door. She had never liked being an object of lust. Now she found that she wasn't entirely happy being an object of unlustful friendliness, either.

Climbing the steep staircase while balancing a heavy copper of steaming water would have been tricky at the best of times. The task was made more difficult by the amount of ale Robin had drunk. Exercising care, he managed to get up the steps without incident. He rapped on the bedchamber door to warn Maxie that he was coming, waited a few seconds, then entered.

She was sitting crosslegged in front of the fire, combing the hair that cascaded straight and glossy black almost to her waist. Smiling, she asked, "How did the second show go?"

He stopped, momentarily stunned. While she was always lovely, for the first time since they had met she was also perfectly and exquisitely feminine. The flickering flames of the fire limned her body in warm light and turned the thin fabric of her shift translucent.

He had known that her shapeless boy's apparel concealed a trim female figure, but the actuality far surpassed his imagination. She was beautifully proportioned, with curving hips, a slim waist, and breasts that would fit perfectly into his palms. His mouth went dry, and his selfcontrol came perilously close to collapse when he saw the shadowy circles of her areolas dimly visible beneath the shift.