Desdemona reached street level and flung the front door of the inn open just as the steady stream of oxen disintegrated into chaos. Aghast, she stared into the milling, bellowing mass. Bullocks were much larger close up than they appeared from above, and their horns a great deal sharper.

Angry shouts pierced the general clamor. She looked down the street to see two roughlooking men forcing their way through the cattle. Grimly she decided that if they could do it, so could she. She stepped out onto the street.

From behind her came a horrified cry from the landlord of the Three Swans. Ignoring his shout, she flattened herself against the front wall of the inn and began edging her way up the high street. She should have brought her coachman. No, her guard, he was bigger and stronger. He probably also had too much sense to do something this stupid.

Tenaciously she worked her way toward where she had seen Maxima. Ahead of her, the two ruffians disappeared down an alley. In the distance were two men of similar stamp, but not a sign of her elusive niece. Furious with exasperation, she rose on her toes and shaded her eyes, trying to see what was going on.

Her action was a disastrous mistake. A horn from one of the crowding bullocks caught the sleeve of her pelisse and dragged her sideways. When she tried to regain her balance, she became tangled in her skirts. The fabric of her pelisse ripped away entirely and she fell, sprawling across the filthy cobblestones.

She looked up to see the ironshod hooves of a bullock descending on her, and knew that she was going to die.

Maxie and Robin followed the alley until it emptied into another street that paralleled the high. As they turned into it, a shout echoed behind them, proof that Simmons and his companions were too close behind.

The new thoroughfare was busy with traffic displaced from the high street, and they had to zigzag around incurious citizens. When the narrow road was blocked by a massive dray unloading goods at the rear of a shop, Maxie dropped to the ground to scramble under it, Robin right behind her.

They regained their feet on the other side of the wagon to find a draper's shop directly in front of them. After dusting his knees, Robin led the way inside and gave the woman behind the counter a smile of paralyzing charm. "Sorry to disturb you, madam, but we have urgent need of your back door."

As the dazzled female made confused sounds, he crossed the sales room and opened the only other door. Half expecting to have a bolt of fabric hurled at her, Maxie hastened after him.

A narrow corridor led to a kitchen at the back of the building. Robin gave the startled cook another disabling smile and they walked through into the garden. The iron gate at the bottom was unlocked and opened into another alley.

Like many old towns, Market Harborough had grown up on a twisted medieval street plan. Through pure bad luck, their route swung back and brought them into the view of one of Simmons's bruisers. The man shouted for his fellows. Even the background sounds of the cattle drive did not drown the sound of heavy pounding feet coming to join the pursuit.

Maxie and Robin pivoted and began racing through the tangle of alleys and lanes at top speed. If it had been dark, they would have been able to shake the hunters easily, but in daylight, the advantage was to Simmons, and the choice of routes was limited.

The next turn took them up a steeply angled lane where empty wooden casks were piled behind a tavern, redolent with the tang of hops. Struck by inspiration, Maxie panted, "Wait, Robin."

She tipped a cask on its side and waited for the pursuers to reach the mouth of the lane. Within seconds, the whole pack of them roared around the corner and started upward.

Gleefully she kicked the cask down the sloping ground, then reached for another. With a breathless gust of laughter, Robin joined her and they sent half a dozen casks crashing downward, booming and cracking as they collided with walls and one another. Filthy curses and abruptly curtailed squawks of protest followed the fugitives as they took off again.

Though the few seconds of rest had helped, Maxie's lungs still burned with strain. Nonetheless, she continued running, grateful for the active life that had given her stamina. Robin was paying her the compliment of assuming she was equal to what was necessary, and she would be damned if she would falter.

The next alley turned sharply to the right. When they swung around the corner, she gasped with dismay.

The alley ended in a brick wall, well over the height of a man's head, and there was no way out.

Desdemona was rolled onto her side by the grazing hooves of the first bullock, and her breath was knocked from her lungs. Even as she struggled to rise, she knew that her attempt would fail. In another few moments she would be past caring.

Then strong hands seized her and jerked her from the street to the relative safety of a shallow doorway. She came to rest with her face pressed into the shoulder of a wool coat.

Even without seeing her rescuer's face, she knew it was Wolverton. He swung her around so her back was to the door, his body shielding her from the buffeting of the oxen.

Fingers gripping his lapels, she went into a paroxysm of coughing from the dust she had inhaled. She realized with resigned selfmockery that a female could hardly appear at worse advantage, than she did at the moment. It was the first time she had wanted a man to admire her since she was eighteen.

The thought was outrageous and unwelcome, but she did not push away. Wolverton's embrace was too welcome.

An amused baritone sounded in her ear. "Did anyone ever tell you that your courage greatly exceeds your common sense?"

A bubble of laughter escaped her. "Yes. Frequently."

Behind them the noise and turbulence of the cattle was diminishing. With regret, Desdemona stepped away from her rescuer. Her wobbly knees immediately betrayed her, but before she could fall, he caught her arm again.

Unsteadily she said, "I'm quaking like a blancmange."

"A perfectly normal reaction. You had a narrow escape."

She leaned back against the door, willing her body to behave. "Still, I'm very much in your debt, Wolverton. You might have been trampled yourself."

He gave a deprecating shrug. "I spend a fair amount of time with cattle, so I'm used to their ways."

Even though most of the British aristocracy derived their fortunes from the land, few of the men Desdemona knew in London would so casually confess to being farmers. Perhaps she spent too much time in London.

She pushed at her tumbled hair with a trembling hand. Her gown and pelisse were ruined, and her bonnet lay smashed in the street. "If I'd known that I was going to take part in a cattle riot, I would have dressed differently."

Behind them, the now orderly oxen had settled down and resumed their progress to market. The drover who had been at the end of the herd approached, concern on his weathered face. "I hope ye took no harm, ma'am," he said in a rolling Welsh accent. "I'd not forgive myself if you'd been injured."

"I'm fine." To prove it, she took a cautious step away from the door. This time her knees supported her. "It was foolish of me to come into the street when the drive was going through."

As the drover started to move away, Wolverton asked, "Why did you turn the cattle like that? It was dangerous."

The drover stopped, an opaque expression in his eyes. " 'Twas a mistake, sir. The dogs misunderstood the command."

Still pleasantly but with a hint of steel, the marquess said, "I've heard that when a drive is over, the herd dogs make their own way home all the way from southern England to Wales or Scotland while their masters return by coach. Hard to believe that dogs so intelligent would misunderstand a whistle."

"You've caught me out, sir." Though the Welshman's voice was properly abashed, there was a gleam of humor in his eyes. "The problem was not the dogs' lack of wit, but mine. I gave the wrong signal, and the dogs obeyed. Lucky no damage was done."

"I'm sure you will tell me that turning the cattle had nothing to do with the two people who were with you, and the four men who were after them," Wolverton said dryly.

"Nay, not a thing." The drover touched the brim of his hat with two fingers. "I must look to my beasts now. Good day to you and the lady."

Desdemona stared after the Welshman's broad back. "You mean he did that deliberately to help Maxima and Lord Robert escape?"

"Undoubtedly. That was definitely Robin, though I didn't see much of his companion under that dreadful hat." He smiled a little. "My brother has a talent for enlisting allies."

Desdemona frowned, perplexed. "Why would there be four men pursuing them?"

The marquess tucked her hand under his arm and headed toward the Three Swans. "We can discuss it over luncheon."

Desdemona opened her mouth to disagree on principle, then closed it again. She really didn't want to protest.

Chapter 17

Undaunted by the sight of the brick wall ahead, Robin ordered, "Wait here."

He sprinted down the alley, his pace quickening. A stride from the wall, he hurled himself upward. His leap was just high enough for his outstretched fingers to catch the edge of the wall. Making it look easy, he swung lithely onto the wide brick top. Then he unslung his knapsack and lowered it strap first.

Maxie grabbed the strap. It stretched under her weight, but held. As Robin lifted, she walked up the wall. He grinned as he gave her a hand up beside him. "It's clear you didn't spend your childhood on useless things like embroidery."