Furious and terrified for Robin, she slashed at the third man's face with clawed fingers. As he tried to protect his eyes, she kneed him viciously in the groin. Then she jabbed him in the throat with the striking stick. He made an indescribable sound and folded over on himself like a suit of empty clothes.

The least damaged man present, Simmons lunged to his feet and grabbed Maxie in a bear hug, trapping her arms and legs. Thrash as she might, she couldn't free herself, though she managed a few good butts and bites.

"Stop that, you little hellion!" Simmons gasped, locking her hands behind her back in one meaty fist. With the other, he wrenched the stick from her hand and tossed it away. "My lads shouldn't've interfered in a fair fight, but by God, if you don't behave, you'll regret it."

Recognizing the need for a strategic truce, she stopped struggling. Her terrified gaze went to Robin. He lay senseless in the dust, his blond hair stained by the slow seep of blood.

Keeping a firm grip on her, Simmons scowled at the two men who were stumbling to their feet. '"You fought like a bunch of girls," he said contemptuously. "Worse-this little wench has more skill and spirit than the three of you put together."

His expression vicious, one of the bruisers drew back his foot to kick Robin.

Simmons snapped, "Touch 'im and I'll break your arm myself. You get over to the livery stable and bring the carriage 'round."

In a cloud of surly muttering, the two men left. The third bruiser still lay in the road, sublimely unaware.

Maxie wondered angrily where the citizens of Market Harborough were, but this was a drab backstreet, more warehouses than homes, and no one came. "Let me go so I can see to Robin," she said tightly. "He may be badly hurt."

"He'll survive, though it might 'a gone hard with 'im if you hadn't grabbed Wilby's arm." Simmons shook his head. "Wilby really shouldn't 'a done that. It's hard to get reliable help."

Maxie's sympathy was nil, but for the moment discretion was the better part of valor. Trying to sound resigned she asked, "What are you going to do with us?"

"You're going to Durham, trussed like a Christmas goose if necessary. Now, as for your friend, that's a question, and no mistake." Simmons frowned. "I could' just leave 'im here, but 'e might come after me. 'E seems the stubborn sort. Mebbe I'll give 'im to the local constable, say 'e stole my horse."

After a moment's thought, he chuckled. "Aye, that's the ticket. By the time 'e's brought up to the magistrate, you'll be in Durham, and then you're Collingwood's problem." He rubbed his cheek, where a wide bruise was forming. "Better 'im than me."

As he talked, his grip on her hands loosened. Deciding that there was no time like the present, Maxie tried to wrench herself from his grasp. She managed to break away for a moment, but before she could get clear, he grabbed one of her wrists.

Another furious skirmish followed. Even knowing it was hopeless, she continued to struggle. She managed to get a good swipe at Simmons's face with her fingernails, acratching his bruised cheek until it bled.

"I warned you, you little vixen!" Simmons dragged Maxie over to the low brick wall that bounded the street and sat down. Then he turned her over his knee and began to spank her with a hard, massive hand.

For a moment, she was stunned with disbelief and the sheer indignity of what he was doing. The Iroquois did not believe in being violent with children. Her father had also preferred reason to force, so she had never been spanked in her life.

The fighting that had gone before had been fierce but without deadly intent. Now the last traces of her English restraint dissolved.

Maxie inhaled a deep lungful of air, then gave a Mohawk war whoop that vibrated the panes of glass in nearby windows. It was a savage explosion of sound unlike anything heard in England since the natives wore blue paint.

Simmons gasped, his hand suspended in midair. "Gawd a'mighty, what was that?"

And in the moment he was distracted, Maxie twisted, pulled the knife from her boot, and came up slashing.

Chapter 18

Robin never wholly lost consciousness, but for a time he was very disconnected from his surroundings. His body and mind became reacquainted in time for him to see Simmons put Maxie over his knee. Robin wanted to warn the Londoner that spanking her was not a wise idea, but his voice didn't seem to want to work. With dizziness and near blackout, he slowly pushed to his knees.

Maxie's war whoop gave an electrifying jolt to his system. He raised his head to see her swinging her knife at Simmons's jugular. Swearing, the Londoner dodged back. The glittering blade barely missed his throat, grazing his shoulder instead.

Before his bloodthirsty comrade could try again, Robin managed to croak, "Stop it, Maxie!"

Her wild brown eyes shifted to him. She hesitated, rage and reason warring in her expression.

In a moment before something worse could happen, Robin staggered over to Simmons, coming from an angle where the Londoner couldn't see him. Then he rendered the other man unconscious with the bloodstopping hold he had used before. It was dangerous, but Simmons's chances of survival were greater if he was knocked out this way than if Maxie was the one to end the fight.

Simmons made a choking noise, then keeled off the wall, almost taking Robin down with him. Maxie caught Robin swiftly, her hands supplying muchneeded support. Her words, however, were tart. "You should have let me take care of him."

Robin clung to her as his eyesight darkened around the edges. For once, he scarcely noticed the delicious feel of her. "Sorry," he said unsteadily, "but I really don't like seeing people killed."

She made a sound that suggested both disdain and that the conversation would be continued at a more suitable time. But with an admirable focus on the immediate, she asked, "Can you walk? The others will be back soon."

He folded down on the wall and buried his face in his hands, trying to think his way through the shattering pain in his skull. "I'll need help."

She briskly resheathed her knife and helped him into his coat. Then she retrieved the striking stick, slung both knapsacks on her own back, tugged Robin to his feet, and pulled his arm over her shoulders.

As they wove their way down the street, he reflected with dizzy appreciation on how much strength was in her petite frame. Still, it was fortunate that the canal was only on the far side of the warehouses.

The question was, what would they do when they got there?

As soon as they entered the inn, Giles ordered a private parlor, with brandy immediately and food to follow. Lady Ross was still shaken by her narrow escape, and she let herself be escorted to the parlor with a docility that Giles did not expect to last long. Her face was gray beneath the flamboyant red hair.

After guiding her to a chair, he inspected her upper arm where the ox horn had gored. The pale skin visible through her slashed clothing was lacerated, but the wound was superficial, with little blood. "No serious damage done, though you'll have heavy bruising."

A maid brought the brandy. Giles poured a glass for his companion. She choked on the first mouthful, but color began to return to her face. "There will be bruising in a number of less mentionable places as well," she said with a crooked smile.

"You would know that better than I."

She pushed her loose hair off her brow with fingers that were almost steady again. "Give me a few minutes to go to my room and make myself presentable. Then I want to hear about the men who were after Maxima and Lord Robert."

Lady Ross restored herself to thunderous respectability very quickly. When she returned, her hair had been tamed and hidden under a cap, she had changed into another dress as drab as the previous one, and her full figure was swaddled in a shawl. Giles preferred her disheveled; nonetheless, her restrained appearance did nothing to slow the steady beat of sexual awareness.

The meal that had been ordered was brought as soon as she reached the parlor. By tacit consent, they ate before addressing the serious issues. When they had reached the stage of coffee, Desdemona cocked a brow at the marquess. "About those men?"

"One of them I recognized, and I suspect that he is the agent your brother sent after Miss Collins." Wolverton explained how he had aided the man called Simmons several days earlier. "So not only are you and I hot on the trail in our separate ways, but apparently Simmons and his helpers as well."

"There is an element of farce to this." Desdemona's mouth quirked in an unwilling smile. "But from what little I could see, I didn't like the looks of Simmons and his associates."

"Men who do such work aren't drawn from the most genteel ranks," the marquess said dryly. "If they had been hired to take Miss Collins back to Durham, I don't imagine they will hurt her, but they might not be so careful of my brother."

"From what you've told me, Lord Robert seems to have won every round so far." Desdemona took a deep swallow of scalding black coffee. "You said that he has been out of England for a number of years. Was he a diplomat or in the army?"

Wolverton sighed and toyed with his own cup, visibly weighing how to respond. "I'll tell you on the condition that you speak of it to no one."

"His behavior was that disgraceful?"

The marquess lifted his head, his slate eyes colder than she had ever seen them. "Quite the contrary. But what he did was highly confidential and there may be ramifications for years, even decades, to come. Nor is the story mine to tell."