Unlacing the Innocent Miss. Margaret McPhee
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She felt the blood drain from her face, felt her stomach clench hard at the prospect. ‘You would not.’
He smiled his cold cynical smile. ‘Oh, I would do so most gladly, Miss Meadowfield.’
Her legs were trembling and her mouth was so dry that she could no longer swallow. He would do it, she realized. She felt the nausea roll in her stomach and tried to halt the panic before it ran out of control. There was little choice, so she turned and forced herself to walk towards the horse. She took a deep breath and, hoisting her skirt up, let him help her up into the saddle. He took his own saddle and, with her reins secure in his hand, led her back to where Campbell and Kempster waited.
And all that Rosalind could think was that she had never met a more hateful man.
Chapter Four
The sky was beginning to darken by the time that Wolf led them into the yard of Gretna Hall. Her arms were aching, her backside was aching, her thighs were aching. Indeed, it seemed to Rosalind that there was not a bit of her that was not in pain. Her fear and anger had long since dwindled, and she was so tired that she did not think about being frightened of the little horse beneath her. So sore were certain areas of Rosalind’s body that she slipped to the ground without looking for anyone to help her, and stood there in blessed relief that the saddle was no longer beneath her.
She felt Wolf’s grip upon her arm escorting her with him across the yard and into the inn, but she was too tired to protest.
The inn was busy, most of the tables in the public room were filled, mainly with men. Men stood about the bar drinking their tankards of ale, turning curious eyes to the new arrivals. She heard the low tone of Wolf’s voice to the landlord, and was aware of the exchange of money. She was aware, too, of the way that the landlord’s gaze flicked over her before moving on to Kempster and Campbell and finally returning to Wolf, with unspoken speculation. But whatever the man saw in Wolf’s face made him nod his acquiescence and turn to fetch the keys for the rooms. He showed them up a small narrow staircase to a narrow corridor along which several doors could be seen. The two furthest doors led to the rooms for which Wolf had paid.
They were still standing in the second room into which the landlord had shown them. Wolf scanned around, peered from the window then inspected the door.
‘Dump the baggage and head downstairs. We’ll eat first.’ The bags were dropped on to the bare floorboards with a thud. He looked at Rosalind. ‘I’ll wait outside the door for you while you attend to your toilette.’
She nodded, knowing this was the best offer she was going to get, and watched the three men leave. As Wolf shut the door behind him, his eyes met hers in steely warning, and then he was gone.
Rosalind just stood there and stared at the closed door, hearing the other door open and close across the passage way, hearing the murmur of their voices. Her eyes shifted to the travelling bag on the floor just before her where Wolf had dropped it and she shifted it to lie across the door, as if she could block Wolf out with the bag. Hurriedly, she attended to her needs, washed her face and hands and tidied her hair.
He was leaning against the wall in the corridor when she opened the door, waiting as if patiently but it was not patience that she saw in his eyes when she looked at him. Not a word passed between them. A single movement of his head gestured towards the staircase. She began to walk along the dimly lit passage. There was the sound of a key turning in a lock before she heard his footsteps follow and sensed he was close. At the end of the landing she hesitated, and he passed her, taking the lead as they trod down the uneven staircase.
They were halfway down when he turned suddenly to her, surprising Rosalind so that she was too close to him. Standing on the stair above his, she found her eyes level with his for the first time. The light of the nearby flickering candles softened the angles of his face and made his eyes appear a smoky grey. He was so close that she could see the individual lashes, so close that it was all she could do to stifle a gasp.
She made to step back but her foot caught against the high-angled stair and only the sudden curve of his arm around her waist saved her from falling. He did not remove his hand, just left it where it was resting lightly against the small of her back. He stared at her, and she saw surprise in his eyes—and something else too, something that she could not name but that sent a quiver snaking throughout her body. He stared at her, and the moment stretched long so that she could feel the hard rapid thump of her heart and feel her blood coursing too fast.
The look of harsh cynicism had gone, leaving his expression unreadable. His breath was warm against her cheek, stirring the fine tendrils of hair that hung in spirals before her ears. The scent of soap and leather and masculinity filled her nose, and her heart tripped even faster so that she could hear the slight raggedness of her breath between them. His hold was so light that she could have easily broken free from it, yet she just stood there, as if entranced by the look in his eyes. It seemed to Rosalind that some strange force had come over her, enslaving her thinking, her body, so that she could do nothing other than stare at him. And the smoky eyes stared right back, and where his palm touched light against her back, her skin seemed to burn and pulse.
And as suddenly as it had arrived, it disappeared. She saw the moment that his eyes changed, reverting to a cool silver. He dropped his hand from her as if scalded, and she saw the flash of anger and loathing in his gaze. His expression was once more harsh and determined.
‘Behave yourself down here, Miss Meadowfield,’ he growled.
She was still reeling from the shock, not of his anger, but of what had gone before. ‘I will not deign to reply to that, sir,’ she managed.
She saw the slight curl of his lip. ‘You do not deign to do much do you? Besides help yourself to other people’s valuables.’
And then he turned and walked on, as if nothing at all had happened.
Rosalind stood stock still, trembling and shocked. What on earth had just happened? Why had she not moved away? Why had she let him stare at her in that…that inappropriate manner? Her heart was still beating too fast and her cheeks flushed with embarrassment.
He had reached the bottom of the staircase before he realized that she had not moved. The silver gaze met hers.
‘Miss Meadowfield.’ The words were uttered so softly that they barely carried up the stairs, yet the threat contained in them was louder than had he shouted at the top of his voice. The skin on the nape of her neck prickled and she hurried down after him, her hand gripping the banister rail.
Campbell and Kempster were seated over in a corner.
As she crossed the busy room with Wolf, she felt all eyes upon them.
‘We ordered some mutton stew and chicken pies,’ said Campbell in his gentle burr. ‘Couldnae wait all night for yous to come down.’ He grinned. ‘We’ve a jug of ale for while we wait.’
A serving wench, with what looked to Rosalind to be an indecently revealing décolletage, brought cutlery and plates to the table.
‘We are to eat…in here?’ Rosalind had never eaten in the public room of an inn before. She glanced anxiously around.
‘The food will be the same whether we eat here or waste our money paying for a private parlour,’ said Wolf as he gestured for her to take the seat beside Campbell on the inside of the table.
She did as she bid, trying not to notice the less than subtle interest from the people seated around them. From the corner of her eye she saw the landlord make his way over.
‘The rooms are to your liking, sir…’ His eyes dropped to her hand, pausing just for a second or two on the bare fingers of her left hand. Rosalind held her head up defiantly, determined not to be shamed even though she knew what the man must think her. But the heat in her cheeks betrayed her.
Wolf gave a curt nod.
‘And your lady?’ The landlord persevered.
Wolf