Unlacing the Innocent Miss. Margaret McPhee
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herself, fighting down the panic. The urge to slide down off the horse’s back and run away was overwhelming. She glanced longingly down at the solidity of the road’s rutted surface.
Wolf frowned and brought his horse in close by her side, scrutinizing her.
Rosalind averted her face, frightened of what he might see.
But Wolf leaned across, touched his fingers to her chin, forcing her face round to his.
His eyes were no longer silver but the same pale grey as the daylight. ‘Any more delays and I’ll lead the damn horse for you.’ He released her and moved away.
She saw the cold dislike in his gaze and the bitter mocking tilt of his mouth and heard the promise in his voice. He would take her reins without a further thought and then the small mare’s speed would be completely out of her control. Rosalind knew that she could not let that happen and she’d be damned if she’d give him the satisfaction of knowing of her fear. Deep within, she felt her temper ignite and flare. The anger welled up strong and fast, so that her breathing turned short and ragged. She glared at him with ferocity. Damn Wolf, she thought, Damn his arrogant, abrasive soul. And she did not care that she was cursing; she did not care about anything at all, except her fury at the man before her and her need to escape him.
‘There would be no delay had my saddle been fitted properly,’ she heard herself say in an imperious voice she barely recognized. ‘It is slipping. And Lord Evedon wishes me to break my neck upon a scaffold, not for your incompetence to lead to me snapping it in a fall upon this road.’ Courage, Rosalind, she thought, for once in your life, have courage.
Wolf scowled at her tone.
She forced herself to sit very still as Wolf and the others jumped down from horses. It was Wolf himself that came towards her.
Wait, she cautioned herself, wait, and her heart was thudding wildly with the audacity of what she was about to do. And she did wait, waited until he had almost reached her, until he was extending his hand towards her to lift her down.
Her fingers pulled gently at the leather of the reins, and the mare stepped round until she was facing the opposite direction of travel to the other three horses, as if she were nervous and eager to be moving once more.
‘Keep her still,’ Wolf snapped.
Rosalind felt a stab of satisfaction as her fingers tightened on the reins and she suddenly kicked the mare to a canter and careered off down the road.
‘Hell!’ she heard his grunted curse, and the men’s shocked voices, but she was already leaving him behind as she sped off into the distance. Her heart was racing now in earnest and her mouth dry as a bone, but she knew that he was coming after her and that she would have to ride faster to outrun him.
Too soon she heard the rhythmic gallop of a single horse behind her. She glanced back to see Wolf on his great grey stallion storming after her.
‘Faster!’ she urged the little mare, her fear of the man pursuing her greater than her fear of the horse. She was galloping, clinging on for dear life, feeling precarious in the saddle as the road rushed by beneath her. She focused her mind and tried not to think about how fast she was going, tried not to think about the horse at all. A glance behind and she saw that Wolf was gaining on her. She kicked her heels by the mare’s side, urging her to gallop faster, praying that he would not catch her.
But it was too late. A few seconds more and Wolf drew alongside.
She tried to veer away, but there was nowhere to go other than the ditch and the hedge at the side of the road.
The mare grew confused and started to panic, just as the horse had panicked all those years ago, edging towards the ditch despite all of Rosalind’s efforts to guide her away. Rosalind tugged hard on the reins, knowing that she had to slow the horse’s reckless pace. But the mare did not respond, just galloped even faster, her eyes wild with fear.
Rosalind felt her seat begin to slip in truth. It was the nightmare from across the years all over again. In her mind’s eye, she saw Elizabeth’s body slip from the saddle and she knew the terrible fate that would follow. She could not scream, could not make a single sound. And still the mare pounded on along the road, and still Rosalind pulled uselessly at the reins, until the leather made her fingers red and swollen. And then another pair of hands were beside hers, taking the reins from her. Wolf. And the mare seemed to respond to his touch, to his strong, calm voice.
‘Whoa there, lass, whoa.’
The little horse began to slow.
He kept on talking. Rosalind could not hear the words, just his voice, low in timbre and reassuring, smoothing away the panic, loosening that terrible tight knot of fear. The mare finally came to a stop, standing still while Wolf’s hands stroked smoothly at her neck.
‘Poor lass,’ he was saying softly, ‘you’re safe now.’
Rosalind felt something of her terror lift away, watching the mesmerizing movement of his hand and listening to the calming tone of his voice. She forgot that she had been trying to escape, forgot too that Wolf had just stopped her. Her only thought as she slipped from the saddle was that he had saved her. The relief was overwhelming, and, light-headed with it, her legs seemed to melt beneath her, and she stumbled, falling down on her knees. She was alive, alive and unhurt, and she reached forward and clutched at the road’s dirt surface, revelling in the feel of its solid security. She was dimly aware of him guiding the mare away from the ditch, but she could not look to see, could do nothing other than cling to the road.
‘What the hell do you think you’re playing at?’ A pair of dusty leather boots appeared on the dirt before her.
She raised her eyes to look up at him.
‘You risked not only yourself, but a good horse, with your foolishness.’ The calm lilt of his voice was gone, only anger remained in its place. His eyes blazed with it, and appeared a deep dark grey as if all of the storm clouds had gathered ready to unleash their fury. He crouched low and looked into her eyes.
Rosalind felt the fear quiver deep within her.
‘If you run, I will find you,’ he said. ‘As Campbell said, we are very good at retrieving. So do not waste your time or mine trying to escape.’ He spoke quietly, softly almost, as if the anger was all reined in and the intensity of his words was all the greater for it.
His gaze held hers and she could not look away. ‘Whatever foolish plans you may have in your head, Miss Meadowfield, the truth is that you shall not prevent me delivering you to Evedon. You do not wish to go, but you should have thought of the consequences before you stole from him.’ He stood upright and reached his hand down towards hers to pull her up.
Rosalind stared at his hand, at the long strong fingers with their weathered tan. It was the first time since he had collected her in the cart from Blairadie Inn on Munnoch Moor that he had made any gesture of assistance. She turned her face away and, ignoring the dizziness in her head, rose rather unsteadily to her feet, alone.
‘You know nothing of the truth,’ she said and, because her eyes were blurring with tears, her voice was angry. ‘Nothing at all.’
‘I know a damn sight more of truth than you do, miss. I know of children who are starving as you sit at your fancy table laden with food. I know of soldiers, without eyes or limbs, who beg for a few coppers while you drive hurriedly by in your fancy carriage. I know of women who sell their bodies to any man that will have them so that their children might survive. And that men are hanged for stealing a loaf of bread to feed their families while you chat oblivious with Lady Evedon and her cronies over tea and cakes. This is the truth, Miss Meadowfield and what do you know of it?’ His eyes were hard as flint. ‘Nothing, I’ll wager. So do not dare to lecture me.’
They stared at one another, the air thick with their animosity.
‘Get back on your horse and try not to terrify the poor beast this time.’
Rosalind’s stomach tightened. ‘I would prefer to