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 cross-legged 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 fire-warmed 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 cross-legged 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 self-control came perilously close to collapse when he saw the shadowy circles of her areolas dimly visible beneath the shift.
It was hard not to stare at the low neckline of her shift, where the glinting silver chain complemented the smooth dark ivory of her skin. It was harder yet not to cross the room, lift her in his arms, and discover if his passion might ignite hers.
Remembering that she had asked a question, he managed to say, "The show went well. Unfortunately, everyone wanted to buy me a drink afterward, and I couldn't avoid accepting several of them."
Her smile faded, and she studied his face with a hint of wariness. "You're three sheets to the wind?"
He pondered. "Only about one and a half. With luck I won't have a hangover, but I will certainly sleep like a hibernating bear and wake up with great reluctance. You're in charge of pouring cold water in my face to get me moving tomorrow morning."
She chuckled. "Sounds like fun. I suppose we'll have to rise about six if we're going to leave at seven."
"I'm afraid so." Released from his temporary paralysis, he went to the screened tub and poured in the hot water. This was not the sort of dandified establishment that believed perfectly good water should be thrown out merely because it had been used once. Warming it was good enough for guests at the Drover.
Standing behind the screen, he removed his brown coat and laid it over the top of the screen. "Expect a long day. Drovers move slowly, but they travel for twelve hours or so."
Maxie rose lithely to her feet and began plaiting her hair into a heavy ebony braid. "Then I had better go to bed now."
She seemed a little uneasy. Guessing why, he said casually, "Strange how different it is to be in a bedroom."
"You're right. We've slept together quite peacefully the last few nights, but for some reason sharing a bed in a real bedroom is different." She bit her lower lip—her lush, sensual, dusty rose-colored lip—as she considered. "Not quite proper, in a way that I didn't feel before."
If she had given him the least encouragement, any honorable doubts he had about the wisdom of lying with her would have been out the window. But obviously she was not trembling on the brink of uncontrollable passion. "A pity we don't have a bundling board." He unbuttoned his shirt and draped it across the top of the screen. "I'll sleep on the floor."
Her glance flickered to his bare shoulders and the portion of his chest visible above the screen, then quickly away. "Nonsense. We have this room because of your performing skills, and I would be a poor sort of person to condemn you to a hard floor because of missishness. You've behaved yourself so far, and I trust that you will continue to do so. Besides," she added practically, "it's a large bed."
She would be less trusting if she knew what he was thinking. It was an extremely mixed blessing that women did trust him, because that trust bound him as securely as fetters of steel. "I can't imagine you as missish."
She slid under the worn counterpane and closed her eyes. "I think missishness is a luxury for those females who have the money and leisure to indulge in it. A woman who has to make her own way in the world hasn't the time for such things."
He finished undressing, then lowered himself into the tin tub with a happy sigh. The older he got, the more he appreciated simple creature comforts. Amazing to remember some of the conditions he had endured in his adventuresome days. Youth had the damnedest ideas of what was amusing.
By the time he had finished, dried himself, and put on the other pair of drawers that Maxie had washed and dried for him, his companion was asleep, her breathing soft and even. She looked very young in the flickering firelight, her face unlined and innocent. Yet even asleep she had the quality of fierce independence that was so much a part of her.
He spent a few minutes washing the rest of his clothing and hanging it by the fire. Then he climbed into the bed, carefully keeping to his side. Hard to imagine how the Americans managed bundling. Even wearing as many layers as an Eskimo wouldn't have been enough to protect Maxie's virtue. What protected her was a fragile thing called trust...
He would have liked to roll over and put his arms around her as he had the last two nights, but she was right: Being in a bed was different from sleeping in a hedgerow, and much more dangerous. Beds were for making love in a way that barns were not, not that a pile of hay couldn't be a delightful spot to dally on occasion.
He forced himself to relax, to ignore the knowledge that an alluring female body was just inches away.
On the whole, it would have been eas
ier to sleep with a scorpion.
Chapter 13
Maxie was not surprised to wake and find herself snuggled up against Robin. The room had cooled as the fire died, and her companion's warmth had attracted her like a lodestone.
In her travels to isolated New England farmsteads, she had sometimes shared a bed with children or spinsters of the household. Nights contending with elbows, knees, and semiconscious struggles for the bedcovers had taught her that most people were not easy to sleep with.
Interestingly, she and Robin were natural bed partners in the strictest sense of the term. Through the night they easily shifted and adjusted to each other's movements, always close, always comfortable. More than that, she always woke happy and well rested, even on the night when they had slept on the hard cold earth. Robin seemed to sleep equally well.
It was first light, the sun still below the horizon. They would have to rise soon, but for a few minutes more she could drowse with her head on Robin's shoulder and her arm across his bare midriff. Under the blanket he was wearing drawers, which was the absolute minimum permissible for bundling. In fact, she thought sleepily, it was undoubtedly less than the minimum.
She pushed her braid back, then stroked an idle hand down his chest. The light, springy hair felt pleasant against her palm. Though Robin gave the impression of being slightly built, he was surprisingly well muscled. Or perhaps not surprising when she recalled how efficiently he had dealt with Simmons.
Low on his left side, below the blanket, her fingertips found the puckered ridge of an old scar. She considered it gravely; from the roughness and shape, it appeared to have been made by a bullet. What had Robin been doing to get himself shot? Something nefarious, she feared. He was lucky to have survived. Like a cat, he must have multiple lives. Thank God.
Under her palm, his heart beat with a strong steady rhythm. The room was now light enough to see his perfectly carved profile, relaxed and almost boyish in the pearly dawn. He made her think of angels, beings from another realm of existence who were bright and terrible in their beauty.
She wondered if the fellowship of angels contained a few rogues. Not the evil, arrogant entities like Lucifer who had rebelled against God and become demons, but ones that were simply different, too mercurial and unconventional to be content singing in heavenly choirs. Perhaps one such angel rogue had looked down and seen an earthly female who needed protection on a long journey, and come to aid her on her way.
She smiled, wondering what it was about Robin that inspired such whimsy. When they met in the glade with the fairy ring, she'd thought of Oberon. But he was quite human, which made him all the more appealing. Acting from pure affection, she raised her head and brushed his lips with hers.
Robin stirred at her light touch and turned toward her, finding her lips to return the caress. His prediction about drinking so much ale that he would have trouble waking must have come true, for he was even more asleep than she. The knowledge gave her a delicious sense of naughtiness. She could kiss him and pretend that it didn't count because he wouldn't remember.
When his tongue touched her lips, she opened them. The kiss deepened, developing the languorous richness of roses baking in the summer sun. His hand drifted down her back and hip, as deft at caressing as at conjuring. The thin muslin of her shift was an insubstantial barrier, and she felt the slow, sensual pressure of each individual finger. If she had known how, she would have purred like a pleased cat.
When her arm went around his neck, she knew it was time to stop. Her simple enjoyment of closeness was changing to a serious wish to continue what they had begun. He was bound to become fully conscious soon, and it would hardly be fair to turn suddenly prudish when she had been cooperating wholeheartedly.
She steeled herself to move away, but she had waited too long. Before she could summon the resolve, he lifted his hand to cup her breast. She gasped as liquid fire flowed through her limbs. She needed more breath, yet could not bring herself to break off the endless, drugging kiss.
She was growing dizzy when he lifted his head away and murmured, "You are so lovely."
He had called her beautiful before, but that meant nothing compared to the husky passion in his voice now. As she drew a shuddering breath, he pressed his lips to her throat. The light rasp of his chin was a piquant contrast to his velvet tongue and the intimate touch of his breath.
He found the hollow at the base of her throat, then moved below the angle of her collarbone, over the swell of her breast. He was like the sun, heated and powerful, bringing exuberant life to everything he touched.
Adrift in sensuality, she did not realize that he had nuzzled aside the shoulder of her shift until he drew her nipple into his mouth. She sucked in her breath, electrified. His tongue lapped the tip to aching hardness, moving in a rhythm that pounded in her blood. Arousing. Compelling. Intoxicating.
"Robin, Robin..." Her last, faint resistance crumbled, for she could no longer remember why she had any doubts. Her hands kneaded his bare back, moving restlessly over his ribs and under the edge of his drawers. He was lying half across her, and the hard heat of his arousal pressed the outside of her knee. She moved her leg, deliberately rubbing that throbbing maleness.
He made a choked, yearning sound. Catching the hem of her shift in his left hand, he raised it to her hips. His palm skimmed the tender flesh inside her thighs with long, smooth strokes. Then he touched her intimately with his magician's fingers, probing the slick, hot folds. Chaotic waves of sensation surged through her and she moaned, her whole being a scarlet blaze of need.
His breath rough and hot, he whispered in her ear, "Ah, God, Maggie, it's been so long, so dreadfully long...."
Desire splintered, leaving Maxie stunned. Desperately she wondered if she might have heard wrong, but even in the tempest of passion, she couldn't lie to herself about something that mattered so much. "Not Maggie," she said with ice-edged precision. "Maxie."
Robin's eyes snapped open, so close that she could see shock and something that was almost horror in the azure depths.
After a paralyzed instant, he flung away from her, throwing off the blanket and sliding from the bed. He staggered when he tried to stand, almost falling. Uncharacteristically clumsy, he sagged onto the edge of the mattress, bracing his elbows on his knees and burying his head in his hands. "Christ, I'm sorry," he said hoarsely. "I never meant for that to happen."
He was shaking violently. Lord only knew what torment filled his mind, but she sensed that it went far beyond frustrated desire.
Cold and bereft, she sat up as she struggled to find composure in the chaotic midst of confusion and thwarted passion. Dear God, but she had been a fool!
When she had mastered her instinctive, irrational rage, she managed to say, "It wasn't your fault. Blame it on the bed." Hating herself for her jealousy, she added caustically, "You wish that I was this Maggie?"
The muscles of Robin's back went rigid with strain, the hard planes sharply defined under his fair skin. After an excruciating silence, he said from behind his hands, "Some questions shouldn't be asked. And if they are, they shouldn't be answered."
Slow, humiliating heat rose in her face at the knowledge that she'd been a fool again. Yet she could not stop herself from asking, "Shouldn't be, or can't be?"
His hands dropped away from his face. All his dazzling, concealing frivolity had been stripped away, leaving the bare bones of anguish. "Can't be, I suppose."
He stood and walked to the window to stare out at the misty hills. Though he was leanly built, taut muscles flowed smoothly beneath his fair skin, like the languid power of an Adirondack mountain lion.
If he had been awake enough to know who she was—if it had been her whom he had really wanted—all of that male beauty would still be in her arms. They would be naked together, making love in the muted light of dawn.
Trying to bury her aching sense of loss, she asked quietly, "Is Maggie the woman you wanted to marry?"
"Yes." He exhaled wearily. "We w
ere friends, lovers, partners in crime for many years."
Partners in crime? Maxie did not want to think of that now. "She died?"
He shook his head. "On the contrary. She is happily married to a man who can give her a great deal more than I."
Maxie felt a spasm of rage at the absent Maggie. A woman who could abandon a man like Robin for another of greater fortune was not worth such misery.
She would have said as much if words would have cured Robin of his grief, but logic held no sway in matters of the heart. Besides, Maggie's choice might have been made more for security than wealth. As a woman who longed for stability herself, Maxie could understand that. Life with Robin might be stimulating, but it would surely lack security.
The light was a little stronger, revealing faint parallel lines across his back. It took her a moment to realize that they were the result of a savage whipping. Her heart twisted as she wondered what untold story lay behind those wicked marks.
She couldn't do anything about long-healed scars, but she could stop the goose bumps produced by the chilly air. She rose and took Robin's shirt from the chair where it had dried.
As she draped it around his shoulders, she said succinctly, "Your Maggie is a damned fool."
Robin turned his head and looked down at her, a faint smile on his face. His blond hair was more silver than gold in the half-light. He pulled the shirt over his head, then wrapped his arm around her shoulders and tucked her close against his side. "She isn't, but I appreciate your partisanship."
Since Maxie's shift provided little protection against the cold, she slipped her arm around Robin's waist and leaned against him. Wherever they touched, there was warmth. The accidental passion of the bed had vanished, but there was still a spark of physical awareness between them. She supposed there always would be, even if they never acted on it.
There was also an odd kind of closeness. It must be rather like the feeling of soldiers who have survived a battle together. Thinking it might be good for him to talk, she asked, "What is Maggie like?"