Chapter 12
Voices. He heard them clearly; men’s voices. It was hard to tell where they were, with the sound of rustling leaves, the steady hum of rain, and the rippling water beside them. Eventually, he determined that the voices were coming from the other side of the river.
That probably meant there was little chance of the voices belonging to any of his own people. He’d left them all back at the lodge, and that was very much on this side of the river. If men’s voices were approaching from the other side, he could be sure they weren’t friends. But were they enemies?
The forest growth was thick, but not dense enough to hide two adults and a mule. The minute they tried to run away, though, they’d make enough noise to alert anyone in the area. What could they do?
“Where can we go?” Marianne whispered, her face showing her fear.
He glanced around, searching for anything in this devastated camp that could hide them.
The shelters were fallen, only the merest remnant of them standing to indicate where they had been.
There was nothing that could hide them or disguise their position.
Nothing but… wait! His gaze fell on the one thing that could be useful.
“Maybe this!” he said softly, quickly tugging the corner of what he prayed would turn out to be an old blanket.
It was stuck under some of the crumbled branches that had once formed a shelter.
Working silently, Marianne helped him pry up the biggest limb that seemed to be holding it down.
Her efforts were invaluable and soon Robert was dragging a filthy, torn blanket from the mud.
No amount of laundering or patching would ever make it useful as a blanket, but perhaps it could hide a mule.
Clarence stood quietly, amused by their actions as they pulled the corner of the blanket high so that Robert could hook it on the jutting branches in the remnants of the shelter.
Marianne helped him stretch it across, tucking it into the gnarled bark of the broad oak.
The frayed fabric caught easily. This soggy partition wouldn’t hold for long, but if it lasted time enough to hide them, that would be all that they needed from it.
Content that is was secure, Robert grabbed Clarence’s bridle and led him a few steps, just enough to be fully behind the blanket.
He secured the mule’s reins, though the old soul showed no intent to wander off.
The voices were still coming closer, any moment now they would have a clear view of this spot.
With any luck—and perhaps a few desperate prayers—these men might simply be poachers, or perhaps even more of the infamous Sherwood highwaymen.
They would care little for an old, abandoned camp with one threadbare blanket hanging from trees.
If, however, these were Reeve’s men out hunting for Miss St. John or for Marianne, they might be in some trouble. Serious searchers would want to investigate something like this. There would be little they could do if the men started across the river.
Robert wrapped his arm around Marianne’s waist and pulled her into a large hollow cleft within the oak tree. She glared at him but didn’t balk at his nearness. She didn’t reach for her bow, either, but it was there, slung over her shoulder.
They would be completely out of sight here, he hoped.
Holding her with one hand, he kept the other firmly on the knife he wore at his side.
They were tucked into the mossy gap; the air was dark and earthy but they shared it.
Water dripped around them. Clarence stood guard at the opening and Robert kept watch on the blanket where it hung tenuously.
The voices were closer and clearer now. He could make out words.
“Why bother? No one’s come this way,” one of the men said.
“We’ve got to be sure,” another replied. “He’ll have our hide if he thinks we didn’t do a fair job of it.”
“But the girl… she’d never come this far into the wood.”
“We don’t know that! Besides, Reeve said she might’a come with some fellow.”
“There’s always some fellow, ain’t there?” the first voice said with a sly chuckle. “I daresay he’d thank us not to find them out here.”
“Well it ain’t up to us, is it? It’s the magistrate’s girl and he wants her back—unblemished, as they say.”
“If the little tart’s gone missing with some fellow, then I’d say he’s a bit late for that. Hey, look over there! What’s that on the other side?”
Robert felt Marianne suck in her breath.
He pulled her closer against him. From what he could tell, there were only two men, but they were indeed sent by the sheriff.
It was possible—probable, even—that they were armed and prepared to take care of themselves.
Robert was confident he could manage them if it were just his own person he was defending, but Marianne was here.
He would need to keep her safe at all costs.
It would be hard to do that against two determined brutes.
She turned her head to look up at him. The dappled sunlight reached dim fingers into their hiding hole.
He was going to whisper for her to stay calm, but there was no need.
Calm was displayed in her eyes—a dark sort of calm that Robert had seen many times before.
He’d felt it himself nearly every time he was faced with battle.
When pitted with life or death, a deadly calm settled over and he did what he had to do.
Marianne met his eyes with her own. She shifted slightly and he realized she was reaching for her quiver.
By God, she was sliding an arrow out! The woman was ready to fight.
He was so shocked by the notion that for several heartbeats he did nothing to stop her preparations.
At last, though, he took hold of his senses and grasped her hand, stopping her effort.
He breathed into her ear. “Hold up. Wait.”
It’s what he would have told one of his men in this situation and he would have been instantly obeyed.
Marianne was not one of his men, trained and experienced.
He half expected her to cry out, or break into hysteria at any moment.
Then again, only a fool would think Marianne Maidland might ever react that way.
Instead, she breathed smoothly and kept her eyes trained on his. They stood this way, breathing evenly and gazing into each other’s eyes, waiting for any sign it was time to leap out and act. Robert listened for the first sign of boots tromping through water, coming their way.
“Looks like someone’s old encampment,” one of the voices said.
“You think anyone’s over there?”
“Look at it, all flooded out. It’s abandoned for sure. No one’s been there since the rains.”
“You certain?”
“Would you want to be there?”
“No, I suppose not.”
“Neither would some delicate chit. Come on, there’s no sign of life here and I don’t want to ruin my boots over nothing. St. John’s little dove didn’t come this way.”
The other man finally agreed. Their chatter turned toward complaining over their work, and they crashed through the brush back in the direction they had come.
Marianne broke her gaze from Robert’s, but she didn’t breathe easier until the voices had faded into the distance.
By some miracle, Robert’s odd little party was safe.
“That was too close,” Marianne sighed, her body sagging into his.
Indeed, it was entirely too close. She was too close.
Robert could hardly concentrate on their surroundings because of her proximity to him.
All he could focus on was the scent of her hair, the fearless glow he had seen in her eyes, the feel of her taut body pressed next to his.
Even the decaying tree and the muddy mule were suddenly invisible to his senses; he only knew her.
She raised her eyes to meet his again.
“Is it safe to go out now?” she asked softly.
“If that is what you want,” he replied.
“I… suppose we ought to,” she said.
He was thrilled when she didn’t pull away. Since when did holding Marianne Maidland become the most important thing in his life? He was half tempted to wrap his other arm around her, bring her more tightly to him.
Then he remembered she was armed. Perhaps it was best to remain as they were. For now.
“Er… I suppose you are curious what they were looking for,” she said, halfway between question and statement.
“They were hunting your cousin, obviously.”
She blinked up at him, clearly surprised that he should have pieced it all together so easily.
In fact, he was surprised that he hadn’t, until now.
It made perfect sense to him. Miss St. John had run off, and Marianne had come looking for her.
She’d probably followed Meg to the mill, and then stole the mule to keep up.
He should have figured it out as soon as he recognized her.
As usual with Marianne Maidland, though, things rarely made sense right away.
“I suppose that much was obvious by their words,” she said, chewing her plump pink lip again.
“And I suppose you’re eager to go back to searching for her, too,” he suggested.
But she shook her head. Her dilapidated bonnet nearly fell off. “I lost her trail. I don’t know where else to look!”
“Then perhaps I can help. Was she traveling with a certain young miller, tucked away in a wagonload of flour?”
Her eyes grew huge and a smile took the place of her forlorn pout. “She was! You know where I can find her?”
“I do,” he replied, happy to be the one to put such joy and relief on her face. “Come along.”
Clarence had been rubbing his nose against the sagging blanket. Now he bit it, pulling it down from the trees. He seemed remarkably pleased with himself and he shook the blanket in triumph.
“Good thing he didn’t do that a few minutes ago,” Marianne noted.
“Clarence always has been an exceptionally good mule. Remind me to tell you about the time we rode him to the orchard behind Greenwood Manor.”
“You and Mr. Muchleigh?”