Unlacing the Innocent Miss by Margaret McPhee Page B

were up in her room quite some time…’ He let the words trail off suggestively.
    Wolf recognized that tone. He turned a baleful eye on his friend. ‘What the hell is Kempster doing in there? We need to get moving. The sooner we are rid of Rosalind Meadowfield to Evedon, the better.’ And then he turned back to his horse.
    Campbell watched him with a thought ful expression upon his face.
     
    Rosalind sipped at her coffee, but could not bring herself to eat the fried food that lay on the plate before her. The cup was hot beneath her fingers, yet she was almost glad of its scald for it gave her something else upon which to focus. Although her gaze was lowered, she was aware of Kempster’s ill-tempered mood and the way that he was watching her.
    Wolf had touched the bare calf of her leg. And the way that he had looked at her, the feel of his touch…In those moments, there had been nothing of mockery, nothing of anger, and she had forgotten that he hated her, for gotten that he was dragging her back to Evedon. She should have thrust his hands aside and slapped his face and told him in no uncertain terms that she was not that sort of a woman. Instead, Rosalind Meadowfield had behaved like the worst of wantons, letting him touch her, encouraging him, waiting like a Jezebel for his kiss. She thanked God for Kempster’s interruption, that she had not made a worse fool of herself.
    Her face glowed hot at the memory of it, and she could have wept from the shame. And she did not know why she had behaved in such a ridiculous way. It did not make any sense. She did not even like Wolf. She hated him, hated him for destroying her chance of freedom, for his anger and for the way he made her feel. More than that, she thought, she hated herself for what she had just done. Wolf regretted it too; she had seen it in the way he had stormed past, his breakfast untouched upon the table, and in the angry slam of the door in his wake.
    Another sip of coffee, and she calmed herself, forcing herself to see the sense of the situation. She was far from home, far from friends, surrounded by enemies. Her feet were a sore mess and Wolf had been right: without binding,they would only get worse. And she had no wish to be carried as he had threatened. She had had little choice but to let him bind her feet. And as for the rest of it, she had been overcome by the softening in his harsh demeanour. The days of worry and fear over Evedon had taken their toll on her so that her thinking was confused.
    In a few moments, she must go out there and climb upon a horse and ride in Wolf’s wake all of the day. The thought of facing him again was anathema, but it had to be done. There could be no running away from it. She placed the cup down upon its saucer, marvelling at the steadiness of her hands. There were more important things at stake than Wolf’s or her own sensibilities. Quite simply, if she did not escape, she was a dead woman. It was the truth in all its starkness.
    Her thoughts were interrupted by Kempster getting to his feet. ‘After you, Miss Meadowfield.’ There was a sarcastic edge to his voice as he gestured her towards the door.
    She took a deep breath and walked, out of the public room, out of the inn, to the yard…and Wolf.

Chapter Seven
    B y the time they were standing in the inn’s stables with only the same three large horses before them there was a definite dread in Rosalind’s belly.
    ‘We have yet to collect the little mare’s replacement?’ she asked and saw the look that Campbell shot at Wolf. Something was wrong, and Rosalind had a horrible idea what that something might be.
    ‘There is no replacement,’ said Wolf harshly and fitted the battered leather hat back on to his head. ‘No horses for hire in this town.’
    ‘What of carriages? We could hire a carriage.’ The words were out before she could stop them.
    ‘Round this place?’ Kempster gave a laugh. ‘You must be joking!’
    ‘Then we are to wait here until a