Rogue's Charade Read online

  “Do you know where we are?” she asked, hearing heavy weariness in her voice.

  “Yes. Near Dartford, I think. I’ve been on this road seldom, we’re not usually on the Kent circuit. But if I’m right—do you trust me?”

  She stared up at him. “No.”

  “No?” He clapped his hand to his heart. “Madam, I am wounded.”

  “Would you please cease your tomfoolery? I’m tired and hungry and—”

  “I know.” His voice was suddenly gentle. “It’s been a hard day. But ‘tis nearly over.”

  “Another night sleeping in the woods,” she muttered.

  “Maybe not.” He caught her arm as the sound of hooves came to them and pulled her into the shelter of the trees. A moment later, a lone horseman passed them without so much as a glance. “If I’m right, there’s an inn just ahead.”

  “For all the good that will do us. Or do you plan to go up to the innkeeper and ask nicely for rooms?”

  “Something like that. It happens I know this innkeeper.”

  “Did you meet in Newgate?”

  “Unfair, princess. No, he once trod the boards, until he married and his wife decided she wanted a different life. For some reason, she didn’t find acting secure enough.” He grinned. “A good lesson, that, not to marry. Only takes away one’s freedom.”

  “And who would have you?”

  “More than you think, princess.”

  “Not me.”

  He shrugged. “You’ve not been asked.”

  Blythe drew in her breath, and then let it out slowly. Foolish to feel insulted, slighted, even, by his comment. A relationship between them of any sort was clearly out of the question. “If it’s known that the innkeeper was once an actor, the soldiers might search the inn.”

  He looked down at her, and his face softened. “Mayhaps, but ‘tis a chance I think we should take. I could use a good meal.”

  “And a real bed,” she said involuntarily, and then bit her lip, anticipating his retort.

  “Aye. Though sleeping rough doesn’t bother me overmuch. Mayhaps our innkeeper will also be able to tell me which theatrical troupes are about.”

  Blythe looked up sharply, surprised that he hadn’t made some joke about a bedmate. “Surely you’re not going on the stage again! ‘Tis the first place they’d look for you.”

  “Why, princess. You sound concerned.”

  Blythe’s lips firmed into a thin line. “I’m not.”

  “No?” Simon clasped his hand to his heart. “But you wound me, princess. Dare I hope you care?”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she muttered, and pulled her arm from his, striding a few paces ahead. “It matters not to me if you’re taken again, on the road or at an inn or on a stage!”

  “No, I supposed it doesn’t.” He sounded good-humored enough as he caught up with her and took her arm again. “But think, princess. What better place for me to hide than with other actors? ‘Twill be the last place anyone will think to look. Unless,” he bent a stern look at her, “you tell someone.”

  “Who would I tell?” she said wearily, stumbling as he came to a sudden halt. “I’d rather it not be known that I’ve spent time in your company. Why are we stopping?”

  “The inn’s ahead,” he muttered, pulling her into the undergrowth again as the rumble of carriage wheels reached them. “And busy, by the sounds of it.”

  Blythe dropped to her knees, tired beyond words. “What is the name of this inn?”

  Simon was peering out through the branches at the road, swirling with dust from the passing carriage, a post-chaise. “The Tabard,” he said, absently.

  “Surely not!”

  He glanced down at her. “Why not?”

  “But surely that ‘tis long gone? Are we really on the road to Canterbury?”

  “How do you know—oh. The Canterbury Tales.” A strange smile flickered across his face and was gone, leaving his features grim, hard. When he looked so, Blythe could easily believe him to be a cold-blooded killer. “Yes, as it happens, though this isn’t the original inn. The owner once played the Innkeeper in a production of The Canterbury Tales, which is why I imagine he chose the name.”

  “Oh. Still, ‘tis fascinating, to think of the history of this road.”

  “Yes. I was always partial to the Miller’s Tale.”

  She could feel her color rising. “You would be.”

  “Oh?” He glanced at her again, grinning. “You’re familiar with it, then?”

  “Only enough to know ‘tis vulgar. Are we going to sit here all night?”

  “No.” He straightened. “Best thing is for me to go first.”

  “But if you’re recognized—”

  “Best stop saying such things, princess, or I really will think you care.”

  “Hmph.” She sniffed. “It really makes no difference to me if you’re caught, except they’ll likely think I helped you.”

  “Which is why you’ll stay here.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yes, alone,” he said impatiently. “I shall have to seek out the innkeeper privately, and ‘twould be best if you’re not there.”

  “So.” She rose. “Now that I’ve outlived my usefulness, you’ll leave me behind, like one of your props—”

  “I’m not discarding you, princess.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “I’ll reserve us a room and then come back for you.”

  She looked uncertainly up at him. Though a moment before she had felt irrational terror that he would leave her, now she wished only to break free. His hands were hard, heavy, warm, and that warmth spread through her. Odd. “You promise?”

  “Yes, princess.” Very much to her surprise, he dropped a quick, hard kiss on her mouth. “Stay hidden,” he commanded, and set off.

  Her knees suddenly weak, certainly from hunger and exhaustion, Blythe sank to the ground again. The gloom was deepening under the trees, and about her she could hear the rustlings of small animals and insects, creatures of the night. It was a reassuring sound, one she’d missed in the city, and as she realized that a strange feeling of calm and well-being fell over her. She had hated London. She could admit that now, with her bridges burned behind her. If the mad events of the days past accomplished nothing else, they had freed her from what now seemed like dismal servitude. Why, she had been as much a prisoner as Simon had.

  She was mulling over that astonishing revelation when twigs crackled in the underbrush. She froze. If it was Simon he would call to her, but this person stayed quiet. Into her mind flashed a memory of that morning, when she and Simon had huddled together in the stream, and of the man who pursued them. ‘Twould be best if Simon was caught, she knew that. Not yet, though. Please God, not yet.

  “Miss?” a voice said, very small, very tentative. “Are you there?”

  “Yes. Who is it?” Blythe said, surprised to hear her voice crack, so relieved was she. Not this morning’s pursuer, but a boy.

  “Me, miss. From the inn.” The branches pushed back, and a boy, dressed in neat shirt and breeches, stood there, his hair tangled, his eyes curious. “Mr. Porter said as to how I’m to come for you. I’m Ben, Miss.”

  Blythe scrambled to her feet. “Mr. Porter?”

  “He that runs the inn, miss. No, not that way. This way. We cross the road and go by the back. And quiet, like,” he chattered. “Soldiers have already been here oncet today.”

  Blythe nodded, slipping across the road behind the boy and into the trees on the other side. Somehow he’d managed to find a path, faint in the dusk. “I’m glad you know your way.”

  “Yes. Is it true you escaped the hangman, miss?”

  “Me! Heavens, no.”

  “Shh, miss! As I said. Quiet, like.”

  “Then don’t ask such foolish questions.”

  “Sorry, miss.” Ben’s voice dropped. “Me mam said I ever did talk too much, but Mr. Porter, he don’t mind. Thinks I should go on the stage, he does.”

  “All the world’s a stage,” Blythe m
uttered.

  “Excuse me, miss?”

  “Nothing.” Blythe held her peace in spite of Ben’s chatter, as, leaving the trees, they reached first a kitchen garden, lush and green even in the twilight, and then an uneven brick path. Before them reared the inn, bigger than she’d imagined; taller and more rambling, with its half-timbered wings and outbuildings. And old, so old it could very well be the original Tabard, she thought, and then reproved herself for her fancies. This was not a pleasure jaunt she was on, but something far more serious.

  A door opened as Blythe and Ben approached the inn, and a hand reached out to grab Ben’s arm, dragging him in. “There, Master Ben, and didn’t I tell you to cease your prattling?” a voice scolded. “Let the poor miss come in.” The speaker put her other arm about Blythe’s shoulders, pulling her against a massive and comforting bosom. “I’m Mrs. Porter, and there, do you not say who you are. Better that way, then I can’t tell what I don’t know, can I? But I’ll wager you’re exhausted.”

  “It’s been a wearying day,” Blythe agreed, blinking. Mrs. Porter had drawn her through a dark passageway, and now she stood in a wide kitchen, its flagstone floor clean and polished, the fire in the wide hearth glowing with embers. A trestle table was set with the remains of what must once have been a fine joint of beef, bowls of potatoes, and several pewter tankards. Blythe was suddenly very hungry, and very tired, indeed. “I do thank you for taking us in. I’m sorry to be such trouble—”

  “Indeed, ‘tis no trouble, not for Harry and Bess’s boy. Sit you down, now, and I’ll just pour you a nice cup of tea to have with your supper.”

  Blythe slid onto a bench at the table. “Harry and Bess? Who are they?”

  “Why, Simon’s uncle and aunt, of course.” Mrs. Porter set down a pewter dish brimming with carved ham, potatoes, and new peas. “But there, you knew that, o’course.”

  “Actually, no.” Blythe looked up. “Did Simon not tell you how we met?”

  “Why, no. Should he have?”

  “The rogue,” Blythe muttered. “He got me into this and he’s not making any effort to get me out.”

  “It doesn’t matter, lamb, I know that you both need help. And you’ll be safe here. Now, I’ll stop my prattling so you can eat.”

  “Thank you.” Blythe bent her head to the meal, sighing with pleasure over fresh food served hot and cooked well. Such things as she had always before taken for granted: a roof over her head, regular meals, a reputation...and stifling duties pressed upon her by an uncaring, selfish employer, along with the dreary knowledge of her place in life. The past days had held more than one revelation.

  There was a footstep in the passage, and Simon came into the kitchen, ducking his head to miss the lintel. His hair was wet and tousled, his face scraped free of beard, and he wore a clean shirt, loose and flowing and yet somehow defining itself over strong, etched muscles. Good heavens. He was beautiful. Until this moment she’d not realized it.

  “Made it safely, princess?” he said, sitting on the bench across from her and reaching for one of the tankards.

  “Yes.” Blythe fixed her attention on her supper, fighting the urge to look at him. Just to look. “Do they know why we’re here?”

  “Aye. Though they don’t know everything about you.”

  At that Blythe did look up, and instantly regretted it. Without his beard Simon looked younger, more approachable, not at all the dangerous rogue she knew him to be. “Yes, so I noticed. I can’t imagine what they think of me.”

  “They know you’ve helped me, and that’s all that matters.” Draining the tankard, he leaned back. “Ah, that was good. Theater people take you as you are.”

  “And what we are is an escaped felon and his captive.”

  “No, princess.” He shook his head. “They know the truth—”

  “I’ve the attic room ready,” a man said, stepping into the room. “A job it was, too, to do it quiet. Lots of folks on the road tonight.”

  “We appreciate it, Josiah,” Simon said gravely.

  The man grunted, looking at Blythe measuringly. “This is your companion?”

  “Aye. Thank you.” This to the kitchen maid who had set a fresh tankard before him. “I’m not sure, but I think she’s the makings of a fine actress.”

  “Really.” Josiah Porter assessed Blythe differently. “Going to join a troupe, are you?”

  “Good heavens, no.” Something about Porter’s gaze disturbed her, though she didn’t know quite what. “I’m going home.”

  “And where is home, princess?” Simon asked.

  “A village in Kent.” If they would take her back.

  “Likely the soldiers will look for you there.”

  “What else can I do?” she cried. “And we don’t know that they know who I am.”

  “Yet.”

  “There, master Simon, stop teasing the poor lass,” Mrs. Porter exclaimed, bustling over to Blythe and putting an arm about her again. “Likely she’s had as hard a day as you, and not a complaint from her, either. So just leave her be. You must be tired.” This to Blythe, who looked up at her.

  “Yes, I am, rather.”

  “Then come with me.” Mrs. Porter tugged at her arm. “There’s a room waiting for you.

  “Thank you,” Blythe said, and, after throwing Simon a look, followed Mrs. Porter up the narrow back stairs.

  Josiah stood in the middle of the kitchen, legs braced apart, hand stroking his chin, looking at the stairs. “Can you trust her?”

  “I don’t know,” Simon answered shortly.

  “You know women, my boy.” Josiah straddled the bench Blythe had just left. “Not a one of them can keep their tongues still. What happens when she returns to this village of hers?”

  “As long as she doesn’t know where I’m going, I’ll be all right.”

  There was silence for a moment. “Where are you going?” Josiah asked, finally.

  “On a pilgrimage.”

  “What?”

  Simon speared a morsel of roast beef with the end of his knife. He’d known the Porters for years, and yet the question Josiah had asked about Blythe was pertinent. Could he trust them? “To find the truth.”

  “You speak in riddles, Simon. If I knew your plans, I could help you. Get word to people, find someone to smuggle you out of the country—”

  “I didn’t do it,” Simon interrupted, his face stiff. “I’m no murderer.”

  “Come, lad, I know that,” Josiah exclaimed, his voice just a bit too hearty. “Would I let you stay if I thought so? Why, I’d fear you’d murder us in our beds!”

  “Brave of you.” Simon rose, and though he smiled, his muscles felt tight, stiff. So this was how it was to be, with every chance-met person, with everyone he’d known. No one believed him. Which made his need to find the truth more urgent than before. “I’ll not trouble you long, Josiah, and I do thank you for letting us stay.”

  “Glad to do it.” Josiah stood with balled fists on hips, the very picture of a jolly innkeeper. “Mind, now, you’ll have to leave early if no one’s to remark you. ‘Twill be hard enough to keep you a secret.”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t bring any danger onto you. Good night,” he added, before Josiah, mouth agape, could answer, and headed up the back stairs himself.

  The attic room was nothing more than its name implied, a tiny garret tucked up under the eaves, with a ceiling so low that Simon had to duck his head to keep from hitting it. Damn lucky they’d been to get this, he thought, quietly opening the door. Porter’d been none too happy about taking them in. Thank God this little room was usually used for storage or by the maids, so that the guests weren’t likely to know of it.

  He wasn’t surprised to see Blythe already tucked into bed, staring at him wide-eyed from beneath the covers, pulled up to her nose. “That cold, princess?” he said, smiling, sitting on the edge of the bed to pull off his shoes.

  “No.”

  “What, no maidenly protests? No demands to know what I’m doi
ng here?”

  “No.”

  He looked at her then. She wore her mobcap again and, except for a few tendrils of honey-hued hair, all he could see were huge eyes, blue and as unfathomable as the sea. “You knew we’d be sharing this room.”

  “Yes.”

  “All right, then,” he said, and, rising, began to pull off his shirt.

  Blythe scuttled up to the headboard, pulling the counterpane higher. “Surely you’re not—we aren’t sharing the bed.”

  Simon let his arms drop, sighing. The mattress was made of straw and was probably lumpy, but it would feel heavenly after sleeping rough last night. Or after the thin pallet he’d had at Newgate. “Of course not, princess,” he said, and if there were mockery in his tone, it was leveled as much at himself as at her. “I wouldn’t dare presume such a thing.”

  “Rogue,” she muttered.

  He sighed again, gustily. “Insults. And here I am, doing the right thing.”

  “My apologies.”

  He reached again for the hem of his shirt. “Mm-hm.”

  “Could you please not do that?”

  He paused. “What?”

  “Please leave your shirt on.”

  “Princess—”

  “Please.”

  “Oh, hell,” he said, and let his arms drop. It was late. He was too tired to argue. “Will you at least let me have a pillow?”

  Blythe’s arm snaked out from under the covers as she picked up one of the pillows and handed it to him. A bare arm, he noted in sudden fascination, pale and slim and rounded. His heart started thudding. What was she wearing under that all-concealing counterpane? “Thank you.” He spoke with admirable calmness, considering the sudden surge of heat through his body. “And a quilt?”

  “There’s one in the blanket chest.”

  “Ah.” Simon pried open the lid of the carved oak chest at the foot of the bed. “So there is. Well.” He settled on the floor, the quilt wrapped around him. “Better accommodations than I’ve had lately. Good night, princess,” he said, and blew out the taper, plunging the tiny room into darkness.

  “Good night,” Blythe managed to get out through a very dry throat, and settled against the pillow. The mattress was lumpy and smelled musty, but she was too tired to care. Tired, and yet restless, as the day’s events continued to play in her mind. She hadn’t missed the way the innkeeper had looked at her this evening. Nor had she missed Simon’s wince as he’d settled on the floor. He was doing remarkably well, but his leg had to be paining him.