The Perfect Crimes of Marian Hayes (London Highwaymen, #2)(16)

“When was the last time you ate?” he asked. She was eating with a speed that Rob knew from experience meant the kind of hunger that gnawed at your bones.

She hesitated for a long, troubling minute. “Breakfast,” she finally said, sounding utterly unconvincing.

Nearly a full day, then, if not more. And she hadn’t said a word about it. He cut the cheese into four pieces and offered her three.

“I’ll take only what’s mine,” she said, and took two pieces.

As far as life philosophies went, that was a piss poor one, but he decided to spare her his thoughts on the topic since she had had a trying day and was half frozen, thoroughly starved, and probably still a little bit mad with shock. He unscrewed the cap of his flask and held it out to her. “We don’t have anything to drink except gin, unless you want to take your chances with that stream.”

She waved away the flask and mounted her horse. He slid off the fence, dusting his trousers and rearranging his cuffs and in general taking his time about it, and out of the corner of his eye watched Marian pretend not to be steaming with impatience. The fact that she could manage irritation at a time when most people would have drowned in panic was a testament to her backbone. And the fact that Rob was ready to rhapsodize over such a thing as backbone was a testament to his own besottedness. He was fully disgusted with himself.

Luck was truly on their side, because as the first hints of dawn appeared in the sky, there was a sharp increase in the number of conveyances on the road: carts carrying homespun and candles and great piles of potatoes. It had to be market day in Sevenoaks. He had hoped that they’d run into a market today, but to find one first thing was more than he could have asked for. The inns would be too full for anyone to pay much attention to them and they’d be able to pick up a change of clothes. They might even catch wind of any news from London about the Duke of Clare, his attackers, and whether Marian was wanted for his murder.

“Tuck your plait into your shirt,” he said. He wasn’t worried about her being recognized as the possibly fugitive Duchess of Clare, but rather that she would stand out as a woman dressed in breeches. If she was going to blend into a crowd, she needed either a tricorn hat or a skirt, so as to make the pendulum swing decisively one way or the other.

“You tuck your own plait into your shirt,” she retorted.

“Your plait clearly belongs to a woman. It reaches your waist,” he said. “And it’s as thick as a mooring line.” Horrified, he realized that his tone was one of breathless fascination. “I don’t know how you stuff it all under those wigs you lot wear.”

“If you hand me one of those daggers, I’ll cut it off.”

“Like hell you will. You’ll ruin the blade.”

She gave him a look that could have frozen the gin in his flask and withered the crops in the field, if it hadn’t been December and the landscape already quite barren. But she tucked her hair into her shirt nonetheless, acting extremely put upon. He removed his hat and held it out to her.

“No thank you,” she said tartly.

“It’s not a present, darling. It’s a disguise, until we can get you a better one.”

She sighed and took the hat, as if it were a tremendous burden to her. He tipped the brim over her forehead at a rakish angle.

When they reached the town, they first stopped at an inn. Inns on market day mornings were never at their best. The atmosphere was one of businesslike efficiency, which Rob disliked on principle. Nobody lingered over a pint or warmed their feet by the fire. There was no singing, no laughter, hardly even any conversation beyond essential questions and answers. Dismal. It was always better later on, when people had a bit of time on their hands and a word to spare for a fellow traveler, when stories were swapped across battered oak tables and bellies were full of supper and ale. Some of the happiest hours of his life had been spent in such a way, generally with Kit, and the memory made him feel both wistful and somehow homesick, in the way that happy memories too often did.

Once the horses were being seen to, they made their way through the crowd into the taproom. There was an empty table in one of the corners, and maybe they spotted it at the same time, or maybe they both realized that a dark corner was just what they needed, but they both headed toward it. Rob made for the seat that would put his back to the wall, but Marian’s hand clasped the chair back before he could sit down.

“Ah, no,” Rob said, making what he felt was a reasonably gallant gesture at the other chair.

“Ah, yes,” Marian said, making what Rob was amused to realize was an even more gallant gesture.

“I need to be able to see the room,” Rob said.

“Why?”

The truth was that, as a rule, he liked to keep his back to the wall. He wanted to know whether he was about to be confronted with thief takers or magistrates or any other old acquaintances he’d prefer never to meet again in this lifetime. Or, for that matter, acquaintances he’d be happy to see—one never knew. “Because we’re trying to avoid anyone recognizing you.”

She looked at him for a long moment, then sat in the seat that put her back to the room. So, perhaps she didn’t want to quarrel with him at every opportunity. He was more than willing to quarrel with her, both because she was quite good at it—it was always wise to encourage excellence—and because it seemed to distract her from all the bad things that no doubt were churning around in her mind. Whenever he looked at her, she was either scowling at him or she appeared lost in a miserable reverie, and he much preferred the scowl.