The Perfect Crimes of Marian Hayes (London Highwaymen, #2)(17)

When the barmaid brought over a couple of pints of ale, they both drained their tankards in a single go.

“The next time I flee from home under cover of night, I’m bringing a skin of ale,” Marian said, and good Lord, that was almost a joke. He knew she was capable of humor, of course, and had a sheaf of letters tucked into the lining of his coat to prove it. But to hear it came as more of a relief than he had anticipated and he had to make sure he wasn’t smiling broadly at her like the fool that he was.

“Next time you’ll know better,” he said consolingly. “But you brought your coin purse, which makes up for a multitude of sins. It would have been a right pain in the arse if I had to steal a pair of horses.”

“Could you have?” she asked, sounding genuinely curious.

“Could I have, she asks,” Rob scoffed. “I could and I have.”

“Felicitations,” she said.

“To crime,” he said, after the barmaid brought them a fresh pair of pints and bowls of stew. “Because sometimes it needs to be done.”

She looked at him for a long moment, then raised her glass.





Chapter 7




Marian disapproved entirely of markets: they were noisy and crowded, with people and livestock alike milling about without any apparent pattern.

Rob sighed and took Marian by the elbow, towing her along. The crowds seemed to part for him, which was both predictable and annoying. She had noticed the way he winked at the barmaids and joked around with the ostlers. He smiled at strangers and tossed coins to naughty boys who were almost certainly up to no good and shouldn’t be encouraged.

The unfortunate fact of the matter was that Rob was charming. She ought to have guessed as much from his letters. He was one of those people who managed to convince the world that it ought to rejoice in his mere existence.

Marian was ill-disposed to charming men. She didn’t trust anyone who could use their words and their wits to bend the minds of the people around them. They got away with too much. The duke was one of those men, for all he seldom bothered to use his charm on Marian after they were married. He had charmed her senseless while he was courting her, and she was mortified to recall how badly taken in she had been.

She had believed him to be in love with her. She believed she was getting the better end of the bargain because he was infatuated with her. He had said—he had said all manner of silly things, and he had said them charmingly, and she had believed him. She might not have reciprocated the sentiment, but she knew the value of marrying a man who held one dear. She had been naive and foolish, too eager to believe what he said because she so badly needed what he offered.

She must have stopped walking at some point, because she was standing in front of a stall piled with unfortunate, lumpen gourds, and Rob was a few steps ahead, tugging her along, his fingers firm and solid around her wrist

“Right,” he said. “Of course. Having another one, are you?” Before she could protest, he slid his fingers from her wrist to her hand. She could feel his calluses against the soft skin of her palm. “Damn it, your hands are cold,” he muttered. “All right. Come on, now. I know it’s bad, but you’ll feel better after you get some sleep.”

Rob made his way along the rows of stalls as if he visited this market every week. He seemed to know exactly what he wanted and where to find it, and within an hour had purchased a large leather satchel, a basket, half a dozen apples, a wedge of cheese, a cake of soap, a comb, and a razor. And with every purchase, he dazzled the person behind the stall, whether a buxom young matron or an elderly man with no teeth. She wanted to tell him that these farmers or merchants or whatever they were simply wanted to sell their wares and collect his coins, that they didn’t want his smiles or his friendly chatter. But they did seem to want his smiles and his chatter—Marian knew what forced smiles looked like and she certainly knew what reluctant conversation sounded like, and these were neither. It was infuriating, really.

“Gown or breeches?” Rob asked as they left the central thoroughfare behind and approached a handful of stalls on the outskirts of the market.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Which do you plan to wear? Or do you plan to alternate? It’s of no importance to me, except that we both need a change of clothes and I’d like to know what to look for.”

“Breeches,” she said without hesitation, because while she could ride in a skirt—she could probably ride in court dress, complete with panniers, if it came down to it—she didn’t wish to. She had spent years hacking about the countryside in her brother’s outgrown riding clothes, not wanting to incur the expense of a new riding habit that she would surely ruin on the first muddy day.

Without comment, he purchased a pair of shirts that looked new, a hat that decidedly did not, some gloves, and a pair of buckskins. She hoped the buckskins were for her, because the breeches she had on now were Percy’s, and since they were Percy’s, they were made of some ridiculous fine fabric that would not withstand much longer in the saddle.

It occurred to her that she could buy her own buckskins, if need be. “Are those for me?” she asked, gesturing to the buckskins, which now lay folded inside the basket.

“Yes. Do you not care for them? We have another fifty or so miles to go, and I thought you could do with something sturdier.” He gestured at his own breeches, which were indeed buckskins, and were also nicely fitted over muscular thighs in a way she preferred not to contemplate.