The Perfect Crimes of Marian Hayes (London Highwaymen, #2)(32)

He tasted like the sugary tea they had imbibed by the bucketful that morning. His lips were a little chapped as they moved against hers, and the hand that skimmed under her coat to land on her waist was cold through the fabric of her shirt. He was careful, but not tentative.

As they kissed, heat gathered in her, and she was hit by a rush of relief that she still had this—that after everything, she could still want someone.

Then a chunk of the roof fell in and they both swore. He grabbed his bag, she grabbed the cat, and they were in their saddles without a word being exchanged, as if they had done this a thousand times and as if they were going to do it a thousand more.





Chapter 14




Rob shielded his eyes from the rain and looked at the view before him. The path, which had been steadily but gently climbing all morning, took a turn and suddenly they had an open view of the countryside for miles around. It was a study in drab browns and grays: barren fields, leafless trees, and even a sky that was dark and dull with heavy rainclouds. He had the vaguely embarrassed sensation of being an unexpected visitor, of seeing a person in old clothes and without their hair done. The landscape probably looked better at any other time of year—dressed in the green of summer or even blanketed in snow.

He realized he had brought his horse to a stop and Marian had followed suit. “It probably looked much nicer a few months ago,” he said, as if he had to apologize on the land’s behalf.

“The countryside is exhausting to look at in the summer,” she said, wiping raindrops from her face with the sleeve of her coat, “with every flower and tree competing for one’s attention. And it looks precisely the way one expects it to, with sheep dotting every hill and every branch heaving with leaves. It’s already achieved whatever it’s going to achieve.”

“I don’t follow.”

“In the winter, you can imagine that the land could become anything. In the summer, all that’s left is for winter to come.”

Rob had never heard anyone express anything of the sort and didn’t know what to say, or even to think, beyond reflecting that if anyone were to enjoy an uninterrupted view of mud and dirt it would have to be Marian.

A few minutes later, Rob could make out the faintest suggestion of a roofline through the rainfall. It was about time. He was no stranger to discomfort—he and Kit had spent a winter living rough, and prison was cold and wet on the best of days—but the past hour ranked among the most unpleasantly damp of his life. He wanted nothing more than to strip his clothes and roast before a fire. Marian hardly seemed to notice the cold, but Rob knew better.

He held up a hand to shield his eyes from the rain so he could get a look at the place. He didn’t know what he was expecting, but this certainly wasn’t it. Marian’s father was the Earl of Eynsham, and the natural habitat of an earl was a ridiculous stone palace with great silly windows that let out all the heat. Or perhaps one of those aggressively symmetrical manors whose columned porticoes gaped like the mouth of a whale. Rob was pretty sure a house with more than four bedrooms couldn’t help but look sinister.

But this house was about one step removed from a cottage. All it needed was a thatched roof and some chickens pecking at the dirt and the picture would be complete.

Marian rode straight to a tiny stable at the back of the house and dismounted her horse in a single easy movement. “Netley!” she called. Rob realized he had never before heard her raise her voice, but one had to nearly shout to be heard over the rain. “We’ll have to tend to the horses ourselves,” she said.

Inside the stable, though, they were greeted by a man the approximate age of God himself, bearded and grizzled and pointing a rifle at Rob’s chest.

“Netley!” Marian called happily. “Oh dear, you don’t recognize me in these clothes. It’s Lady Marian.”

The man stepped closer, taking in her attire with narrowed eyes, but lowering his weapon. “Is that so?”

“Yes,” she laughed. “I’ve ridden all the way from London.”

“Daft thing to do, my lady.”

“Wasn’t it? This is Mr. Brooks.”

Netley looked critically at Rob. “He’s not the one you married.”

“Mr. Brooks made sure I didn’t get into too much trouble on the way here.”

Netley glanced at Rob and muttered something that sounded like had your work cut out for you, then.

“Thank you, Netley. You’ll see that the horses are looked after, won’t you? They’ve had a rough few days.” Then Marian strode across the muddy stretch of dirt that stood between the stable and the house. Rob followed, his boots squelching in the mud.

She pushed open a door at the rear of the house and soon Rob found himself standing in a snug kitchen whose warmth almost made him sob with relief. But Marian didn’t so much as pause in front of the hearth. “Hester!” she called, crossing the kitchen and passing through another door. “Hester!” she repeated.

Rob opened his mouth to suggest that they divest themselves of their sodden cloaks and boots, but before he could say anything, Marian shoved the cat at him and strode farther into the house.

They were now in a small entry hall that was almost entirely filled by a staircase. At the top of those stairs appeared a woman in a plain gray dress and a crisp white apron. “Lady Marian!” she cried and made her careful way down the stairs. Marian went up to greet her halfway. “Lady—Your Grace, rather,” the woman who was presumably Hester repeated, holding Marian at arm’s length and looking at her. She appeared even older than Netley, her face deeply creased and her hair so white it hardly contrasted with her cap. “But you’re soaked through, dear. You’ll catch a—”