The Perfect Crimes of Marian Hayes (London Highwaymen, #2)(63)

“She had pigtails, Marian. She also had a knife that she kept up her sleeve and a mean right hook. Well, when her father died a few years later, she took over. There was never any question of it. Her brothers didn’t quarrel about it, her mother didn’t try to stop her, and any pawnbrokers or jewelers who wouldn’t give her a fair price soon realized they had alienated the most powerful fence in London.”

He spoke with naked pride and fondness for this Betty, but also with a degree of wistfulness that made little sense until Marian recalled that Rob had been away from his friends for a year, and then back with them for only a few days before leaving again with Marian. “You miss her.”

“I do. I miss her and Kit. Even though I know they’ll both be there in London when I return.”

On the list of things that Marian liked about Rob, a list that was increasing at an alarming pace, the fact that he was so openly fond of the people he cared for was toward the top. He didn’t conceal his fondness, whether it was for someone he had just met or for someone he had known his whole life. And he didn’t try to hold it back, either. His friendship was like a creeping ivy—all one had to do was let it be, and it covered the whole barn.

She had experienced it herself, as unreal as it felt. He had seen something worth liking in her letters, and the next thing Marian knew he was devoted to her. She could no longer pretend that he was simply saying those things to her without meaning it; he had traveled back and forth across the country four times now for her. He had shown his fondness with word and deed since that first night, and maybe even before it.

He claimed he loved her. A better woman would cherish the sentiment; Marian wished she had never heard it.

“You love your friends,” she said, mainly because she knew she would enjoy hearing him agree.

“Very much,” he said firmly.

She looked out the window for a moment, watching the dreary countryside roll past. “I’m certain they love you as well,” she said, not taking her eyes off the empty fields, the muddy verge. She didn’t know how anyone could help but love him. He was easy to love. Everyone he met must fall a little bit in love with him; she had seen it herself, again and again. She shouldn’t be surprised that it had happened to her.

“I hope they do,” he said, and she knew he was looking at her, but she didn’t dare turn her head.

They hit a rut that sent them both careening to the side, and he wordlessly braced her with one arm, steadying her so she didn’t hit the door. Then, just as casually, he let his arm drop.

“Once,” Rob said, precisely as if they were continuing their earlier conversation, “Betty stabbed someone who tried to start a fight in Kit’s coffeehouse.”

Marian raised an eyebrow. “That would seem to escalate the fight, rather than stop it.”

“Oh, she didn’t want to stop it. She wanted to win it. And she only stabbed the fellow in the arm.”

“No harm done then,” she said, amused.

“Precisely.”

“And what did Mr. Webb say to all this?”

“He begged her to come work for him. She accepted, and there hasn’t been another fight on the premises since.” He smiled at her, wide and guileless, as if he were talking about sweets and kittens rather than stabbings and brawls, and she couldn’t help but smile back. “I’d like for you to meet them.”

The smile dropped from her face. He had to have forgotten that she was returning to Clare House and would be in no position to mingle with fences and highwaymen. And even if she were free to do as she pleased, she didn’t know whether she wanted to be welcomed into the bosom of this criminal family Rob had assembled. These were the people Rob truly belonged with, and part of her couldn’t help but think that she would matter less to him once he had his real friends back.

Mercifully, they reached a posting inn and stopped for a meal. Rob, as ever, was willing to let uncomfortable topics drop. The meal, when it arrived, was splendid. All meals were when taken with Rob. People wanted to give him their best dishes, wanted to keep his cup filled to the brim.

When they stopped for the night, she let Rob into her room when he knocked. His hands were warm and callused and gentle and she gave herself up to his touch. And then she watched, fascinated, her heart in her throat, as he did the same for her.

Later, Rob fell into a doze, his face burrowed into her shoulder, his hair glowing copper in the firelight. From where she lay, she could see at least half a dozen scars on his arms and back. He spoke of them as if he didn’t mind them, and she thought she understood—what were the pair of them, after all, but a collection of things gone wrong and then, slowly, made right again.

Rob woke up in the small hours of the morning.

“Why are you awake?” he asked, his voice rough with sleep.

“I haven’t slept much.” She hadn’t slept at all. Instead she had alternated between watching him and chastising herself for watching him. In her defense, she told herself, he was remarkably pretty and anyone in their right mind would want to look at him, and this night would likely be her last chance to do so.

“If you keep looking at me like that, you’re going to give me ideas,” he said.

She swallowed. “Well. This is me, continuing to look at you.”

He raised an eyebrow and pushed the covers off her.

He made the question of sex so easy. She had thought that of all things, her limitations in this area would finally be the thing that served as a check on his affections. She had even been a little relieved to know that something would happen to restore some semblance of sanity between them.