Mary Putney: Angel Rogue

Maxie colored and tugged her rucked coat downward. She was on the verge of bolting when he raised a disarming hand.

"No need to run off. I'm a harmless fellow. Remember, you assaulted me, not vice versa." He reached to-ward a lumpy bag that lay a few feet away. "It's time for a midday meal, and I have far more food than one person needs. Care to join me?"

She really should put some distance between herself and this too handsome fellow. But he was friendly and unmenacing, and some conversation would be pleasant.

Her decision was made when he pulled out one of the odd shaped meat pies called Cornish pasties. A fresh, delectable scent wafted toward her.

Her stomach would never forgive her if she refused. "If you are sure you have enough, I would be pleased to join you." She lowered her knapsack to the ground, then settled on crossed legs beyond pouncing distance, in case young Apollo proved more dangerous than he appeared.

The blond man handed over the pasty. Then he rummaged in his bag again, producing another pasty, cold roast chicken, several rolls, and a small jug. Uncorking the jug he set it midway between them. "We'll have to share the ale."

"I do not drink ale." She did, however, eat pasties. It was an effort not to wolf hers down. The crumbly crust and wellflavored shreds of beef and vegetables were delicious.

He chewed and swallowed a bite of his own pasty before saying pensively, "In most circles, it is considered rude to eat with one's hat on."

Maxie was reluctant to expose herself to the other's gaze, but she could not ignore the appeal to manners. The acceptance of hospitality imposed obligations. Raising her hand, she removed the shapeless hat, keeping a wary eye on her companion.

For a moment he stared, face tightening. She had seen such reactions before, and her hand shifted so that she could reach her knife quickly if necessary.

Luckily, he refrained from foolish or vulgar comments. After swallowing hard, he asked, "Care for some chicken?"

Maxie relaxed and accepted a drumstick. "Yes, please."

He took a piece for himself. "How do you come to be trespassing in the Marquess of Wolverton's forest?"

"I was walking along a track when I heard someone coming. I decided that being unobserved was the better part of wisdom, then got distracted by a nightingale. What is your excuse-poaching?"

He gave her a wounded look. "Do I look like a poacher?"

"No. Or at least, not a successful one." She finished the chicken leg and daintily licked her fingers. "On the other hand, you don't look like the Marquess of Whatever, either."

"Would you believe me if I said that I was he?"

"No." She cast a disrespectful eye over his garments, which were well tailored but far from new.

"A young woman of excellent judgment," he said with approval. "As it happens, you are right I am not the Marquess of Wolverton any more man you are British."

"What makes you say that?" she asked, thinking her host was altogether too perceptive.

"Accents are something of a specialty of mine. Yours is almost that of the English gentry, but not quite." His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "My guess is that you are American, probably from New England."

He was good. "A reasonable guess," she said noncommittally.

"Is your name still Jack?"

Her eyes narrowed. "You certainly ask a lot of questions."

"Asking is the easiest method I know for satisfying curiosity," he said with perfect logic. "And it often works."

"An irrefutable point." She hesitated a moment longer, but could see no reason not to tell him. "I'm usually called Maxie, but my name is actually Maxima."

"You looked more like a Minima to me," he said promptly, examining her scant inches.

She laughed. "You're not precisely Hercules yourself."

"Yes, but I'm not named Hercules, so I'm not trying to deceive anyone."

"My father was named Maximus and I was called after him. No one thought to wonder if I would grow up to fit the name until it was too late." She finished eating her roll. "If your name isn't Hercules, what is it?"

"It isn't a lot of things." He took a swig of ale as he weighed what to say. He was obviously a wayfaring rogue who had had so many names and identities that he didn't remember himself what he had been christened.

Eventually he said, "Lately I've been using Lord Robert Andreville."

Startled, she asked, "Are you really a nobleman?" Despite his old clothing, he did have an air about him. Then she frowned. "You're hoaxing me, aren't you? My father explained titles to me once. A real peer does not use Lord with his Christian name. I reckon that Lord Robert is a pretend title that you invented to impress people."

"And here I thought I could fool someone from the colonies." An impish light showed in his eyes. "You're quite right, I'm a commoner, not the least bit noble. My friends call me Robin."

Whatever his name, the man had a marvelously expressive face. Perhaps he was an actor rather than a swindler. Of course, he could be both, but still Maxie found herself smiling back. "In that case, you should give something to your namesake for luck." She gestured at the brighteyed English robin that had landed in the middle of the fairy ring and been hopping closer and closer as they ate. Smaller and more lively than the American robin, it did rather resemble her companion.

"A good idea." He tossed a fragment to the bird, which grabbed the morsel and flew away. "One should always offer to the gods of luck." Delving into his pouch again, he asked, "Care for some shortbread?"

"That would be very nice." She accepted a wedge, trying not to look too greedy.

He had a marvelously engaging smile, with the charm of a man who could sell you a dozen things you didn't need. Maxie and her father had met many likable wastrels on their travels, and the self proclaimed Lord Robert was another of that breed. Actually, Max could have been considered one as well. Perhaps that was why his daughter had a weakness for beguiling rogues.

She ate the butter rich shortbread with pleasure, thinking that this was the best meal she'd had in a very long time. After finishing, she went to the stream to wash her hands and drink some of the cool water.

Robin watched his improbable guest thoughtfully. Though she had done her best to disguise herself with shapeless clothing, his palms remembered the shapes of concealed curves. When she returned, he asked, "Do you live near here?"

"No, I'm on my way to London." She picked up her hat and knapsack. "Thank you for sharing your meal."

"London!" he said, startled. "Good God, do you seriously intend to walk that whole way alone?"

"It's only about two hundred miles. I'll be there within a fortnight. Good day to you." She settled the hat back on her head, tugging it down so that it shadowed her clear brown eyes.

He bit back the impulse to tell her not to put the hat on, that it was a crime to obscure that exquisite face. When she had first crashed down on him, he had thought her a mischievous young tomboy in a brother's clothing. Then she had doffed her absurd hat, and he had briefly forgotten how to speak or breathe.

Maxima-Maxie-had the exotic beauty sometimes found in those of mixed race. While her delicate features were almost English, the smooth dark complexion, glossy black hair, and subtle modeling of the bones were definitely not.

It was a face one would not forget.

Yet beauty was the least of it. What drew him like a magnet was a quality of focused directness as strong and true as a blade, a still strength that showed in every word and gesture she made. Seeing her had triggered a flood of long suppressed emotions, and they battered inside him like ice breaking up in the spring rains. The effect was far from comfortable.

In the midst of tumult, one fact was blazingly clear: He must not let this extraordinary creature walk out of his life.