Morrow Creek Runaway

He wanted to hear Rosamond call him her Miles again.

But there was the pressing matter of her recent misconduct to be dealt with first. He could not let that stand as it was.

Even if that, as much as anything else, assured him he’d located the right woman—the right redheaded runaway housemaid.

“You drugged me,” he accused again, wishing he could strengthen his charge by standing. His knees felt rubbery and unfit to support him. “You tossed my coat and pockets looking for clues, and now Miss Yates is searching my valise.”

“Yes. That reminds me—” Rosamond turned her attention to her partner in crime. “What have you found, Miss Yates?”

“Several train ticket stubs, today’s copy of the Pioneer Press, assorted men’s clothing, a battered old book and far, far too much money for any honorable man to possess in Morrow Creek.” That traitorous woman aimed a sour look at Miles. “Furthermore, he only packed a single pair of underdrawers.”

They both gave him patently scandalized stares.

“I’m wearing the other pair,” Miles explained in his own defense, trying to ignore the additionally skeptical—and far more salacious—glance Miss Yates tossed him next. He’d have sworn she was imagining him naked. “I’m not made of money.”

They stared pointedly at his valise full of banknotes.

Miles drew himself up with dignity. In his current state, he didn’t know how to further defend himself without mentioning how he’d gotten all that money—and how much it had really cost him. He’d done his utmost not to spend much of it, but he’d had no way to search for Rosamond without it. He’d had to find out why she’d vanished from the Bouchards’ household in the middle of the night without so much as a note. Couldn’t she see that?

“Plus a wicked-looking knife,” the strongman, Judah, put in from across the room, saving Miles a reply. “Don’t forget that.”

Stricken, Miles patted his leg. Beneath his trousers, the knife sheaf on his calf felt conspicuously empty. He squinted anew at his drugged teacup, feeling lucky not to be insentient.

At least he had the wits to recognize he’d been bested.

Temporarily.

All the same, the notion made him feel perversely proud of Rose. She’d seen him as a threat. She’d dealt with that threat. Period. She was as capable and strong and spirited as ever. Those were all qualities he’d admired in her...once upon a time.

“Oh, we won’t forget the knife,” Miss Yates was assuring her hulking compatriot. “Or all that money, either.” Her gaze skittered over Miles’s black-clad form. “In fact, Mrs. Dancy, it might be wise of us to conduct an even more thorough search of his person. I’d be happy to supervise such an effort, if—”

“That won’t be necessary.” Rosamond’s attention remained implacably fixed on Miles’s face. She’d never even glanced below his neck, as near as he could tell. It was almost as though she didn’t want to consider any of the overtly manly rest of him. But that didn’t make sense. He’d never hurt her. He’d rather die than hurt her. “I think,” she added, “we’re almost done here.”

“My Rose was never this devious,” Miles complained.

“Your Rose is gone. And she isn’t ever going back.”

“Going back? Then you know that she left?”

At his question, Rosamond looked stricken. Because she’d been pretending not to know him. Because she’d been pretending—with admirable dexterity—not to know that she’d left Boston, left him...left everything in her old life behind.

Well, he was pretending, too. Pretending he had all the time in the world to sort things out. Pretending he had...anything to give her besides a charming tale and a pair of strong arms.

Near as he could tell, Rosamond wanted nothing from him—or from any man. Even if she was, as he’d learned, a widow now.

Determinedly, Miles leaned nearer to her. “You should know that I don’t want Rose to go back.” He had to communicate as much to Rosamond. It felt urgent. But the tea and the ale and whatever they’d dosed him with made it hard to say so. “I haven’t come here to bring her back. Only to—” See her. Proclaim my feelings for her. Save her, if necessary. “—see her.”

Hellfire. He still couldn’t tell her. Not even drugged.

But there’d be time for sweet words and proper reunions later. All Miles needed now was to make Rosamond trust him. That was first. Later on, everything else would naturally follow.

“Well, I’m afraid you’re stuck with me—Mrs. Dancy.” She kept her hands folded in her lap, but her cheeks had turned a shade pinker. Her feelings were softening toward him already. Miles could tell. All the signs were there. “I’m sorry I can’t help you find your friend, the housemaid you mentioned, but—”

“She was more than a friend. More than a housemaid, too.”

“In any case, it was Miles Callaway you were looking for, wasn’t it?” Placidly, Rosamond sipped from her own teacup, her gaze bright and intelligent over its rim. “How do you know him?”

“We worked together.” He should not embroider this fabricated story. But what choice did he have? Miles was certain “Mrs. Dancy” was his Rosamond, no matter how unlikely it was. No matter how sophisticated and jaded she appeared. No matter how much she tacitly denied it. But he didn’t want to spook her. That’s why he’d pretended to be “looking for Miles Callaway” in the first place. He’d counted on Rosamond’s interest in her former friend—and her intrinsic contrariness—to gain admission into her household. It had worked, too. She’d invited him inside, just the way he’d wanted. “Callaway left the Bouchards’ household several months ago. He’s been traveling ever since.”

“Traveling? But he can’t afford to—” Her eyes narrowed. “Traveling to what purpose?”

“He’s been searching for someone.”

Her gaze grew even more cynical. “For this ‘Rose’ person?”

A nod. “At times, he felt sure he’d found her.”

A wobble of her teacup was the only sign he’d affected her. She set down her cup, then airily regarded her tidy parlor. “I suppose people in Boston were wondering where she’d gone?”

“Callaway wondered.” Miles recalled the morning he’d learned she’d left. The confusion he’d felt then—the sheer disbelief and regret—still gnawed at him, all these months later. He and Rosamond had unfinished business between them. “He couldn’t understand why she’d leave without saying goodbye.”

“I’m sure she had her reasons.”

“I’d like to know what they were.”

A heartbeat passed. “I’m sure you would. So would Mr. Callaway and a few...other people, I’d imagine.”

She was testing him. She didn’t trust him yet. She was wise not to. Unwillingly, Miles recalled Arvid Bouchard’s intense interest in “that housemaid’s whereabouts.” It was only because of something that Genevieve Bouchard had let slip during a carriage ride that either of them had had the slightest lead on tracking Rosamond. Equally unwillingly, Miles recalled that he was supposed to report his findings to Arvid. He was supposed to tell his former employer the moment he located Rosamond.

Miles didn’t intend to do that. He never had.

He intended to find Rosamond, ensure she was safe, and then pay back every dime it had taken to find his friend...his Rose.

“If he were here now, I’d tell Mr. Callaway to forget about this housemaid,” she said. “I doubt she’s worth the trouble.”

“She’s worth everything. Everything to me.”

“To you?” She gave him a contemplative, dubious look. “Without even knowing where she’s been or what she’s done?”

“None of that matters.”

“It might.” Her gaze turned pensive. “If you knew.”

“It wouldn’t,” Miles swore, “as long as she’s safe.”

“Well, ‘safe’ is a relative term, isn’t it? Coming from you, the man who dodged my guard, it’s especially ironic.”

“You don’t need guards. Not against me.”