Page 34 of Rogue of the Greenwood
“Missing! But I haven’t been missing, I’ve been out walking.”
“And Miss St. John was safely at home when you left?” he questioned.
“Yes, of course,” she replied.
But then she realized that it might not be true. When she left, she hadn’t spoken to Meg for at least an hour, perhaps two. There had been no response when Marianne knocked at her door. Good heavens, what if Meg had not even been there? Perhaps she truly was missing!
“You have no idea where she might be?” Mr. Reeve asked, eyeing her suspiciously.
“I can’t even imagine. If she wasn’t there napping… I would have no idea!”
Even as she spoke, though, an idea began to formulate. It was a wild, ridiculous notion. She didn’t dare share her thoughts, but as possibilities circulated in her brain, only one thing made sense.
Mr. Reeve laid his hand on her elbow. “Come along, then, Miss Maidland. Your uncle is expecting me and I’m sure he would be quite relieved to see that I have found you.”
She smiled politely as she brushed him away. “Er, you go on, Mr. Reeve. I just recalled that Meg mentioned a desire to visit a friend. Yes, I’m quite certain that is what she told me—how silly for me to have forgotten!”
“Which friend?”
“Er… Miss Tinkleton, I believe. Why don’t you hurry to my uncle and assure him all is well? I will run to the Tinkleton house on the next street. I’m sure I will find Meg there.”
“I will come with you,” he insisted.
“You’d leave my uncle worrying? And poor Aunt Regina! Oh please, Mr. Reeve… please go to them and assure them all is well. I will find Meg and bring her home straightway.”
She could tell that he did not like the idea of parting from her after his good fortune at finding her, but there was no reason for him to argue. He had no choice but acquiesce.
“Very well, Miss Maidland. If you do not find her there, though, I must insist you bring word to your uncle with all haste. I would hate to think that Miss St. John has fallen into any danger.”
“Danger! Good heavens, Mr. Reeve. You quite terrify me. Surely there is no cause for alarm. Meg is not given to reckless behavior, after all. She is at her friend’s house, I’m sure of it. There can be nothing sinister in that, of course.”
“I hope so, Miss Maidland. Be about it, then. Go to your friend so we can be sure of Meg’s whereabouts. I hope this is just a misunderstanding. It would not go well for anyone if Miss St. John has come to harm.”
He was not an especially tall man, but he was large. His square jaw was set and his icy cold eyes showed no sign of mercy as they peered from under dark, heavy brows. He clenched his meaty hands and then grunted for his men to continue with him. Marianne got barely a parting nod.
Oh, but she shuddered at the thought of poor Meg married to him! She shuddered even more to think of what drastic measure her cousin may have taken to escape that very fate. For Marianne to even imagine that Meg might do something rash spoke volumes about the enormity of her cousin’s revulsion towardMr. Reeve.
Marianne would have to move quickly. She dashed off, around the next corner out of view of the scowling sheriff. Instead of rushing to the Tinkleton house, though, she raced back to the walking path she had just come from. This time she had no thoughts for her shoes or her skirts as she rushed down the muddy hill, slipping and sliding dangerously. She made it to the rutted road and hurried toward the wooden walkway again.
But the two men who’d been loading the wagon were there, just leaving the mill. Apparently, they’d wasted no time shutting up and leaving early for the day. She slowed her pace and casually bid them good afternoon. They nodded but were too eager to enjoy their time off to pay her much mind. As soon as they were safely away, she began running again.
The mill was neatly shut up as she passed by. She dashed past it and over the footbridge, puffing for breath. There was a stand of trees blocking her view of the landscape beyond, but soon she came through that and over a slight rise. There, in the distance, was Mr. Muchleigh and his wagon. He had traveled up the road and—as she thought that he might—left the main road and turned to cross over the bridge. He was, even now, just about to disappear into Sherwood. She was too late—no matter how fast she ran she would not catch them and soon they’d be lost.
Marianne knew these roads well. Just into the forest the road intersected, and beyond that there was a fork. With all the trees and the many turns, she would have no way of knowing which road the wagon traveled. Mr. Muchleigh, young Henry, and all of their load would be gone.
The odd pile of blankets carefully tucked behind the bags of flour made perfect sense to her now. It was an odd thing for a miller to carry, but it was exactly the sort of thing a desperate lover would do. There could be no question—Meg was hidden in those blankets!
She was running away with her true love. No wonder Mr. Muchleigh had not wanted to take time to make small talk. He knew her family would miss her at any moment.
But what chance of happiness would they have, running away like this? The sheriff would find them—he had many resources and men at his command. Uncle Prinley would never allow such a match. He would demand the sheriff find some reason to charge Mr. Muchleigh, to invent some horrible crime and cast the young man into gaol. Meg would be brought home and kept as a veritable prisoner. There would be nothing any of them could do about it.
Their only hope was to ensure that Uncle Prinley never knew about this drastic attempt. Marianne simply had to warn them, to find some way to bring Meg back home with an excuse that would protect both her and her lover. But how in the world could Marianne accomplish that?
Well, the first step would be to track that wagon. The solution to that dilemma hit her like a flash. Mr. Muchleigh had warned his men about those bags in the wagon. If one of them ripped open, flour would spill everywhere. It might, in fact, spill out of the wagon and leave a trail that someone could follow. All Marianne had to do was rip one of those bags—and she knew just how to do that.
She swung round her bow and drew out an arrow.The wagon was still rumbling along, nearly into the trees now. She’d have just one shot. One shot to puncture a bag and hope that it left a trail of flour spilling out from the wagon. That’s how she would find them.
She nocked the arrow and took careful aim. For many years now she’d shot at nothing but targets; a moving wagon with her dear cousin inside it was quite different! The distance was daunting, too, but she was on the high ground and knew she could make it. If she just remained calm and remembered to breathe…
