Kitabı oku: «Unlacing the Innocent Miss», sayfa 4

Chapter Four

The sky was beginning to darken by the time that Wolf led them into the yard of Gretna Hall. Her arms were aching, her backside was aching, her thighs were aching. Indeed, it seemed to Rosalind that there was not a bit of her that was not in pain. Her fear and anger had long since dwindled, and she was so tired that she did not think about being frightened of the little horse beneath her. So sore were certain areas of Rosalind’s body that she slipped to the ground without looking for anyone to help her, and stood there in blessed relief that the saddle was no longer beneath her.

She felt Wolf’s grip upon her arm escorting her with him across the yard and into the inn, but she was too tired to protest.

The inn was busy, most of the tables in the public room were filled, mainly with men. Men stood about the bar drinking their tankards of ale, turning curious eyes to the new arrivals. She heard the low tone of Wolf’s voice to the landlord, and was aware of the exchange of money. She was aware, too, of the way that the landlord’s gaze flicked over her before moving on to Kempster and Campbell and finally returning to Wolf, with unspoken speculation. But whatever the man saw in Wolf’s face made him nod his acquiescence and turn to fetch the keys for the rooms. He showed them up a small narrow staircase to a narrow corridor along which several doors could be seen. The two furthest doors led to the rooms for which Wolf had paid.

They were still standing in the second room into which the landlord had shown them. Wolf scanned around, peered from the window then inspected the door.

‘Dump the baggage and head downstairs. We’ll eat first.’ The bags were dropped on to the bare floorboards with a thud. He looked at Rosalind. ‘I’ll wait outside the door for you while you attend to your toilette.’

She nodded, knowing this was the best offer she was going to get, and watched the three men leave. As Wolf shut the door behind him, his eyes met hers in steely warning, and then he was gone.

Rosalind just stood there and stared at the closed door, hearing the other door open and close across the passage way, hearing the murmur of their voices. Her eyes shifted to the travelling bag on the floor just before her where Wolf had dropped it and she shifted it to lie across the door, as if she could block Wolf out with the bag. Hurriedly, she attended to her needs, washed her face and hands and tidied her hair.

He was leaning against the wall in the corridor when she opened the door, waiting as if patiently but it was not patience that she saw in his eyes when she looked at him. Not a word passed between them. A single movement of his head gestured towards the staircase. She began to walk along the dimly lit passage. There was the sound of a key turning in a lock before she heard his footsteps follow and sensed he was close. At the end of the landing she hesitated, and he passed her, taking the lead as they trod down the uneven staircase.

They were halfway down when he turned suddenly to her, surprising Rosalind so that she was too close to him. Standing on the stair above his, she found her eyes level with his for the first time. The light of the nearby flickering candles softened the angles of his face and made his eyes appear a smoky grey. He was so close that she could see the individual lashes, so close that it was all she could do to stifle a gasp.

She made to step back but her foot caught against the high-angled stair and only the sudden curve of his arm around her waist saved her from falling. He did not remove his hand, just left it where it was resting lightly against the small of her back. He stared at her, and she saw surprise in his eyes—and something else too, something that she could not name but that sent a quiver snaking throughout her body. He stared at her, and the moment stretched long so that she could feel the hard rapid thump of her heart and feel her blood coursing too fast.

The look of harsh cynicism had gone, leaving his expression unreadable. His breath was warm against her cheek, stirring the fine tendrils of hair that hung in spirals before her ears. The scent of soap and leather and masculinity filled her nose, and her heart tripped even faster so that she could hear the slight raggedness of her breath between them. His hold was so light that she could have easily broken free from it, yet she just stood there, as if entranced by the look in his eyes. It seemed to Rosalind that some strange force had come over her, enslaving her thinking, her body, so that she could do nothing other than stare at him. And the smoky eyes stared right back, and where his palm touched light against her back, her skin seemed to burn and pulse.

And as suddenly as it had arrived, it disappeared. She saw the moment that his eyes changed, reverting to a cool silver. He dropped his hand from her as if scalded, and she saw the flash of anger and loathing in his gaze. His expression was once more harsh and determined.

‘Behave yourself down here, Miss Meadowfield,’ he growled.

She was still reeling from the shock, not of his anger, but of what had gone before. ‘I will not deign to reply to that, sir,’ she managed.

She saw the slight curl of his lip. ‘You do not deign to do much do you? Besides help yourself to other people’s valuables.’

And then he turned and walked on, as if nothing at all had happened.

Rosalind stood stock still, trembling and shocked. What on earth had just happened? Why had she not moved away? Why had she let him stare at her in that…that inappropriate manner? Her heart was still beating too fast and her cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

He had reached the bottom of the staircase before he realized that she had not moved. The silver gaze met hers.

‘Miss Meadowfield.’ The words were uttered so softly that they barely carried up the stairs, yet the threat contained in them was louder than had he shouted at the top of his voice. The skin on the nape of her neck prickled and she hurried down after him, her hand gripping the banister rail.

Campbell and Kempster were seated over in a corner.

As she crossed the busy room with Wolf, she felt all eyes upon them.

‘We ordered some mutton stew and chicken pies,’ said Campbell in his gentle burr. ‘Couldnae wait all night for yous to come down.’ He grinned. ‘We’ve a jug of ale for while we wait.’

A serving wench, with what looked to Rosalind to be an indecently revealing décolletage, brought cutlery and plates to the table.

‘We are to eat…in here?’ Rosalind had never eaten in the public room of an inn before. She glanced anxiously around.

‘The food will be the same whether we eat here or waste our money paying for a private parlour,’ said Wolf as he gestured for her to take the seat beside Campbell on the inside of the table.

She did as she bid, trying not to notice the less than subtle interest from the people seated around them. From the corner of her eye she saw the landlord make his way over.

‘The rooms are to your liking, sir…’ His eyes dropped to her hand, pausing just for a second or two on the bare fingers of her left hand. Rosalind held her head up defiantly, determined not to be shamed even though she knew what the man must think her. But the heat in her cheeks betrayed her.

Wolf gave a curt nod.

‘And your lady?’ The landlord persevered.

Wolf turned a glacial eye upon him.

The landlord paled. ‘I’ll see to your food, sir.’

Rosalind dropped her gaze, wishing that the ground would open up and swallow her. Was it her imagination or was there a lull in the surrounding buzz of conversation?

Only after the landlord had departed did she whisper furiously at Wolf, ‘You should have told him I was not your lady.’

‘So concerned for his good opinion, Miss Meadowfield?’ He smiled a cold mocking smile.

Her cheeks burned all the hotter. ‘No, but he will think the worst of me. My reputation—’ She heard Kempster snigger, and broke off what she had been about to say, knowing how ridiculous her reaction was—for she had no reputation left to lose.

‘Pray continue. Your reputation…?’ Wolf raised an eyebrow.

She cast her gaze down, and spoke the words quietly, ‘I meant only that I did not wish him to believe me something that I am not.’

‘I see.’

She raised her eyes to his.

‘You wished me to tell him that you are not my lady but a thief.’ His words were spoken easily enough and in no hush.

‘Ssh! People will hear.’

‘Will they indeed?’

‘They are beginning to stare,’ she whispered in a panic.

‘Let them,’ he said. ‘I am quite used to it.’

She heard the slight bitterness in his voice, and her eyes traced the scar that marked the honeyed skin of his cheek. Shame washed over her at her insensitivity and she bit at her lower lip. ‘I did not mean…that is to say I was not referring to—’

His eyes met hers, and all of the words dried upon her tongue.

The awkwardness was broken by the arrival of the food. There was no more talk as the men devoured the stew and potatoes and cabbage and pie as if they had not eaten for a week, nor did the fact that it was scalding hot seem to slow them down any. The smell alone caused Rosalind’s stomach to rumble; indeed the mutton stew was thick and tasty, and the pie hot and flavoursome. But she ate little of them, and merely toyed with the rest. In truth her stomach was too tense for food.

Wolf said nothing to her but she frequently felt his gaze on her throughout the meal, which seemed only to make her stomach flutter all the more, until at last they were done. Leaving Kempster and Campbell to another jug of ale, he rose and took her with him.

Within the small bedchamber Wolf felt a stab of annoyance at the wariness in the woman’s eyes. As if he had no sense of honour as a man, as if he would force himself upon her like some kind of animal. Scarred or not, Wolf had no trouble finding willing women. And as for the forcing, she’d do better to look at her own class for that, he thought bitterly, and all of the memories were back again.

‘Be ready to leave at first light,’ he said, knowing that his voice was unnecessarily harsh. Indeed, all of his treatment of her had been too harsh. He knew that, but his heart was still hard, and more so because of his reaction to her upon the staircase earlier that evening.

She looked at him, and in the candlelight her eyes were as soft and dark as a woodland floor. He saw the flash of relief in them; she that had cared so much that people did not think her his woman. ‘Good night, Mr Wolversley,’ she said, and he had the sensation that she was dismissing him as if he were a servant. The thought irked him more than it should have. He would leave when he was damn well ready, and not at her say so. He stood where he was.

‘Next time, eat your dinner rather than playing with it. People starve while you waste good food.’

‘What I eat is none of your concern, sir.’

‘On the contrary, Miss Meadowfield.’ He walked up right up to her, feeling a savage stab of satisfaction when she stepped back to maintain the distance between them. He saw the fear dart into her eyes, but she held his gaze. ‘Until I hand you over to Evedon, you are mine and you will do as I say.’

She shivered. ‘Evedon will see me hanged. Your threats mean nothing in comparison with that.’

He knew that Evedon would not have her hang. He doubted if the earl even meant to report her, not when he was so concerned with keeping the matter quiet. Evedon would probably be happy with the return of his emeralds, a word in Miss Meadowfield’s father’s ear and the removal of the lady herself from his house. Still, Wolf had no intention of enlightening Miss Meadowfield to those facts.

‘There are worse things in life than death: things that you in your fine clothes, with your fine life, could not even begin to imagine. Sometimes the hangman’s noose can be a blessed relief.’ His voice was quiet. Wolf knew from bitter experience the truth in those words. ‘Good night, Miss Meadowfield,’ he said, and then turned and walked away.

As he closed the door behind him, she had not moved, just stood exactly as he had left her, staring after him. The look in her eyes made him want to call back the cruel words he had just uttered and made him think that he really was a bastard in every sense of the word.

Rosalind waited until she heard the key turn in the lock and the booted footsteps trace their path down the corridor before she allowed herself to sag against the wall, closing her eyes as she did so. Her legs trembled so much that she had been surprised that he did not hear her knees knocking together. She slid down the wall and crouched, wrapping her arms around her shins. And she wondered, really wondered, what on earth she was going to do. She had been so sure of her disappearance in Scotland. And now…Wolf’s words played again in her mind. There are worse things in life than death, things that you in your fine clothes, with your fine life, could not even begin to imagine. Oh, her clothes were fine all right—chosen and paid for by Lady Evedon—but her life was not fine at all; it had not been fine for such a long time, not since she was four years old. And the irony of his words drew a cynical smile which Wolf himself would have been proud to own, even as her eyes swam with tears she could not allow herself to shed.

When he looked at her, she could see the contempt that he made no attempt to disguise. He seemed to resent her very existence. And yet tonight, on the staircase, there had been no hatred. He had looked at her in a way that made her heart beat too fast, and not because of fear. In those few moments there had been a strange compelling force between them; the memory of it made the butterflies flock in her stomach, so that in her mind’s eye she saw again that handsome harsh face. She screwed her eyes shut to banish the image, but still it lingered and she knew that she had never met a man the like of Wolf. He was ill bred and bad mannered, a veritable rogue. But there was more to him than that: there was something in his eyes, something dark and dangerous…and strangely seductive. He possessed an underlying feral streak, an unpredictability that meant he did not act in the manner that she expected. She put her head down, resting her face upon her knee, feeling its hard press against her cheekbone.

He was a strong man—one prone to violence, if the scar on his face was anything to judge by—a man that no one would wish for their enemy, but that was exactly what he was to her, she thought dismally. And this man had roused in her such anger and pushed her from the reserve in which she normally held herself. This was the man that would take her to Evedon.

You are mine, he had said, and the thought of being completely under his control made her blood run cold. For she had only just begun to imagine what a man like Wolf could do to her. She remembered the way he had looked at her upon the staircase, and the warm press of his hand against the small of her back that seemed to scorch through all the layers of her clothing, and the clean enticing smell of him. She remembered, too, how she had been unable to move, unable to think, her own will seemingly sapped from her body, and how quickly the smoulder in his eyes had cooled and frozen back into hatred. Rosalind clutched a hand tight across her mouth to stop the whimper of shock that threatened to escape. He was both fascinating and frightening, and she did not understand the effect he had upon her. God help her, for he was harsh and ruthless and unstoppable. With Wolf as her enemy, she may as well flee back to Evedon and throw herself upon the earl’s mercy.

Against her ribs, she felt the warmth of the linen package where she had hidden Evedon’s letter, a reminder of what was at stake. Wolf might threaten her, but he would not kill her. Evedon would send her to the gallows. She squeezed her eyes tight, knowing what she was going to have to do. It had been difficult enough to escape Evedon; it was going to take a miracle to escape Wolf.

She clutched her knees tighter and began to pray.

Chapter Five

Wolf took a hearty swig of the ale in his tankard. ‘I needed that.’

‘Gave you a hard time, did she?’ Campbell asked with a twinkle in his eye.

‘Hardly,’ said Wolf. ‘She seems to be under the impression that Evedon will push to have her hanged.’

‘And no doubt you did nothing to dissuade the lassie of that belief.’ Campbell cocked an eyebrow.

‘Why should I? Let her sweat a bit.’ Wolf took another swig of his ale. ‘This journey is likely to be the worst of her punishments.’

‘What do you mean?’ Kempster looked up from his beer. ‘Evedon’ll haul her through the courts. He’ll not see her hang what with her being a lady, like, but she should get a spell in the gaol. Whatever he does, she’ll be utterly ruined.’

‘There will be no scandal.’ Wolf gave a cynical laugh. ‘Evedon wants the affair kept quiet. Why else do you think he’s employed us? He wants her delivered back to him with the utmost of discretion. He has no intention of publicizing the fact she’s done a runner with his mother’s jewels.’

‘But he cannot mean to let her off with stealing from the dowager?’

Wolf gave a hard mirthless smile at the outrage in Kempster’s voice. ‘You’ve much to learn of men like your employer, Mr Kempster.’

Kempster shook his head as if to deny Wolf’s words.

‘She’s a pretty wee slip o’ a lassie, Kempster,’ said Campbell. ‘Maybe Evedon has his own reasons for wanting her theft hushed up.’

But Kempster was not listening.

Campbell smiled.

‘It doesn’t matter what the hell she is, other than a thief,’ said Wolf sourly. ‘All we have to do is deliver her to Evedon. What he does with her then is none of our concern. And if we let her think the worst of it, then all the better. It is less than she deserves.’

‘You’re a hard man, Wolf,’ said Campbell, ‘a hard man indeed. Is that no’ so, Mr Kempster?’

‘Yeah.’ Kempster brought his gaze back from the distance, and wiped the pensive expression from his face. He drained his glass. ‘I’ll fetch us another jug.’ He gestured to the empty jug of beer standing in the middle of the table. ‘Put it on Evedon’s account as expenses.’ He stood raising his hand to attract the serving wench’s attention.

‘Leave it,’ said Wolf. ‘We’ve an early start in the morning and a fair distance to travel. We’ll need clear heads not beer-sopped groggy ones.’

‘One more jug won’t do no harm,’ countered Kempster.

Wolf said nothing, but his hard gaze met the footman’s and held.

‘Now that I think about it, I might just go and stretch my legs before getting my head down.’ Kempster went over and whispered into the serving wench’s ear, before heading outside.

Two minutes later and Wolf and Campbell watched the girl follow Kempster.

‘Young lust,’ Campbell commented and set his tankard down on the table.

A vision of Rosalind Meadowfield flickered in Wolf’s mind, of her clear hazel eyes and full pink lips and the dark curl of her hair swept back in its prim chignon. He swallowed hard, forcing the image away, and scowled at Campbell’s quip.

‘We should get some sleep,’ he said and his voice was edged with the anger that he felt at himself for thinking of the woman.

Campbell drew Wolfe a quizzical glance but said nothing.

The two men retired for the night.

The next morning, Rosalind steeled herself not to flinch at the sight of the little mare in the yard. She could see that Wolf was watching her, his expression hard, his pale gaze cool and unyielding. And for all that her stomach was squirming with the prospect of riding, she knew that she would rather die than let Wolf know it. Kempster watched too, but there was no smirk upon his face today. She turned away from them, gathered her courage and, hiding her reluctance, let Campbell help her up into the mare’s saddle.

She was careful to let nothing of her fear or apprehension show upon her features as they rode out of the inn’s yard, following the same format as the previous day: Wolf riding in front of her, Campbell and Kempster behind. The road was in such a bad state that they could move no faster than a walk. But Rosalind was grateful for the pot holes and uneven surface, for fear held her tense in its grip and it was all she could do to mask it. They had ridden for almost an hour when Rosalind felt her horse react.

‘Whoa, stop there, lassie,’ she heard Campbell shouting behind her, before riding up and dismounting. She jumped down from the saddle while he examined one of the mare’s rear legs. She watched how gentle and quiet his manner was for such a big strong man. And then Wolf was there, sliding down from his saddle to crouch at Campbell’s side.

‘We’ve got a problem: she’s lame.’ Campbell tipped his head towards the mare.

Wolf nodded. He did not look happy.

‘We shouldn’t be too far from the next village. Riderless and with a slow enough pace the mare should manage the distance. Campbell, you see to the beast; I’ll see to Miss Meadowfield,’ said Wolf and climbed back up into his saddle.

Campbell transferred her travelling bag from the mare to his own mount.

Rosalind did not like the sound of ‘Wolf’s seeing to Miss Meadowfield’ one little bit. She looked at the great grey stallion by Wolf’s side and a tremor of panic flitted through her. ‘I can walk.’

‘Really?’ he said. ‘I thought it was carriages and sedan chairs everywhere for ladies like you.’

She glared at him, wanting to tell him that he was more wrong than he could imagine, that he had no right to be here forcing her on to horseback; no right to be dragging her back to Evedon at all.

Wolf glared right back, the animosity crackling between them, his expression hard and uncompromising. Beneath him, his horse stared at her with an equally hard eye. She averted her gaze from the meanness contained in the beast’s stare, and tried to ignore the horse’s sheer size and the power and strength emanating from both horse and rider.

The proximity of his horse and the prospect of being taken up upon the massive beast was making her legs tremble and her stomach roil. She locked her knees and swallowed down the nausea. ‘I would not wish to inconvenience you, sir.’

‘I assure you that it is never an inconvenience bringing in a captive.’ And when she looked again, his pale gaze was on hers. ‘Miss Meadowfield.’ He reached his hand down to her, ready to pull her up on to the saddle before him.

She stepped away, afraid of both the man and the horse, feeling the quickening thump of her heart and knowing that she must let nothing of her fears show. ‘If the horse is lame, then we can travel no faster than her walk.’

‘True. And?’

‘I will walk,’ she said too quickly. ‘Do not fear that I would delay our pace, for I assure you I am quite capable of walking at an equivalent speed.’

‘It is thirty miles to our destination this day.’

She gave a slight shrug of her shoulders as if what he said was of no great consequence. ‘I said I will walk, sir.’

‘Thirty miles?’ He laughed, which served to stir her anger. ‘Have you any idea of that distance?’ The scepticism on his face made her all the more determined.

‘I have walked further; thirty miles is no great matter,’ she lied.

He looked at her as if he knew that she was lying. ‘I think your memory is playing you false, Miss Meadowfield.’

‘My memory is perfectly fine, Mr Wolversley,’ she insisted.

He stepped his horse towards her.

She backed away in alarm, thinking he meant to snatch her up on to the beast.

He stopped where he was, and the cool silver gaze scrutinized her for a moment more. ‘Very well then,’ he said at last.

He glanced away. ‘Campbell, you and Kempster ride in front with the mare. I’ll stay behind with Miss Meadowfield.’

She sagged with the relief of not having to share Wolf’s horse.

The small party moved off. Campbell led the mare, riding abreast with Kempster, then came Rosalind on foot, and finally Wolf.

There were no replacement horses in the next village. They left the little mare there and continued on.

Rosalind walked, and amidst the relief at having won this small battle was the awareness of the man that rode behind her. She could hear the steady rhythmic clop of his horse’s hooves on the hard surface of the road. She tried to force her mind to turn away from him, to think other thoughts, to see anything but him, but all of her determination was useless. There was only the long road that stretched ahead and Wolf behind.

Miss Meadowfield had been walking for three hours when Wolf decided that he would have to intervene. Not one word of complaint had she uttered, nor one single glance back in his direction, not even when they had made a brief stop to let the horses and themselves drink had she looked at him. The thick fur cloak hung heavy over her arm, her cheeks were flushed prettily from fresh air and exertion, several dark tendrils of hair had escaped her bonnet to snake against her throat, and there was an undeniable weariness in her step.

He drew his horse alongside her.

‘You’ve made your point, Miss Meadowfield. You can climb upon my horse without any injury to your pride.’

She did not turn her face to his, just kept on walking at the same steady pace. ‘I prefer to walk, Mr Wolversley.’

‘No doubt you do, but I’ve a mind to reach our next stop before nightfall.’

She glanced over at him then and he could see the wariness on her face. Her pace increased, her feet stepping out faster over the uneven surface of the road. ‘I can walk faster.’

He edged his horse over to block her path. ‘You have walked enough this day.’

‘No.’ She backed away from him, the pink of her cheeks draining to leave her face pale. The look in her eyes was one of terror. Had he been so hard on the woman as to cause such a response of dread?

‘Miss Meadowfield,’ he said more gently.

‘No!’ And this time he could hear the undertone of panic in the word. ‘I wish to walk. I will not climb upon that horse. You cannot make me.’

Up ahead, Campbell and Kempster had stopped and were watching their exchange with interest. Wolf knew that, but his attention did not waver from the woman standing before him.

‘We both know that I can,’ he said softly.

‘And do you mean to?’ she breathed, and her gaze held his with an intensity that seemed to shake all of his convictions. She was trying desperately to hide her fear and failing miserably. His horse gave a whinny and turned his head in her direction.

Miss Meadowfield jumped, her face washed powder-white, and his suspicion was confirmed. It seemed that forcing her back on to the mare after her fright yesterday had not prevented her fear running out of hand. Forcing her on to horseback now would only make things worse.

A subtle shake of his head. ‘No.’

‘You will allow me to continue walking?’ He could see the suspicion in her clear hazel eyes as if she did not quite believe him.

‘For today,’ he said.

She gave a cautious nod.

He slipped from his horse and walked towards her, seeing the way she tensed ready to run. ‘Your cloak.’ He stopped short of reaching her, and held out his hand.

And beneath the suspicion he saw surprise.

She hesitated, and her eyes raised to his as if in question as she handed him the cloak. ‘Thank you.’

He rolled the cloak to a ball and fitted it into his saddlebags.

‘Thank you,’ she said again, and Wolf knew that her gratitude was not because of the cloak.

‘Start walking,’ he said in a harsh voice, lest she think that he was softening.

He took the horse’s reins in his hand and leading the animal behind him, he began to walk by her side.

She stopped suddenly, stared at him with wide wary eyes. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Ensuring you keep to the pace,’ he lied.

She looked uncertain, as if she was not sure whether to believe him or not. ‘Can you not do so equally well on horseback?’

‘No.’ He did not elaborate the untruth.

She swallowed down what retort she would have given, and nodded cautiously.

They walked on in silence, side by side.

Rosalind was acutely conscious of Wolf’s proximity, of his tall frame and long muscular legs. She knew without looking how easy his stride was, how relaxed and how unchallenged his breathing; clearly he was used to walking, unlike herself. She wondered why he was walking with her rather than riding behind. She should resent it, she thought, but she could not for she knew how easily he could have taken her up on his great grey stallion. Why he had chosen not to was a mystery.

She risked a subtle glance across at him. His face was just as hard and just as handsome in profile. He faced forward, his focus trained some distance ahead. Beneath the battered leather of his hat, feathers of fair hair fluttered in the breeze. She scanned the straight line of his nose, the angle of his cheekbone, and the scar that sat upon it. Her eyes traced the strong line of his jaw, up to his lips that for once were not pressed firm and hard together, and found herself wondering what he would look like if he were to smile, properly smile a smile of happiness instead of the cynical curve of his mouth she had seen.

Without warning, he turned his head and met her eyes, catching her quite unaware so that she blushed. She rapidly averted her gaze but not before she had felt the questioning intensity of his stare. She walked on—increasing her pace, not slowing it—and the whole right-hand side of her body, by which he walked, seemed to tingle with a strange awareness.

The hours passed slowly until the air had lost its warmth and the light was dimming as the clouds began to gather overhead. Miss Meadowfield was still walking. Wolf had not thought that she would last so long.