In Pursuit of Eliza Cynster (19 page)

Beside him, Eliza grabbed one edge and helped hold the map open. One glance at her face told him that she was frightened, fearful, but still thinking, still rational, not panicking.

Which was a relief. Inside he was panicking enough for them both.

Next time he felt that prickling sensation on the back of his neck, he would react a lot sooner.

He jabbed at the map. “Those”— lifting the same finger, he pointed to the purplish hills that rose, a backdrop to the fields directly behind the village —“must be the Pentland Hills. If we continue along the lane we took to the church, we’ll head toward them, but according to the map the lane will end soon, and after that, there’s nothing but hills, not until we cross them.”

Eliza was following, searching the map for what lay further on. “But once we cross the hills, there’s a highway — no,
two
highways on the other side.” After a moment of looking further afield, she said, “Penicuik is a fairly large town on a highway. Surely we’ll be able to get a gig there, and then we can drive to Peebles, and we’ll be back on the route we originally planned to take to Wolverstone.”

But they would be a day late.
This, however, was not the time to discuss that, not with the laird all but breathing down their necks.

“Right.” Jeremy caught her eyes. “Are you game to try walking across the Pentland Hills?”

Her chin firmed. The look on her face reminded him that she was a Cynster through and through. “I am not going to wait here until the laird catches up with us.” Eyes sparking, she raised her head and swung toward the stairwell. “Let’s go.”

Hurriedly stuffing the map back into his saddlebag, he swung the bag up to his shoulder as he stalked, grim-faced, after her; catching her up before the open door, he grasped her arm, drew her back, and went down the stairs ahead of her.

There was no danger lying in wait in the church foyer.

“He’ll be nearing the first cottages.” Hauling open the church door, he looked back toward the highway, saw with relief that bushes along the edge of the graveyard screened them from view.

Stepping out onto the path, he waved Eliza ahead of him. After one glance toward the highway, she strode, all but ran, down the path, around the back of the church, down to a side gate, then stepped through into the lane once more.

He joined her. After one last glance back toward the highway, they walked quickly, side by side, away from civilization toward the looming Pentland Hills.

A little way along the lane curved, hiding them completely from anyone on the highway. They exchanged a glance, then lengthened their strides.

It wasn’t easy going.

The lane had petered out not all that far from the church. They’d pushed through a low hedge and into the field beyond and continued on, pausing every now and then to mark the higher line of the hill and look back at the church tower, the landmarks they were using to keep their course.

Eliza gave fervent thanks she was wearing breeches and boots; had she been in a gown, she would have been staggering. The freedom of male attire had a great deal to recommend it; each stride in her boots would have taken two or even three had she been restricted by skirts.

As the ground rose, they encountered banks of heather. Although not yet in bloom, the bushes were abundant and plentiful. Sheep tracks wended through the thick masses, but her and Jeremy’s direction did not always match those of the sheep.

Halfway up the first ridge, they came to a stream. At Jeremy’s suggestion, they walked along the bank a little way and found a place where rocks set in the bed allowed them both to cross easily enough.

Without wasting breath on words, she slogged on. Jeremy kept pace alongside, occasionally pausing to glance back and check their direction.

The way grew steeper. Harder. Determined not to whine or give any hint of censure, she set her jaw and walked on, ignoring the unaccustomed heat, the burning sensation in her thighs, her calves.

She was completely as one with Jeremy on the need to flee the laird, and as, thanks to her, they had no other option but to do so on foot, she was not going to let a single word of complaint pass her lips.

Reaching the top of the ridge, she bent from the waist, braced her hands on her thighs, hung her head, and tried to catch her breath.

After a moment of unladylike wheezing, she felt the weight of the saddlebag, still over her shoulder, ease.

“Let me take that.”

Feeling her legs wobble, she staggered to a flat rock and collapsed upon it.

Jeremy stood just below the ridge, far enough below so he wouldn’t be outlined against the sky should anyone think to look. He set the saddlebags by his feet, then drew out their map again.

After a moment of consulting it, he glanced at Eliza and saw her staring onward, across the shallow valley before them.

The look on her face was horrified. “Good God — that was only the
first
ridge.” Turning to him, she demanded, “How many are there?”

“Only one other.” He nodded at the ridge before them. “That one. Once we’re over that, it’s all downhill.”

“Thank God for small mercies.”

Hiding a wry smile at her faint voice, he looked again at the map. “We’re heading in the right direction.” Glancing across the shallow valley, he gauged the distance, then looked over his shoulder at the western sky. “The light’s already fading, and as we go further into the valley, we’ll be descending into shadow.”

“Can we get over the next ridge before nightfall?”

“I don’t think so, and this isn’t the sort of country to go walking through at night.” He scanned their surroundings. “We need to start looking for shelter.”

The one aspect of their flight they still hadn’t discussed.

Yet instead of embarking on recriminations, something Jeremy had steeled himself to hear, Eliza sighed and pushed up from her rock. “Let’s start walking and look about us while we do. I can’t see any roof at present, but there must be huts, or cottages, or something around here.”

He had a suspicion “something” would be the best they would find, but as she’d already started off, he hefted the saddlebags, settled one on each shoulder, and followed her down the slope.

When the laird reached the village of Ainville without sighting his quarry, he drew rein on a curse.

“Damn. I’ve lost them.”

Hercules paid no heed.

Sitting the horse in the gathering gloom, the laird mentally reviewed the miles between Ainville and the last news he’d had of the pair. The stableman at Currie hadn’t seen which way they’d gone, but given they’d been heading south, the laird had continued in that direction, but had learned of no other sightings along the road.

He’d stopped and asked at every inn, but no one had had any tidings of any kind.

It was possible some coach had halted and they’d persuaded the occupants to take them up.

But he’d ridden steadily, especially over the last long, straight, very empty stretch of road. A coach would have to have been rattling along for him not to have caught even a glimpse of it ahead of him.

Unless the coach had turned off the main road, but intersecting lanes were few and far between along this particular road.

An inn lay just ahead. Deciding that night was too close upon him to continue further pursuit that day, he nudged Hercules into a walk and headed for the stable yard.

Tomorrow, he’d have to backtrack and inquire about coaches and carriages that might have taken the pair up.

The inn proved to be surprisingly comfortable. Leaving his bag by the stairs, he walked into the tiny tap and had the barkeep pull him an ale.

Leaning on the counter, he glanced idly around and saw an old man, wrapped in knitted shawls and with a plaid cap covering his bald head, tucked in a corner of the bay window, looking out at the road.

The old man’s head was bobbing, but his eyes were open, his gaze, when it flicked briefly the laird’s way, alert.

Picking up the mug of ale the barkeep placed by his elbow, the laird nodded at the old man. “What’s his drink?”

“Porter.”

“Give me a mug for him.”

The barkeep grinned and complied.

Carrying the mug of porter as well as the mug of ale, the laird walked to the table before the window.

The old man looked up, dark eyes bright in a wrinkled face.

“For you.” The laird set down the porter.

The old man considered him for a moment, then reached for the mug and nodded to the bench on the other side of the table. “Thank you, m’lord.”

The laird sat, stretched out his long legs, then took another draft of the ale.

After taking two sips of porter, all the while regarding the laird over the rim of the mug, the old man chuckled. “So, what can I do for you?”

The laird smiled. “You can tell me what you saw this afternoon. I’m trying to catch up with two acquaintances who were supposed to have traveled down this way today, but I fear I’ve missed them. Then again, they might have hailed some carriage and been taken up, and so still be ahead of me.”

The old man nodded his understanding, sipped again. “Well, you must have missed them along the way, because since noontime, no one — on horse or in any sort of carriage, not even on foot — has passed this window.”

“Thank you.” The laird inclined his head. He stayed chatting to the man, exchanging the usual countryman’s news, until he’d drained his mug, then, with a polite nod, he rose and headed for his room.

A good dinner, a decent night’s sleep, then tomorrow he’d backtrack and find his quarry’s trail.

Tracking was an accomplishment at which he excelled, and unless he missed his guess, his fleeing pair had resorted to shank’s pony. On foot, they’d be easy enough to track, easy enough to come up with.

And then he would observe, and see what he could see.

he light was failing, and Eliza was starting to believe they would be sleeping on the open ground when Jeremy, walking half a pace ahead of her, halted and put out a hand to stop her.

Glancing up through the dimness, she saw he was peering toward a stand of trees ahead of and to the right of their path.

“Is that a roof?”

She peered, too. After a moment, she made out a patch of what might have been gray tiles, a shadow of a different quality in the gloom beneath the trees. “I … think it is.”

Jeremy surveyed the shallow valley into which they were descending. “I can’t see any other habitation of any kind. This whole valley looks deserted.”

Eliza nodded toward the copse. “Except for that roof and whatever’s beneath it.”

He looked again at the trees. “It might be a woodcutter’s cottage. Those trees look like they’re managed for firewood. Let’s take a closer look.” He stepped off the path and headed for the trees.

She followed. “What if the woodcutter’s there?”

“We’ll ask if we can share his cottage. But”— he peered between the boles —“I can’t see any sign of life. No light, and it’s dark enough anyone inside would have lighted a candle by now.”

They picked their way through the thick blanket of leaves, twigs, and branches littering the ground beneath the trees. Signs of recent logging could be seen here and there, but the closer they got to the cottage the more certain he was that it lay empty. “Most likely the woodcutters only stay here while they’re harvesting the logs. This land and the copse probably belong to some nearby estate.”

Eliza didn’t reply but stayed close behind him, her hand occasionally brushing the back of his coat.

He was acutely aware of her nearness, and of them being together, alone in the wilds with no chaperon of any description in sight, but in that moment his newfound protective instincts were simply reassured knowing that she was near.

They had to circle to descend into the dip in which the cottage stood. A small, doubtless single-roomed abode fashioned of rough stone and split logs, it nestled against the rising hillside behind it, protected by both the hill and the thick trees all around.

At the edge of the small clearing before the cottage, he paused and scanned the shuttered windows again. Detecting no sign of life, he cautiously crossed to the door.

He knocked once, then again.

No answer came.

Exchanging a glance with Eliza, he shrugged, grasped the latch, lifted it, and opened the door. Pushing it wide, in what little light remained to penetrate the dimness, he took stock.

Eliza peered past him, then stepped across the threshold and walked into the tiny cottage. “It looks neat and quite clean.”

“Almost certainly an estate cottage.” Spying a candle in a simple holder on a shelf by the door, he lifted it down, then, seeing no tinderbox, hunted in his pockets for his own.

Outside, the last of the daylight died, and night fell like a blanket around the cottage.

The candle flickered, then flared to full life; once the flame settled, he raised the candlestick and took inventory of their surroundings.

A roughly made dresser stood against the wall opposite the door. Two wooden crates of logs and kindling sat on either side of the narrow hearth. A small square table took up the middle of the floor, with three simple wooden chairs set about it. On the far side of the cottage, filling the quadrant furthest from the door, lay a straw-filled pallet covered by coarse blankets.

Eliza had halted looking down at the pallet; taking off her hat, she turned and sat, sinking down. She leaned down and sniffed. “The straw smells fresh.”

He managed to keep his voice even, his tone bland. “The woodcutters probably come up here once a month or so, at least during the summer. We must have just missed them.”

Her brows arched fleetingly. “That’s just as well.”

Walking forward, he set the candlestick on the table, then shrugged off the saddlebags and set them over the backs of the chairs. His gaze fell on a metal pitcher sitting on the dresser. “I saw a well outside.” Picking up the pitcher, he walked back out.

Eliza followed him to the door. She watched as he crossed to the tiny stone-sided well, then went to join him. “I’ll hold the pitcher. You haul the bucket.”

“All right.”

She took the pitcher from him, waiting while he let the bucket down on its rope and more slowly hauled it back up, then she held the pitcher for him to fill.

Leaving him to empty and reset the bucket, she carried the pitcher back to the cottage, found metal mugs, and filled one for each of them.

Jeremy reentered the cottage to see Eliza seated at the table, sipping cold water, eyes closed, and a blissful expression on her face.

Hearing him, she opened her eyes and smiled. “This might as well be the finest wine.”

His mouth dry, he managed a grin, then turned to shut the door. Seeing an iron bolt set above the latch, he slid it home with some relief. At least no one could sneak up on them during the night.

“Thank goodness Meggin insisted on packing some food.” Setting down her mug, Eliza opened one saddlebag and rummaged inside.

“What have we got?” Jeremy opened the other bag.

Between them, they unearthed a passable repast of rolls, cold chicken, cheese, and figs. There was also an apple each, but they decided to save those for the morning.

With the candle between them, they sat on the chairs and ate, listening to the light wind playing through the branches outside. An owl hooted.

The food gone, still they sat, sipping the last of their water.

Peace, an aura of stillness and quiet, of comfort and safety, enveloped them; Eliza sensed it, felt it, knew she wouldn’t have if he hadn’t been sitting opposite her.

She glanced at him, and their gazes met.

Held.

All too aware of the subject she — and presumably he, too — was avoiding, she cut her gaze to the empty fireplace. “Should we light a fire, do you think?”

Her body was exhausted, her mind in no fit state to discuss the social ramifications of them spending the night alone.

After a fractional hesitation, he replied, “We could, but if the laird is anywhere near, the smoke might lead him this way.”

“True, and it’s not really cold.”

“It would be best not to.”

That settled, she sighed wearily and rose, feeling twinges in her thighs and calves. “If I don’t lie down soon, I’ll fall asleep where I stand.” She turned to the straw pallet, their makeshift bed.

He rose, too. “You take the bed. I’ll —”

“Don’t be nonsensical.” Swinging to face him, she heard the sharp edge to her words but made no attempt to soften it. “I hate it when people insist on being unnecessarily self-sacrificing, especially on my behalf.” Dropping onto the bed, she fixed him with a challenging look and waved at the pallet. “This could sleep three with space to spare, and we’re both fully clothed. And cloaked, too. There’s more than enough space for us both to lie down, and there’s nowhere else you can sleep. We’ll have to walk again tomorrow, and there’s no telling what we might need to do, so you’ll need to be at your best, which means you’ll need your sleep.” She held his steady gaze uncompromisingly, fractionally tilted her chin. “I rest my case.”

His lips, until then set in a noncommittal line, kicked up at the ends before he straightened them. Still standing by the table, he hesitated, frowningly considering her, then lightly grimaced. “All right.” Picking up the candlestick, he came around the table. Waved at her. “You take the side closer to the wall.”

Further from the door in case anything comes through it.

Jeremy kept the words to himself, grateful when, without further argument — indeed, probably because she considered she’d won that round — she shifted across, then stretched out full length on the far side of the bed.

Setting the candle a safe distance from the bed, he sat, went to pull off his boots, then decided against it. If he was called on to defend them, he would need to be ready instantly. Without glancing at her, he murmured, “Good night,” and blew out the candle.

“Good night.” Her voice came through the ensuing darkness. She already sounded sleepy.

He shifted, then stretched out full length on his back.

She wriggled, then he sensed her turn onto her side, facing the wall. She twitched the folds of her cloak closer, then, on a soft sigh, relaxed.

He couldn’t imagine getting much sleep with her within arm’s reach, but that hadn’t been an issue he’d wanted to discuss, especially not with her. Falling in with her wishes had seemed the easiest way; as she’d pointed out, the bed was wide enough. Nothing inappropriate was likely to occur.

Not, of course, that it needed to; them being alone, together, in such isolation, was inappropriate enough.

Arms at his sides, he dragged in a deep breath, closed his eyes as he exhaled. Cast about in his mind but couldn’t summon reason enough, let alone will enough, to pursue the question of where, given this night, they now stood vis-à-vis each other.

She was worn out; so was he. He could hear her breathing, already even and slow. She was already asleep … and so was he, so close to the edge that just the thought was enough to send him tumbling over, into oblivion.

Scrope waited until it was nearly midnight and the landlord of the inn at Ainville had started his rounds, checking the windows before he locked up for the night. Only then did Scrope emerge from the darkness of the copse twenty yards up the road and walk his horse to the inn’s tiny yard.

The innkeeper was ready enough to hire him a room and send a sleepy boy out to see to his horse.

Scrope kept his voice low; all the other guests, including McKinsey, had retired more than an hour before, but there was no sense taking chances. “If at all possible, I’d like a room at the front of the inn.” From where, in the morning, he could watch McKinsey leave.

The innkeeper grunted. “One left, as it happens.” Turning, he lifted a heavy key from a board, then handed it to Scrope. “Room on the left at the top of the stairs.”

Scrope accepted the key. “Seeing I’m so late getting in, I won’t be leaving early. I’ll come down for breakfast eventually.”

“As you wish, sir. We can do breakfast for you anytime.”

Scrope took the candle the man offered and started up the stairs, growing increasingly cautious as he ascended. He’d wager McKinsey was in the inn’s best room, most likely another room overlooking the inn’s forecourt. Very possibly the room next to his.

He’d followed his erstwhile employer from Edinburgh, hanging back as far as he’d dared. He wasn’t about to underestimate McKinsey, but by the same token, just by being the sort of man he was, the laird himself had weaknesses. Scrope was counting on McKinsey being so accustomed to giving orders and having them obeyed without question that it wouldn’t occur to him that Scrope might ignore his order to let the girl be.

Reaching his door, Scrope inserted the key and, as quietly as he could, unlocked the door, opened it, went inside, then, setting down his saddlebag, locked the door again.

He crept about the room, then undressed and got into the bed.

For a moment he lay on his back staring upward, reviewing his actions of the day, and planning, as well as he could, those of the next.

To his mind there was no question about his right to follow and capture Eliza Cynster. He was Victor Scrope; once put on the scent of a particular prey, he never failed. McKinsey had hired him precisely because of that reputation, so now McKinsey would simply have to bear with the natural outcome.

Closing his eyes, Scrope grimly smiled. He would succeed in this, as he always had before; that was written in his cards. This was merely a new challenge — a novel and unexpected hurdle — and in ultimately triumphing in spite of it, he would raise his professional standing to new heights.

He would seize Eliza Cynster, then hand her over as agreed to McKinsey.

In doing so he would claim his bonus and salvage his pride, but most importantly he would shore up, and possibly even increase, the professional standing of Victor Scrope, a standing this episode had threatened to undermine.

Of all the issues involved, that was the most important.

His reputation was all. It was him. It defined him.

Without it, he was nothing.

Without it, he’d be lost.

No one had any right to attack or damage it. And no one would.

At the end of this tale, the name of Victor Scrope would shine among those in his singular profession. No other would have overcome such hurdles; no other would be seen as so powerful. As so omnipotent in his field.

As sleep drifted nearer, Scrope’s grim determination solidified.

He would do whatever was necessary to protect his reputation; that was his inalienable right — one he would exercise without compunction.

Jeremy came gradually, slowly, awake, lured to awareness by the sensation of his nose being lightly tickled.

As the fogs of sleep lifted, his senses reported the warm weight of a woman in his arms. Soft, alluring curves fitted snugly against his side, cradled his hip, caressed his thigh.