In Pursuit of Eliza Cynster (23 page)

He slowed the horse, then angled it onto the grassy verge. “We might as well stop here.” He glanced back. “We’ve neither seen nor heard any sign of pursuit. I think we’re safe for the moment.”

“Good.” Eliza pulled the saddlebags up onto her lap. “I’m famished, and you must be, too.”

Truth to tell, it wasn’t food he was all that hungry for …
Stop it!
Stepping down from the gig, he held out his hands for the bags, took them both, and walked a little way from the already cropping horse.

A nearby bush afforded them a modicum of shade. He set the saddlebags down, then, when Eliza came up and dropped to her knees on the other side of the bags, immediately falling on them and rummaging inside, he sank down to the grass, stretching his legs out before him.

They ate, drank, then, munching on an apple, he pulled out the map. Flipping it open, he drew his legs up; sitting cross-legged, he spread the map on the ground before him.

Eliza moved the saddlebags aside, shuffled up, and sat beside him. “Where are we?”

Fighting the compulsive awareness of her, so close beside him, he stared at the map, then, reluctantly resigned, placed his finger on the pertinent spot. “We’re here.”

She leaned closer to look; from beneath her hat, the fragrance of her honey-gold hair rose and wreathed his senses.

“This road …” Her voice held the same disappointment he felt. Glancing up, she met his eyes. “It doesn’t go southeast.”

He grimaced. “No. For some incomprehensible reason, it turns and heads back toward Edinburgh.” She drew back as he pointed. “Well, near enough. It meets the Edinburgh-Carlisle road near Gorebridge.”

Eliza wrinkled her nose. “Carlisle’s no use to us.”

“No. Aside from being on the wrong side of the country, with the border much further away, there’s no one there with whom we can beg shelter. No safe place we can go, and neither the laird nor Scrope will halt at the border — they’ll follow us on.”

She nodded. “Wolverstone is still the safest place to make for — the closest safe place.” Peering again at the map, she glanced over her shoulder to where, twenty yards on, the road made its northeast turn. “It looks like there might be a minor road going the other way.” Without looking back at the map, she vaguely pointed. “See?”

Jeremy looked, then pushed to his feet. “It’s marked as a track, but let’s look.”

Leaving the horse where he was, they walked the few yards down the road to the opening of what proved to be little more than a sheep track.

Her shoulders slumped. “We can’t drive on that.”

“No.” Jeremy turned and looked along the continuation of their road, a well-surfaced stretch leading, unhelpfully, in the wrong direction. “Where’s a good Roman road when you need one?”

She smiled faintly, but any humor quickly faded. “So.” She drew in a breath. “What now?”

He studied a farmhouse to the left of the road a little way past the bend, glanced at the hills to their right — the hills that, if they wanted to reach the Jedburgh Road, they had to either drive around or walk through — then waved back to where they’d left the map. “Let’s see what options we have.”

Back near the gig, they sat side by side in the long grass and pored over the map.

After a moment, Jeremy glanced up at the sky. “It’s only early afternoon.” He looked at her. “We have to assume that the laird and Scrope eventually pick up our trail and follow us here.” He glanced around. “They’ll see we stopped here and sat on the grass, and, assuming we drive on, they’ll come on fast. But they’re on horseback, and we’re in a gig — they’ll be able to travel faster for longer, and take shortcuts we can’t.”

Looking at the map, he traced a route. “If we drive on along this road, we’ll get to Gorebridge, then we’ll need to turn south and drive like mad through Stow to Galashiels, then across via Melrose to St. Boswells on the Jedburgh Road. From there, it’s not far to the border.”

Gaze on the map, she stated the obvious. “They’ll come up with us long before Jedburgh.”

Lips setting grimly, he nodded. “I agree.”

She could see only one alternative and knew why he wasn’t suggesting it; he was leaving the decision to her. So be it. Jaw firming, she looked up and met his eyes. “Can we make them think we’ve driven on, even if we don’t?”

His quick grin of approbation felt like sunshine beaming through clouds.

He tipped his head toward the farmhouse around the bend. “We’ll drive on, but only as far as that farm. We can leave the gig there, and I’ll pay them to keep it out of sight and return it to Penicuik tomorrow. If we make sure there’s no tracks leading into the farm yard, there’s every possibility our pursuers won’t know they’ve lost us until Gorebridge or even later, and once they do realize, there won’t be anything to tell them which way we’ve gone. For all they know, we might have decided to circle back to Edinburgh.”

She nodded. “Good. So with them confounded and out of the way, we walk on.” She traced a route on the map, then raised her arm and pointed east. “Over the damn hills and all the way to Stow.”

Their gazes met, locked, held. After a moment of searching her eyes, her face, he asked, “Are you sure?”

She knew precisely what he was asking. He was alluding to the subject that hung over their heads like Damocles’ sword; patently he saw it as clearly as she. They’d already spent one night together alone; perhaps that might have been accounted for somehow, but by accepting the certainty of another night spent in some woodcutter’s cottage or the like, alone with him, rather than fleeing in a curricle down country roads at night … perversely society might accept the latter idiocy, while condemning them for taking the former, infinitely safer option. With a little nod, she pushed to her feet. “I’m sure.”

Dusting down her breeches, she found a smile. “I’m getting quite fond of these.” She held out a booted foot. “And my boots. They’re so much less restricting than skirts.”

Jeremy was folding the map preparatory to stowing it in one of the saddlebags. Picking up the other, she headed for the gig. “I’m sure we’ll be able to find some cottage or the like. Somewhere sufficient to sleep for the night.”

A frisson of expectation ran through her at the thought. She hadn’t allowed herself to dwell on that kiss. That eye-opening, fascinating, absorbing kiss. If she did, she’d start to think of other things, subsequent things, and then she’d blush …

Setting her saddlebag in the gig, she went to the horse’s head.
Keep your mind on the matter at hand.
“Perhaps we should walk him around to the farm yard — without our weight in the gig, the tracks will be even less.”

Jeremy set his saddlebag in the gig alongside hers. “We want to leave tracks here, to show we left. Get in and we’ll drive around the bend to the farm gate, then we’ll get out and I’ll lead him in. You can check and obliterate any tracks.”

Fifteen minutes later, with the horse and gig safely hidden away in the barn and the helpful farmer sufficiently satisfied with the largesse Jeremy had offered to assure anyone who inquired that he’d seen them drive on, they left the farm gate and crossed the road, careful to leave no telltale boot prints.

“The laird had to have tracked us from Currie.” Shouldering one saddlebag, Jeremy followed Eliza as she struck out across a field to the rise of the first hill. “There’s no other likely explanation for him finding us. If he’s a highlander, as your family think he is, then most likely he hunts game, and so might be especially experienced at tracking.”

She humphed. “I defy him to find any tracks back there. I made sure the ground inside and outside the farm gate was pristine.”

He tapped her shoulder, then pointed to a sheep track that led more directly up and over the first hill. “Let’s get over the first rise as fast as we can. I’ll check from the crest to see if there’s any sign of our pursuers, then we can forge on with greater confidence. Once we’re over the first hill, we’ll be largely out of sight.”

They did precisely that. From the first crest Jeremy scanned the road but could find no trace of pursuit. Lowering the spyglass, he shut it. “Nothing yet.”

Neither of them doubted the laird at least would come. But dipping down into, then crossing, the next shallow valley, they strode steadily on, secure and largely relaxed, knowing no one could spot them from the road.

They exercised greater caution slogging up the next hill, but on looking back they discovered the first hill blocked their view of the road; they couldn’t see the farm where they’d left the gig. Which meant no one along that part of the road could see them.

With increasing confidence, they pushed on, tramping along sheep paths between banks of heather, splashing across a stream. The afternoon remained fine, the air fresh and clear as they climbed.

Landmarks were scarce. Jeremy kept them on a southeasterly course using the arc transcribed by the sun, and the position of far distant peaks.

They found their way over a larger stream and headed on, keeping the glinting waters of a big lake to their right. The line of the Moorfoot Hills themselves still lay ahead of them; they were presently traversing the slowly rising land, the foothills of the hills, as it were.

Eliza strode along, feeling intensely, and utterly unexpectedly, light of heart. That was the only way she could describe the inner sense of buoyancy, the near effervescence that showed in the brisk spring in her step. She looked about as she walked, drinking in the wide vistas that every now and again opened up between the enclosing low hills. Even the air seemed to taste fresher and better up there.

She never would have imagined she would enjoy striding about the heather. Let alone with a villain like Scrope in pursuit, much less the even more frightening unknown of the laird. Yet she was confident they’d lost their pursuers, at least as far as today was concerned, so she felt entitled to enjoy the moment; the wonder of it was that she could.

Walking had never been high on her list of exciting things to do, but striding along freely in breeches and boots, with the world wide about her and Jeremy Carling pacing alongside seemed somehow, in that moment, a tiny slice of heaven.

She would enjoy it while she could.

The thought brought to mind something else she’d enjoyed. That kiss. She couldn’t stop thinking about it, which fact alone set it apart from any other kiss she’d ever experienced. Of course, it was true that they were both, in a fashion, out of their accustomed world, set adrift for the moment in a world of high adventure, and kisses — kisses that ordinarily could never have been — could be, could happen, could exist in this temporary world they were striding through.

But she wanted more. She knew she did; she was already thinking of how to bring a repeat engagement about. How else could she learn what it was that was so different, what it was in his kiss — Jeremy Carling the bookworm’s kiss — that had so easily captured and fixed her senses?

If she was truthful, it was more than her curiosity that had sparked. But whoever would have thought a bookworm could kiss like that? Beguiling and tempting — tempting in a way she suspected she might find very difficult to resist.

Resist enough to turn her back and walk away.

Which was why she’d decided there was no point whatever worrying about what would happen when they reached civilization, and tonnish society, again. Yes, there might well be pressure brought to bear, in various guises and forms, for them to marry — but what if she and he actually wanted to of their own accord?

Such a felicitous outcome was possible. Heather and Breckenridge had found their way to the altar, and no matter the circumstances, there had been no coercion involved.

She glanced sidelong at Jeremy, pacing beside her. Every now and then, he would glance back and around, keeping watch. It was comforting to know he was so alert while she enjoyed the view.

And that view … she let her gaze briefly fall, skimming over his long frame, then determinedly looked ahead. The scholarly bookworm image had faded, replaced with a reality that was significantly more potent. Distinctly more alluring.

Even more intriguing was the man behind the mask. There was so much about him, so many quirks of character and nuance that she’d never imagined might be there.

His protectiveness, for one; she’d recognized it instantly — with brothers and cousins like hers, she was an expert on that trait. Yet his protectiveness was … softened wasn’t really the word for it — informed might be nearer the mark — by an unexpected understanding and acceptance that she was an adult, too, that she had a mind of her own and might have views of her own regarding what she, and they, should do.

He’d consulted her rather than simply decreed; that was what was different.

His
protectiveness she could accommodate, unlike that of her brothers and cousins.

There was also a certain hint of chivalry, old-fashioned perhaps, but attractive nonetheless.

And, of course, there was his exceedingly sharp mind, something she hadn’t before considered a requirement in a man, but there was definitely something to be said for not having to explain her own thinking — and for his converse assumption that she could think her way through things, too.

She glanced his way again, then looked ahead, smiling softly to herself. She wasn’t all that bothered over spending another night alone with him, because she’d set her mind on learning more about him, and indulging in at least one more kiss.

Another twenty yards brought them to the base of the main line of hills. They scouted around and found a rocky path leading up and over the summit. Without a word, Eliza started up it.

Jeremy glanced back and around one last time, then followed in her wake.

The going was considerably harder, the slope much greater than the ground they’d already traversed. The westering sun warmed their backs as they climbed; in places the rocks were more like huge steps, slowing them considerably.

He kept expecting Eliza to complain, but instead she toiled steadily upward. He was, heaven knew, no expert on the subject of tonnish ladies. He might have had several mistresses in years past, but for the current crop of younger ladies he had no real guidelines for behavior, at least not under stress.